■jf V

(■M..'.:'-f.' -1 ■' ■

MRS. GEO. A. LYMAN.

THE LIBRARY

THE UNIVERSITY

OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

PENRUDDOCKE.

By HAMILTON AIDE,

AUTHOR OF "RITA," "THE MARSTONS," &c., &c.

BOSTON :
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,

(late TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.,)

124 Tremont Street.
1S73.

Boston :
stereotyped and Printed by Rand, A very, &" Co.

A.t>i>\

PENRUDDOCKE,

-♦♦V-

CHAPTER I.

After a long interval, and much delib-
eration, I am resolved to write a record of
my very early life. This memoir will stop
at my twenty-fourth year, after which there
has occurred nothing in my monotonous
existence (as some would call it) which tlie
world would care to hear.

But will it care to hear that which I
am minded to tell ? Has it not had a sur-
feit of autobiographies, with all their
maudlin intros]iection, their insufferable
egotism and self-analysis ? Can it be edi-
fied by learning aught of my career? I,
■who am neither scholar nor deep thinker ?
not in any sense, I lear, as these pages
will show, a wise or verv fjood man ? Yes :
I may be deceiving myself; but I believe
the confession of folly and error may be
useful to some, perhiips not wholly unin-
teresting to any ; and this is one reason
why I write. But there is another.

Do you know the game of '• Russian
Scamhd?" where ever-increasing inexacti-
tude transforms a story which is passed
from mouth to mouth into something which
bears but the faintest resemblance to the
original statement? I defy the rolling-
stone of gossip to gather more mud in St.
Petersburg than it does in London ; and I
have suffered as much as any man thereby.
Certain parsages in my liiii, grossly dis-
t(jrted, were bruited abroad long ago. Ujion
a substratum of fact, stories affecting the
cliaracter of one person in particular were
built uj<. To clear these away is one of
my objerts in the narrative I now under-
take. The secret springs that set in mo-
tion mucli that seemed inexplicable, even to

my closest friends, are now, for the first
time, laid bare.

But these memoirs will not be published
until one who plays a prominent part in
them is no more. I will not wound the
living ; * but why sliould the dead fear the
truth ? What reck tliey who are gone to
tlieir last account, that the world knows
and judges their misdeeds? I am well
aware that I shall be blamed : the step I
am taking will be resrarood as unnecessary
by some, as reprehensible by others ; but
such considerations as these have never in-
Huenced me. When I have once decided
that a certain course is justifiable, the opin-
ion of no man living would turn me from it.

I was born on the last day of June, 1835,
at Beaumanoir, my father, Mr. Penrud-
docke's, house in Dorsetshire. He and my
mother. Lady Rachel, had been married
four years at that time ; and their only
other child, Raymond, was three years my
senior.

No two boys were ever more dissimilar.
My brother was pale, weakly, and beauti-
ful ; I was no beauty, but ruddy and ro-
bust. All his tastes were sedentary ; all
mine active. He had a remarkable capa-
city for learning ; I was incorrigibly idle,
and could hardly read at nine years old.
But I knew every fox-covert and eveiy
rabbit-hole on the estate ; while Raymond
could nevQr be persuaded to mount a
pony, and shrank from tlie report of a gun.

j\Iy mother loved her first-born better
than any thing in Ihh world : but her af-
fections were supposed to be chitifly ab-

* I have bocn careful ti) altor the names of pco-
pie and places, so that only tlio actors themselves
will recognize the scenes in which they have played
parts. — Ed.

775550

PENEUDDOCKE.

sorbed by another. So said tlie Rev. Mr.
Putney. Of Ua^uiond, liuwever, of his
beauty, his abilities, his unvarying doeihty,
she was coniessedly proud ; and, as it was
not in her nature to give or to demand any
great dL•nlon:^tralions of devotion, liis jilaeid
temperament suited her far better than my
impetuous one. I remember trying to
clamber upon her knee, and being gently,
but firmly, set upon tlie gi'ound ; and, if I
atti,'in])ted to hug her, my arms were (jui(;t-
ly disengaged, and I was dismissed with,
'• I'here, that is enough, my dear."

On the other hand, I was my father's
f.ivorite. He it was who taught me to ride,
wlio look me out fishing and shooting with
him, wiio came into tlie schoolroom, and
begged for half-holidays for me, who, after
his own fashion, took infinite pains to in-
struct me. And he was not only a keen
sportsman, — he was a keen lover of na-
ture. He knew by heart the haunts and
habits of every bird of the air, every fish in
the deep brown pools of our stream, every
inhabitant of the woods, from gossamer-
winged moths upwards. He was not a
clever man, nor a worldly-wise one, — apt
to set business, and all other disagreeal)le
subjects, aside ; prone to leave things to
my mother, and to yield to her decision in
nearly every case. But if not the wisest,
he was the pleasantest, the kindest, the
cheeriest of mortals, who won more of love
pt'rhaps than i-espeet while he lived, but
■was not the less regretted when he died.

1 was then twelve years old : it was my
first grief; and I date a great change in
myselt ti-om that time. I "put away child-
ish ihiiigs:" I grew opinionated, wilful,
and ii^patient of control. My father had
always been more of a companion to me
than my brother could ever be ; my only
friends now were the gamekeeper and the
head-groom. I was glad when my mother
told me I was to go to school. Raymond,
on account of his health, was to remain at
liome until the time should come for him to
be entered at Oxford.

The old tutor, who had so efficiently di-
rected my brother's studies hitherto, had
with difli(;ulty instilled the rudiments of
Latin and Greek into me. I ought to have
been sent to school two year^ before ; but
whenever my mother broached the subject,
my father would say, —

•• Oh ! time enough : since Ray isn't to
go, let the boys remain together a little
longer."

And, as my father could always keep me
in order when my tutor failed, my mother
had yielded the point.

But now things were difl'erent. I needed
a stronger hand than old Aldridge's to curb
me, a stronger incentive to the mastery of

Greek verbs than the wearisome iteration
of my brother's attainments. The com-
pany of grooms and keepers was perni-
cious ; the contact with other boys would
be wholesome. My mother wisely saw all
this, and resolved that I should go to school
forthwith. Five weeks after my father's
funeral, I was sent to Doctor P 's fa-
mous school .at East Siiecn.

As I have absolutely nothing to tell of
those school-days, which extended over the
next lour years, 1 will take this opportu-
nity to speak of my mother, and of our
family connections, on both sid«s, some of
lliem being intricate, and demanding a
careful ex[)lanalion.

My mother's beauty was remarkable —
such as could scarcely f:\il to infiucnce the
judgments of those who came under its
influence. So faultless a face I have never
seen : Grecian in its purity of outline, with
eyes more sole and chastened than brilliant ;
a skin like alabaster; the lips, perhaps, a
thought too thin. She was tall, and her
carriage had the dignified humility of an
Esther — a gentle queenliness that accept-
ed, as a matter of course, all the homage site
received, and made slaves of nearly every
one who approached her. Her hand was
large, but well-formed, and always, even in
the hottest summer day, as cold as marfjle.
Her fieet were her worst point : they were
undeniable clumsy. She never gave in to
the fashion of short petticoats : her garments
were always long and trailing, as befitted
so majestic a woman.

She was in her thirty-fourth year when
my father died ; but neither then, nor for
many a long day, did sorrow or anxiety im-
pair her matchless beauty. Whatever she
may have felt, it was in her nature to re-
press all emotion ; the delicate ivory mask,
which time neither stained nor sharpened,
testified nothing. Her manner was the
most sell-contained of any woman's I have
known. It was generally difficult to tell
what she thought, felt, or meant at times
when, with ordinary women, the expression
of the countenance would have supplement-
ed much that was unuttered. This Sphinx-
like calm was her most notable character-
istic to a casual observer. Even when
superficially moved by laughter, — a rare
occurrence with her, — one never lost the
sense of remote repose underlying it Like
a lake whose surface is stirred by a ripj)le, it
never reached the mysterious de])th of still-
ness below.

She had married my father when she was
seventeen; and, being Lord Berbrooke's
si.\th daughter, I apprehend there was not
much choice in the matter. He was a i)00r
nobleman, and his only other married dauj;h-
ters had made but sorry matches. Osmund

PENRDDDOCKE.

Penruddoc-ke of Beaumanoir, with £15,000
a yt-ar, who saw her at her first county
ball, and proposed six weeks afterwards,
was not hkely to be rejected. My lather
used ji)kin'j:ly to say, —

" 1 should never have had you, my dear,
if you had ever set your foot in Ahnacks."

He worshipped her with a blind adora-
tion; he thought that the world did not
contain a woman coiujjarable to his wile tor
beauty and viji-tue and wisdom. She un-
derstood him ])erfectly, and made him, on
the whole, very happy. She never gave
him cause for jealousy; she never worried
him about trifles ; she managed every thing ;
and, though wise enough not to assert her
supremacy too openly, never yielded an
inch when she was so minded. Under her
velvet paw were powerful claws; and she
held iiim firmly by them.

My grandfather. Lord Berbrooke, died
when I was a child. Between his eldest
son and my mother there was no great cor-
diality ; but her next brother, Levison Kich,
was often at Beaumanoir. He was the
scapegrace of the family, and by far the
pleasantest of them all. He was in the
Life Guards, and a man of fashion ; his nor-
mal condition one of debt ; his obligations
to my father frequent and consideraijle.
To this fact I attribute liis constant visits
to what must have been to him a very dull
house,where neither gambling, horse-racing,
nor smart ladies were to be found.

He had always a room wiih us, and he
constantly ran down for two or three days ;
but he scorned our hum-drum county
society, — the small-big people who came to
stay for three davs : he used to supplicate
my mother not to invite them whde he was
at Beaumanoir. In vain she tried to direct
his attentions to more than one nicish heir-
ess, who might, peihaps, have consented to j
be the humble instrument lor retrieving the
handsome I/evison'sfo. tunes. He discussed
their •' points," and invariably ended by de-
clarin'j; they would be dear at the money.
I always liked him ; though — it is aston-
ishing how early that sort of intuition comes
— I never should have thought of going to
him for advice in any serious emergency.
But then serious emergencies arise but
rarely ; whereas the decision of a thorough
man of the world, in the small matters of
every day, is not without its value. He was
not clever ; but he had a vast and varied ex-
perience of what was " the right thing " to
be done — fi-om a mvuidane not a moral
point of view, be it well understood —
undermost circumstances; and, therefore,
though it seemed a strange contradiction,
he was one of the very few whose o])inion
my mother thought worth asking. She did
not always follow it. She knew that he

had been foolish in the conduct of liis own
affairs, and she reprobated the lite of dissi-
pation he still led ; still, he was " a man of
the world," which neither my father nor
any one else belonging to us was ; and she,
who combined the wisdom of the serpent
with the ostensible innocency of the dove,
felt that (for her sons especially^ the views
of such a one were worth hearing, at all
events.

It is essential to the understanding of my
story that I sliould give a brief sketch of
the Penruddocke family, beginning with
my great-grandfatlie", Iliuuphrey Raymond
Penruddocke — a gentleman who commit-
ted sundry crimes, lor which those who be-
lieve in vicarious retribution, may hold that
some of his descendants have been punished
in the third and fourth generations, since the
ohi sinner himself died [leaceably in his bed.

I need advert but to one of liis offences
against the laws of God and man, which was
fraught with grave consequences to me, and
to others of my family. Mr. Penrud-
docke eloped with the wife of a Capt.
Dunstan,in 1762, and by her had one son.
In giving birth to him, not many months
after the bill for her divorce had passed the
House of Lords, this lady died ; and it was
questioned whether she had been married
to my great-grand liither in the interval.
The fatlier hated his son, and never spoke
of him as his legitimate heir. He was
brought up at Beaumanoir, it is true, but
treated with great cruelty ; and having a
high s]iirlt, the ([uarrels between him and
his father were frequent, until in liis eigh-
teenth year he ran away, — it was supposed
to America, — and all trace of him was
lost. Towards the close of his life, old Mr.
Penruddocke was reported to have felt
remorse for his conduct, and to have ac-
knowledged that the boy had been born in
wedlock, and was, consequently, his legiti-
mate heir. If this was true, it was probably
not known to more than two persons, and
the sincerity of his repentance could, not be
tested, for the missing man never appeared ;
and, at my great-grandfather's death, he
was succeeded in the estate by his eldest
son by a second marriage. This son, my
irrandfather, always angrily denied the
truth of his half-brother's legitimacy ; and,
strange to say, between him and his own
younger brother, Osmund, a coolness arose
in consequence. The latter seems to have
possessed unusually tenacious alfections,
and clung to tlie memory of the ill-used
Humphrey, whom he had loved as a child.
He never would admit that his father's eld-
est son was base-born ; he never would be-
lieve that he was dead. To the day of his
own death Osmund expected the missing
Humphrey to return, and it was his con-

PENRUDDOCKE.

stantly reminding my grandfather of tlie
insecure tenure of the estate, which es-
tranged the two brothers.

Tlie son of this great uncle of mine,
Humphrey JMark Penrucklooke, has phvyed
wliat I may term a sub-prominent ])art in
mv life; yet I never sa»v him till I was
eighteen. My fatiier held no connnunica-
tion with his cousin. There had been no
quarrel ; but the coolness wliich had sub-
sisted between their respective fathers had
frozen into a wall of ice between the sons.
Humphrey Mark was an old bachelor of
independent means at the time I first saw
him. He had been educated for the
bar; had even "eaten his dinners;" but
lie had never held a brief He was said
to resemble his fiither in many ways, —
tenacious in his fancies, im])lacable in his
resentments ; a man who had made few
friendships in the course of a long life.
He ha<l one niece, as will be seen by the
familv diagram, which I insert to make our

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respective relations clearer; but he had
conceived a great dislike to Mrs. Hamleigh,
and had not seen her for many years, so
that he cut himself off from the -only close
tie he possessed. The widow, whose desire
to conquer the prejudice she knew existed
against her was perhaps not wholly dis-
interested, failed in every eiibrt to ai)proach
her old uncle. She belonged to our fac-
tion, and he would have none of her.

]\Irs. Hamleigh lived in a small cottage,
forty miles distant from us, in the New
Forest. Circumstances had thrown her
and my father together in early life ; and,
after Ids marriage, she became my mother's
most intimate friend and enthusiastic ad-
mirer. Was she a toady ? I often thought
so then, and in after-years, when her sub-
servience to Lady Rachel angered me
past all patience. But I now lielieve her
worship of my mother to have been a gen-
uine feelinj, due to the ascendencv of a
strong intellect and will over a weak and
amiable, though obstinate nature. This,
and her devotion to her only child, were
the two sentiments that leavened her whole
existence. Perhaps the secret of the bond
that united the two kinswomen lay iu the
unlikeness of their characters. However
this may be, my mother, would have the
Hamleighs at Beaumanoir, when she would
ask no one — not even her own sisters. How
far she confided in her " dear Belinda," I
am unable to say ; but one thing is certain,
she confided in no one else so much.

In pei'son, Mrs. Hamleigh was tall and
slight. But for her teeth she would have
been pretty. Not that they were otherwise
than white and even ; but they were too
large ; and in the smile which sat habitual-
ly upon her face, the gums were constantly
visible, in a way which was extremely dis-
agreeable to me. I remember, as a child,
having seen the picture of a wild cat grin-
ning, which I thought was like Mrs. Ham-
leigh ; and I could never dispossess my
mind of the image. I used to watch her
mouth with a sort of curious fascination,
and wonder how much more of it I should
be able to see this time. Her manner, too,
was worrvins; ; fraught with an i"-noble
assiduity to please every one, but chiefly
my mother, which led her to assent to al-
most every proposition that was advanced.

In short, Mrs. Hamleigh was never a
favorite of mine as a boy, and but for my
intense love for Evelyn, I fear I should
often have been rude to her mother. Her
devotion to her child, I am bound to admit,
was untiring : in that one relation of life
she was beyond all praise. Too poor to
afford a governess, the manner in which
she slaved to supply this need for her
daughter the weary evenings she spent

PENRUDDOCKE.

over French lessons that were to be taught
the next niorninpj, the terrible hours over
Cramer's Exercises, when she I'elt as
though her head would split, and yet nev-
er give in, — all this deserved the recogni-
tion it met with at her little daughter's
hands. Evelyn knew that she was her
mother's first object in life, for whom she
was ready to make any sacrifice ; and she
repaid this devotion by the tender thought-
fulness whereby she tried to lighten her
mother's burthens.

She was a slight little creature, with
eyes like a fawn, large and wistful, and
lashes some shades darker than her abun-
dant light brown hair. She had not high
spirits ; except when with me, she was al-
most unnaturally quiet and silent for her
age. And she was not clever: of her even
a doting parent could record no smart say-
ing, no wonderi'ul mnemonic achievement.
But she had very strong affections ; and,
under her gentle and timid exterior, possess-
ed a reserve-fund of strength and tenacity
remarkable in a girl of fourteen. Her likes
and dislikes, though seldom openly pro-
nounced, were not the less decided.

There was three years' difference be-
tween us, and sinee infancy we had been
playmates. I loved her better than any
thing in the world: all my present joys, all
my future hopes and ambition, centred in
her. When she was at Beaumanoir, we
two were constantly together. Raymond
considered our amusements beneath him,
and rarely joined us. He walked out with
Mr. Aldridge, when they discussed zoolo-
gy, hydrostatics, and other light and airy
suijjects ; while I took out my bag of fer-
rets into the sandy rabbit-warren, under
the old Scotch firs, Evelyn watching my
exploits with a halt-lrightened curiosity ;
or flogged the patient stream, while she sat
beside me on the bank, fragrant with
meadow-sweet; or went a nutting with my
little companion down crooked dingles,
where the overhanging branches nearly
touched our heads.

I told her horrible stories that made her
hair to stand on end ; 1 drew for her mar-
vellous pictures of robbers, and distressed
damsels, and a rescuing knight (who was
always supposed to be myself) ; I retailed
descriptions that I read in books of travel
of the wonders of the deep ; and then, in
imagination, we voyaged together, and
discovered lands beyond. the seas, and even
went the length (after a little faint remon-
strance from Evelyn) of being wrecked
upon a desert island, like Paul and Vir-
ginia. Of course I am describing the
amusements of our actual childhoocl, not
of the tiuie when 1 returned from school, a
youth of seventeen.

CHAPTER n.

The house at Beaumanoir has now been
so much altered that those who remember
its dear, dull old face a few years since,
would fail to recognize it ; but its noble
position remains unchanged. The sea of
timber, and the lake through which the
trout-stream runs, the Vale of Blackmore
in the distance, belted with blue hills on
the horizon, — the eye still sees all this
from the portico, beyond the lawn and
gravel sweep ; and the heart of man can
desire nothing to " improve " it. The wild
downs rise behind the house, the stumpy
little tower of the church is seen among
the shrubs that mask the garden to the
right ; the stables and a long line of out-
houses stretch, tailwise, to the left.

At the time of which I am writing, the
exterior was, no doubt, ugly in the eyes of
those who were critical in architecture. A
plainer frontage of gray stone, unrelieved
by architrave, cornice, or balustrade, was
never seen. Eight holes pierced in the
wall, ran along the bedroom floor, above
which no roof was visible ; only two stacks
of chimneys. Under it was the portico in
the centre, and three windows on either
side. The garden front had not even the
portico to break its monotony ; a shoi-t
flight of steps led from one of the drawing-
rooms to the lawn, which was intersected
with serpentine walks, masses of rhodo-
dendron, and queer-shaped flower-knots,
after the taste of the beginning of this cen-
tury.

The interior of the house was comfort-
able but not very large. We had only
eight spare bedrooms ; yet even these
were rarely filled. There were not many
whom my mother cared to invite, except
from motives of obligation or expediency.
Her grooves were narrow ; she cared little
for general society, which, considering the
admiration her beauty never failed to elicit,
was a matter of wonderment to many. So
the house amply sufficed for her require-
ments. There were big dinners in the
great dining-room, periodically (we habit-
ually used the breakfast-room when alone),
and the covers were taken off the crimson
satin in the drawing-room, on such occa-
sions. We slipped about on glazed chintz,
when we sat there every evening, with our
books, round the table, my father snoring
by the fire, my mother's fingers moving
with exquisite precision over some fine era-
broidery. I was the only member of the
family who was ever disposed to be garru-
lous ; and I did not meet with much en-
couragement.

What else shall I say of the interior ?

PENRUDDOCKE.

My own bedroom I shall have to speak of
by and by. The library, where so many
happy hours '^ere passed, with a man who
holds a prominent plaee in these pa'^es ;
and the hall, lined with stuffed birds in
glass eases, its walls adorned with barbaric
implements of war, and the gigantic horns
of elks (the spoils of my grandfather in
foreign lands), — these were my favorite
rooms. In the latter, was a billiard-table,
and we played — Evelyn and 1 — at battle-
dore and shuttlecock on wet days in the
holidays.

Soon after I left home, my mother began
to think that Raymond was " getting be-
yond Mr. Aldridge." He was not a man
calculated to enlarge the mind of a lad
brought up like my brother. His intellect
reminded me of a tightly-packed drawer ;
the learning stowed away there was so
compressed as to have lost all power of ex-
pansion ; layer upon layer of facts, crushed
flat, and no room for a deduction, or an
orio-inal idea. He stated : he never dis-
cussed, or doubted, or theorized.

My mother was too clever not to see that
it would be well to transfer her favorite
son to the care of a tutor of more mental
vigor, and conversational delightfulness.
Uncle Levison had hinted that her dar-
ling was " a prig." Might not some little
failing in this direction be due to his be-
wigged old tutor? So two gentlemen in
succession came, who, either in tact, or
ability, or submission to Lady Rachel, were
found wanting. Neither of them remained
three months. Then it was, one morning
in my holidays, that, coming into the draw-
ing-room, I heard my mother say to Mrs.
Hamleigh, —

" It is impossible to speak more highly
than Lord Wylde does of this person."

" Lord Wilde is a — hm ! — eh, dear ? "

" A Catholic ? Yes ; and so is this Mr.
Francis."

" That is — hm ! — a disadvantage. Don't
you think so ? „

" 1 do not think it of much importance.
I shall, of course, interdict the subject of
religion ; and Mr. Putney will look after
Ray's theology."

" Ah ! yes, — Mr. Putney ; — I forgot ;
and the dear boy is so far beyond his
years ! You are right, dear ;- it is of no im-
portance, in this case."

" I do not say it is of no importance,
Belinda. You know my own strong feel-
ings about Papistry. But the testimonials
in this man's favor are so exceptional, — he
is described as so very remarkable and de-
lightful a person, — that, after all the
trouble and difficulty I have had, I feel
tempted to overlook the one drawback."

" The one drawback, — exactly so. I

quite feel as j'ou do, dear. There can be
no danger of dear Ray's going over while
his sweet mother is at hand. No Mr.
Francis's influence could be as great as
yours."

" I think his ideas are settled," said my
mother calmly ; '• but of course, I shall
be vigilant. He takes after me, and 1 have
no taste for polemical discussion. No Rich
ever changed his religion ; and Ray is
more of a Rich than a Penruddocke."

I was at the farther end of the room,
and they had not heeded my entry. 1
wondered a good deal, what this Mr. Fran-
cis would be like. Never, to my know-
ledge, having seen a member of the Church
of Rome, and my ideas being gathered
mainly, from Foxe's " Book of Martyrs,"
and a religious '• tale for the young," in
which a saturnine Jesuit played a most
corrosive part, 1 pictured a dark-eyed, lan-
tern-jawed man, listening behind doors,
and stealthily disseminating his abomin-
able doctrines.

He came, and I could scarcely believe
my eyes. My brother's new tutor had a
face full of strength and pleasantness, a
spare, firmly-knit frame ; words well-chos-
en, without pedantry; manners highly
courteous, without servility. He was
under fifty, and might still be called hand-
some ; but the strong-curling hair above
his massive brow was iron-gray. He had
kindly eyes, which never appeared to be
penetrating, and yet which saw every
tiling above and below the surface ; though
in society, it sometimes annoyed me that
he seemed purposely to abstain ti'om using
them. He would look down upon his plate,
or- at the wall opposite, for ten minutes at
a time, when at the table conversation was
going on, in which he was not called upon
to bear a part. But before he had been
in the house a fortnight, I felt more drawn
towards this new inmate than I had ever
felt towards a man before. Though I
could not argue out my convictions, I had
acute perceptions for a lad of my age. I
watched him, I listened to him, and I pro-
nounced him to be a "brick." The more
I saw of him, the more was the impression,
that he was not only a delightful, but a
wise and good man confirmed. 1 noted
the admirable tact wherewith he avoided
giving needless offence, as men of less
delicate intellectual fibre, and of less sound
judgment, would have done ; how often,
like David, he held his peace, even from
good words, until directly appealed to.
Then he never hesitated. Though his
opinion ran directly counter to my moth-
er's, even to the length of holding for un-
just some act of hers, he gave it straight-
tbrwardly, and without compromise; and

PENEUDDOCKE.

his influence, therefore, over her soon grew
to be remark;>l)l(^ I :iin not quite sure
that she liked hiui ; but he was the only
man whose approval I ever saw her take
great pains to secure. Every one else
bowed down to her, — Mr. Francis did not.
Had he made tlie least eilbrt to lessen the
respectful distance between them, his
power would have been gone. But in nay
mother's presence he was always more re-
served than at other times. It was then
that I chiefly noticeil the lowered eyelids,
an abstraction which I grew to understand
as indicating the rigid line he had marked
for himself on entering the house. It was
as though he had said, " I am your sou's
tutor, and you are a proud woman, — I
know my exact position. With my boys I
expand ; here I cannot. Call upon me for
intbrraation, or for an opinion, show me,
unmistakably, that you wish me to take
part in your conversation, and I will do so,
— never otherwise."

Who that knows a country neighbor-
hood can fail to suppose that there were
not wanting good-natured persons to sug-
gest that Lady Rachel Penruddocke would
end by marrying her son's tutor ? He was
so good-looking, so gentlemanlike, and so
charming, how could she do otherwise ?
They little knew her; and hini they knew
less. In his youth I have no doubt that he
had loved and suffered ; but that was a
tale of the past. It was no longer in wo-
man's power to inthrall Iiim ; and the possi-
bility, had such existed, of captivating a
great lady, would have presented to him
no attractions. He read my mother, as I
now know, through and through; but he
judged her, as he did ail women, with foi'-
bearance.

A circumstance occurred one Christmas
holidays which forcibly illustrates the char-
acters and relative positions of these two
persons.

Certain donations of beef and blankets,
red cloaks and groceries, were given out
by my mother every Christmas Day, with
much ceremony, to some fifty old women,
and other poor. This had been* called,
ever since I could remember, " Lady Rach-
el's Bounty." The sum expended each
year was seventy pounds ; and it was under-
stood to come from my mother's privy purse.
There was a dinner in the hall to the
school-children ; and another elsewhere for
all the well-conducted laborers in the pai'-
ish. The rector nominally selected the
recipients of this " bounty ; " but, of all my
mother's slaves, Mr. Putney was the most
abject; and her prejudices he invariably
indorsed. Now, as she went a great deal
about the village, walking into cottages
without knocking, and demanding, in her

silvery voice, imperative questions which
the good wives, perhaps, did not always
care to answer, it came about that she had
favorites, and those against whose names
she set a black mark. It used to make me
mad to see a plausible, mealy-mouthed old
woman, like Mrs. Houndsfield, whose two
sons never did a day's work when they
could help it, get a share of the loaves and
fishes; while poor Bill Strutt, who was
one of our best laborers, and whose young
wife was brought to bed regularly once a
year, got nothing, because he had a rough
way of answering, and had once resented
some interference of my mother's. But
the rector declared he drank (he had once
been rather festive at a harvest-home, I
believe), and, " for the sake of example,"
it was held necessary to deprive his wife of
the good things she saw distributed around
her.

Now, Mr. Francis had a taste for archae-
ology, and for examining folios of musty
documents, many of them appertaining to
county histories, to genealogies, and other
family records, with which a corner of the
library at Beaumanoir was filled. No one,
to my knowletlge, until he came, had ever
pulled out one of those old tomes from their
shelf. In papers relating to the Penrud-
docke property, wherein various acquire-
ments and behests were <luly set forth, it
seems that he came upon one which stated,
that, in 1710, Dame Elinor Penrudilocke
beqiicathed the sum of seventy pounds, to
he distributed among the poor of the par-
ish each Christmas Day. Her effigy, good
soul, stared at us, from under its mon-
strous canopy of marble, every Sunilay in
church. Why had her name been suffered
to drop into oblivion, and my mother's been
suljstituted ? Mr. Putney, of course, knew
how inalienable, and independent of the
reigning lady's will and pleasure, was this
legacy ; but he had been rector here five
and twenty years, during which I am sure
he had never been so indiscreet as to hint
at the possession of such knowledge. The
" oldest inhabitants " knew, that, as long aa
they could remember, " the lady " had dis-
tributed her largesse at Christmas ; and,
no doubt, they regarded it in some sort as
their right, but still one dependent upon
the liberality of the existing mistress of
Beaumanoir. Now, as Mr. Francis had
discovered, such was clearly not the case;
but it was no business of his; and, but lor
the circumstance I am about to relate, it
would never have transpired.

There had been a disturbance in the
parish, arising out of a rick of ours being
set on fire, one 5th of November, as I
always believed, accidentally from a bon-
fire. My mother, Mr. Putney, and all her

PENRUDDOCKE.

courtiers, hoTvever, took an opposite view :
it was a malicious act, and they left no
stone unturned to discover the delinquent.
Then was the jiarish divided aixainst itself;
then ensueil accusations and recriminations,
open (juarrels and underhand tale-bearing ;
and it was during this state of things that,
just at the beginning of my Christmas holi-
days, the following little s<'ene took place
at luncheon. Mr. rutney had been read-
ing Paley with Ray that morning, and so
chanced to be present.

'' Have youseen \\'illiam Strutt? " asked
my mother. " Does he still continue obsti-
nately to decline to give any account of
himself on the night of the fifth V "

" 1 am sorry to say he does," replied the
rector, with almost a groan; ''and I am
told he speaks of your ladyship in the most
unbeconung way, declaring that he is not
bound to account for his time to you, or to
n?.e, or to any one. It is very grievous. I
am afraid there can be no doubt lie is
inixed up in this scandalous aflt'air."

" It's not fair to condemn a fellow with-
out proof," I struck in.

" Be quiet, Osmund," and my mother
looked at me with a mild severity. " At
all events, Mr. Putney, as long as the de-
linquents in this affair are screened, I
shall not consider myself justified in doing
what I have hitherto done at Christmas."

'• Certainly, Lady Rachel, without doubt.
After all your ladyship has done for them,
such black ingratitude passes my compre-
hension. They all declare they know
nothing, — at least, it is most difficult to
bring it liome to them " —

"It may be difiicult," said my mother
slowly, " but it must be done. I have it
from several sources that the men are known
who fired my rick. Until their names are
given up, I shall restrict my customary
' bounty ' to those who have shown a real
regard for my interests. This state of the
parish — drunkenness, quarrelling, incen-
diarism — is really disgraceful. I am sure
you will agree with me, Mr. Francis," —
and she turned her beautiful eyes to him, —
" that I ought to mark my sense of disap-
proval at this season by less indiscriminate
donations V "

My brotlier's tutor paused.

" If you appeal to me, Lady Rachel, I
must ask whether you are a free agent in
this matter? I fancy not."

" I do not understand you, — of course I
am," — my mother here flushed slightly.
•' I ask your opinion as to whether circum-
stances like these ought not to aifect my
customary charities."

" Your ladyship's private charities — yes.
But ' Dame Elinor's Bounty,' unless I am
mistaken, cannot be withheld. Mr. Put-

ney has no choice but to see that seventy
poiuids are expended upon the poor of his
parish."

The rector looked positively alarmed at
the tutor's audacity. He bent over his
plate, and made an unnecessary clatter
with his knife and fork. My mother gave
a short, dry cough ; but she was not dis-
concerted. After a moment or two slie
said, with measured calmness, —

" Of course the money would be givea
sooner or later. The question is, whether
I should not rightly withhold a portion of
it for a time. I conceive I am perfectly
justified in doing that?"

She waited, I am sure, to see if he would
reply ; but, with his customary reticence,
Mr. Francis forbore from further remark.
He had been directly appealed to ; and
the words extracted from him were all that,
in conscience, he felt bound to utter. Mr.
Putney, with his mouth full of ale and po-
tatoes, tried to say something, I believe ;
but no one listened : and then my mother
rose, swept the crumbs from her lap, and,
with her wonted meek dignity, led the way
to the drawing-room.

Never again was there any talk of her
" bounty " being curtailed ; and, somehow
or otlier, the next day she had grown to
regard the parish delinquencies with more
leniency.

It was after this that I observed indica-
tions, at times, of my mother's being a little
afraid of Mr. Francis, though she showed
no resentment at his conduct on this partic-
ular occasion. She recognized the full worth
of his uncompromising character ; and,
though her personal satisfaction in his soci-
ety may not have increased, she was too
clever, too conscious of the value of such a
companion for Raymond, not to submit to
some discomfort for tlie sake of retaining
this advantage. That there was sacrifice in
this, none will deny ; for can discomfort be
greater to a woman like my mother than
that of living in the daily presence of one
who will not submit to be blinded ?

My brother's abilities were really great
in a certain line ; but the reflective powers
were stunted, and, to the enlargement of
these, Mr. Francis devoted his attention.
He was not contented with Greek Alchaics,
and the classification of geological speci-
mens : he tried to make my brother think ;
and this was not eas}^ Raymond had one
of those minds which learn and retain, ac-
cept what has been so taken in as proved
beyond dispute, and strike no new thoughts
for themselves. He was dogmatic and ob-
stinate, like all such natures : my mother
had said rightly that " his ideas were set-
tled." Had Mr. Francis been a second St.
Augustine, I doubt if he could have changed

PENRUDDOCKE.

their current, or kindled in him one spark
of religious enthusiasm. To become a con-
vert, there must be some restless longint;,
unsatisfied within the pale of tliat church
where the soul, tossed with doubt-, is vainly
struggling ; but Raymond was incapable
of doubts or longings. As it was, however,
the subject of creed was one his tutor
always carefully avoided. When I, who
was much more impressionable, came under
Mr. Francis's influence, it was years before
he ever permitted me to approach the
topic. INIy mother had early satisfied her-
self upon this point ; and she felt that if Ray-
mond's character was ever to be formed, so
as to fit him tor the prominent position in
the county he was destined to fill, no one
was so well calculated as Mr. Francis to
arouse a healthy ambition in him, and in-
fuse the life-blood of energetic purpose into
veins that seemed to be prematurely dry.

There is no use in mincing the matter
— I never loved my brother; our natures,
from first to last, were antagonistic. I used
to do all manner of things to try and
aggravate him ; if I could only once have
got him into a good rage, I should have
liked him better forever after ; but he sel-
dom expressed any personal liking or dis-
like, and was never aroused, unawares,
into rapture or reprobation. He had my
mother's sweet smile, and the same meas-
ured way of speaking. Indeed, he was
very like her in face, though less well-look-
ing. Cold blue eyes, and a thin, straight-
lipped mouth destroyed the attractiveness
of a handsome outline ; and, though tall,
he was ill-made, with large hips and slop-
ing shoulders. Of course he was awfully
well-behaved ; even in the nursery he never
had been known to do any thing that was
wrong ; and now, by my mother's satellites,
he was spoken of as a model of all the vir-
tues. To that negative morality which
consists in a blameless life, where there is
no temptation, he could, indeed, lay claim ;
and, inasmuch as he would never have to
battle with strong passions, the probabili-
ties were that his career at Oxford would
be as exemplary as his boyhood had hith-
erto been.

The rector, who regarded me as a child
of Belial, was one of Raymond's most
devoted flatterers.

" 1 cannot but grieve, my young friend,"
he said to me one day, " to see how frivo-
lous are all your amusements. Now, there
is your brother, — it is really quite deliirht-
ful to be with him, — so elevated in all his
tastes, so very superior a youth in every
respect."

" Ray will do all the superior business
of the family, Mr. Putney. Being the
eldest, it's right he should."

" T cannot but say it is fortunate that
the responsfibilities of this great pro])erty
will not devolve upon you, Osmund,"
sighed the rector. " What does the poet
say V — ' Life is real, life is earnest.' It is
not made up of ferreting and fox-hunting
and so forth."

" No," said I, as I climbed a column of
the veranda, jerking my sentences down
upon the rector, while I swung my legs
about, " I wish it was : there's lessons
and all manner of bosh. No, life ain't all
a good run, without a check."

" The check comes Avhen we least expect
it,"' groaned Mr. Putney. " Ah, Osmund !
we should none of us forget that we are
but worms."

" But even the worm will turn," I cried,
striking out my legs in the direction of his
shovel-hat. " Preaching is like treading
on me — I can't stand much of it, ]Mr. Put-
ney — beg your pardon — look out tor your
head — I'm coming down."

He shook his dull old pate at me with
an ostentatious sigh, and went straightway
to my mother, pouring forth a windy jere-
miad over my juvenile delinquencies, and
<lrawing a comparison between her sons,
which he knew was not displeasing to her.

CHAPTER III.

The four years I was at school wrought
a great change in me, — a change which
would not have been effected at home ; for
I had learnt in class and playground alike,
in emulation and success and defeat, how
to " give and take," which, to a boy natu-
rally strong and intolerant, was an invalu-
able lesson. At home I was surrounded by
those who bowed down to my mother, — I
could not but be cogniznnt of how well
cringing "answered." There was a thin,
impalpable atmosphere of flattery and de-
ception which pervaded our autocracy, from
nurseiy to cellar ; and it was well for me
that I was removed timely from this un-
wholesome air to the bracing coiiunonwealth
of school, where no arrogance was tolerated,
and flattery was unknown ; and where a
mean action, which, in the keen sight of
boyhood, sophistry could not gloze over,
was punished with the scorn of the entire
community.

Raymond lefl for Oxford, when I return-
ed home ; and I took his place as Mr. Fran-
cis's ])upil. jMy mother's j)lan, after a
consultation with my Uncle Levison, was
that I should work at home for a year or
two (and as my scholarship was si ill i)ack-
ward, it was hoped Mr. Francis might per-

PENRUDDOCKE.

form some miracle w'ltli me in this line),
diirini^ wliifh period 1 was to decide my
own iuture for myself. My mother used to
say it was essential 1 sliould learn the value
of money. Liku most <;L'nei-ous lads, I was
recklessly liberal. For this reason, I inui-
cine. she wisely lce])t fiom me the amount of
fortune which would be mine on attainino;
my majority. I of course knew that my
father iiad left nie an indei)endence ; but,
in truth, I had no inclination to be idle.
Mv mother once or twice spoke to me about
goin;j; into the (luards ; and 1 remember, on
one occasion, lier saying there were " rea-
sons which rendered it vei'y desirable " I
shotdd do so. I am nearly positive that she
said nothing more definite than that ; but
my name was j)ut down tor a commist^ion.
1 did not greatly lancy the idea — 1 should
have preferred the Line and ibi't'ign ser-
vice ; but 1 did not say much about it, tor
my mind was not made up : one day I fan-
cied one thing, the next day another. In
the mean time she, and those who saw
through her eyes, regarded me as a wild,
harum-scarum lad, diflicult to hiHuence,
impossible to control, and giving grave
cause for anxiety as to " iiow he would turn
out."

" Belinda," said my mother, one morn-
ing to Mrs. Ilamleigh, " tliere is a woman
in the village who wants to give a lecture
on phrenology in the schoolroom. She asks
my permission and patronage. Shall we
go ? It might be rather amusing."

'• Rather amusing, certainly, dear. My
darling Evelyn, I will have your head felt."

Evy looked alarmed.

"What will she do ? Oh, please not,
mamma."

" Do you know anj^ thing of phrenology,
Mr. Francis V " asked my mother. '• Do you
attach much importance to it as a science V "

" Yes, if taken in conjunction with others ;
but the body affects the brain largely ; indi-
cations of character are spread all over a
man's frame, and often contradict each
other. The face, the hand (have you ever
seen the curious book on the subject, by a
Frenchman V *), the walk, all have their
tale to tell. The f;iult with most specialists
is that they ignore every thing outside their
own narrow field."

The village schoolroom was full when we
entered, soon after eight o'clock ; and it
rose, as if for Royalty, when my mother
made her way to the front row of chairs.
A stout woman, wearing a strong-minded
jacket, and a crop, appeared on the plat-
form, a moment afterwards, from behind a
screen. She carried her lecture in one
hand ; in the other, a small plaster head,

* M. Deebarolles.

phrcnologically mapped out. She began ;
we all glanced at each other, my mother
pressed her lips tight, a curl of contempt
played upon Ray's, Mr. Francis's eyes twin-
kled. That the lecturer was a grossly- igno-
rant woman, one of those peripatetic hura-
i)ugs who affect remote villages where only
they can obtain a hearing was clear in the
first dislocated words that fell li'om her lips.
Rut that she was not without shrewdness,
enabling her to make some happy guesses
at character, was apparent by and bv. As
long as her windy and priitentious utter-
ances were confined to an exposition of the
science, however, there was nothing to re-
deem the '-lecture," except its incredible
vulgarity and absurdity. If I had not kept
notes of it, — for, knowing there is nothing
like the exercise of writing to prevent laugh-
ing outright, and thereby greatly scanda-
lizing my mother, I scribbled as much as I
could into a pocket-book, — I would not
trust my memory to reproduce any portion
of it. It was thus she designated some of
the " orgins," upon the j)laster head before
her.

" 'Ere's 'ope, ladies and gentlemen. Di-
vine 'ope I 'Ope? as springs eternal in the
'uman breast. What would Sir John Parry
in the Pol-lar regins 'ave done without
'ope V There's nothink as makes people
bear all the hills of the flesh, like 'ope. And
now, there's hinecolence ! What a fust-
rate attribute is binevolence ! I once felt
a gentleman as 'ad binevolence so large that
'e become responsible for the debts of a
young man as afterward run away with a
large sum of money, and the gentleman was
redooced to beggary. Now that come of
'is not understanding phrenology. 'Ad 'e
studied this noble sci'nce, 'e would 'ave seen
the absence of the moril qualities in the
young man. 'Eres Conlenlmenf. Now,
there was a gentleman as wrote up outside
'is door, ' An estate to be given away, to the
first man as will declare 'e's contented.' 'E
'ad a application, before long, you may be
sure. ''Aire you quite contented?' the
gentleman asked. ' I ham,' 'e replied.
' Then why do you come 'ere f ' You see, if
'e'd bin contented, 'e wouldn't 'a wanted
the gentleman's money, so the gentleman
'ad him there. 'Ere, ladies and gentlemen,
you 'ave Veneration. Veneration is the
orgin as makes us venerate things. Now,
it's a curious thing that the great Vaultair
as was a athiest, and the mighty iMaraboo,
the evil genius of the Revolution, both 'ad
this bump largeh" developed. 'Ow do you
account for that ? 'Ere, above the heye,
is Form. Most sculptures 'ave form. Har-
tists 'ave color, but sculptures have form.
Then conies Toone and Time. A man who
'as toone will 'um a thing easily; and one v/ho

PENRUDDOCKE.

*as time '11 never be late for dinner. Ami
this U'iuls me nat'rally, ladies, to the orgin
of G u.-ila ceousness, usiuily largely developed
amunj; the gentlemen. I'd advise the la-
dies to know 'o\v to roast and bile, if they
wish to keep their lovers' 'earts. Let 'em
be ever so beautiful, the road to a man's
'eart is 'is stomiek. Without a proper at-
tention to the morils. this orgin is likely to
lead to 'arm. There was an English king
and several Roman emperors as died of it.
No (l(iul)t their 'eads would 'ave showed a
bum]) like a crown-piece, just 'ere. Concin-
tratlon makes a man fi.x all 'is thoughts on
one object. Sir Isaac Nooton 'ad this
bump so large that, when be was courting
a lady, 'e sat beside her smoking, and think-
ing of science, and forgetting all about the
lady, though 'e 'ad 'old of 'er 'and, till at
last he used her finger for a tobacco-stopper I
That was concintration. I see it now,
plainly developed, in the beautiful and 'eter-
ogenius 'ead before me, which is a mountain
of all the moril qualities." (Here she
waved the dirty white glove in the direc-
tion of ray mother, who bore it Avithout
wincing.) "Benevolence sits enthroned
there, and all the 'nir of the 'ead can't 'ide
it — begging her ladyship's pardon ibr mak-
ing so free. Is there any one as would like
to come up and 'ave 'is 'ead felt V Would
either of you young gentlemen, or the young
lady, step up ? "

They all looked at me, knowing that I
was more likely to accede to her request
than any one else ; and, as I thought it
would be go.>d fun to see what she said, I
did jump on the platform, having got my
laughter tolerably under control by this
time. There was a great deal of excite-
ment, and some tittering in the back-
benches, at seeing young Muster Osmund,
wdio was, I may say, a tiivorite with most
of them, in this position ; and when she
pulled off the dirty white glove, and began
kneading my head with her punchy little
fingers, I could see all the necks craning
forward, and a broad grin of delight on the
universal assembly.

" It's a fine 'ead," she began. " I don't
know as I ever see a much finer 'ead."
(Of course we were all prepared i'or that ;
but some one of the farmer's sons at the
back cried out. " Brayvo ! ") "There's
condjativeness, which, when combined with
the moril qualities, is a glorious hattrii)ute.
And justice! — I never did see anything
like the justice in this 'ead. And hobstina-
cy — that's very strong — would be a'most
too strong (though it's a fine hattribute), if
it warn't for this 'ead bein' open to impres-
sions, I see. The perceptive orgins is
large. ;ind so is amativeness, and philopro
Genesisness — that's what makes a man a

fijst-rate 'usband and father. (Laughter
and cheers. "So is reticule; but reticule
is a dangerous gilt, for it makes people sar-
caustic." (Here it seemed to me that she
pinched my head viciously ) '• Only in
this 'ere 'ead I'm sure it's kep' under re-
straint by the moril qualities. I wouldn't
believe it, if I was tole to the contrary. So
about the origin o? Destruclivencss, which is
unusual large. If it wasn't for Conslien-
siousness, which is well-developed, it might
leail the possessor of this 'ead to com-
mit murder. As it is," she continued, find-
ing this contingency was not received with
satisfaction by the back-benches — "as it
is, ladies and gentlemen, you must remem-
ber that all the great 'eroes — the Dook of
AVellington, and Boney Party, and the rest
of 'cm — 'ad destructiveness — they could-
n't 'a' done tvhat they done without de-
structiveness. This young gentleman is
likely to become an 'ero " (it sounrled like
•' a Nero," but I am disposed to hope she
didn't mean it), " from 'is 'ead ; which, 'e no
doubt, in'erits the virtues of the illustrious
lady I see before me, tlie perfections adorn-
ing which lofty sphere 'as made her notori-
ous. And, tendering 'er my 'umble thanks
tor her gracious condescension, and all of
you, my kind friends, for the flattering at-
tention you 'ave paid my words, I wish you
all, in the language of the Swan of Haven,
' a sweet good-night.' "

For days afterwards, this oration and the
diagnosis of my character, were a source of
unfailing delight amongst us. If Evelyn
was helped twice to pudding, I declared I
saw the bump of " gustaveousness" visibly
increased. When Ravmond tried to wall z,
1 told him he had neither " toone nor time,"
to which he naturally responded that " ret-
icule " would be my bane through life ; and
as to my combativeness and destructivc-
ness, they became by-words in the family.
The " moril qualities," I fear, were tacitly
denied me ; otherwise the lectttrer was held
to have been very happy in her psychologi-
cal portrait.

" Osmund's justice is without mercy, even
towards himself," said Mr. Francis with a
smile, when he beat me thi-ee games run-
ning at chess. " I point out the tolly of a
move, and offer to let him take it back.
He sternly refuses. Ah ! my young Aristi-
des, as life goes on, you will see the folly
of such a course. Retrace every false step
you can, when the opportunity offers ; and
mete out the same leniency, full measure,
and running over, to others."

Long afterwards those words, spoken half
in jest, used to recur to me. Long after-
wards, when sorrow and bitterness and death
had come between us, the memory of" those
" merry days when we were young," and of

PENRUDDOCKE.

that burlesque on phrenolofry which caused
us so uiuch lau;j;hter, returned to me with
sad distinctness. Tliat was the happiest
Christinas 1 ever passed. Tlie snl)er liap-
piness of hiter years is anuther, I suppose
a belter thing: ; but, after the hardening
contact with the worUl, that " wild fresh-
ness of niorninp; " of wliich the poet sings,
can never return.

At seventeen 1 had the keenest sense of
enjoyment. My home was not what would
be called a particularly cheerful one ; nor
was I insi'nsible to the inlluence of my
mother's and brother's peculiar characters.
But I was blessed with high spirits, with
strong lungs, stout limbs, and an indomita-
ble hope ; I loved and reverenced Mr. Fran-
cis cordially ; 1 worshipped Evelyn, who was
often with us, and spent hours of the mad-
dest pleasure on the back of my father's
old Irish hunter " Blarney," which had
descended to me. Whatever I may have
done in the way of study or reflection, never
interti;red with my digestion. I was not
addicted to despondt'ucy or gloomy fore-
bodings. I heard and saw many things
that gave me momentary annoyance, but
my buoyant temper quickly recovered.
(X-rtainly few boys of my age were hap-
pier. I remember a little circumstance
one day, unimportant in itself, but which
seemed to me pregnant with meaning when
I I'ecalled it long afterwards.

It was a wet winter's day, — I was about
sixteen at the time, — and I had been
teaching Evelyn billiards in the hall, until
she declared she was tired. Then we
sat down on the oak window-seat, and
watched the rain making a broad rivulet of
the centre of the road through the park,
the cattle huddled up together under the
solid shelter of the old yew-tree in the hol-
low, the fog creeping up to us from the
lake below. The out-look was dreary
enough ; I turned to an old chest filled with
rubbish, and opened it in search of materi-
als to help us in a charade which Mr.
Francis was writing for us. I forget what
we found, except this — a small brass cur-
tain ring, which, as it just fitted Evelyn's
third finger, I insisted should remain there,
declaring that now she was my wife, and
nothing could separate us. Her mother,
who was y)assing through the hall at that
moment, came forward with her galvanized
smile, and took the ring from her little
daughter's hand, saying, —

'• This is really a most silly game, here,
my dear children. Pray, do not put such
silly nonsense into Evy's head, my dearest
Osmund. " She is never going to leave
me ; are you, my darling ? Never leave
dear mamma — eh ? "

" Never! but Osmund can come and live

with us, by and by, when he is a man,
mamma, can't he ? "

" Oh ! he is going to be an officer, and
guard the queen. He would find it dull
work to live at the cottage with us — hem

— yes, very dull."

" Perhaps I should," was my blunt re-
joinder ; " but officers have wives."

" \Vives ? Oh, oh ! — here she laughed
spasmodically — '• what an idea ! Why
you, a younger son, mustn't think of mar-
r}ing lor — for — until you've made your
fortune. You're not like Ray, remember :
he can marry when he likes."

" Evy doesn't care for fortune, — do
you ? " said I nettled. " And she wouldn't
have such a muff as Ray, if he asked
her ! "

" Good gracious ! what nonsense you do
talk ! " here Mrs. Hamleigh glanced ner-
vously behind her. " Such children as you
both are should leave such subjects alone.
I must beg — hem, do you understand me ?

— that you won't go on with all this non-
sense, my dear boy, or I shall have to take
Evelyn away. There now, come along, my
child."

And from that day forwards, I observed
that Mrs. Hamlei2;h was glad of an excuse
to separate Evelyn and me, whenever she
could do so. This was notably the case
when Raymond was at home. She made
obvious efforts to throw Evelyn in his way ;
but he treated her, as he would have done
any other little school-girl, with frigid con-
descension, and I rubbed my hands with
glee to see how distasteful these enforced
tete-a-tetes were to the child herself.

I had been at home a year and a half,
when a circumstance occurred which affect-
ed my whole after-life.

CHAPTER IV.

" Your mother has had a deuced disa-
greeable letter this morning," said my
Uncle Levison to me, as we stood in the
veranda, smoking our cigars, after lunch-
eon. " I don't see the use of making a
mystery of it, for the thing must come out
if the fciol goes to law ; and as Ray isn't at
home " —

" What's up ? — Who's going to law ? "
I asked impatiently.

" Well, a fellow has come over from the
' States,' saying that he is the son of your
o-reat-uncle, — the fellow who ran away,
and was never heard of again, you know.
It may be true, or it may not ; but, any-
way, the fellow hasn't a leg to stand on, for
the fact of old Penruddocke's first marriage

PENRUDDOCKE.

— your great-grandfather — was never
proved."

" But -what do you mean by liis not hav-
ing a leg to stand on ? What docs he
want ? "

" Want ? — why, he wants to turn you
all out of the property, — that's all."

I burst out laughing.

" Cool, upon my word I Why, it hap-
pened nearly a century ago, didn't it?."

" Not quite that ; but long enough, I
fancy, fully to prevent Ray's title to the
property being disturbed under any circum-
stances whatever. The most annoying
part to j'our mother is that the prime mover
in all this is one oi your branch of the fami-
ly, — okl Humphrey."

" What ! — my father's first cousin ?
Confound hiin ! Is it he who writes ? I
wish my mother would show me his let-
ter."

" I'll ask her ; but she hasn't much opin-
ion of your head, my boy. However, I told
her you ought to know, as the only son at
home ; and these people may be making a
descent here some day. She has written
to Little, and he'll be down here to-morrow
or next day."

Little was the family solicitor, in whom
my mother placed the utmost confidence.
She was closeted with him for some hours
when he arrived. In the course of the
afternoon he met my Uncle Levison and
me, when the Ibllowing conversation en-
sued. First of all, however, let me give
Mr. Humphrey Mark Penruddocke's curi-
ous letter, which my mother consented to
let me see.

Cheyne Walk, March 2, 1852.

" Dear Madam, — A strange thing has
come to pass. After seventy years, we have
lit upon the son of my uncle and namesake,
Humphrey.

" 1 like dealings above-board, so I take
the earliest opportunity, after convincing
myself of the truth of Mr. John Penrud-
docke's story, to transmit it to you. Of
course you will not believe it, — or, if you
do, you will deny the claim he is prepared
to advance upon the Penruddocke estates.
Well, that is a matter for law to fight
out. I do not for an instant imagine that
any ' amicable arrangement ' can be come
to."

" A friend of njine was in America a few
months since, and chanced to meet, in a
very wild, remote district, this John Pen-
ruddocke, a widower, living on a small
farm, with an only daughter. Struck with
the name, my friend questioned him, and
learnt tliat he was the son ol" Humphrey,
who had died a few years since, at the age
of seventy. Papers in his jjossession prove

the truth of this ; and a portrait of his
grandmother (the unhappy Mrs. Diinstan)
confirmed my friend's suspicion that he had
found the long- lost heir of Beaumanoir.
He was himself wholly ignorant of his
claim. His father had never willingly re-
ferred to his youth, or to his family, declar-
ing that he never wished to heiir of them
again ; and the inference is that Humphrey
believed (what he had always heard from
his fixther) that he was illegitimate.

" Now, we hope to prove that this was
not so. That is the first point. The
second is to establish, that, by fraud or de-
ception, Humphrey Avas never cognizant
of the fact that he was his liither's heir.
Certain it is that my grandfather neither
advertised, nor took any other step to re-
call the son he had driven from home.
What little was done in this way, was done
by my own father, years afterwards, with-
out effect.

" If your legal advisers like to look at "
the documents in Mr. John Penruddocke's
possession, they can do so. We wish to do
all that is fair and open. Mr. John and
his daughter are now my guests. I don't
wish to deceive you, — they have come, at
my urgent solicitation, to prefer their
claims. Justice is justice. I don't wish
you and your sons any harm ; but I like
every man to have his own.

" I am your ladyship's faithful servant,

Humphrey Mark Penruddocke."

" The old gentleman has placed the mat-
ter in a very clear light," said j\Ir. Little.
" Supposing that Mr. Penruddocke's mar-
riage to Mrs. Dunstan could be established,
any claim made by a son of that marriage
would be barred by time, unless fraud or •
deception can be proved. The registers
hei-e, I find, are destroyed prior to 1780, «•
so that probably no record of the marriage
(if it ever took place) exists, nor of the
boy's baptism. At the very threshold there
are two very grave obstacles to be over-
come."

" Simply insurmountable," said my uncle.
" What a pestilent old fellow this Humph-
rey is, creatiiiij this disturbance, — for it is
evidently all his doing."

" Well, although it is against us," said I,
" I can't but admire his phick in the cause
of what he believes to be justice. Of course
they will soon find it is no go, — eh, Mr.
Little?"

" As to that I cannot say," returned the
old man of law. " I must see what docu-
ments they have. I understand there is a
letter of the grandfather's addressed to his
son, after some violent altercation between
them, in which he distinctly asserts that the

PENRUDDOCKE.

son has no lop;al claim on him. If tlii« lie
s-o, it will 1)0 made a <i;roat ])oint of, as prov-
ing: that the lad's k'uitiinacy was concealed
from him. They will hunt throuch all the
chuix'li rciiisters in London to try and find
the marriage, which they have an idea took
place there. 1 am afraid they may give us
a good deal of trouble."

" But my grandfather, who had certainly
better means of knowing than we have,
always denied his lather's fu-st mar-
riage ? "

'' Ah ! " said Mr. Little, with something
very like a smile playing round the corners
of his month, "that may be; but then his
brother Osmund, on the other hand, al-
ways believed in the marriage. I am afraid
that goes for v«ry little."

Mr. Little returned to London, and kept
my mother informed, from week to week,
of the progress of affairs. ' At first the sub-
ject was rarely alluded to in our general
circle ; but I was too eagerly curious to hear
the last news of the enemies' movements
not to break down the barrier of reserve
which edged my mother round, and I got
her at last to tell me the contents of Lit-
tle's letters. That she was consumed by
inward anxiety, under the mask of calmness,
I couhl not doubt. The dark circles un-
der her eyes, the hectic spot upon her
cheek, betrayed her ; but she evinced no
emotion, — neither anger, nor disquietude.
nor fear.

AVeeks went by : midsummer came.
The opinion of counsel had beeu taken.
Every octogenarian who remembered my
great grandfather had been examined;
but no additional fact of importance had
been brought to light. The case for the pros-
ecution was still ridiculously weak ; and, in
Little's opinion, the bill which had been
filed by the claimant must be withdrawn,
unless some unlooked-for evidence in his
favor turned up.

One day it occurred to me, when alone
■with Mr. Francis, to ask him whether,
among the old volumes of papers which
he had fished out of a corner of the libr.uv
two years smce, he had ever lighted upon
any thing that affected the question now
pending.

He was readintr, and did not raise his
eves for a muiute, so that I thought he had
not heard me, and was about to repeat my
question, when he looked up and said, —

" Yes, I did come upon something that
related to this matter ; hut, as it is no busi-
ness of mine, I conceive it is my duty to be
silent on the subject."

Of course I urged him to tell me, prom-
\<\n'T him that whatever he said should iro
no further.

" Well," he said, drawing out of his

pocket a black memorandum-T)ook, which
was liis constant companion, " what I found
was this, the design and inscription lor a
tablet to your great grandfather's first wife,

— the lady about whom there is so much
discussion. I supjiose the taV)let never was
erected ; but this rough draught had all
the appearance of a genuine document."

" ^\'here is it ? Do find it lor me, Mr.
Francis."

" I cannot — it has disappeared."

" Disappeared ! Who can have taken it."

" That I cannot tell," said he, looking
down, and drawing with his pen on the
blotting-book before him ; '• ]jerhaps a
housemaid has lit the fire with it. At all
events, it is gone. I searched all the MSS.
through some weeks ago."

" Strange ! Do you remember how the
inscription ran ? "

" Distinctly ; and here are the dates,
whicli I wrote down at the time." He
turned over the leaves of his pocket-book.
" I had heard the question of this marriage
mooted, and therefore the paper had an
interest for me it would not otherwise have
had. The inscription ran thus: 'To the
memory of Caroline, wife of Humphrey
Raymond Penruddocke of Beaumanoir,
in the county of Dorest, Esquire, who was
married on the 13th day of June, 1764,*
and died on the 30th September, 1765, in
giving birth to a son."

" You don't mean that ? Why, if so —
if — if this was really true ! If this paper
exists " —

'* It does not exist. I feel sure of that

— and if it did, it would have no legal
value. It is only the design for an inscrip-
tion to be erected — by whom ? Perhaps
by your great-uncle, Osmund, whose fanat-
icism on the subject may have carried him
even this length."

" It isn't likely," said I resolutely. " It
looks uncommonly ugly — as if there really
was something in it. It would regularly
crush our case, for they have quite enough
evidence to prove that Humphrey was kept
in ignorance of his rights."

" There is no use speculating on that,
my boy. I merely name the fact to you as
curious. It has no real weight."

" It has a moral weight — with me, at
all events. I don't see what interest it
could be of any one's to forge such a com-
position — I mean, to invent all those
dates. It is very odd. I should like to
tell my mother : she's awfully keen, and
scents a thing c[uicker than any man, Mr.
Francis. She " —

* The (late of a marriage upon tomb or tablet,
though unusual, is not witliout precedent, even
where no special reason has existed, as in this case,
for recordiug it. — Ed.

PENEUDDOCKE.

" Never mind. I forbid you to namo the
subject to her. She mifrht justly say I liad
been ])ryin'^ and meddling in family mat-
ters whieh in no way concern me. Re-
member. I liold you to your promise not to
name this thing to any living soul."

I said no moi'e, but puzzled over the
matter by myself for some days, when an
announcement reached us which startled
me by its connection with the subject of
the foregoing conversation ; and startled
my tutor, too. I feel sure, though he said
very little. This announcement was to the
effect that John Penruddocke's emissaries
were on tiie alert, having learnt fi'om an
old laborer, that, when my grandfather
made a new family fault, an old one under
the church had been walled up ; and more-
over, that lie remembered a tablet in the
church — lie could not say to whom —
which had been removed to make room for
a window, about the same time. John now
demanded to have the old vault opened.
It was not known what had become of the
tablet, nor, indeed, to whose memory it was
erected ; but it was hoped that it might be
found in the vault, and might prove to be
the missing link in the chain of John's evi-
dence. Of course my thoughts instantly
reverted to what Mr. Francis had told me.
In spite of my strong desire to disbelieve
in the existence of any such monument,
the more I thought over it, the more prob-
able it appeared, that, if a tablet was indeed
removed from the church by my grand-
father, it was one which recordcil his fa-
ther's first marriage, which he refused to
acknowledge. And it seemed to me not
unlikely, that, instead of destroying the
stone, he had consigned it to the disused
vault. I was in a fever of anxiety until
the eventful day should arrive fixed for
opening it, in the presence of John Pen-
ruddocke, and his stanch supporter, old
Humphrey.

A certain Wednesday was appointed for
the visit ; my mother's formal consent hav-
ing been obtained to a proceeding which it
would have beer\ impolitic, if not useless,
to refuse. That she was ill .at ease, I
could see plainly; and I felt for her most
keenly. But hers was not a nature to
which it was easy to offer sympathy. Hay
was now at home, and his majority at
hand. IIow much, or how little, she con-
fided in him, I never knew;, but of the tor-
ture which she must have endured at that
time I i'eel pretty sure he was kept igno-
rant. He had returned crowiu'd with aca-
demical laurels, and he numifested but a
languid interest in the subject of John's
claim, as though it were scarcely W(jrth
serious consiileration. Mr. Putney said
this showed what a noble character he was

— how superior to sordid interests. I
thought it only proved him to be phle"-
matic.

Mrs. Hamleigh and her daughter were
not at Beaumanoir on this occasion, and I
was glad of it. As old Humphrey's niece,
to whom he had never shown any kindness,
her presence would have added another
awkwardness to the only visit which my
father's first cousin had paid to Beaumanoir
tor more than forty years.

The little church, a squat, ugly building,
whitewashed without, high-peAved within,
stood in the shrubbery, hard by our liouse.
I could throw a stone from my bedroom
window into the churchyard — nay, into
the church itself, when the small postern
in the north transept, which was sacred to
our use, stood open. This door led directly
into the big, moreen-curtained room which
we occupied during divine service, where
was a fireplace, and a carpet, and a perfect
Stonehenge of hassocks in the centre. To
the left of the door was a small lancet-
window, rather more than six feet from the
ground ; and at right angles with this win-
dow, i-n the wall inside the pew, was the
low arch and flight of steps leading to our
family vault. I had never entered it but
once, after my father's death ; but I knew
that beyond, and communicating with it,
was the 'smaller disused vault, which was
now about to be opened.

CHAPTER V.

I WAS returning from shooting on Tues-
day (" pei'haps for the last time over my
brother's ground," I said to myself; for I
had many misgivings about the result of
the morrow), when, on jumping a gate in
one of the least-frequented parts of the
park, I came upon my mother, talking to
one of the Hounsfield brothers. I was a
good deal surprised. She turned quickly,
and came towards me ; but it was too dark
to see her face. The fellow, who knew I
hated him. touched his hat, and slouched
olF.

" Tell your wife I shall come and see her
the day after to-morrow, William," said
my mother's silvery voice through the
twilight.

The day after to-morrow ! Good heavens !
How could she make plans for the day after
to-morrow ? She asked what sport I had
liad. I answered her, and presently some-
what bluntly observed I couldn't think
how she could be out in the damp, at that
hour, so far fi-om home. She had walked
farther than she intended, and, having met
William Hounsfield, had stopped to speak

PENRUDDOCKE.

to him ; she was afraid his wife was dyiiTj;.
It anjiereil me always to see ray motlier's
partiality for these people ; but I was pretty
-well useil to it. I walked liome alongside
her ; and we talked of other things.

Onr evenings were never particularly
lively ; bnt that evening was one of the
most depressing I ever remember to have
passed. Not a word was spoken ; we four
people sat, each with a book, at different
tables; but I am confident that none of us,
imless it was Kaymoml, read a word. Our
thoughts were all upon the unpleasant
business of the morrow. A dread had
been growing up silently, I know, in the
minds of at least two of us, that " the
secrets of the prison-house," to be dissolved
to-morrow, after being shut away from
every mortal eye for more than half a cen-
tury, would be ]jrejudicial to our cause. My
mother turned the leaves of her book with
laudable regularity ; jNIr. Francis sat shad-
ing his eyes with his hand. I verily believe
neither knew what the volumes were they
held in their hands. B\' and by tea was
brought in. My mother made it, and soon
afterwards rose, saying she was tired. I
jum])ed up, and lit her candle ; she touched
my tbrehead with her pale lips, and then
went to the back of Raymond's chair. She
took his head between her hands, and
kissed him twice. It was so unusual in her
10 betray any thing, that this touched me.
Mr. Francis, too, looked up ; and there was
a strangje expression on his face I could not
then iathom.

I went to bed and slept, — a feverish,
imeasy sleep. About four in the morning
I woke. It wanted yet two hours of dawn ;
and the i^ky through my uncurtained win-
dow was very tlark and starless. My bed
was so near the window that I could see
the fliint outline of the church as I lay
there, its short square tower defined in
solid black against the cloudy night. I
tried to sleep, but it was in vain. I tossed
about for some time, and at last got up and
opened the window. Looking towards the
claurch as I di<l so, I was startled to see
■what appeared to be a ray of light coming
from the lancet-window I have spoken of
as over our pew. I rubbed my eyes. The
light had disappeared. Had I been dream-
ing ? Was it a Will-o'-the-wisp ?

No 1 for there it was again. Who could
be in the church at this hour ? My heart
bt^an to beat quick, with the sense of
something strange and adventurous. To
probe this mystery was, of course, my first
thought ; to remain up here in my room,
and know that there was some one in the
church at this extraordinary hour of the
night, would have been impossible to me.
I thrust on a pair of trousers and a jacket.

Close to my window spread the branches
of an old witch-elm, — a means of access to
my room which I constantly used : it was
the work of a minute now to swing myself
on to the nearest branch, and so drop to
the ground. I ran noiselessly with my
bare fiiet tlu'ough the shrubbery, vaultcil
over the fence dividing it from the church-
yard, and crept through the loni; grass be-
tween the graves, till I reached the church.

The light through the window was gone.
I stood and listened ; there was not a
sound. I tried the door softly — it was
locked. I went all round the church, and
did the same by the other doors, with the
like result. Once I fancied that some-
thing resembling the dim shadow of a
figure glided away into the trees as I ap-
proached ; but I listened, and could not
hear a sound, and I came to the conclusion
that my excited imagination had conjured
up this shape from the outline of a slirub.
I returned to the north side, annoyed at
being baffled, and loth to believe that I
could have been deceived by any optical
delusion about the light. Yet all was so
absolutely still in and around the church,
that I was about to give it up, when suil-
dcnly a faint ray, which grew stronger and
stronger, once more streamed through the
lancet-window. To a good climber, as I
was, it was easy to spring up the wall, and
clutching on- by my hands to the sill of the
window, while I found between the old
stones some small purchase for ray toes, to
look down into the church below.

As I did so, the sweat started out on my
forehead. The door of our family-vault
stood open, two men were coming up the
steps bearing something between them ;
upon the top step stood a figure whose back
was towards rae, entirely covered by a
long black cloak, holding a lantern for the
men. I recognized them at once : they
were the two Ilounsfields. What they
were carrying appeared to be a box full of
stones, broken up into small pieces. They
came up into the church, and then the fig-
ure who held the lantern locked the door
of the vault. I felt ray head swim round ;
I scarcely knew what I thought, what I
suspected, in those few terrible moments.
I only know that what I most dreaded was
to s(;e that figure turn and show its face.

The men came with their burden towards
the door, close to which I was clinging on
the wall. The figure and the lantern fol-
lowed. At first it was in shadow — I could
not clearly see it; but just before the door
was unlocked, the light for an instant
flashed on the face, and my horrible doubt
— which scarcely had been a doubt — was
realized. I could hardly repress a cry ; it
was as though I had been shot. I had just

PENRUDDOCKE.

streni^tli to keep cTmginc; en until they had
passed out, and had tilided, with the lan-
tern darkuned, through the trees in the di-
reetion of the lake. Then I rolled down,
like a stone, into the grass below, and, for
the first time in ray life, 1 fainteil.

I have a fancy — an impres.-^ion so dim
that it is hardly to be called a recollection
— that when I first began to recover con-
sciousness, some one was bending over me,
raising my head, and dashing water in my
face. But the image almost instantly faded
away, and I was alone, — alone in the gray
twilight of dawn, lying in the dew-soaked
grass at the foot of the lancet-window, and
every thing was as silent as the graves
around me. Giddy and bewildered, I stag-
gered to my feet, and slowl)- the terrible
truth of the night came back, like a great
wave, and broke over me.

It was full an hour before I had the heart
to-reclimb the old witch-elm, and creep
back into my room.

CHAPTER VI.

I WOKE late next morning, with a burn
ing head, and the confused sense of a bad
dream that had broken my rest. Little by
little the shattered memory formed itself
into a hard, consistent whole : I buried my
face in the pillow and groaned aloud. I
dreaded to meet any one, — the servants,
these strangers who were coming : I felt as
though they must all be able to read the
shameful secret in my face. And, most of
all, 1 dreaded to meet her.

Breakfast was happily over when I got
down stairs — the room was empty. John
Penruddocke and his friends were to leave
London l)y the 8, A-Ji., train, which reached
our small station at 12. My mother had
announced some days before, that she con-
sidered it due to her own dignity to receive
" our enemies " with every possible courtesy.
She sent the carriage to the station to meet
them. I had far rather she had barricaded
the house, and declined to admit them. It
would have been honester, at least.

I ran out into the park, I plunged in
among the trees, 1 knew not, I cared not,
in which direction, breaking through the
tangled thicket, until I came to a little open
space, where I could throw myself upon the
grass, safe froui any ctnious eyes. To
make a pretence of studying with Mr.
Francis this morning would have been im-
possible. 1 could not bear the thought of
seeing him whom I respected so highly, and
whose counsel, under almost any other cir-
cumstance in life, I should unhesitatingly
have sought. Nor could 1 sit at liome, lis-

tening to the ticking of the great clock, in
the hall, and waiting, — waiting for what?
Did I not know the result of this coming
business now with almost absolute certain-
ty ?

And what could I do? In vain I asked
myself the question. Expose my own
mother, blast our honoraljie reputation as a
family forever, or let this wrong be, and
live under the secret, unspoken burden of
a disgraceful deed henceforward ? What-
ever else I mi'iht do, this I felt I could not.
I was a hot-blooded boy, in whom justice
was something more than a cold, abstract
\irtue, and whose heart fired up, thank
God ! at the thought of disloyalty or un-
truth.

I lay there for more than an horn-, tossin""
to and fro, plucking at the grass with fever-
ish hands, unable to determine on any defi-
nite course of action. By and by I heard
the distant grind of carriage-wheels upon
the gravel drive, andl knew " our enemies '^
were come. I. sprang to my feet — the ne-
cessity for prompt decision as to my course
of action became urgent, — I would speak
openly to my brother. I set off" running,
antl got to the house just as the carriage
luul discharged its freight, to wit, a short,
active man, with sharp features and gray
hair, whom I had no difficulty in determin-
ing to be Humphrey Penruddocke ; two
others, one a very tall man (no doubt the
claimant, John), and his solicitor, whose
faces I could not see, and a young girl, with
red hair, as awkward a creature as I ever
beheld. I slipped in by a side door, and
reached the library before the unwelcome
guests. There, as I anticipated. I found
my mother and Raymond, with Little and
Uncle Levison, who had come down the
night before, to give his sister tiie support
of his handsome presence. They were all
three standing near the fireplace as I en-
tered, — my mother, beautiful and calm,
perhaps a little pale, as was natural on such
an occasion, but neither more nor less care-
fully dressed than usual. She held a tea-
rose in her hand, at which she smelt every
now and then. Raymond had a new coat
on, which did not add to the ease of his
demeanor : as to his face, there it was, as
it always was, regularly chiselled, nerveless,
awfully sweet, like an Antinous of a de-
based period in Grecian Art. Uncle Levi-
son looked by far the most fidgety and
anxious of the trio, — he jjulled down his
wristbands every n)iuute, by an outw;ird
strike of the arms, as if he were swimming;
and then he looked at his boots.

No one looked at me. Had they done
so, my face, not being so imperturbable as
my brother's, must have betrayed me. But
their attention was directed to another door

PENRUDDOCKE.

tlun the one by which I entered ; and this
other door was now Ikina; open. " Mr. and
Miss Peuru(hloeke, ^Ir. llninphrey Penrud-
docke, and J\h\ Archer, were annoiinceil.
My mother went forward.

" Ray," I whispered, " come into the
next room for a moment, before — before "
— he stared at me in wonderment : I gasped
ont — " beibre this business is entered
upon. I've — I've got something to tell
you."

" I cannot, Osmund. How can I just
now ? These peoi)le " — And he moved
towards the door. I caught hokl of his
arm.

'• For God's sake " —

" Pray do not detain me I I will listen
to yon by and by ; I cannot now."

'•But you must! by and by will not do.
I must speak to you before they go to
church."

He stared at me with his cold blue eyes,
and gently shook me- olf. They were in
the room ; my mother, with a queen-like
sweetness, was holding out her hand to the
ugly girl anil her father. It would have
brought tears into the eyes of Mrs. Ilam-
leigh, had she been present ; it would have
furnished the text for a sermon on Chris-
tian charity from Mr. Putney.

John Penruddocke, at whom of course I
looked with most interest, was apparently
about sixty, a Herculean man, with really
fine features, cast in a large mould, and a
kindly expression of countenance. His
accent and mode of speech were not Amer-
ican ; neither were they those of an English
gentleman. They were more countrified
and unconventional than vulgar. As to his
dress, he wore high, big boots, and a coat
which Poole would have disowned. But
his manner, considering what an ordeal this
interview must have been to him, couM not
have been better. He was come, avowedly,
to try to turn us out of house and home ;
and he was met with a grand courtesy by
a beautiful woman, who seemed to be a
combination of sovereign and saint. Even
for a man of the world, the position would
have been awkward ; how much more so
for a wild back-woodsman ! No doubt he
felt it, in some measure; but there was no
shrinking, no shamefacedness. He was
simple, straightforward ; and his words,
though few, were to the point. I was
struck with his frank acceptance of all that
was advanced on our side, as though the
idea of any thing underhand, or that was
not said in perfectly good faith, never oc-
curred to him. In this respect, the contrast
between him and our Cousin Humphrey was
notable. A more shrewd, suspicious old
lellow I never met. I could see that he
trusted no one, doubted every statement,

every document ; and while treating my
mother with punctilious civility, was not
the least impressed by her imposing demean-
or. The girl looked to me like a boy
dressed in woman's clothes. There was no
doubt about it, — notwithstanding expres-
sive ey»'s, she was very ugly ; and her large
bony "limbs seemed trying to free themselves
from the restraints that civilization had im-
posed on them. The buttons of her dress
at the back had burst; and, in her red
hands, she held her gloves rolled up in a
ball. A more odd, ungainly-looking crea-
ture I never beheld !

" May I offer you luncheon before you go
to the church, or will you have it after-
wards ? " said my mother.

" We will go to the chui-ch first," struck
in Cousin Huuiphrey (quickly, before John
could reply. " We have to catch the after-
noon up-train ; and business before pleasure,
Lady Rachel."

" You will excuse my going with you.
My son will show you the way, and my
brother, Col. Levison Rich. I have given
orders for the vault to be open ; and, if
there is any thing further you want to
exajnine, pray do not hesitate to ask..
Luncheon will be ready on your return.
Perhaps Miss Penruddocke would prefer
remaining with me V "

But Miss Penruddocke accompanied her
father : the high polish of ray lady's mar-
ble presence awed her, I could see, and
she was glad to escape.

They passed through a garden-door, on
to the terrace. I felt a rush of blood to my
head, a singing in my ears. I catight Ray's
arm, and dra'iii'ed him aside by main force.

" Listen ! " I said fiercely. ' " You shall,
you must, listen to me 1 They are going to
the vault ; and what they are going to look
for they won't find, for it has been deslrof/ed."

He stared. At last he inquired mildly
what I meant.

" I mean that the tablet upon which John
Penruildoi'ke's case mainly rests now —
the last link in his evidence — has been
broken up, and the fragments thrown into
the lake last night."

" You arc dreaming, Osmund ! Who " —

'■ Oh ! don't ask me who did it : the
thing is done, and it will come out sooner
or later, — all such crimes do. Your only
chance of saving our honor is boldly to avow
that it has come to your knowledge, that, un-
tbrtunately, some lijoUsh and ignorant per-
son, thinking to befriend you, has made
away with it. Y'ou will then give ordei's
for the lake to be dragged."

" You are dreaming, Osmund," was still
the tbrmala of my brother's reply ; and he
struggled to release liis arm.

" By heavens ! Ray, I am not dreaming I

PENRUDDOCKE.

What I tell you is true, as true as I stand
here. For God's sake, speak ! — do sonie-
thin;j; quicJ^ily! Half an hour henee it will
be too late. You cannot then come forward,
when they have left the vault. When the
tablet is missing, you must speak, or hold
your tongue upon this shameful deed, and
forever bear the disgrace of it through
life ! "

" Nonsense, Osmund ! Let me go ! See,
they are waiting for me. Don't! — you
hurt my arm ! "

" I won't let you go till you promise me
to speak out."

'• How absurd you are, to expect me to
repeat this nonsense about a tablet ! After
all, if such a thing existed, and was de-
stroyed, I know nothing about it. AVhy
should I say <iny thing that is to injure us ?
I am not to blame if any tablet was made
away with, which I do not believe."

Then, indeed, I did let him go, but with
such an impetus that he staggered back
ac^ainst the balustrade. I myself recoiled,
as if from a serpent. The suorn I felt shot
from my eyes as I said, —

" I was a fool to think for a moment I
could kindle a spark of any manly, honora-
ble feeling in such a miserable creature as
you are ! You haven't the excuse of being
a wogtian, and a mother, as she is, who sins
for the sake of her son. You're a con-
temptible wretch, who has no sense of
shame, or you could not endure the bare
thought of this infamy ! But I have done
with you from this day forward ! I wash my
hands of you and the whole lot ! I wiA
not expose her ; but I won't countenance
this swindle, so help me God ! "

I was choking with passion as I turned
from him. I suppose he crawled away
after the others. I did not look round, but
ran up stairs to my own room, and locked
myself in. An hour later there came a
knock at the door.

" Her ladyship desired me to let ywi
know, sir, that luncheon has been on the
table some time."

" Bring me something up here. Say I am
not coming down."

The afternoon waned ; I heard the car-
riage come round from the stables, and then
it drove rapidly off, bearing our unwelcome
guests to the station. It was all over, then ;
this foul work had got itself done, beyond
recall, and the rightiul owner of these broad
lands was gone, crest-fallen, discomfiitd.
^ly rage was no longer at white-heat ; but
indignant shame brought scalding tears
into my eyes. I was ludpless, for I could
not denounce my own mother, and my
brother's eyes I had opened. He might
have redressed this wrong ; but he was con-
tent tu sit down, and do nothing. I would

not so sit down. I would no longer cast in
ray lot with them, ami bentifit, even indi>
i-ectly, from this rascality. I would cut
adrift from them all, and fight my own way
in the world, under another name. My
resolution never wavered all that afternoon ;
as soon as night was come, I would escape.

The dressing-bell for dinner came, just
as if nothing had happened. One of the
men brought hot water to my door. I sent
him away.

" I am not coming down to dinner. Say
I have a headache, and bring me up some
cold meat and a jug of beer."

Between nine and ten o'clock, I heard a
step upon the old stairs (which led only to
my room, and some unoccupied ones), a
step which I now feared, though I loved it
more than any other in the house. If Mr.
Francis saw me, he would at once detect
that something- was gravelv amiss, — he
might even suspect my design : his elo-
quence was the only thing I feared might
shake my resolution. 1 threw myself upon
the bed, and turned my face to the wall.
There was a knock.

" Osmund, what is the matter ? Will
you let me in V "

" I am in bed."

" Won't you get up, and open the door to
me ? "

" Pray forgive me, Mr. Francis. I have
an awful headache. I can't talk. Thank
you for coming to look after me. I shall
be all right to-morrow."

" Good-night, then, Osmund."

" Good-night, Mr. Francis. You forgive
me, don't you ? "

" Of course, my dear boy. Come to my
room, and report yourself all right in the
morning."

Then I heard the long measured step
return down the corridor, and descend the
stairs.

I spent the next half hour in meditating,
and about the same space of time in mak-
ing my preparations. I had five pounds,
and a few shillings, in my possession. la
prosecuting the scheme I had in view, any
superfluous wardrobe would have been an
encumbrance. A change of linen, my
diary, and a pocket Shakspeare, with tlie
remains of the bread and meat from my
dinner, were tied up in a pocket-haudker-
cliief, and slung over my shoulder on a
stout stick. I put on my shabbiest shoot-
ing clothes, and my oldest wide-awake ; the
only object of real value upon me was my
father's gold repeater, which he had left
me, and which I resolved never to part
with.

AVhen the house had been (juiet some
time, I opened my window softly, and swung

PENRUDDOCKE.

mvself on to the ■wit<'li-e!m, ami from it to
the ground, as I had done the pi'evioiis
nisht. It was starli2:ht, and very still.
Tliore was not a sound, except the bayinc;-
of one of the dogs in the Ptal)le. The
house, as I looked back, stood dimly defined
against the sk}-. From one win<low only
there shone a light: it was Mr. Francis's
room. It was strange, but I i'clt more at
leaving him — and without a word, without
a sign — than any one else in my old
home. J^o more my home, henceforward !
I would never return to it, never break
bread within those doors as long as my
family held it in unlawful possession. On
that I had made up my mind, with all the
fierce energy of eighteen.

And so I strode away at a swinging pace
among tlie trees ; and, leaping the ])ark-pul-
ings, found myself on the high-road.

CHAPTER VII.

I CALCULATED that by walking fast I
might catch the midnight mail from the

B railway-station, about three miles

distant. I had scarcely reached it when I
heard the railway whistle. With my
wide-awake driven over my eyes, and my
coat-collar turned up, I ran into the ticket-
office, in the uncertain gaslight of which it
was no wonder the sleepy clerk did not
recognize me. As the train came up, I
watched my opportunity when the jjorter's
back was turned, >and jumped into a third-
class carriage, where I found myself alone.
In less than an hour I alighted at a station
on the edge of the New Foi-est, but a short
distance from Mrs. Hamleigh's house. It
stood on the outskirts of a village, — an old
red-briek dwelling, almost blind of all its
eyes, with roses, and magnolia, and Virgin-
ian creeper, of no architectural pretension,
but homely and pleasant of aspect. Be-
tween it and the high-road were a lawn
and a gravel drive, and several fine oaks,
one of which almost touched the house, and
ought to have been cut down, but, by rea-
sea of its beauty, had been hitherto spared.
I lifted the latch of the gate (nothing
was ever padlocked there), and passed in;
but my footfall on the gravel, though I trod
li^jjhtly, aroused a sharp yelping bark from
the house. I stepped on to the turf; the
faithful little guard was not to be deceived,
however ; he uttered his sharp little '• Be-
Avare ! " at intervals. And now, from the
stable-yard, another dog was incited by
sympathy to enter his protest against tlie
intrusion. The moon had risen ; each object
on the lawn was as visible as by day. I
crept on, under the shadow of the boughs,

making for the large oak which stood over
against Evelyn's window. If I could only
reach that, I felt I was safe, should the
household be aroused ; but I was subjected
to no such peril. The terrier's bark indeed,
grew more and more fierce, as the old oak
creaked and rustled w^hen I swung myself
up into its boughs ; but. he slept in Eve-
lyn's room, as I soon discovered, for the
window, on account of the heat, had been
left open ; and fortune, for once, distinctly
favored me. The dog's persistent bark
woke his mistress, which I might not have
found it easy to do, without danger, and he
did not arouse any other member of that
sleepy household.

There was no light in the room ; but I
heard the sweet young voice say, " What is
the matter, Roughey V " And then a little
figure in a white night-dress came pattering
across the floor to the window, and leant
out in the moonshine, chattering in doc'-lan-
guage to her pet. " 'Ou foolish 'ittle dog !
There's nothing. What 'ou making such a
fuss about, disturbing 'ou mistress in this
way V " Then she looked up into the clear
summer night, and over the moonlit lawn,
with its islands of black shadow, and leant
her firmly-cleft little chin, which belied the
softness of her eyes and lijis, in the hollow
of her hand, and mused. What was she
thinking of? I was afraid to breathe her
name, ever so low, without some prepara-
tion ; she might scream aloud in her first
terror. I scrawled a fiew words in pencil
upon a leaf of my Shakspeare, and twist-
ing it round an acorn, I tossed it in at the
window, aiming at the dressing-table be-
side her, where it fell. She started, with a
hall-suppressed cry, and ran into the room.
I remained perfectly still ; and in a minute
or two, as I anticipated, curiosity conquer-
ing alarm, she came back slowly and
stealthily to the table, and untwisted the
little crumpled ball.

" It is I — Osmund. I am in the oak-
tree. Do not make a noise. Let me speak
to you for a minute."

She ran up to the window at once, her
face and neck, as I could see, one flush of

joy-

" Don't be frightened," I whispered. *' I
have run away from home, Evy, and I am
going off, — going away for a long time
somewhere or other ; but I couldn't <ro
without saying good-by to )'ou, darling."'

'' O Osmund! Going oQ'! — run away
from home ! What do j^ou mean ? Have
you been a naughty boy ? "

" No, dear ; but I couldn't stay. Never
mind why — I can't tell you. Don't waste
time by asking me any questions, Evy. I
can only stay a minute ; for, if I was discov-
ered, they would try to stop me. Kemem-

PENRUDDOCKE.

ber, yon mustn't breathe a word about my
bavin'i; been here to-iUL^ht."

"But — but — where are you going?
Do tell me ! "

"I can't, clear; I (scarcely know myself.
I am leaving home forever, that's all I can
tell you, and " —

'• Forever !" she walled. " O Osmund !
don't say that ! How wicked of you ! "

"No, it isn't wicked, — it's right, Evy.
You'd think so, if you knew all. I'm going
otF somewhere, to make a name and fbrtGne
for myself, or die in the attempt, as all
heroes do."

"How dreadful! Oh! how can you
talk so V You'll never come back, then !
I shall never see you again ! " and she
sobbed bittevly.

" Yes, 1 feel suT^ I shall, — I shall come
back to claim my little wife, if she remains
true to me. You will remain true, won't
you, darling, though you should not hear of
me for a long, long time ? "

" And — vou — won't write to me ? " she
sobbed.

"1 daren't: I should be traced. You
must wait patiently, and don't believe evil
of me, whatever they may tell you. And
now, my pet, give me a lock of your hair,
won't you, to keep next to my heart as
long as I live ? "

She went to the dressing-table, took a
pair of scissors, and clipi)ed a tress of the
long brown hair, close to its roots.

"Tie something round it — wrap it in
paper, and drop it on the grass."

With that I scrambled to the ground, as
noiselessly as 1 could ; but the bough shook,
and the scraping of my heels, as I slid
down the trunk, irritated that infernal little
terrier, and he set up a renewed yelping.

" Be quiet ! lloughey, be quiet, naughty
dog ! " cries weeping Evy.

" Good-by, my darling," I whisper hur-
riedly under the window, as I hear the
stable dog again take up the barking —
" if I stay another minute, I shall be dis-
covered."

She leant half of her little body out of
the window, and wrung her hands.

" O Osmund ! don't go — don't, dear ! "

'• Hush ! God bless you ! The house is
aroused ; I must be oil!" And I took to
my heels.-

And now that I had seen my little dar-
ling, and had bidden her a long good-by,
my thoughts concentrated themselves on
my next step. What was I to do ? An
active life, a life in whicli there should, if
}iossil)le, be fighting and adventure and
distinction, and certainly no desk-work, a
career in which I might make a name for
myself, while my real one should remain

forever unknown, — this was what I set mv
heart on. IMy plan was this. To make
the best of my way to Portsmouth, and en-
list in one of the regiments there under
orders for foreign service. If, for some
cause or other, the scheme should not
answer, then I could go on board a man-of-
war. In the course of time, Evy and Mr.
Francis should hear from me. As to all
the rest of the world, in the bitterness of
my heart, I then declared I never wished
to hear of my mother or brother again.
Does this sound unnatural ? Let no one
pronounce it so, whose affections have not
been estranged in early youth, and who, at
eighteen, with a temperament such as mine,
has never become possessed of a shameful
secret which has forever sliattered the
founilations of his trust. I thought of my
poor father. I thought how his honorable
nature would have loathed such an act as
this, which had set up an impassable bar-
rier between my mother and me ; and I de-
clared that I belonged to him, and had no
part in her, neither would I have lot nor
inheritance.

By daybreak I was out of the forest ;
and crossing the railroad, where it bisects
a wild district of moorland, I got upon the
dusty high-road. Here, after climbing a
short hill, I came to the " Hunter's Inn,"
and knocked up a somnolent individual,
half waiter, half hostler, who brought me
some bread and cheese and beer. I tried
vainly to gather information toiK'hing any
recruiting parties that might have been
that way lately. Foiled in this, I did gain,
however, an exact knowledge of the dis-
tance to Southampton, and a time-table of
the steamers thence to the Isle of Wight.
For obvious reasons I desired to avoid
railroads. The first boat would enable me
to reach Portsmouth, by the circuitous route
of Cowes and Ryde, early in the day ; and
this mode of transit I resolved to adopt.

It fell out much as I had planned. My
farther journey was uneventful. A dusty
stripling slipped on board the steamer,
almost unobserved, took his place forward
as steerage-passenger, and was landed, two
hours and a half later, on the little pier at
Southsea, without recognition ; indeed (he
was almost mortified to observe) without
exciting any attention or interest whatso-
ever.

I had learnt from a man on board that

the th, which I had constantly heard

spoken of as one of the crack regiments in
the service, was quartered in Hi 1 sea Bar-
racks. "They sail for India in a few
months' time, and are hard up, I'm told, for
recruits," my informant had added. Here
was my opportunity. I inquired my way
to the barracks, and directed my steps

PENRUDDOCKE.

thither. A corporal at the gate demanded
my busines;!, and I told hiin. He eyed me
li-om head to tiiot, said I was ■' a willowy
sort of a ohap," and called for the ser<;eant
of the truard. I knew that heroes oiufht to
have an iidierent nobility of aspect that
betrays their birth ; but, ai)parently, I ran
no such risk. Tall tor my a^e, and thin to
spareness, by no means well-featured, sun-
burnt, white with dust, and wearing a pair
of old " hiiih-lows," which, in the course of
my night's march, had broken out in more
than one place, I tliink it reflects no dis-
credit on the corporal's and sergeant's
discernment that they did not detect the
gentleman in the volunteer who presentcil
himself for enlistment.

I was marched olF to the orderly-room,
where the adjutant, Mr. Eagles, was dic-
tating a letter to a clerk. The officer
waved his hand to the sergeant, to indicate
that my very small matter of business — to
wit, the being enrolled aS a soldier'in Her
Majesty's service — must stand aside until
the completion of this important document.
I listened with some curiosity to the first
letter " O. H. M. S." I had ever heard ;
but I could make little of it. The sub-
ject, as far as I could make out, was
pouches ; but then the subject was poured
out, so to speak, with such a head on it
that it was difficult to get to it for the
froth. Such a bewildering mass of " hon-
ors," past, present, and to come, with, " I
am directed by's," and, " with reference
to's," such involutions of speech, such a bog
of adverbs and ])repositions, as rendered it
hard to pick one's way through to any solid
foundation of meaning. JNIr. Eagles, whose
personal appearance 1 had thus ample time
to study, was an absurd-looking youn'T man,
with an assumption of military ferocity
which sat but ill on his receding brow,
vacuous eyes, and lobster-claw-like nose.
He was a good-natured creature, as I after-
wards found ; but five minutes were enough
to show me that he was empty as a broken
bottle, and inordinately vain. He believed
himself to be an embryo Wellington. His
zeal in the service was indued untiring,
and he was not a bad " drill." In a regi-
ment where rich and indolent young men
abounded, with but few soldiers at heart
among them, these qualities had procured
him the adjutantcy ; and, in spite of some
just ridicule from both officers and men, I
must confess that he filled the duties of his
post better than any other man in the
th would have done.

At the end of a quarter of an hour, hav-
ing completed his missive, he veered round
in his cliair. He then knit his brows, and
pulled down the corners of his mouth in a
liashion that was meant to intimidate the

recruit, but which well-nigh provoked in me
an unseendy fit of laughter.

" Now then, sir, what's your name? "

" Jeames Zmitli."

" Snath V Hm I Where do you come
from V That's a London name."

'" I da come pearlly from Darsetshire."

" Partly ! What do you mean by part-
ly V"

" Feather come vrom Darsetshire. Moth-
er " —

" I don't want to know about your
mother, sir " (fiercely). " What's your
age V "

" Risin' nineteen — come next fall."

" Next fall ! What does he mean ? Gad!
what a dialect! And what have you been
doiu'j; ?

"A-workiu in the vields, and a-pickin'
stonniis."

'■Humph! You're strong, eh? And
you don't drink ? "

" I likes a zwig o' swipes by-times," said
I, with my tongue in my cheek ; " but I
ain't a-givin' to drinkin'. I'm sprak with
my vists, and can litt a goodish weight ;
and " —

" There that'll do. You're glib enough
with your tongue, youngster. Gad ! what
a dialect ! March him off to the surgeon,
and report to me whether he passes the
medical examination ! "

This little comedy, which was almost an
impromptu device of mine to disarm suspi-
cion as to my birth or antecedents, had
succeeded admirably so fiir. I was as famil-
iar with the peasants' dialect as with my
own, and had often talked it with them.
Its assumption on this occasion had but
one drawback, which I had not duly
weiii;hed. Nothing less than the power of
a liurton or a Vanbery could enable me to
act this part consistently, without flaw or
fbrgetfulness, day after day, month after
month.

That same afternoon, havinij piasscd the
medical examination, I was enrolled in
Her Majesty's service, as a private in the
th.

CHAPTER VIII.

I HAVE never regretted the step I then
took. I know that the next few months
of my life, trying as they were in many ways,
disciplined me in some measure, taught me
more tolerance and self-restraint than I
should ever have learnt at Beaunumoir.
.\nd thougih, to a lad nurtured as I had
been, the transition from smooth things to
rough, fi'om culture to neglect, from refine-
ment to brutality, was distasteful enough
to well-nitrh sicken him with his dream of

PENRUDDOCKE.

« glory," yet this condition of life, like most
others, had its lesson to teach ; and I learnt
it, though slowly, and never perhaps very
perfectly.

I got a sound thrashing from a stalwart
lance-corporal, for being " cheeky," before
I had been three days in the regiment ;
and on the only two occasions when I was
placed under arrest, it was for " answer-
ing " a supei'ior olllcer. As long as I was a
recruit, I saw but little of the company to
■which I was attached, but I soon left the
" awkward squad " behind me. There was
small merit in this, as, from the age of ten
to fifteen, I had been drilled every week by
a sergeant imported from Dorchester ; but
as 1 naturally did not communicate this lit-
tle fact, I got more credit than I deserved
when I " passed" after a few weeks, wliile
my fellows were still at the " goose-step."

A yet more surprising feat, however, —
so marvellous, indeed, as to be incredible,
it now appears to me, to any one of the
most ordinary acuteness — was the rapidity
with which I dropped my Dorsetshire dia-
lect, and accpiired a pure P^nglish accent
I found that the men paid so little heed to
my pronunciation, that I gradually slipped
back into a natural way of talking ; and
only when the adjutant chanced to address
me, did I, partly from fun, a little from dread
of detection, resume a slight llavor of rus-
tic Dorset, in order to elicit his, " Gad !
what a dialect ! "

The men in my company chaffed me
about my scrupulous cleanliness, and certain
habits, which, greatly to my annoyance,
procured me the nick-name of " Gen'ieman
Smith." They were not bad fidlows, with
a few exceptions (notably, a man in the
next bud to mine, whom 1 found trying to
steal some money from under my pillow at
night, and to whom I gave two black eyes
for his pains, which summary act of jus-
tice raised me in the estimation of my com-
rades more than the legitimate course of a
formal accusation of theft would have done).
But though 1 got on well enough with them,
there were times when I suffered from
the enforced companionship of men whose
conversation was too often spiced with
ribaldry and indecency. I did not pretend
to be any better than my neighbors, but
such language was always utterly repug-
nant to me ; and, whenever it was used in
my prestmce, I left the room if I possibly
could. On one occasion, I flew into a pas-
sion, and told them they were a set of
beasts, and only fit to be with liogs, not
Christians. Of course I was well laughed at
for my pains ; and yet I think there were
some among them (especially one whom 1
shall name presently) who respected me
for my boldness.

Drink was their besetting temptation ;
but, notwithstanding my statement to the
adjutant, it was a temptation I resisted
easily. The allurements of the fair sex,
1 might liave found more dangerous, but
that my heart was case-hardened by the
soft brown curl that lay next to it, and
that the bold advances of the young dam-
sels whom my companions found attractive
were repulsive to me. Modesty and gen-
tleness, these I always regarded as the first
and indispensable charms in a woman ;
without them, however much my senses
uiiglit be captivated, my heart could never
be touched.

Comrades, if any of you should ever read
these lines, will you think that I have done
you scant justice ? The memory of many
generous actions rises up as I write : how
you helped one another in siclcn(!ss ; how
you stuck to one another in scrapes ; how,
whenever a married man died, each pri-
vate in his company cheerfully subscribed
a day's pay for the widow ; and how, with
all the little children swarming up and
down our barrack stairs, I have often seen
one of these rough fellows take the tender-
est care of the tiny creatures, carrying
thara on his back, guiding their toddling
feet, and giving tliem their earliest instruc-
tions as to the sucking of lollipops.

And this brings me to speak of the only
man with whom I grew to be on any terms
of intimacy. Joe Carter was many years
my senior, and by no means the best char-
acter in the company. He had twice been
made lance-corporal, by reason of liis
smartness and soldierly bearing, and each
time had been reduced to the ranks. DriutC
was his bane : not that he was an habitual
d^runkard ; but, every two or three months,
the devil that was in liim got the upper
hand, and — to use his own phrase — he was
•' overtaken." But for this, he would have
been a color-sergeant long since, for he was
undeniably a better soldier, and Iiad far
more brains, than most of the non-commis-
sioned officers. He was tall, with a shrewd
gray eye, and a thi n-lipped, whimsical mouth,
from which fell many a sharp, quaint say-
ing, which evoked a laugh from the room.
His observation was singularly acute, and
he spared no one. He lashed us all round
with his small thongs of ridicule ; and yet no
one but blackguards dislik«d him. In an-
other rank of life, I incline to think he would
have been a consummate dandy ; as it was
(mark the line that divides the virtue fi'om
the weakness 1), he took what is termed " a
pride in his appearance." His boots, his
belt, his accoutrements, were always spot-
less ; he would rub away at a piece of
brass till it shone like gold : and the regula-
tion two inches of whisker upon the other-

PENRUDDOCKE.

wise close-shorn face was snrmountiMl liy a
whisp of well-oileil linir. which appeared
bei\eath the Ibrage cap, and adorned the
temple. *•

He was rnu2,h, and could use unnecessa-
rily stmn.;- lan;j;nai^e when roused ; but he
had a kind heart, and was capable, as I
learnt in time, of very faithful attachment.
But he was not. married, nor ever likely to
niari'y, for he ailed ed to hold the institu-
tion of matrimony in abhorrence, and con-
stantly averred that the less men had to
do wiili women the better for their welfare
in this world, wiiatever it miL:;ht be in
the next. Yet no one so kind to the little
children as Joe. The brats that couUl
scarce walk would totter up to him, and
clutch his lbre(inL];er, (;onscious that there
they woidd find protection and support ;
and the slatternly mother, rushing out
wildly in the barrack-square after her olf
spring, would retire, comforted, on seeing it
in the custody'Ot the stalwart Joe.

The circumstance that first attracted uu'
towards him was a trifle hardly worth re-
cording, but it was characteristiiK of the man.
One ni'j;ht, as we were undressing, he
spied a sixpence under his bed.

'• Who's lost sixpence," cries Carter.
" Don't you all speak at once."

" I have,'" says a fellow from the next
bed.

" What's he like ? " pursues Joe. " Has
he got a hole through him ? "

" Yes : that's him," returns the other
eagerly.

" Ah ! then I'm sorry : this ain't your'n,"
says Joe, with a laugh.

I observed a recruit, just joined, feiding
his pockets anxiously. Not without evi-
dent trepidation, the lad muttered, " It's
niine : there's a hole in my pocket." (His
" kit " had not yet been given out.)
Joe eyed the recruit severely.
"You're a nice chap, a-comiug here with
holes in your j^ocket, dropping your dirty
money about, and tempting fellows to steal ;
but here, catch your sixpence. I see you're
not lying, like that dirty thief there."

And so, by Joe's astuteness, the lad re-
gained his own.

How this veteran, often years' standing,
first came to notice and patronize a young-
ster like me, I scarcely know, such alli-
ances being most unusual. I believe it began
by my contradicting him, and that led to
an argument. Now, nothing Joe Carter
loved more than an argument ; but his
tongue was recognized as so potent a weap-
on that few cared to encounter it.

'• You weren't behind the door when
check was served out," he said, scanning
me curiously. "And as i'orjaw! — you'd
jaw an ass's hind leg olf."

" Lucky you haven't a hind leg," I
laughed.

He seized me — in perfect good-humor

— by the "scrulf" of the neck, held me
up, twisted, and then dropped me. I was
a mere child in his ])owerfLd grip. From
that day forward, I know that he liked me,
though he certainly never showed it by
any increased civility — rather the contra-
ry. But I could appreciate his grim hu-
mor ; ami, on the other hand, he relished
my fearlessness of speech ; indeed, between
us there existed what, in another rank of
life, would have been styled " a sympathy "

— though Joe would not have understood
the term. I was the target of his frequent
ridicule, and his strictures upon me were
more severe than upon any other young
fellow in the company ; but they were
prompted, as I well knew, by the interest
he felt in my welfare ; and I never resent-
ed them.

" There ye go, like a goose in the stub-
ble, with y'r chin foremost," he cried out,
sometimes, as 1 walked across the barrack-
square ; and again, " Don't ye turn y'r
toes out, man, as though you were a quad-
rilling, nor yet cock 'em up that fashion.
This ain't a boot-inspection, and no one
wants to see the soles o' y'r feet, as I knows
on." But my want of order and neatness
was the object of his most sarcastic and
vehement protest. The sight of my " kit,"
in which shirts and blacking-brushes, socks,
pipe-clay, bath-brick, and boots lay tossed
in a wild pell-mell, stirred his bile.
•' That's a neat knapsack, that is 1 I'd lay
him out in the barrack-square for a model,
if I was you ! You'll be a nice chiip on
the march, with a hump on your back like
a dvomeifari/."

Thus did my education, in one impor-
tant respect, advanK;e under Private Joseph
Carter.

" When we lay in Waterford," said my
new friend to me one day, " there was a
young swell as wanted me to be his walet.
I'm a'most sorry I didn't cut the ser-
vice."

'• Cut the service ? O Joe, and you
such a soldier at heart as you are ! "

" I'll tell you what it is, young un, ambi-
tion and all that is very fine words; but
they loses a deal o' their meaning after tea
years' service, and never a good-conduct
stripe."

" Whose fault is that ? " said I boldly.
"If you didn't drink " —

" Oh 1 if we was all angels, we should
have a fine time of it up aloft, shouldn't
we, a-bolstering of each other with them
feather-bed clouds ? Oh, yes ! But not
being angels, unfort'nately, we like a drop
o' drink sometimes. I'll tell ye what it is,

PENRUDDOCKE.

it's just a slavery ; and I'd as soon be a
black-born nifr^er."

" Ni'.ro'i;rs are flogged, Joe."

" AVell, and so are sodgers."

" And tlien, think of the honor of serv-
ing your country ! "

" Oh ! the honor be blowed ! "

" Well, honor is said to be a bubble," —
at whifh Joe laughed.

The company was commanded by Capt.
Patterson, a man about whom I need
say nothing. With the lieutenant, how-
ever, I have much to do, both now and
hereafter. Uis name was Mr. Arthur
Tufton, and he was the nephew of a lord
(this last fact I did not learn till long after^
wards). He was tall, blonde, and very
handsome ; but there was a charm about
his voice and manner far beyond the mere
graces of person. Every private in the
company, I believe, consciously or uncon-
sciously, experienced this. When Ensign
Andrews inspected their kits, the men
made faces behind that yc-ung oflicer's
back ; but I never heard a disrespectful
word, or saw a disrespectful look, having
the lieutenant for its object.

How shall I describe him ? If I did so
as he appeared to me during those first
mo;iths in which we came into no close
contact with each other, I should say he
was the most perfect gentleman I hid ever
seen up to that time — the embodiment
of one of Vandvck's high-bred heroes, as I
knew them at AV'ilton, and other ancestral
houses. • But it will be better to indicate
at once such points of his character as I
only came to learn in the course of time ;
they will be more fully wrought out in the
course of this narrative.

He possessed the sweetest temper, the
kindest heart, and the best judgment — in
all that did not concern himself — of any
man I have ever known, always except-
ing my day-tutor, Francis. He was the
one in the regiment to whom all his broth-
er-officers, both old and young, confided
their troubles, of whatever kind. And
yet in the conduct of his own affairs, he
daily showed himself disastrously unwise.
He was a confirmed gand^ler. It was the
one baneful gilt which aj)parently the
malevolent fairy had thrown in, when so
many graces had been showered on him at
his birth. He sat up till daybreak, night
after night, playing at chicken-hazard
or Ijliiid-hookey, apparently unmoved
whether he lost or won ; and always on
parade the next morning, looking fresher
than any one. He was often " hard up ; "
yet he always paid his debts of honor
punctually ; and men wondered how he
got on. It is true he was not extravagant.
Barring this disastrous passion, he had no

expensive vices. He absolutely shunned
society ; no arguments availed to induce
him to accept any invitation ; and the com-
mon report was that he studiously avoi<led
women of all sorts. lie used laughingly
to say that his violin was liis wife — she
would never grow old, nor would she prove
untrue to him ; he preferred her to any
garrison dame or damsel. He was, in
ti'utli, devoteil to his instrument; and, hour
after hour, when his brother-officers were
" killing time " by flirting with the girls at
the ])astry-cook's, he was f;ir away in a
world of his own, with Bach and Scarlatti.
Never, till darkness came on, did his evil
genius take possession of him.

I had been in the service about three
months, when the lieutenant sent to speak
to me one morning. His servant, as I knew,
had been ordered back to the ranks the
previous night for drunkenness ; but I was
fiir from being prepared for the offer which
was about to be made to me.

He was playing the violin as I entered.
He did not lay it down, but leant against
the mantle-piece, and, transferring the in-
strument to liis right hau'l, rested it against
his thigli as he spoke. The quiet grace and
mastery of the attitude Avere in harmony
with his manner as he said, —

" You are a smart, active young fellow —
are jou inclined to be my servant ? "

I was so taken aback, that I stared va-
cantly for a moment. At last I blurted
out, —

" No, sir."

Mr. Tufton smiled.

" Why not ? "

" Because I don't want to stick in the
ranks all my life, sir : I want to rise."

'• Oh 1 you are ambitious, are you V Well,
that is a very good thing ; but your being
my servant for a few months shall not
stand in the way of your promotion. In
March the regiment is under orders for for-
eign service and I shall be left at home
with the depot. You will certainl\' not be
made lance-corporal before then. If you be-
have well, and are steady, your having
served me shall be no drawback to you."

" I know nothing of service, sir, and
should make a bad servant," said I, color-
ing.

He eyed me curiously.

" Not worse than another, I suppose.
What did you do before }ou enlisted V "

" N(jthing."

" But you write a good hand, and have
received some education, I should fancy.
AVould you like t<j be in the orderly-room ? "

" Oh, no, sir ! I couldn't bear desk-work :
that's why I enlisted."

" You will have no desk-work as my ser-
vant."

PENRUDDOCKE.

I was silent.

" May I tliink over it, sir ? " I said at last.

" Yes," said the lieutenant, taking tlie
violin ap;ain in his left hand, and puttinu;
himself into jilavin'^ position ; " but conic
back in an lioui-. Smith, and tell me that
it's all right. You won't regret your decis-
ion."

I went out on the ramparts, and sat down
on a bit of wall overiookiu'^ the sea, and
asked myself what I should do ? My pride
kicked a;j:ainst becomin<f any man's servant :
that was the truth. This was not the dream
of olory I had before my eyes when 1
enlisted. But had the reality, so fixr, cor-
responded to the dream ? And what im-
mediate prospect was there of any hard
fightinjr, and of my winning my spurs by
personal prowess ? 1 had taken part in some
hot, dusty, field-days on Southsea Common,
it is true ; but the commanding officer had
failed to be struck with my claims to dis-
tinction on these occasions; except once,
indeed, when he hallooed out to Capt. Pat-
terson to inquire who " that lubber " was,
who was sloj)ing arms whe3i he ought to be
carrvinii them ! We were 2;oin2: on foreign
service in six months' time ; but there hap-
pened to be peace all over the world just
then, and I could hardly expect that a lit-
tle war would be got up, especially for my
own gratification. I must go on with a
routine of daily duty, which I began secret-
ly to confess to myself was very wearisome,
in company with a set of men with whom 1
had few, if any, ideas in common ; and,
as the lieutenant had pointed out, there
could be no change or amelioration in this
order of things, for some time to come.
On the other hand, if I pocketed my pride,
and became Lieut. Tufton's servant, 1
should be relieved from a constant compan-
ionship which was irksome to me, and at
least breathe tlie atmosphere of a gentleman
and a man of refinement ; and if he should
really interest himself in my advancement,
I could not doubt that his good offices
would prove very valuable to me. These
mixed motives led to my decision. I re-
turned within the hour, and told Mr. Tuf-
ton that I would be his servant.

" If you don't keep your master's things
no better nor y'r own, you'll make a nice
servant ! " said Joe, when he heard of it.

" I'm going to turn over a new leaf," I
said.

" Um ! The oM un's pretty blotty. I
wouldn't take something to wear a pair of
boots o' your cleaning."

" What bothers me," said T, affecting to
ignore this last disparaging remark, '-is
about getting on. I'm afraid it mayn't be
so quick. Can a chaj) have leave to marry
when he's a full corporal, Joe ? "

" Marry ! " said Private Carter, opening
his eyes wide, " why, you young jackanapes,
what the Dickens do yon mean ? You ain't
a-thinking o' marrying ? "

" Of coiu'se I am. I think every fellow
ought to marry, as soon as he can — and
it's a beastly shame having rules in the
armv to prevent it."

" Oh ! I'd write to the horse-guards if I
was you. Marry, indeed ! I'll tell you
what it is. A woman's like a mill-stone
hanged round a fellow's neck. He may as
well drown hisself at once. The world 'd
be a deal liettcr without women at all, that's
my belief."

" And I think life wouldn't be worth hav-
ing without them ; and I can tell you, Joe,
that I mean to marry as soon as ever " —
here I stopped, and turned away, deeming
it more prudent not to commit myself
further.

" I'd wait till I was a general, if I was
you," cried Joe sarcastically.

I had no reason to repent of my decision.
The advantages which I had looked to in
entering ]\Ir. Tufton's service were not illu-
sory. ]\Iy duties were light, and I had
much more time to myself in which to read
and write. Finding that I preferred books
to the attractions of the canteen, the
lieutenant lent me Napier's '-Peninsular
^Var," " The Life of Wellington," and oth-
er books of military life which were new to
me. I became every day more attached to
him ; and though, as I gradually learnt the
passion which was the bane of his life, my
respect may have diminished, my interest
in him only increased.

And this, for some unexplained reason,
seemed to be reciprocal. He often talked
to me, and asked my opinion upon various
matters (appearing to be amused by my
straightforward answers, and always evin-
cing considerable curiosity as to my past
lite), in a way very different from that in
which the other officers spoke to their ser-
va.nts ; but then Arthur Tufton was as
unlike his broth er-ofhcers as I was unlike
other servants. Whenever I happened to
hear any of these gentlemen's conversations,
which I often did, I was struck with the
contrast. I do not know what the army may
be now : at the time I speak of it was not a
school of self-culture ; and Tufton was the
only man who read any thing beyond a
novel, or had atiy aspirations towards the
better things whicli were out of reach.

I am wrong. Mr. Eagles, the adju-
tant, believed that he had such aspirations,
— nay, more, that he had attainments of
a deep and varied kind, whicli he lost no
opportunity of airing. The tongue of the
ancient Greek or the modern Frank, it
was all one to him, and very astounding

PENRUDDOCKE.

tliintrs were spoken in tlieii- name. The
chronicle of his good sayings in the regi-
ment woukl have filled a book ; but while
his sallies Avere greeted by derisive shouts
from every young ensign, fresh from the
schools, Tulton, one of the few men who
conld always have set him right, never
did more tiian smile good-naturedly, and
say, " Bravo ! Bird."

I remember on one occasion the adju-
tant's standing at Tufton's window, which
overlooked part of the town, and drawing
down the corners of his mouth with a ru-
minating air, as he exclaimed, —

" This always remnds me of a favorite
passage in Homer : 01 -KoXkoi, or ' many a
well-inhabited city ! ' "

I was putting away my master's clothes
at the moment, and was seized with such
an unaccountable fit of laughter that Mr.
Tufton, and two officers who were present,
though they were laughing themselves,
could not fall to observe it. I instantly
left the room ; but from the adjoining closet,
where I kept ]Mr. Tufton's things, I heard
him exclaim, —

" Really,' Bird, you mustn't indulge in
classical quotation before Smith. I sus-
pect he knows more Greek than either of
us ; and you'll teach him to be disrespect-
ful."

" Greek, indeed ! A Dorsetshire lout
like that! You spoil him, Tufton — de-
struction of discipline. With one's ser-
vant, as — as Shakspeare says, one's com-
munications should be 'yea and nay.'"

"That's in Macbeth, isn't it?" said
Tufton demurely.

" Yes. Don't you know it ? There's
nothing like Shakspeare, — so true, you
know, — eh? As to that very queer fish
you've chosen as a servant, Tufton, I don't
like his look ; I didn't from the first, — I
told you so. Cheeky — decidedly cheeky,
and low — very low — quite one of the
canal.''^

" That would account for his being a
! "

a dialect ! Talk of edu-
cation, when a man talks like that ! "

" My dear Bird, he was chaffing you.
He can talk better English than most men
in the regiment. In short, far from being
what you suppose, I believe that he is, —
But never mind what my private belief is :
he isn't a fool, depend on it, nor a knave
either."

Mr. Eagles received this with an ex-
pression of profound pity for his fi-iend's
delusion ; but I, while pleased that Mr.
Tufton should " stick up " for me, was by
no means so well satisfied to perceive that
he had some suspicion of my real condi-
tion. After that I made no more displays

queer fish
"Gad! what

of my slender erudition when he addressed
me.

An instance of his kindness, which tend-
ed to endear the lieutenant to me, may
here be cited.

Not many weeks after I had become his
servant, I caught a feverish attack, which
sent me to the hospital. Our Scotch sur-
geon, who examined me, said there was
'• no tellin' rightly hoo it might turn out
with the lad. Aiblins it might be putrid
fever; for, ye see," — turning to Tufton,
who stood by, — " whan the wind's i'
the east, as it's bin this week past, the
offal from the butcher's shop is eneugh to
breed any pestilence. Ha' ye any disa-
greeable sensation, my mon, just i' the
peet of your stomach ? "

I couldn't say that I hail.

" Any teengling of the ears, or deezzi-
ness of sight ? "

No, I had nothing of the sort.

" Umph ! But ye have a (jueer sensa-
tion running all down y'r leembs to y'r
toes, may be ? "

Still I could not confess to the desired
sensations. The surgeon stai'ud at me,
and whistled softly. He was accustomed
to find raw recruits who felt as they were
directed. He did not well know what to
make of me. I told hiui I had a sore
throat, and headache, and felt hot and
thirsty, — nothing more.

" Bad seemptoms," said the surgeon,
shaking his head at Tufton. " Ye'd better
keep clear o' the lad for a bit ; m;iybe
tliere's infection. Best be on the safe side,
eh?" Then to me, " Weel, my lad, J'll
give ye something that'll soon set ye to
rights ; but ye'U have to bide here for a
few days."

The " something," which was powerful,
dark, and indescribably nast}', — a com-
pound of sweet and salt, hot and bitter, — •
did not work so rapid a cure as I could
have wished. I lay there for several days,
really ill, and with " seemptoms " which
evidently caused both surgeons some anx-
iety as to whether thej' might not be pre-
monitory of an infectious fever. But the
lieutenant, through it all, visited me daily,
undeterred by warnings of tin; risk he ran.
He brought me books and jiapei-s ; and the
interest be took in my recovery had its re-
ward in my gratitude.

I had now been nearly five months in
the regiment, and 1 ha^l not written to
Evy. This was by far (he sorest trial I
had to bear, for of course I could hear
nothing of her unless I wrote. But I had
the resolution to resist writing, for two rea-
sons. If I iutrustcul her with my secret,
the keeping it would render her miserable,
and entail endless duplicity with her moth-

PENRUDDOCKE.

cr; and then there was the p;reat risk that
Mrs. llamk'i'jh minht open the letter, or that
the postmark woukl betray iiio. I would
fain liave coinniunieated with my best
friend, Francis ; but he had probably left
Beaunianoir, and my letter nii'jjht fall into
other ban Is ; or, if still an inmate there,
niiiiht he not look upon it as his duty to
reveal what I confided to him '! It was
noiv near Christmas. In JNIareh the re2;i-
meat wouM sail tor India. On the eve of
embarkation 1 would write to both Francis
and Evy, but not till then.

I still iiululired in visions of a splendi<l
future, ibr which I should be behooven to
none but myself; but a little — just a little
— of the oildins had begun to be rubbed
off. It is the blessed property of youth,
however, to be dauntless and buoyant.
Hope is his dominion ; the sceptre falls
from his hand too soon, but as long as that
hand is powerful to grasp it, his kingdom
is a golden one, his power omnipotent.

The bitterness of my feeling against my
mother and brotlier continued unabated.
When I thought of that nefarious transac-
tion to which I had been witness, my blood
boiled again. I could make no allowances
for my mother; and as to llaymond, I held
him as equally implicated, and responsible
for my mother's deed, which was manifest-
ly unjust. I felt I would rather be the
lowest of the privates around me than my
brother, with his stolen wealth ; and in
my veiy darkest hours, when the prospect
of becoming (leld-marshal appeared some-
what remote, and the company of my asso-
ciates unusuallv irksome, I never once
■wished mvself back at Beaumanoir, never
once regretted that I had cut myself adrift
from my kith and kin.

It may be as well to state here, as it will
simplify my narrative, what I subsequently
learnt of the steps that had been taken to
trace me, and how it came about that tlie\'
liad hitherto failed. Portsmouth, bein.^ so
near us, would have been one of the first
places the detectives would have searched,
had it not been that my mother and every
one else was convinced that I was on the
other side of the Atlantic. It so happened
that a few days before I ran away I had
been reading a book upon California, and
had openly expressed a great desire to go
there, declaring that the adventurous lifti
at the gold-diggings was just what I should
like. It was disco\ered that I had taken
a railway-ticket to Southampton ; and, by a
curious coincidence, a large steamer, over-
crowded with passengers of all classes,
sailed from the docks, early the following
morning, for San Francisco. On inquiry,
it was stated that a young man answering
to my description (descriptions always do

answer in such cases) had gone on board
at the very last moment, without other
luggage than a small bundle, and had en-
tered himself in the books as a steerage-
passenger. Of' course, after that, no doubt
any longer existed as to my destination,
and all further inquiry in England was
deemed useless. Even Mr. Francis seems
to have accepted the hypothesis as proved ;
and the fact is, that, had I known of the
steamer, it is probable I might have fol-
ic wed this very course. As it was, they
telegraphed to meet the steamer on its ar-
rival ; but natui'ally there was an interval
of nearly two months before the answer
arrived, declaring the non-identitv of the
unknown passenger with Osmund Penrud-
docke.

CHAPTER IX.

There was a Jev/ who used to frequent
the officers' quarters with jewellery. I hated
this fellow. He was always hanging about,
bland, obsequious, and per.sistent in press-
ing his paste and pinchbeck upon the
youngsters who were green enough to be
" done," and who, when their purses were
em[)ty, in some cases sold themselves to
this devil in promissory notes. On Mr.
Tuftou's staircase, and just opposite his
room, lived one of these vain and silly young
gentleman, whose powers of resistance were
feeble when pearl studs and turquoise pins
were set before him, and who, consequently,
was an easy prey to Mr. Josephs. Until
this ensign was sucked dry, I saw that the
Jew would never leave him quiet. He
tried several times to get into ^Ir. Tufton's
room, but met with a stout and uncivil re-
sistance from me, and when, during my
absence, he did effect an entry, with but
small encouragement from my master.
His long yellow fice, however, with its
unwholesome teeth and slobbery under-lip,
still disfigured the doorway, the staircase,
or the landing, almost daily. It would
have interfered with the liberty of the sub-
j est to have expelled him from barracks,
unless the feeling against him had been
unanimous ; but I often wondered that the
colonel did not do so.

I have spoken of a watch, as being the
only thing of value I had brought away
with me from Beaumanoir, because it had
been my father's, and he had left it to me.
No one knew of its existence, so far as I
was aware, but Joe Carter. I wore the
chain around my neck, but under my shirt,
so that it could not possibly be seen. The
only occasions on which I took it off were
when we wen!; to bathing parade. As our

PENRUDDOCKE,

clothes were tlien left on the beach, it was
safer — at least, I thony;ht so — inside an
old chest, which Mr. Tut'ton gave me for
my brushes and cleaning things, and which
I ke])t in the closet adjoining his room.
This closet had a separate door upon the
staircase.

One day, upon opening this chest (which
had no lock) on my return from bathing
parade, I fuund the walcli gone. I had
the key of the outer door in my pocket ;
and Mr. Tufton was in his room, scraping
away at his violin like mad. I ran in to
him, with my face all a-fiame.

" Sir ! " 1 cried out, " they have taken
my watch ! "

" What do you mean. Smith ? " He re-
mainnd with his bow suspended.

" That my watch, which I left in the
chest there, has been stolen since I was out.
Have you left your room, sir ? "

" No — yes, by the by, I went over to the
band-master's for five minutes to get a
piece of music, and I remember leaving my
door unlocked ; but no one can have come
in here. You surely are mistaken as to
having left your watch there V "

" I am not mistaken, sir. I put the
watch inside the chest an hour ago, — the
last thing before I went on jiarade."

He smiled incrcduously.

" Who do you think would come into my
room, and take your watch ? All my studs
and pins are on the table, and untouched,
you see.''

He spoke vovy kindl^y as he always did ;
but I saw that he thought, fi'om my excited
manner, that 1 was either drunk or under
some delusion. It tended in some meas-
ure to calm me. I remained, silent for a
moment, then said, —

'• You may believe me, or not. sir ; but
what I say is true. My watch, which I val-
ued more than any thing in the woi'ld, is
gone."

" Who knew of your having a watch ?
I never saw you with it."

" I wore it under my shirt. It never left
me except when I went to bathe. Some
fellow mcnj have seen it ; but I was always
careful to hide it."

" Well, this concerns me as much as you,
Smith ; and I will see that immediate
steps " —

He seized his forage-cap, and was leav-
ing the room, when I called out, —

"I beg your pardon, sir, but would you
mind asking Mr. llaikes" (that was the
name of the ensign who lived op])ositt!),
"if Mr. Josephs has been with hiai this
morning ? I oughtn't to suspect him, or
any one, I supjwjse, without some reason ;
but I can't help it."

" By Jove I I remember now meeting

the fellow as I was crossing the square to
the l)andmaster's. But ?vlr. Raikes is gone
to Ryde for tlie day, 1 know : he couldn't
have been with him."

" But he may have tried to find him, sir ;
and having seen you out, and knowing that
tre were all out, he may have Avalked in
here. He wouldn't touch your things, but
he'd take mine; and I remember now
that the door was ajar one day. when I was
winding my watch, and I saw him look in."

" Go at once to the guard-house, and
see if he has passed out oithc barracks."

I went, and as good — or ill — luck
would have it, within twenty yards of the
guard-room I came upon the scoundrel
himself, skulking along as fast as his fiat
feet would shuffle, with his inicjuitous black
pack slung over his shoulder. He had
been waylaid, as I afterwards learnt, by a
party of subalterns, who detained him
sorely against Mr. Josephs's inclination
no doubt, while they turned over his wares.

The fellow grew livid, as he saw me
runnins: towards him. Of course I ought
to have told him of my loss, and to have
politely requested him to submit to being
searched ; but my blood was u|), and I was
in no humor to teni[)orize. I seized him
as a terrier does a rat, by the throat, and.
shook him.

" So, you infernal rascal, you thought
you would get oil" with my watch, did
you ? "

" Help ! — y — help ! " bellowed the
choking Josephs.

With a sudden movement of my knee,
I doubled him back, and brought him flat
on the gravel. The sergeant, followed by
two or three of the guard, ran out.

" Ilalloo ! what the devil are you about
there. Smith V "

" The Jew has stolen my watch, that's
all."

"It'sh not true, Mr. Sergeant. Take
him of!" me, take him of! me 1 I defy him
to prove it ! "

Hereupon Mr. Eagles, who happened to
be in the barrack-yard, came up, and at
once placed me under arrest for assaulting
a civilian.

" Stole your watch? How do you know
he stole your watch, sir V Did you see
him V "

I was constrained to say that I did not,
but that I believed firmly my watch was
in his possession.

" Believe, sir 1 — believe ! — what is
believing? Is that a reason for assaulting
a noxious man" (he meant innocuous, I
suppose ; but the epithet was happily
chosen) " in this disgraceful way ? "

I reallv doubt whether Josc[)hs would
have been subjected to any search at all,

PENRUDDOCKE.

but for the intervention of my master, wlio
appeared in the guard-room at this nio-
nu'nt. At his earnest representation, a
poUceman was sent for; but before his ar-
rival, Mr. Josephs, with an audacity which
completely dumbtbunded me, otiered to
empty his jiockets, to unroll his shining;
pack of jewelry, to be stripped to the skin
if the.'- gentlemensh " thought fit.

" It will not be the first time, Josephs,"
said a young ensign present. " Do yon
remen»l)i'r how they tarred and feathei'ed
you at NV^eedon, for cheating V "

"It ish fabh, Mr. Clark. I give you
my word, sir " —

'• Yoiu" word ! Come, turn out your
pockets," cried a chorus of Mr. Josephs's
patrons, who now, in his hour of trial,
seemed but too well disposed to abandon
him.

The very first thing he produced from
Lis waistcoat pocket was my watch.

"That's it!" I shouted. "Give it to

nie

" Stop a bit," said jNIr. Eagles, with a
judicial air, drawing down the corners of
his mouth more than ever. '' Describe it
first ; and let us hear what you have got to
say, Mr. Josephs. Did you appropriate
this private's watch, or did you not ?
And if so, is this the watch ? That is the
legal question."

*• This, his watch ! Holy ]\Ioshesh !
Why, I liad it from the maker, and paid
for it my own shelf Let him mark down
tlie maker's name, and the number of the
watch, Mishter English. Ila ? Let him
do it, if ho can ! Let him shay how many
diamonds there are in it. Ha? Why,
gentlemensh, ish it likely that a private
could have such a watch ash thish ? It
cosht me, in the trade, gentlemensh, thirty-
five pounds of my own money. Mishter
Tufton, you are an honorable gentlemans,
though you are not a friend of mine."

'• I shouldn't be an honorable gentleman
if I w«re," observed mv lieutenant quiet-

'•' You are againsht me, sliir, T well know
that ; but let me ashk you one question.
Have you ever seen thish watch in your
servant 'sh possession ? Can you shwear
to it? Ila? Wlio liash ever sheen it?
Who can shwear to it ? Ha ? Let me
describe it, and let him describe it. It ish
for him to prove that it ish his, I think in
law. — ha ? "

I was paralyzed* The man, who was an
adept in rascality, had ascertained and
foi-eseen some tilings, and, nicely balan-
cing the probabilities, had boldly hazarded
others, in laying his plans. What he had
ascertained was, that no servant, and, as
far as he could tell, no one in the regiment,

had ever had the watch in his hand.
What he had foreseen was, that, even if he
had been misinformed, no one but myself
was likely to be able to swear to its iden-
tity ; and, as regarded myself, in what he
had hazarded, the event proved his justifi-
cation. I knew no more the number of
the watch than I did the number of thefts
this rascal had committed ; and as to the
diamonds it contained, I was equally igno-
rant : for having no mechanical turn, I had
never pulled the works about, as many
boys would. I stood there silent, with
crimson face and clinched hands, wishing
that the days of ordeal by single combat,
were not over, that I might prove the jus-
tice of my cause upon Mr. Josephs's head.
" Come, Smith," crowed fortii our galli-
nacious adjutant, with all the truculent
air of a lord of the dunghill, " what have
you got to say to tliat^ sir, eh? And stand
at attention, sir ; don't fidget about like
that ! Come, sir, of course, if the watch
is yours, you know the number ? "

'' I'll be blessed if I know the number
of mine," muttered Ensign Clark.

" I don't know the number, sir, nor how
many diamonds it has. I think the maker
is Dent, and I can describe a particular
mark on the watch."

'■ He thinlcsh, gentlemensh 1 It ish a
good shot ! Dent ish the firsht maker,
therefore he gueshes Dent."

" Silence ! Mr. Josephs. The maker is
Dent. So far, so good. Now, Smith, de-
scribe the particular mark on the watch I
hold in my hand. And you, Mr. Josephs,
write down the number, on this bit of
paper."

" Will you be good enough, first to ask
him, sir," said I, after a moment's pause,
and striving very hard to speak calmly,
" whether there is a scratch of any kind
upon the inner case, — near the kev-
hole?"

Mr. Josephs eyed me keenly.
" Ah ! Thish fellow wash at my shoul-
der yesterday when I set my watch by the
barrack-clock, — I remember — and he
musht 'ave seen the scratch, gentlemensh,
— a scratch made by the ^key slipping
from the hole."

" And I say there is no such scratch, sir.
I polished the inner case yesterday," I cried
triumphantly.

" Bravo, Smith 1 " murmured Mr. Tuf-
ton, when tlie examination of the watch
had proved the correctness of my assertion.
But Mr. Josephs, though caught in the
net which I had laid for him, was in no
wise daunted.

" Gentlemensh, thish ish childsh play.
I took the scratches out myself, I remem-
ber. But what'sh that, gentlemensh ?

PENRUDDOCKE.

Let him sliny 'ow he come by shuch a
watch. If it wash hish, 'e could prove that
he come by it honestly, I suppose. Ila V "

The fact is, I have no doubt Mr. Joseph
thought I had stolen the watch myself, and
consc(iu('ntly counted upon my silence, or
my confusion, in any such contingency as
had now arisen. And it would seem as if
he had not altoojetlier miscalculated.

" Well, now,' Smith," said Mr. Eagles,
with his severest inflection. '• what have
you got to say to that ? Stand at attention,
sir, and don't ])revaricate with your feet in
that way. If this watch is yours, how did
it come into your possession. And remem-
ber, now, what you say I shall take down,
so mind you stick to the same story."

" I'm not in the habit of telling lies, sir,"
I replied, firing up, " but I decline answer-
ing that question. The watcli is mise, and
I don't see that it's anybody's business how
I came by it."

" Hold your tongue, sir ! I have a great
mind to put you under arrest for insolence.
By-the-by, }'ou are under arrest I I forgot.
Jove ! a ])retty pass things are come to
when a private dares to talk in this way ! "

"I didn't mean to be disrespectful, sir.
How I came by the watch is just this, it
was left me by — some one who is dead."

" Write that down," said the adjutant,
swooping, in an aquiline manner, with the
forefinger of his right claw upon an order-
ly-room clerk.

" A very likely shtory ! " grinned Mr.
Josephs.

And hereupon a strange thing came to
pass.

The door of the guard-room had been
blocked by a crowd of my brother-soldiers,
curious to learn the particulars of " the row
between gen'leman Smith and that 'ere
Jew." And at this juncture I heard a
sharp voice at my elbow exclaim, —

" I'll take my Davy the watch is
Smith's."

The adjutant turned fiercely round.

" Who spoke ? Private Joseph Carter,
what do you know about this case ? You
say it's Smith's, do you ? Are you ready
to swear, sir ? Your ' Davy ' is nothing.
Damme, sir, do you know the nature of an
oath ? "

" They hain't all of a kind, sir. You
just said un," returned Joe, with the ut-
most gravity, saluting as he spoke. " Smith
is my pal, and I know his watch, — that is
all."

" How do you know it ? Come, let us
hear how you know it." (A terrible
frown, and the corners of the mouth well
down.)

" I see it in his hand a few days after he
'listed. I took partic'lar notice, 'cause I
3

thought it queer as a young cliap should
have such a watch, — there ain't another
like it in the regiment ; and I says to him,
says I, ' That's a pretty ticker o' yours.'
'Yes,' says he, *it was giv' me by my
grandmother, as is dead and gone.' ' Poor
old 'oman,' says I; 'well, I'd be speery
about it, if I was you, for there's a sight o'
bad characters about.' After that he kep'
it mostly out o' sight ; but I'll swear to him."

" Don't believe him, gentlenu'nsh ! They
are in league together ! " bellowed Mr.
Josephs. " He Is lying, — he is lying ! "

'• I'll punch your " — I spare the reader
the expletive — " liead, if you say that
again^" observed Private Carter, looking
uncommonly as if he was in earnest.

" Silence, sir ! The case is a mysteri-
ous one," added Mr. Eagles, biting the end
of his pen, with his head on one side, and
a sapient lack-lustre stare of his round
eye, reminding one of a meditative parrot.
" I repeat, the case is a mysterious one."

" Not the least to me," said my lieu-
tenant promptly. " A witness has come
forward for Smith. As the theft was com-
mitted in my room, I shall take the case
now into my own hand, and prosecute Mr.
Josephs myself"

" Prosecute Mr. Josephs yourself? "

"Yes. He shall have an opportunity of
proving his right to the watch in a court of
law. Let him produce his witness. If he
bought it of Dent, there can't be any diffi-
culty in proving it. Here's a policeman.
I give this man in charge for stealing my
servant's watch, and run the risk of an ac-
tion for false imprisonment if it turns out I
am wrong."

And in spite of Mr. Josephs's turbulent
remonstrances, alternately threatening and
appealing against the cruel injustice that
was being done to him, he was marched
off, and, much to my chagrin, my watch
also, to await, in the safe keej)ing of the
law, the final decision of the case.

" And now, Eagles," said Mr. Tufton,
" I hope you will oblige me by releasing
Smith. He was very wrong, as I am sure
he feels, in assaulting that Jew ; but if it
should prove, as I have very little doubt,
that the watch is Smith's, you will ac-
knowledge that the provocation was strong.
Smith, tell the adjutant you are sorry for
having attacked the Jew as you did."

I couldn't have said it if my life had de-
pended on it ; but I managed, after a mo-
ment's hesitation, to get out, —

" I know it was very wrong, sir, but I
couldn't help it."

" Couldn't help it, sir I Don't talk to
me of ' couldn't help it ! ' Soldiers must
learn to help doing wrong, — or they must
be taught, sir, — must be taught."

PENRUDDOCKE.

At this moment a rescmbl:ince to Miner-
va's favorite bird si'cincd to |)repon<lerate
in the adjutant's jjhysio^noniy, — so wise,
so virtuous, and so vacant ; witli a certain
rullled look, which it needed all TuCton's
tact and p;entleness to smooth.

Five minutes later I was released, and
followed my master to his room.

" Shut the door," he said at once, " and
listen to what I have to say. This matter
can be settled at once if you will trust me :
if not, it is possible, that, by some device
of that Jew's, you may, after all, lose your
watch. I am sure you came honestly by
it. Tell me the person's name who, you
say, left it you, and I will write by this
post to Dent, and see if his books can
prove it's being sold to that person."

" I wilh trust you, sir," I said, without
hesitation; "but I would rather lose the
watch than that the name should 2;et into the
police reports, — be made generally known.
The watch was bought by the late Mr.
Penruddocke of Beaumanoir, Dorset, who
left it to me."

CHAPTER X.

The lieutenant said nothing, but stared
at me for a minute or two from head to
foot ; then walked to the table, and took
up a newspaper. As I thought that he
had had enough of the subject, and was
minded that I should not continue it, I
busied myself in laying out his clothes for
mess ; and then I took his sword and ac-
coutrements into the adjoining closet to
clean. He left the room quickly, but in
about twenty minutes' time returned, and
called to me. " Read that," he said ; and,
doubling down the advertisement sheet of
" The Times," he pointed to a paragraph
in the second column. It ran as follows : —

" One hundred pounds reward. Missing
since the 29th of August, a young gentle-
man, aged eighteen ; about five feet eleven
inches in height ; with rather light brown
hair, blue eyes, and a sunburnt complexion.

Was last seen at the R Station, Dorset,

on the night of the 29th of August. Is
supposed to have emigrated, or to have
taken a passage on board a merchantman
from Southampton, about the 30th of
August. Was dressed in a dark-gray slioot-
ing suit and ' wide-awake ' hat. His linen
was marked with the name of Penruddocke.
Had a few pounds in his pocket, and a
gold watch, maker's name. Dent. Any per-
son giving such information to Messrs.
Canker and Slay, Fetter Lane, as shall
lead to the discovery of the missing gentle-
man, will receive the above reward."

I read it to the end, looked up, and met
the lieutenant's eyes fixeil on me.

" Yon- won't split, sir! " I murmured.

" It is not a question of my splitting.
Smith. This advertisement has been in
the paper every day for the last three
weeks : I wonder the description did not
strike me before. It will now be sure to
strike some one else. ' Gentleman Smith'
and his gold watch are at this moment the
general topic in every barrack-room, and at
the sergeants', mess, where they read ' The
Times ' regularly. Some one sees this,
and remembers that )'ou enlisted about the
day named ; you answer to the description
given ; and you have a gold watch. 1 sup-
pose you cut the name out of your shirt :
it is true that the name of Penruddocke
was what revealed your secret to me; but,
even without this, it does not require much
acuteness to put the two and two together
necessary to identity you ; and the reward
offered will sharpen some one's wits, you
may be sure. Now, what are you going to
do V I must inform the colonel, who is
now in London. Shall I ask liim to com-
municate with your friends ? I know
nothing, of course, of your reasons for
leaving home ; but youngsters often get
into scrapes which they think irredeemable
at the time, and " —

" I got into no scrape, Mr. Tufton ; and
my reasons for leaving home and enlisting
are as strong now as on the night I ran
away. I can't explain them ; but I won't
go back. No one shall make me. I want
to be independent. They can't drive me
from the regiment, Mr. Tufton, can they V "

"N — no — not exactly; but if this
comes to be a matter of common gossip,
your position here will be very disagree-
able. Can't you come to some compromise
with your friends ? Get them to send you
out to India."

" I don't want them to do any thing for
me," I said doggedly. '' I won't take any
of their money. I will make my own
fortune, and a name for myself, or I will
die in the attempt ! "

" That sounds verv fine and hei'oic, mv
good fellow ; but there are plenty of other
young soldiers just as ambitious as jou,
who have been gnawing their hearts out in
the army for years past. In peace-time,
how are you to make yourself a name ? If
you are a model of all the military virtues,
it is possible that in five-and-twenty years'
time you may have a commission given you ;
and then you will be just at the point
from which you minrht be startinsc now if
you chose. This is a lamentable mistake
of yours, depend on it. You are born a
gentleman ; and you have no right to throw
away that advantage, without a fair pros-

PENRUDDOCKE,

pect of doing as well for yourself by going
to the very bottom of the ladder. You
quarrelled with some of your people V Well,
what does that signify? I^et us imagine
that you are all in the light, and they all
in the wrong (which very seldom happens).
You are not vindietive, 1 am sure ; your
friends are evidently most anxious about
you; and if, as is now certain, they trace
you, how much better it will be to allow
them to purchase you a commission than
to resist all their efforts at a reconciliation,*
and go on, as a private, leading a life which
must be galling to any one accustomed to
associate with gentlemen."

" I am much obliged to you for all you
have said, Mr. Tufton ; but it doesn't
change me a bit. I can't argue the matter,
without telling things which it isiuipossible
I should name. No one but myself knows
my reason for leaving home. I had no
quarrel, I was not badly treated by any
one. I went simply because it was impos-
sible I should stay ; and the same reason
will prevent my ever returning. And now,
Mr. Tufton, you must do wiiat you think
best. I suppose, from what you say, there
is no doubt they will find me out ; and I
shall give them the same answer I give you.
I should avoid all communication with my
family if I could. If it is fbtced on me,
they shall find that what I have done I
mean to stick to."

I said this with a decision which I hoped
would carry conviction to the lieutenant's
mind. I was afraid he would look on me
as a silly boy, who, having committed a
masquerading folly, as a piece of bombast,
would seize, or at least be talked into ac-
cepting, the first opportunity that arose of
recovering his lost position. AVhetlierany
such idea, in a mitigated form, did yet
linf^er in his mind, 1 know not. He merely
said he thought it would be his duty to
write to tiie colonel; and then added, —

" Of course. Penruddocke, I cannot let
j'ou go on acting as my servant ; unless,
indeed, for the ne.xt day or two, you should
j)refer being away from }our company's
barrack-! oom as nuich as possible."

I told him that I did prefer it ; and thus
the matter rested. 1 went to the barrack-
room straightway, nevertheless, to thank
my friend, Joe Carter, for coming to my
aid.

" But you shouldn't have said that about
my grandmother, Joe, because you know it
wasn't true," 1 added.

" If I've no liitrger score than tliat to tot
up on the bhickboard by and by, I reckon
I can square it," he resyjonded.

Although fully jirepared for the struggle
which must follow my discovery, — a strug-
gle of which I never, for a moment, ques-

tioned the issue, — I was ill at ease all day.
What steps would my mother take ? Would
she come here, and make " a scene " ? No,
that was unlike her. She would send emis-
saries to treat with me ; slie would write
and remonstrate; but would she demand
the reason of my flight V I felt ])rctty sure
not. I felt pretty sure that she must guess
the cause, following immediately as it did
that disrrraceful event whi'-h nothino- now
could ever undo, even supposing that
Raymond had remained sili'nt as to my ur-
gent remonstrance (which T thought more
than probable^. But supposing she did de-
mand my reason, what then V Was I to
tax her directly with her crime? Call it;
moral cowardice, or by what name you will,
I shrank from this. I had been brought
up to revere her; and I felt that I could
not bring myself to drag down the image
from its shrine, and bespatter it with mud.
I coidd not trust myself to speak to her on
this sul))ert ; for, if I did so, words must be
spoken which it were better that no child
should use towards a parent.

I thought much of my father that day, —
of how he had worshipped her, and of
those last words to me, whereby he had
commended her to my especial care, seeing
that Ray had so little of the quality that
makes a man helpful in great straits. And
there, in the niche where mv father and the
common consent of the world had placed
her, she had remained all these years, too
far removed from our common joys and
troubles, perhaps, to feel mucli sympathy
with us, but all the more looked up to as
the incarnation of jniriry on earth. Alas I
and it was come to this !

" W^ell," I said to myself, after arguing
the question of what line of conduct I must
now adopt, " it may be wrong ; but as all
remonstrance with my mother would be
worse than useless, and as I never could
denounce her, I must remain silent. I will
never have part or parcel in the; inheritance
so unrighteously obtained. No power on
earth shall make me return to my old home ;
but, for the rest, I must leave it in God's
hands to redress this wi'ong by some other
instrument than me."

In this frame of mind I passed a sleepless
night. The next morning Mr. Joseplis —
of whom I need say little more, lor I soon ~
forgot him and the affair of the watcii alto-
gether — was brought up before a magis-
trate ; and my deposition, with Joe Carter's,
having been taken, the Jew was committed
to ])rison, to await his trial at the next
assizes.

I was in the lieutenant's room that night,
putting away liis things after he had gone
to mess, when I heard a heavy step ascend
the stairs, and then followed the resonant

PEXRUDDOCKE.

knock of an umLi-k'Ha-liiindlo on the door.
I opened it ; and a tall figure in an Inver-
ness cape stood beibre nie.

" Is tliis ]Mr. Tnfton's cpiarter ? God bless
my sonl I Why, Osmnml 1 "

It was my uncle, Levison Rich.

CHAPTER XI.

The first thins; he did was to burst into
an uncontrollabie fit of lan<j,liter. I felt
rather nettled, and was not soothed by
observing; that it was the spectacle of me —
a Penrnddocke, and his nephew — in un-
dress livery, which thus tickled my uncle's
lancy.

" Gad ! I didn't expect this ! This is
the finest sii^ht I ever saw ! Jove ! what
would 3-onr mother say — eh ? ^ — if she saw
youV 'Pon my soul, this is the best joke !
So you've taken to the plush, Osmund, my
boy ? Well, when they wrote to me that
you had enlisted, I expected to find you
shuulderin'4 'brown Bess,' but I did not ex-
pect to find you acting as ' Jeames ' !
Seriously, what can have induced you, my
dear boy, to make such a young ass ot
yonrseltV"

'• I am not going to give my reasons to
any one for doing what I have done, Uncle
Levison. Of course you, and every one
else, will think me a fool. I can't help that
You will find I am nut to be laughed out of
it."

" Well, let us sit down (I suppose you
ma>j sit down in your master's room, eh,
Osmund ?), and talk over this. It is a
deuced cold night, and they don't give one
any foot-warmers on this line. Can you
get me a glass of sherry and a biscuit ? "

While I ran into the mess-house next
door, my uncle took otF his '• Inverness,'"
drew an arm-chair near the fire, and pro-
ceeded, upon his usual principle, to make
himself as comfortable as circumstances
would permit. He was in no way moved,
or disconcerted, or perplexed, at finding his
nephew lar from penitent or abashed and at
the jjrospect of a stout resistance to his
overtures, for which my reception liad pre-
2)ared him.

" W^ell, now, my boy," he said, after toss-
ing off half a tumbler of sherry, and as he
wri'_<-Ldcd some inches farther into the soft
cushion of the arm-chair, " tell me all about
it. How came you to take this extraordi-
nary fancy of running away from home?
What the deuce was it all about ? Xo hu-
man being knows."

" I never meant them to know."

'' Well, but come, you'll tell me ? You
/icrf a reason, of course. We always used

to be very good friends, you know, Osmund*
Any row with your mother — eh V "

'• No, I had no row." Then, afrer a
moment's pause, '• I could not be happy at
home any longer. Ray ami I were always
different ; he suited my mother, and I suited
iu}- father. After his death, no one wanted
me any more."

My uncle lit his cigar at the candle be-
fore he replied.

" That is sentimental rubbish. ' Suiting ! '
what the deuce does it signify whether
you and Ray suit? You can live in the
same house together, I suppose ? And as
to no one wanting you, your mother wants
you, of course, or she would not have sent
half I'ound the world after you, and adver-
tised and offered rewards for news of you
for the last five months. It is such deuced
bad taste, my dear boy, making an esclandre
of this kintl, and all for nothing ! God knows
what people have not been imagining —
every kind of absurdity — to account for
your disappearance : you were in love
with that child, Evelyn Hamleigh, and
your mother has separated you ; you had
di.-covered a flirtation between your moth-
er and Francis (just conceive such a
thing !), and had had a violent scene wi h
her al)out him 1 There's no limit to ])eople's
inventive powers in such a case. The only
thing now is tor you to return home, and let
the thing be regarded as a boyisli freak, and
forgotten if possible; thou;;h that is easier
said than done."

" I shall never return to Beaumanoir. I
mean to stick to soldiering."

He took the cigar from his mouth, and
actually sat up in his chair.

" You are joking 1 — you must be ! "

" No, I'm quite serious. I mean to be in-
dependent."

'■ But you are independent. You've a
small fortune of your own, and " —

'• I don't mean to claim a farthing of it.
Indeed, nothing should induce me to do so.
I'll work for my own bread, and, if I can,
distinguish myself" —

" Distinguish yourself? bosh, my dear
boy ! How is a private to distinguish him-
self? Indeed, for the matter of that, how
is any one to disiingui^h himself in the
present day, unless by a fluke? Distinc-
tion, according to vour voung and entbu-
siastic ideas, is a thing of the past. The
only distinction is money now-a-days, and
the more money you have, the more dis-
tinguished you are. As to this idea of
yours, you are only fit for a straight waist-
coat, if you attempt to carry it out. Give
up your fortune 1 — give up being a gentle-
man ! — 'to earn your bread ! ' — you must
be raving mad ! I've a mind to ask the
doctor to see you. But 1 can't believe it.

PENRUDDOCKB.

There's some concession, — something you
want thcni to do for you — eh? — and
you're tr}in!T to drive a bargain ; to bully
your mother into granting it, — eh ? Come,
tell us what it is."

" I want nothing done for me. Believe
me or not, as you will ; but I am honest in
telling you that I mean to stick to the lite
I've cliosen. I know it will be slow work
rising, but I don't mind that. Yuu see, I
am not clever enough to be an artisan,
or any thing of that kind ; but I am strong,
and hav'e got some pluck I hope, and
can rough it. I think I shall be made
lance-corporal when the regiment sails in
March."

My uncle drank off another tumbler of
sherr\-. He got up, sat down, fidgeted in
his chair, stroked his finely-waxed mus-
tache : he was at his wits' end, I saw, as to
what he should say next. At last an idea
occurred to him.

'• Can you answer one plain question ?
If you are so in love with the army, why on
earth should you object to a commission in
the Guards V Your name has been down
for one, as you know, for the last three
years ; and, if there is ever anodier Euro-
pean war, you would have a,chance of dis-
tinction, for they will send the Guards, to a
dead certainty, while this regiment will
probably be stewing about the colonies,
without seeing a shot fired. As to the
purchase of your commissions," he added,
with a certain irritation of manner which I
could not account lor at the time, "you
know that they are provided for by the
stran"-e provisions of that precious will,
which" —

" It is no use talking to me of wills, Un-
cle Levison. I tell you, once for all, I am
resolved not to touch a farthing of the fam-
ily money. I shall never have a commis-
sion till I win one for myself. Every man
on the Continent works his way up from
the ranks ; and it would be much better if
they did so in England." '•

'• Oh ! you are going to reform the Brit-
ish Army, are you V You uned to be a sen-
sible boy, Osmund. What the deuce has
come to you, to talk such stuff? But I've
said all I can. If you are so confoundedly
obstinate, and have got so enamored of the
society of low blackguards that you prefer
it to living with gentlemen, nothing that
any one can say will have any effect, I
suppose. Your mother must try what she
can do ; but if she can make head or tail
out of your reasons for persisting in this
suicidal conduct, Jove ! it's more ihan /
can."

He sat there some time longer, and fin-
ished the bottle of sherry, going over the
same ground again and again, in spite of

the declaration that his powers of oratory
were exhausted. At last " tattoo " sound-
ed, and I said I must leave him. He
bc'T^red me to "■o and find Mr. Tufton, and
tell that officer that Col. Levison Rich
would like to see him. He seemed in two
minds as to whether he would shake hands
with me ; but his kind nature conquering
his irritation, he walked after me to the
door, and put his hand on my shoulder, —

" You're a provoking young ass, and I
hope you may yet be brought to hear rea-
son ; but if you aren't, remember, when-
ever you begin to repent of your obstinacy,
as you assuredly will, that you write to
nie, if you don't like writing to your moth-
er."

With that he turned back to the fire-
place, and I went .off to find the lieutenant.
What passed between them I never knew,
though I could guess tolerably wall. Mr.
Tutton never alluded to the subject ; and in
this he showed his tact.

The morning's post brought a letter from
my mother, which it is useless to produce
here. It was a beautiful specimen of calig-
raphy, as all her letters were ; elevated in
its sentiments, refined in its expression, —
a faultless production altogether, but which
moved me no whit as I read it. The tone
was that of a wounded but forgiving parent,
opening her arms to the prodigal son.
(She was ignorant, of course, of the result
of her brother's interview with me.) I re-
plied briefly, declaring it to be my inten-
tion to abide by the step I had taken ;
and therewith, I hoped (and almost
brought myself to believe) that the efforts
of my famjiy to change my resolution would
cease.

That day passed, and the greater part
of the next. I pictured to myself my
mother's cold, indignant surprise when the
post brought my reply. INIy uni'.e had
prepared her in some measure for it, of
course (he told me he should go straight
to Beaumanoir from Portsmouth) ; but she
would be incredulous, I felt sure, as to my
continued obstinacy, rt/Zer / had read her
letter. Then there would be consultation,
surmise, and probably very bitter Invec-
tive : it would be understood that I must
henceforward be looked upon as a black
sheei), to. be spoken of with a sigh and a
shake of the head, and to be given over to
a reprobate mind, until such time as it
])leased God to work in me repentance and
amendment. 1 knew the kind of thing so
well!

I was walking down the High Street
that same afternoon, towards dusk, when
a hand was laid upon my arm, and, turn-
ing, I found myself face to face with Mr.
Francis.

PENRDDDCCKE.

CHAPTER XII.

I FORGOT every th'nv^ lor the moinent
in the pleasure of seeinj^ the mun 1 loved
aiul reverenced more than any one on
earth.

'' We cannot talk iierc, my dear Os-
mund, — let ns ask ibr a room in this cof-
fee-house," and he turned into one hard by.
As I followed him. my pleasurable suvjjrise
yiekled to the recollection of 'vhy and how
it liad come to pass that he was hci-e. 1
steeled myself lor what I foresaw would be
a far liarder fin;ht than the encounter with
my uncle, and sat down op})osite to my
grave, gentle-voiced tutor, in the dingiest
of little parlors, feeling — I confess it — a
certain trepidation with which neither
colonel nor any other oiliccr in Her Maj-
esty's th Uegiment had ever inspired

me. There was a rickety table, whereon they
set some tea and a single candle. I sat on
one side, he on the other. He shaded his
eyes wiih his hand, and began almost im-
mediately thus : —

" You think you know what brings me
here, Osmund V To persuade you to re-
turn home ? Yon are wrong. I told Lady
llacliel, when I left Bcaumanoir to-day,
that I had a hope of getting you to change
your present course of lile, but none of
bringing you back with me."

He paused ; and I stared at him, open-
mouthed

" 1 must speak to you without reserve
this evening, on a certain matter. Other-
wise my coming here would be fruitless. I
am the only human being, Osmund, who
knows why you left home."

He leant forward, and looked me straight
in the face.

1 started as if I had been shot.

'• Never mind. The secret is safe with
me. I should never think myself justified,
as the trusted friend of the family, in betraj-
ing what an accident revealed. ^Vhy do 1
tell you this now ? No hint of it has ever
passed my lips, or will ever do so again.
But I want you to know that 1 thoroughly
realize the condition of mind under which
you took this step, and fuHy understand
the reasons for vour refusinsr to return
home. 1 even sympathize with them, to a
cei-tain extent. To any one with a very
high sense of honor, the position is not only
painful, but difficult."

" Your own mother ! Think of that, Mr.
Francis — your own mother I If it had
been any thing but that., I'd have spoken
out the truth, and shamed the Devil."

He did not notice my impetuous inter-
ruption, but repeated, —

"The position is not only painful, but

dillicult. Y'ou will take no part of the
money you believe to be diverted from its
rightful owner, and so you cut yourself
adrift — is not that it?"

'• It is."

" So fixr I understand. I say nothing,
then, about your returning home. But you
are aware that you have a small indepen-
dent fortune V \^y what ])rocess of reason-
ing have you dticidcd that you are bound
to give this up, and with it your social
position ? "

" Why, what my father left me was not
his to leave 1 He would have been the
last man to have kept a property he didn't
believe was honestly his. I won't touch a
penny of it ! "

'• But surely you know that there is mon-
ey from an altogether difl'erent source left
you by your mother's uncle, Gen. Rich?
This is rightfully yours, and lias nothing
to do with the Fcnruddocke ]iroperty."

I looked at him incredulously.

" No, I do not know it."

" I assure you it is so. The general died
when you were a child. He left you ten
thousand pounds, in the hands of two trus-
tees, Lord Berbrooke and Mr. Humphrey
Penruddocke, for whom he had a great
esteem. l(. as he hoped, you should feel
disposed to follow his footsteps, and enter
the Guards, he left a further sura for the
purchase of your commissions. If, on the
(jther hand, you showed no disposition tor
the army, die money was to go to one of
your cousins."

" This, then, is what my uncle began
about yesterday. I couldn't make head or
tail of what he meant; but the subject
seemed to annoy him, and I cut it short,
for 1 thought he referred to my father's
will."

" No wonder the subject of Gen.
Rich's will is not a pleasant one to your
Uncle Levison. It was always supposed
the general would make him his heir, I am
told ; but Col. Rich's extravagance wore
out the old gentleman's patience. After
paying his debts several times, he would
have nothing more to say to him."

" Well, I never was told of this, Mr.
Francis. My mother, certainly, once or
twice said something to me about goin<T
into the Guards, and told me that my name
was down for a commission; but I didn't
much fancy a London life, and I said so.
I knew nothing of the general's having-
left me any money."

" You were well provided for by your
father ; and Lady Rachel wisely retrained
fiom telling you of this additional fortune,
fearing it might prevent your entering
some profession; but now that you know
the real stale of the case, jour course

PENEUDDOCKE.

seems to me to be clear, unless you object
to soldiering;."

" Oil the contrary, it is the only career
for which I think I am fit."

" Then you should certainly accept the
commission in the Guards. Surely you
can have no valid objection to that? "

I hesitated.

" I had rather it was in the Line."

" Perhaps so ; but Gen. Ricli's leq;acy
depends on your entering this particular
brancli of the service. It was a whim of
the old man's ; and, as your career in life
is thus materially forwarded, it would be
folly to reject it. You can exchange into
the Line at some future time."

" And how am I to avoid going to Beau-
manoir, or taking any Penruddocke money,
without entering into explanations with

my muther

9 "

" I think no explanation will be necessa-
ry ; but of course you will have to say that
you believe John Penruddocke to be the
rightful owner of the estatb, and that con-
sequwntly nothing will induce you to take
any of the proceeds of it. If Lady Ra-
chel guesses the truth, she will be silent,
or, at least, the pressure on you will soon
cease. The world will regard you as in-
sane, but so they regarded your great-uncle,
when he espoused his half-brother's cause
so warmly. The trustees of Gen. Rich's
will will not refuse to make a suitable
allowance lor your maintenance until you
are of age."

I yielded finally to his arguments, hav-
ing nothing further to urge in opposition
to them.

'• Of course I've no wish to go on living
in a soldier's barrack-room if I can take
my place at the officers' mess honestly,
without doing any other fellow injustice;
but the Penruddocke money, — I'd sooner
starve than take a penny of it ! And
now, Mr. Francis, please tell me about
Evy."

" I've only seen Miss Hamleigh twice
since you were away. She struck me as
much changed, — shot suddenly out of the
child into the young lady. She asked me,
with tears in her eyes, what I thought had
become of you. I said I thought you were
in Ameiica, but that I felt sure we should
hear of you before very long — you could
not leave those you loved in ignorance of
your fate. No one will rejoice more than
Miss Hamleigh at your return to us, Os-
mund."

" I didn't dare write ; for her mother
often opens her letters."

" And why did you not write to me? "

" In the first place, I didn't know you
were still at Beaumanoir. Tlien, 1 couldn't
tell you the truth, you see, Mr. Francis, and

I didn't know that you knew all ; and I
was afraid of being traced by the post-mark :
but I'd given any thing to have opened my
heart to you all this time."

" Well, you have caused me a great deal
of anxiety ; and I cannot say how thankful
I am to sec you, my boy, here, safe and
sound. I am no longer actually living at
Beaumanoir, but have been very busy, in
London and elsewhere, prosecuting the
search for you. Lady Rachel did not wish
me to accept any of the posts I have had
offered me, as tutor to young men going
abroad, hoping, from day to day, that you
would return ; and," he added, smiling,
" paying me the compliment to say I had
more influence with you than any one."

" There she was right ! " I exclaimed.

" It was because I knew that, my boy,
that I consented to remain nominally a
member of your mother's household, against
some of my inclinations. I, too, have had
my trials in this affair, — have had to do
violence to my conscience ; and it was only
by holding rigidly to the principle that a
man placed as I am has no right to see or
know any thing that goes on around him,
that I have restrained myself. And now
sit down, and write to your mother."

" What am I to say ? I wrote, and utter-
ly rejected her offers. I wish you'd see
her. Tell her what you like, provided /
haven't to enter into explanations with her.
Shall I write to Uncle Levison ? "

" Very well. I will take the up-mail
train, and see your uncle early to-morrow,
before returning to Beaumanoir. I think I
can explain matters there, without your
writing."

I called for a sheet of paper, and wrote a
short letter to Col. Rich. Then I wrung
dear old Francis's hand. We paid our
score, and parted.

CHAPTER XIIL

Over the next half year I shall not lin-
ger long. What befell me may be told in
few words. My discharge was purchased,

and I bade farewell to the th Regiment.

During the few months I had served in its
ranks, I had bought an amount of experi-
ence which the same number of years spent
at Beaumanoir would not have given me ;
a certain insight into character, that
" knowledge of the world," as it is called,
(though I had but a rough block of men,
none of the artifi'jial sculptures of society,
to study), which is sometimes — not always
gained at public schools and colleges. Thus
1 have never regretted my training as a
private. 1 learnt subjection, reticence,

PENRUDDOCKE.

punctuality. I came a greenhorn — I went
<vway a uiau ; not a wise one, by any means,
as this veracious history will only too clear-
ly show, but yet possessing that which I
found useful to nie in my future dealiii'j;s
with my fellow-men. Lieut. Tufton shook
my hand cordially at parting, and said lie
hoped we should meet again.

" I shall never have such another ser-
vant," said he, lau'^hing.

" Nor I another such master," I re[)lied.

JMr. Eagles blossomed out into smiles
■when I went to the orderly-room, and gave
me a liber;d allowance of wholesome ad-
vice, wliich I am afraid I treated with the
ingratitude such donations usually meet
with. He ended by asserting that he had
maintained, all along, that I was a '• boy of
family" — tor which statement may Heav-
en tbri;ive him I "

" And so y'rc a nob ? " said Joe, eying
me curiously from head to foot, as though
he had never before fully embraced the
details of my person. The news had
spread tlirough the barrack-yard, and had
created some interest. " Well," added my
ii'iend, as he held out a liorny but jierlect-
ly clean hand, " I always thought there
was suuimut (jueer about ye."

" Never mind, Joe, my heart's in the
right place — that's the chief thing, ain't
it V I'm sorry to say good-by. After all,
I"d rather rise from the ranks by my merits
than be a readv-made swell."

« Hum ! " sa'id Joe dryly. " You'd ha'
had to live to a great age fust — a'most as
long as that old gent in the Bible. Good-
by, lad. I'd like to be going with ye —
ibr one thing is cock-sure — / shall never
rise, and I'm pretty nigh sick o' soldier-
ing."

Thus it was that Joe and I parted.

Mr. Francis returned tor me the third
day after our interview at the public-house.
His calculations had not been at tkuit. In
that interval he had manacjed to arrange
all ; to make such a representation to my
mother as inclined her to submit to the
only conditions upon which I would con-
sent to be dragged out of the mire, namely,
that I should never be urged to return to
Beauraanoii', or to take the fortune left me
by my fither. How Mr. Francis acoin-
plished this delicate and difKcult task, I
never inquired ; but that it was done with
consummate tact I felt sure, for my decision
met with neither remonstrance nor ques-
tion.

He told my trustees as much as was ne-
cessary, and no more, in order to obtain an
advance upon Gen. Rich's leiracy, which
would cover all expenses during my resi-
dence at the " crammer's," where I went
direct frcuu Portsmouth. He lived at

Wimbledon ; and as Mr. Francis now set-
tled himself in London, taking a temporary
engagement as daily tutor to the sons of a
Catholic nobleman, I saw him constantly
for some months to come. Not a week
passed but he came down to Wimbledon ;
and many a delightful walk we had, —
hours I look back upon still with the keen-
est pleasure. He was the only person in
the world to whom I felt I could open
n)y heart. If I had any trouble I con-
fided it to hiui ; and, in his finherly
counsel, I never failed to lind a true, broad-
sighted wisdom.

My uiotber came to town in the course of
ihe season, and 1 saw her several times. I
looked forward to the first meeting with
dread, I confess ; but I found lier beautiful
and unmoved as ever. iShe did not allude
to the past, nor did 1 ; and the interview
passed off as calmly as though I had left
Ceauraauoir the week before. She told me
she had come in order to use all her person-
al influence witlif certain authorities to cret

•

uie appointed out of my turn, and she was
hopeful of my having the second vacancy
which occurred. She then inquired wiiere
I wishei] to pass the vacation, wnicii was at
hand. I replied that I iiad a great desire
to go abroad, where 1 had never been, and
that I thought a trip to Holland and Bel-
gium would not be very expensive, and
would occupy the time ])leasantly as well as
profitably. She was pleased to say she
thought it a wise scheuie ; but my belief is
that, at that moment, if I had proposed a
six weeks' trip to Kamschatka, she would
have offered no opposition. Aly mother
was a woman who knew when and how to
resist; but she also knew how to yield to
the " logic of facts."

I wrote constantly to Evelyn, and re-
ceived dear little letters from her in repiv,
every one of which I still have, docketed
and tied together, in the furthest recesses
of my desk. And 1 am tempted, as much
by the desire to show something of my ilar-
ling's character, and her feeimgs towards
me at this time, as because it <lescribv's
with a few simple touches, the attitude of
various members of our family, to give here
one letter out of this small, and, to me, pre-
cious packet : —

" Beadmajjoir, June 28.
" Df.arest Osmund. — ilow kind of
you to remember my birthday ! I got
the little locket this morniu'^, ami pri.:e
it more than all my other beautiful pres-
ents. Lady Rachel jxave me a string of
small pearls; and Ray, the British Ency-
clopaedia, in three ini^ volumes. It was \evy
kind of him ; but 1 iiave no shelf in my
room at; home big enougii tor them, I am

PENRUDDOCKE.

afraid. Mamma gave mo a very pret-
ty dress, and says, now that I am six-
teen I may have it made quite,
long."

" We came here three days ago. I sup-
pose I ought not to say so. but it is very dull
without you. However, it is something to
know where you are. Last winter it was
so wretched here, never even hearing your
name mentioned. Laily Rachel says you
are working very hard. She tells us, too.
that you are very much grown, and that
the photograph does not do you justice.
For my part, I am sure it does not, though
I have not seen you for nearly a j'ear. I
am grown, too, — mamma says ' terribly,"
-^ for I cannot wear any of my old summer
frocks. Do you remember tearing my lilac
one, in lifting me throu2;Ii that hedge last
June ? I walked there yesterday. They
have ])ut a great ugly paling there. Poor
old Rover and I go about together. He
attaches himself to me, recollecting, I
fancy, that I was, generally, his dear mas-
ter's comjjanion.

" There was a school-feast yesterday ;
and a tenant's dance in the evening. Mr.
Putney made a beautiful speech about
Lady liichel. Ray replied to it, and said
how happy he was to see the tenantry gath-
ered round him, after the attempts that
had been made to deprive him of the ])rop-
erty. Then there was a great deal of
shouting, and the volunteers struck up,
' The fine old En'j;lish gentleman.' Mam-
ma cried, and I felt very choky; but I
thought how you would have laughed at
me, and have called my tears some rude
name, so I was determined not to show
them. Bill Strutt was there. He asked
nie ' when the young master was a-comin'
whuome V We wants un badly.' I should
like to have shaken him by the hand, but I
did not dare. A terrible piece of news
has reached the village. Those two bro-
thers, the Hounsfields, who went to Amer-
ica last autumn, have been killed by the
blowinii up of some mine. Is it not shock-
ing V Tiiough you never liked them, I an\
sure you will be horrified. Lady Rachel
felt it very much. She said nothing, when
Mr. Putney told us, but sat down, and I
saw how pale she turned. Mamma, who
■went to her room afterwards, found she
was quite upset. I am afraid Mr. Putney
will preach a sermon about it to-morrow.
It is so terrible when he preaches about
death and hell, and so on. When are you
coming home, dearest Osmund? I hoj)e
you will enjoy Holland. I wish I was go-
ing ; but I shall never leave home, I sup-
pose, except to come here. I do so want
to have wings, and fly away sometimes ! 1
used not to feel that : it has come on me of

late, and it is very wrong, I know. Write
soon, dear, dear Osmund, to

" Your affectionate cousin,

" Evelyn IIamleigh."

The news of the two Hounsfiehls' dentli
did affect me more than my little Evelvn
could foresee. But for my mother's hav-
ing sent them across the seas, with the
wages of sin, those men would, humanly
spreaking, have been alive now. How
strangely Providence seemed to jilay into
lier hands I How all things seemed to
work together towards the success of her
scheme ! These fellows, her only agents,
removed by death, no other witnesses could
ever rise up against her; for of Mr. Fran-
cis I fl'lt as sure as I did of myself. As I
thought over it, I was tempted to say in
my heart, " Can there be a Go<l who per-
mits the innocent to be punished, now and
again, and who helps to hide the sins of the
guilty?"

I had hoped that Mr. Francis might
have accompanied me al)road ; but he liad
[)romised to go to Ireland with the lads
whom he was teaching; and there, as it
turned out, he remained. I did not see my
best friend again for more than a vear.

CHAPTER XIV.

Iisr August I sailed from London for
Antwerp. It was a glorious day, and the
steamer was crowded. I could scarcelv
find a seat on deck ; but, as I glanced
round, my fellow-passengers presented no
very salient or attractive features. There
was the conventional tourist-family, bound
for the Rhine, the elders armed with mac-
intoshes and '• ^luri-ays," the juniors with
Bath-buns, in piniparation for the voyage.
There was a party of spinsters, six in num-
ber, of various ages, from thirty upwards,
headed by one more militant and adven-
turous than the rest, whom I saw, in my
mind's eye, disputing the hotel bills every
mornini'-, and ui-ging her weaker sisters to
renewed exertion in an effort to reach the
summit of the Righi ; for this company of
discreet maidens were journeying to Swit-
zerland, I found. There were gouty men
for Wiesbaden, and gay widows for llom-
burg, a large admixture of shabljy-genteel
I)eople, whose exact social position it was
difficult to guess (or why they were cross-
ing the channel — was it business, or pleas-
ure ? for they looked profoundly indifferent
to every thing), and a small sprinkling of
Germans. I passed my observations on
these groups — among which, no doubt,
was many a far better man than myself — ■

PENRUDDOCKE.

■with all the impudence of nineteen, and
was sittinu; down to read my railway-novel,
when, three mimites before the plank was
■withdrawn, a lady came on board with two
servants, causing some commotion on tiie
crowded deck by the iiillux of dressing-
cases, bngs, plaids, &c. Iler luggage, con-
sisting of some huge, foreign-looking trunks,
was pitched on board ; the cabman and
jiortcrs, who were battling with the courier
ibr the extraction of more shillings, were
hustled on shore, the ladder was hauled up,'
the paddle-wheels began to move, and we
were under way.

The lady looked piteously around ; there
was not even a camp-stool disengaged ; the
courier was abaft, seeing after the luggage ;
the maid, like a beast of burden, under
the weight of her mistress's possessions,
stooil thei'e, patient and incapable. There
was no help for it : I rose, and offered the
comturtable nook which I had just secured.
She thanked me, in the purest English,
but with a slight foreign accent ; and tht;
manner in which she accepted my offer had a
certain self-possessed grace, which stamped
ber at once as a high-bred woman. But it
had a charm, over and above this, which it
is difficult to describe. Whether it lay in
the voice or in the smile, or in something
which was not exactly one or the other, I
cannot tell. I know that I scarcely thought
ber good-looking then (at an age when
good looks go for so much !), and that, even
when I knew her better, it was only at
times she appeared so to me. But this fas-
cination of manner arrested my interest at
once. I got a stool, in the course of time,
not very far off; and whenever I looked up,
from my book, my eyes turned naturally
towards the lady in dust color ; and I
watched her for some minutes, until I was
detected, when I buried myself again in
the pages of " Eugene Aram." She had
pulled off her gloves, and was knitting,
while she read, at the same time, a forei^jn-
looking book, which lay open on her lap.
Let me describe her, as she sat there.

She was near thirty, I believe, at this time.
Her face was a little worn, and any bloom
the complexion had ever had was gone.
The hair was light and abundant, but not
very beautiful in color. It sprang fi-om its
roots in those wilful lines that indicate
force of character ; and all its waves, being
drawn back over the ears, were knotted
together in what looked like a nest of taw-
ny serpents under her little brown hat.
The eyes were very expressive ; dark with
shadows at one time, full of brilliant lights
at another, so that I never knew what
color they were. The nose was irregular
in shape ; and yet, when one came to know
the face, one would not willingly have ex-

changed it for a more classic model ; mo-
bility, energy, and passion, it certainly
indicated these, and there was a finesse ia
the curve of the nostril, which was chiefly
noticeable when she was about to smile.
At such times, the mouth was charming ;
the lii)S, somewhat too thin, perhaps, open-
ing freely over the whitest and most even
teeth in the world. The jaw was a little
angular ; but the chin, with its fine upward
turn, and little cleft, so full of cliaracter,
would have been pronoimced by a sculptor
perfect, — the only perfect part of that
face. And it was this which was most
visible now, the brow and eyes being
shaded by her hat. She was above the mid-
dle height, and her figure seemed round
and graceful under its loose travelling
dress. The only ornament she wore, of
any kind, was a large sapphire (5n her
finger, which, I observed, guarded a wed-
ding-ring ; every thing about her, down to
the ])lain collar and cuffs, was as simple as
possible.

There was a move, by and by, of such
an impetuous character that it might
almost be styled a charge, down to dinner.
The courier, a very ])leasant-lookinLr fellow,
came up to the lady, and urged her de-
scending to this repast. She seemed reluct-
ant to leave her seat, but the man did
not f^ive in. With that freedom, unmixed
with impudence, which belongs to most
foreign servants, he continued pressing the
point. I could guess, though I could not
hear, all he said; and in the end he pre-
vailed. She rose, laid down her book and
knittiiig, and left her maid to mount guard
over tiiein. I slipped down the stairs after
her ; the tables seemed crammed : there
was a Babel of tongues, a clouil of savory
steam, a clashing of knives, as though some
Scythian war-dance was going on, — and
in all this hideous confusion, I saw no seat
for my fair friend. She stood there for a
moment, lookintr bewildered, and a little
disgusted, and was about to retire, when a
functionary, napkin in hand, plunged fbr-
wai'd, crying out, —

" Stop, ma'am ! Pll put seats for you
and the gentleman 'ere, at the side-table."

She turned to see who her companion
in exile was, and a smile touched her lijjs.
We sat down.

" 1 am afraid I crowd you. There isn't
room for two. I will wait " —

" Pray don't move. I have plenty of
room. It would be too bad. after turning
you out of your seat on deck, if I turned
you out of it below too."

She smiled charmingly as she said this ;
and, on the strength of it, I went on, —

" I was rewarded by seeing you make
yourself so comfortable there. May 1 ask

PENRUDDOCKE.

how you manage to read and work at the
same time V "

'' All we Germans do that. Yes, I was
very cumt'ortable, and it is dreadtull}' close
down here. I regret havino; come."

I didn't hke that speech quite so much ;
but she was not thinking of" me, and I
could not feel offended.

" But now you have come down, you
will cat something ? May I give you some
ot" this beet'? It's awfully good."

" No, tliank you. When I was your
age, I thought most things ' awfully good ; '
now I am more difficult, I am afraid ; at
least, I have not the same appetite."

" Mine, do you know, has never filled
me yet, and I've been tried as much as
most fellows," I added, with an air which
made my companion smile.

" Really ? You look the picture of
health and activity, — as if nothing could
ever liave gone amiss with you."

" Ah ! you don't know," — then, with a
burst of irrepressible confidence, — "you
wouldn't think now, that I hail enlisted
once as a private, and that for six months
no one knew what had become of me ? "

She looked round at me witli an expres-
sion half of interest, half of amusement.

" And did no compunction of conscience
interfere with your appetite all that
time ? "

" No, I had no compunctions."

" Then vou cannot have a mother? "

"Yes, Ihave."

" And you could leave her without tid-
ings of you all that time ! You must be a
very hard character, — yet your look belies
it. I think you are imposing on me."

" I assure you, I am not. My mother
doesn't care much for me. I have an elder
brother, who is considered perfect, you see,
and I am not wanted at home."

" And have you no sisters ? Is there no
one else at home you care about ? "

" No, — that is to say, — I have a little
cousin, who lives there a good deal. I am
very Ibnd of her. She is the only relation
I care much about, — I might say, the only
person in the world, excejjt my old tutor."

AVHiat prompted me to make these reve-
lations to an utter stranger ? It is difficult
for me to understand now, yet then it
seemed quite natural at the time.

" And this little cousin, — you were so
cruel as not even to let her know where
you were ? "

" Well, yes— I couldn't help that, be-
cause her mother opens her letters."

'' And was she very unhappy all the
time V "

"Well, I hope" — here I colored, anil
stammered — "I mean I think she was.
But it is all right now, you know."

" Oh 1 it is all right, is it ? She is of a
very forgiving disposition, then ? I should
not so easily pardon any one I loved, who
behaved so."

" Yes, you would, I am sure, — that is,
if you loved the person very much. Have
you never had to forgive any one you
loved ? "

An expression of the sharpest pain
crossed her face. Then she said quietly, —

" Yes, but it is not a safe experiment to
repeat often. It lowers a man in his own
eyes, to seek constantly for forgiveness, —
it lowers him in a woman's, constantly to
be forgiven. It ends by hardening both.
Take my advice, — you are very young
still — let those you love have as little to
forgive as possible. There is not too much
real love in life that one can afford to waste
it."

" No one has better reason to know that
than I ; but there isn't much fear between
me and my cousin. Nothing can ever
come between us, I am sure."

" Are you ? " she said, with an incredu-
lous little smile. " Divine confidence of
youth ! I hope, for your sake, it may be
so ; and what is your life now, if I may
ask?"

"I am waiting for my commission in the
Guards."

" Going into all the temptations of fash-
ionable London life! Ah ! take care you do
not forget the little cousin then. Try to lead
such a life that you need have no secrets from
her. Let it be a talisman to guard ^ou.
A pure youth without self-reproach, — it is
so rare, so beautifiil to look back to 1 No
fears to beat away, no strife to heal ;

' The past unsigbed for, and the future sure,'

as your poet says. That is what your aim
should be."

" I hope never to do any thing I'm
ashamed of; but I have been brought up
with such faultless people all my life —
people who are considered faultless, at
least — that I am afraid I prefer sinners to
saints."

" I suspect there is not much chance of
your being numbered among the latter."
said the lady, laughing. " I, alas I have
lived more among the sinners, and so I
have come to i)refer what is upright and
innocent : and now that you have told me,
in such a very un-English fashion, so nuich
about yourself, suppose you tell me your
name V "

I told her ; also where we lived, and
who my mother was ; when my unknown
fVieiul said, —

" Is she not a sister of Col. Levison
Rich ? 1 met hiui some months ago, when

PENRUDDOCKE.

I remember of his tollinc; ns of an nttempt
made by some distant relation to dispos-
sess his nephew of his estate in Dorset-
shire."

'•Humpli! lie s))oke of that, did lie?
Yes. he is my uncle."

" I hope your unele, then, is' not to be
your mentor in London, Mr. Penruddocke."

'* Oh ! my Uncle Levison and I are capi-
tal frit'iids ; but I know hiin tliorou;j,hly.
lie is a tremendous swell, and that I shall
never be. You met in London, I suppose ?
Bv the by, vou haven't yet told me your
name ? "

She pulled out a Russia-leather case.
and took from it a card, which she laid
beside my j)late. Upon it was " La Coin-
tesse d'Arnheim, No. — , Chesham Place."
Tlien, with a little nod, she rose and left
the cabin.

Later I joined her on the deck, and
talked to her for nearly two hours. I had
met very few cultivated women in my short
life, and none, certainly, to be compared
with this one. There was a simplicity, a
playful creniality, combined with a certain
finesse in all she said, which exercised a
singular fascination over me. I was accus-
tomed to my mother's very measured deliv-
ery, which scarcely stirred a muscle of her
beautiful face; to Mrs; Hamleigh's amiable
artificiality ; and to the vapid commonness
of the few toadies who had visited Beau-
manoir of late years. I now talked for the
first time to a woman who lived in the
great world, and had been accustomed to
it from her earl)' youth ; who was a singu-
lar compound of enthusiasm and worldly
wisdom, with a keen perception of the fol-
lies that surrounded her, and who yet was
ijtterly unspoilt, and had retained, in some
measure, the naivete of a child. She told
me that she had been brou.rht up, partly
in the small court of Echlinstein, when
her father was Kammerherr to the reign-
inir duke, and partly at Berlin ; that she
had been married six years, which had
btten spent in Paris and in London, her
husband, who was in diplomacy, having

been secretary to the Legation, —

first in the one capital, and now, for the
hist three years in the other.

" This is my holiday," she said. " T have
not been home, or seen any of my family,
for the last two years. Last autumn we
went to Scotland, — my husband wished it ;
so I could not get to Germany. I found it
verv tedious, visitinsr from one ";reat house
to another. This year my husband is going
to yacht, I believe, and does nut want me ;
so, as I am suffering from what we Ger-
mans call Ileimweh, I have started off
alone."

" Have you any children? " I asked.

She shook her head ; and, guessing that
the subject was a j)ainful one, I changed
it quickly, saying. —

" How do you like London ? "
"I like the coimtry ; but the j)eople I
see most of are fashionable people, whose
lives are at high-pressure all the year
round. That restless search after excite-
ment seems to me to militate against the
true pleasures of life, as we Germans under-
stand them."

" Oh ! I know nothing of fashionable life
but I nuist own I like excitement. There's
nothing like a good run."

" But if you were running all the year,
think how tired you would be 1 That is
what the slaves of fashion do."

" Well, I shall never be a slave of fash-
ion," said L laughing. " I have no idea
of doing things simply because other peo-
ple do them."

" Then you despise the world's opinion '?
I applaud that sentiment. In what direc-
tion does your amijition lie? "

" To be distinguished in my profession."
" A very worthy ambition, only difficult
of attainment in peace time."

" We shall not always have peace, I
hope. At any rate, I have no ambition to
be a swell in London, like my uncle."

" And yet," she said, looking at me in a
meditative way, " I should not be surprised
if you become as popular in many salons,
in your own way, as he is. You are diffi-
dent, and you are very honest, — which is
a new line, — perhaps it will take. You
have not paid me a single cQmpliment, or
talked a word of the rubbish men generally
think it necessary to entertain us with,
during all the time we have talked here —
by which you don't know how much you
have risen in my estimation. Now I must
say 'good-night.' Go to your berth, and
dream of the little cousin."

She gave me a friendly nod and smile,
and, gathering her shawl about her, disap-
]5eared below. I remained some time ou
deck, meditating on all my new friend had
said ; and yet more, on the singular charm
which invested every word that fell from
her with a value not intrinsically its own.
It was like cutting the pages of a book thut
seems to open a new era to one, a revela-
tion of delight, the discovery of which was
hitherto unguessed. That an accomplished
woman of the world, a creature I had
always regarded as every thing tiiat was
heartless and unreal, should have the warm
and tender feelings I felt sure Madame
d'Arnheim possessed was a puzzle I could
not solve.

The next morning, to my disappointment,
Madame d'Arnheim only appeared on deck
a few minutes before we landed at Ant-

PENRUDDOCKE.

werp. She was to start l)y tlie next train
to Colo!^ne. I was to spend a niLjht in
Antwerp, and then p;o on to the Hague.
As she put out her hand, to wish me good-
by, she said, —

" Do not Ibmet to come and see me when
you come to London, Mr. Penruddoci<e.
If the acquaintance be^^un on the Antwerp
steamer dies a natural death, it will be your
fault, remember."

And then we parted.

CHAPTER XV.

The 'Only study, besides that of nature
in some of its departments, which I had
ever cared for, had been history. All that
was old, all that was connected with the
past, had an attraction tor me. I found
plenty of interest of this kind in Holland
and Beli^ium. Every town I visited during
the next few days had records, relics, asso-
ciations with a by-gone time, which kindled
my imagination, and aroused my enthusi-
asm for those bi'ave old burghers who had
been the life-blood of the Dutch Republic.
I prowled about quaint streets, I visited
every church and stadhuls, I examined the
portrait of every worthy I could find, and
then I pictured to myself the stirring scenes
connected witli the place. I generally talked
to peo|>le, wherever I went, in English if
possible ; if not, in my very stifi-necked
French ; and when that would not do, by
signs. Very few things stopped me ; the
consequence of which was, that I picked up
a good deal of information and much amuse-
ment ; that I made a pleasant acquaintance
or two among chance travellers like my-
self; and that I never knew what it was to
be lonely. In short, I thoroughly enjoyed
my tour.

It was late one August evening when I
walked into the old Inn at Ghent, and
asked for supper. 'Two persons were seated
at the long table in the public room, a tall
old man and a young girl. Others came
and went, l)ut upon these two my attention
soon became riveted. The old man was
shabbily dresseil, and scarcely looked like
a gentieuian ; the girl was plain, and very
untidy : that was my first impression. Her
frock was torn, her hair rumj)led, and her
hands — they were coarse and red hands
— were any thing but clean. The second
impression made on me by this group was,
that, somewhere or other, I had seen those
faces before. After that, of course, I di<l
little else but watch them, and listen to
their conversation — (they spoke in Eng-
lish, and were at no pains to speak low) —
in the endeavor to recall how it was that

those faces did not seem altogether unfa-
miliar to me. The girl was apparently
about fifteen, but rather short. She had a
bad complexion, and large bones, which
seemed protruding everywhere ; but the
more I looked at her, tin; more I became
interested in her face, and the less ugly I
thought it. Its vivid intelligence, and the
intensity of its varying exjjressions, redeem-
ed the plainness of its features, and ren-
dered it positively attractive to me after a
little time.

" Dad," said the girl, soon after I sat down,
" what's the use of a lot of learning ? I
don't see that people are a bit the better
for it."

"I never had much education myself,
Lizzie, and I feel the waflt of it," was the
reply.

'• No education could have made you a
bit better than you are ; I know that," said
the girl vehemently.

'•Ah! that's idle talking. Besides, young
folks, ])resent day, know a deal more than
they did when I was a lad. You've been
neglected hitherto, Liz — I couldn't help it.
Your poor mother " —

" Mother hadn't much learning, and I
don't want to be a bit better than mother."

" She would have had it, if she could,
my dear. She didn't despise it ; she was
too sensible for that ; and now that 1 have
the opportunity, and have had the money
given me expressly to have you taught a
bit, I mustn't neglect it, Liz. 2vIo voung
lady " —

" I don't watit to be a young lady. I
want to stay with you, dad."

" Well, but you can't have me always.
When I'm gone, lass, you'll find yourself
shocking ignorant, all alone in the world."

" Don't you talk like that, dad ; " and the
girl gave his shoulder an affectionate push
with her head, like a Newfoundland pup[)y.

'• But we must look to it, Liz. I'm an
old chap to be the father of a young thing
like you. I must go, lassie, betbre many
years are over. It don't make it come a
bit the sooner looking at it, you know.
When you're alone in the world, whal'll
you do then ? "

" Work. I won't sit with my hands in
gloves before me, all day long."

" Well, but learning, my lass, don't need
to make you idle. Except writing and
arithmetic, you see, you know nothing. At
the school here, to begin with, you'll be
learning French,"

" What's the use of French ? Look at
that fellow on the railway to-day, jabbering
and shaking his fist : he didn't get on as
well as we did."

" He was very (piarrelsome, my dear —
if, indeed, he wasn't drunk. We were

PEXRDDDOCKE.

peacealile, orderly folk, who wanted noth-
iiHj; liutoiir tickets. If we hail beoii in any
diliiciilty, you'd liave fmnd the advantage
of talking; a little Freneh."

There was a pause. At last she said
glooD'ily, —

'• They won't let me so out alone. All
the girls walk out in jiairs, like Noah's Ark.
I can't bear it ! "

'• But you'll be tau'.dit cyninastics," ob-
served her father soothingly.

" Shall I V That's cliailjing and swing-
ing, isn't it V " Here a gleam of pleasure.
for the first time, shot across her face.
" And swimming ? I want to swim so baxl-
ly, dad I "

" Ah ! as to that, I don't know what
water there is here ; but if you're a good
flirl, and get on well at school, we'll go to
Ostend next June, and you'll soon swim
like a fish there,"

"June! Why, that's nearly a year off!
And ain't I to see you till then, dad ? "

•' Oh ! I shall come over at Christmas,
Lizzie, and take you to Brussels, We'll
go t.' the theatre, and you'll be able then
to explain it all to me ; and, you shall see,
we'll amuse ourselves finely,"

" Ah ! ■' sighed the girl, " we'd have
amused ourselves better in the old farm at
home. I wish no one had ever put it into
your head to come over to Europe, We
were a deal hap])ier in the old place than
ever we shall be in England. I hate all
their stuck-up ways ! "

•'Now, Liz, I won't have you talk like
that, when you've met with so much kind-
ness. I am sure my old cousin has been
like a brother. He couldn't have had my
interests more at heart if they'd been his
own."

" Oh ! I know it dad, and I'm not un-
grateful, — only he made yon come over.
It was all his doing ; and I wish we hadn't
come, that's all."

" Well, my dear, one thing we have
gained by coming is that he has made his
will in your favor, and lias shown it to me.
He knows that I am a poor man, and have
made great sacrifices to come over here,
and ferret out the rights of this business.
Ic turned against us : we can't help that ;
but he took it a'most more to heart than I
did. He swore then and there that not a
penny of his should ever go to the family,
and made his will in my presence. He
ain't a rich man ; but what he leaves '11
make you independent, Liz. Therefore
I've done some good, you see, by coming
over."

" I don't want to be rich, I want to do
just as I like," said Liz, with both her el-
bows on the table, and her teeth set fast
in a slice of bread and butter. " Now, I'll

tell you the life I should like, dad. We
should have a little house in a wood, just
big enou'ih for you and me ; and we'd go
out moDse-hunting and fishing all day long.
And then, when I married, I'd have noth-
ing but sons " —

" How are you to marry, Lizzie, if we
live in the backwoods, and in a hut too,
oidy large enough for you and me ? " said the
father, laughing. " No, no : when you've
had two vears' schooling, and come out
fine and accomplished, may be you'll find
some one, liere, lassie, that'll take a fancy
to }ou, but not in the backwoods."

" I wouldn't give much for him if lie
fakes me only for my accomplishments,"
sai<l ^liss Lizzie, tossing back her mane,
" The husband I choose must be a man,
gentle and yet strong, — just like you, dad,
not a bit cleverer or handsomer. I don't
want a fine, learned, polished statue, like
that detestable lellow at Beaumanoir! I
hope never to see that creature again ! "

" Nay, Liz, you're prejudiced against
the lad because he got the best of it. If
there was that unlucky flaw in our case, it
was no fault of his. Of course he did quite
right to fight it out. I should have done
the same. And nothing can be more civil
and condescending than Lady Rachel.
She asked you there twice ; and, but for
Humphrey, I'd certainly have let you
SO."

" I wouldn't have gone 1 I wouldn't
have entered their dirty doors!" said the
girl passionately. " Condescending, indeed !
Darling dad, you're a great deal too good
for this world, — you think every one is
like yourself. After all, I am much more
shrew than you are,"

'• Shrewd, you mean, my dear, — shrewd."

'• Well, shrewd, then. I see people as
they really are. You see them as they
ought to be. Those people at Beauma-
noir are all a set of false, cold-blooded
creatures, without a heart among them, I
know it, I I'eel it, and " —

'• You say ' all.' You never saw the
youngest son."

" No ; but of course he is just like his
mother and brother. Nothing that you
can say, dad, shall ever persuiide me to
enter that house again."

" Well, well, make no rash promises.
There is time enough to think of that
when you leave school. You'll be a deal
changed, lassie, I hope, in many ways by
then. Now, if you've done your bread and
butter, we'll go to bed ; for I'm very tired,"

They both rose, and left the table.

And I remained there, for a full hour,
leaning my head between my hands, and
revolving in my mind how I should now
act.

PENEUDDOCKE.

CHAPTER XVI.

I DESIRED, if possible, to make my cous-
ins' ac(jnaintancc without their k'arninsj
who I was. The old man and his child
would have interested me had they been
absolute stranirers. As it was, while I
shrank from revealing myself, I was drawn
towards them by ieelin^^s. which, thou'j;li
complex, all tended in one direction. If I
could ever render these poor, defrauded
relations any service, I would <j;o through
fire and water to do it. It had made my
cheeks burn, knowing all I did, to liear
John Penruddocke speak of my mother
and brother as he had done. I was asham-
ed to address him ; and yet I longed to
shake his hand, and to exj^-ess to him how
much I -honored his bravery and hxrge
mindedness in misfortune.

My luggage had no address, and on the
stranger's book 1 inscribed myself as Mr.
Smith.

Tiie next morning I was in the salle
early, before Cousin John and his daugh-
ter were down. I had arranged my plan
of operations, having gathered the pre-
vious evening, from some further fragments
of conversation which I have thought it
unnecessary to repeat here, that father and
daughter were to spend a coujjle of days
at the inn together, before Elizabeth was
handed over to Mademoiselle Pla<;ant's
establishment. Those days would be spent
partly in lionizing the town, no doubt ; and
here was my opportunity. To intrude my-
self upon them at their breakfast was im-
possible. Perhaps it had dawned on my
"shrew" little cousin that the young
stranger who had supped at the table,
the night before, had watched and lis-
tened to them ; at all events, she made
breakfast at the farther end of the room,
and I could hear nothing she said. I got
up, and sauntered towards the cathedral.
It was probably the first object that would
attract Strangers : if not, I was almost
sure to come upon them in their round of
sight-seeing, later in the day. But even
before I had reached St. Bavon, Mr. Pen-
ruddocke and his daughter, walking at a
rapid pace, overtook me : the father in a
battered wide-awake, Elizabeth in a straw
hat which had clearly met with some hard
usage. !My dee{)-laid plot was disconcerted,
however, by the sight of a little crt^ature,
voluble and prodigal of gesticulation, who
ambled alongside of them, and whom I
recognizeil at once as belonging to the
odious race of laqnais tie place. As they
passed me, I caught fragments of his de-
testable jargon (had I not suffered under
the like at Antwerp, at Bruges, and else-

where?), composed of low Dutch, and yet
lower French, in equal parts, wiih a word
of incomprehensible English here and
there. I followed them into the cathedral.
At a distance wiiith could hardly be call-
ed respectful, I pursued them down the
side-aisles, catching fragments of the ex-
position of Porbus, Van Eyck, Crayer,
and lluljcns, to which my cousins were
being sulyected by the human parrot into
whose keeping they had delivered them-
selves.

" I can't understand what the man says 1 "
exclaimed Elizabeth im])atiently.

" Something about Vandyck and ' the
sheep,' " observed her father doubtfully.
Now was my moment.

" Excuse m'e," I approached, with my
best bow. " If you will allow me, I think
I can explain. He means ' The Lamb.'
The subject is the ' Adoration of the Lamb '
— a very famous picture by Van Eyck —
not Vandyck, I believe. I have been read-
ing up my ' Murray,' so I know all about
it."

"Ah! Thank you, sir — impossible to
make out what these fellows say, I find ;
neither my girl nor I understanding
French."

" Your loss isn't great in this case, I
fancy," I returned with a smile ; " but, if
you will not mind my joining you, I think
I can exphiin what this fellow says, and
perhaps add something he does not. I have
been some weeks in this country, and begin
to uniierstand their lingo."

We " did " St. Bavon very thoroughly,
and I confined myself at first to playing
the part of an intelligible commentary on
the Utijuais de p^ace.

As we issued from the north door, he
pointed out Count Egmont's house.

" Who was he ? I never heard of him,"
said Elizabeth, in a tone where curiosity
struggled with reserve.

" He and Count Horn raised the standard
of revolt in the Netherlands against the
Spanish rule, and were beheaded by Alva.
Schiller wrote a famous tragedy on it, I
believe. I've been reading 'Motley'
lately, and his account is awfully interest-
ing."

" What is ' Motley ' ? " asked Elizabeth ;
and when I liad explained the ellipsis, she
said bluntly, " I don't know any history
except the Kings of England, and not
much aljout them."

" You will find it adds to the interest of
seeing these old places to know something
of tlie events that occurred there," I re-
marked.

" Yes, my lass," said her father in a low
voice. " You must work away at history, at
INIam'selle's. The gentleman's very right."

PENRUDDOCKE.

I could not hear her reply ; and we
walki'd on ; John Penruddoeke uddressini!;
a remark to aio, from time to time, throu!::;h
the running' (ire which the laquais kept up
beside us. Wa came to the Vrijda<fs
Market, and after the letritimate associa-
tions conni'cted witli it had fdtercd through
me to the understanding of my cousins, I
observed, —

"This is just the background for the

Long afterwards
speech.

I remembered that

" Crui'l, cruel the words I saiil,
Cruelly came they back to-day ! "

I low often, in future years, my mind
reverted to tliis discussion !

" I don't see that it's any better for wo-
men," said Kiizabetli sharply. " If I was
sick of the world, I'd — I'd do something.
close of Browning's stirring ballad, where I'll umlertake some enterprise full of danger,
tilt! gallant horse ialls, amid the shouts of I and try to forget my misery that way. It's
the glad people, — only that the 'good so cowardly to skulk into a convent !
news ' was brought from, and not to, Ghent
by that memorable ride."

" ^Vhat memorable ride ? And what head. " Don't be too hard on those who

was the good news ? " seek for a refuge from their troubles. I've

"You want to know too mnch," I replied, no taste for such places myself, but I've

laughing. "I really can't tell you. One known what sorrow was ; and I can fancy

supposes it to have been that some threat- that better men than me, who've got no

" Ah ! you young creatures ! wait till
you have suffered," said John, shaking his

ened calamit\- was averted from the city
but no matter, the ride's the thing, —

' I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ;
I galloped, Dk-k galloped, we galloped all three ;
" Good speed ! " cried the watch, as the gate-bolts

uudrew;
" Speed ! " echoed the walls to us galloping through ;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloi)cd abreast.' "

little lassie nor any tie to bind them to the
world, may be that weary, you see, that
they long to creep into any quiet hole, and
devote themselves to God's service, till it
pleases him to call them away."

The defence of monastic institutions

from a man whose character and education

I should have expected would have rea-

dered him peculiarly antagonistic to them

" I like that," said Elizabeth, looking ' struck me as almost pathetic ; but Elizabeth

really excited : " I don't care for p6etry, ' would not admit her father's apology un-

generally, it's such sickly stuff; but I challenged.

like that, I can understand it." | " I remember hearing a proverb once,

I repeated the whole ballad, which I dad, — I think it was translated from the

knew by heart. She was delighted. Our
acquaintance made a sudden stride ; and
she began to converse without any vestige
of reserve.

The laquuis led us round the town, point-

Latin, — which said, ' To labor is to pray.'
That's a better religion than counting one's
beads all day long."

" Different folk have different ways, las-
sie. You can't have oi'ie way for all.

ing out the various historical buildings, and j You're strong, ye see, Liz, and have never
trying to seduce us inside a number of had a tumble yet, as one may say : I hope
churches, which we resolutely declined, you never may. Young things like you
At last we came to the Beguinage. i don't know what troubles are, that Imfit

Have you any curiosity to visit a nun- ' broken-down iblk from going on fighting

nery ? " I asked.
■ " None," re[)licd Elizabeth. " What do
women shut themselves up like that for ?
So stupid I

with the world."

Our walk round and about the town
lasted more than two hours John Pen-
ruddocke, simple, unworldly man, clearly

" In this order they are bound by no I never concerned himself as to who or what

vow, and may return to the world when
they please. Besides, they do no end of
good among the sick."

" They might do as much without shut-
ting themselves up behind that wall and
moat. Perhaps it may be good for very,
very old women, who can't get about, — ■
but girls! Oh, dear! I should run away
the first week."

" You haven't 'a vocation,' as they call

I was. It was enough that I was a good-
natured youngster, and had suiiicient in-
telligence to make my company ])leasant
to his child. Nothing seemed more natu-
ral to him than to propose that we should
dine together ; and we did so. The talk
was chiefly between Elizabeth and me.
John joined in occasionally ; but he left the
starting and main race of conversation to
" the \oun2 folk." Elizabeth threw her-

it," said I, laughing. " But the strangest self into evtry subject 1 advanced with the
thing is to think of men shutting them- intensity of a passionate nature and a bril-
selves up like this. I can understand wo- | liant intelligence, to whom all that is new
man; but a fellow who becomes a monk is matter of eager inquiry, all that Isold
must be a muff." • has been submitted to, and disposed of,

PENEUDDOCKE.

bv a lieaflstron<j and immatiiro jud^iiucnt.
TliL-re wt'io 111) hall-tints witli her, no hesi-
tation or indifFerence ; whatever her ima-
gination seized, was painted in stroma black
and white ; thin;is were, beautiful or aboai-
inable ; to be vehemently loved or as vio-
lently loathed ; supremely rijxht or exeera-
bly wron'.^. She was a eurious mixture of
the child and the girl, with just the first
hint — no more — of womanhood. Wild
and wilful one moment ; earnest and deep-
thoughted the next, — a fine nature, whieh,
as yet, had had too little culture, but had
at least escaped the smoothing-iron of con-
ventionalities.

She asked me endless questions; she
evinced the liveliest curiosity about English
counti-y life, the habits and treatment of
all domestic animals, and every sort of
sport. Then, in return, she described to
me her life in Virginia, her garden, and
her pets. But the range of our talk em-
braced higher subjects than these. It was
on Ibis occasion, as she told me long after-
wards, that the ardent desire for knowledge
was really kindled within her, — that she
was first penetrated by the conviction that
ignorance, if not disgraceiul, might at least
be inconvenient. From what small seed
may not great fruits be grown ! Assuredly
I had no pretensions to scholarship ; but
my love of history and poetry had made
me tolerably conversant with all the well-
known facts connected with the Nether-
lands, and most of what had been said or
sung concerning them. When I spoke of
Mary of Burgundy, of Philip van Artveldt,
of William the Silent, I found that Eliza-
beth did not even know their names. The
appetite which I had whetted, however, she
satisfied by diligent study of history from
that day forwards.

The following, which was to be John's
last day in Ghent, we spent entirely to-
gether ; and Elizabeth and I became great
friends, after a certain fashion, that is to
say, she was as thoroughly at* ease with
me, and contradicted me as bluntly, as if
we had known each other for months. We
took a walk in the afternoon, along the
canal, when an incident occurred, only
worth record inasmuch as it cemented our
i'riendship, and was the cause of my discov-
ering myself to my cousins.

Elizabeth, full of mad freaks, ran on be-
fore us now and again, tugging at the
barge-ro]ies, jumping into the barges them-
selves, skipping and leaping backwards
ami forwards, and talking to us all the
time. In one of these evolutions her foot
cau'iht in a chain, and she was ])recipitate(l
into the water. The next minute my coat
■was off, and I jumped in after her. There
was no danger, provided she did not clutch

and drag me down. This at first she very
naturally tried to do, Init when I ciied out to
her that if she persisted in this course, we
shoulil both be drowned, she at once
obeyed my injunctions to trust herself to
me, and then a couple of strokes enabled
me to bring her to shore. There stood her
father, white as a sheet, and unable to
utter a sound. He could not swim, and
the sight of his child struggling in the
water had almost paralyzed him. Of us
three, he was the only one who sufi'ered
from the fright ; and he did not recover
from the shock for some hours. As to
Elizabeth, the only effect it had was to
make her uncommonly quiet for the rest
of the evenintr.

CHAPTER XVn.

John Penruddocke's gratitude to me
was out of all proportion to the service
rendered. It was in vain I pointed out
that any one of the bargemen at hand
could have done equally well what I did.
John persisted in regarding me as the pre-
server of his child's life.

We were sitting together that night, —
Elizabeth had gone to bed, — when he
said, holding out his hand, —

'• I wish, my dear young sir, there were
any way of proving to you all I feel. I
can't be grateful enough for the chance
which brought us together here."

" Nor I, Mr. Penruddocke : I may truly
say that."

" I hope our acquaintance is not to end
here, young man, but that you will consider
me as a friend from this day forward,
though one old enoucrh to be vour grand-
father."

" I assure you, sir, I desire nothing so
much."

" And if I can ever serve you in any way,"
continued John, " I'm not a man of many
words — but if I can ever do any thing lor
you, — it ain't likely — but if i can, I shall
be glad to show you I'm not ungrateful.
You have laid me under an obligation that
nothing can wipe away."

" No, Mr. Penruddocke," said I hurriedly,
and coloring to the roots of my hair, " I
cannot let you say that. It is I, on the con-
trary — if you knew who I was — if you
knew my name, you wouldn't say that."

He looked at me in surjirise lor a mo-
ment : perhaps he thought I was a linen-
draper's apprentice on a holiday, then he
said with a smile, —

" It matters nothing to me who you are.
We get very indifferent to rank and such

PENRUDDOCKE.

thinirs in the -wilds, where the best part o'
my life has been passed."

'• Well, at all events,"' I blurted out. with
a" great etVort, " it is time you knew who it
■was you ollV-red your friendship to. I am
Osmund Penriiddocke, Raymond's brother.
I wouldn't tell you before ; for I had the
greatest desire to know you, and I telt that
of eourse you and your child would shrink
from any member of our branch of the
family."

My cousin pushed back his chair, and
looked at me from head to foot.

'• So you are Osmund, are you? Well I
to be sure ! Onlv think ofthat, now ! Nav,
but you're wron<r, lad. I owe none of you
any grudge. Ye've done no more than I
should have done in your place. Of course
it was a great disappointment to me. ^Ve
thought the chain of evidence was complete
— well ! it broke down. Luck, ye see, was
on your side ; but is that a reason I should
bear you ill-will ? Not at all : I'm glad
to call you my cousin, there! I'm glad to
think the same blood flows in our veins, Os-
mund. You're a fine younq; chap ; and it's
a pleasure to me to think that Lizzie owes
her life to you, instead of to a stranger."

He wrung my hand again in his brawny
fist, and then examined me more atten-
tively.

" You ain't like your mother : I sup-
pose you took after your father V The Pen-
ruddocke nose, I see, whereas Raymond's
got the regular features of my lady. But I
like your face better, my boy : I don't mind
saying ihat much ; though your brother's
a comely young chap, and I owe him no
spite, remember."

" You are very generous," I stammered.
'• Few men in your place would say what
you do. Yours is a very hard case. The
property cugld to be yours. No one is more
sure of that than I, and it is impossible you
an ever look on us as the rightful own-
ers. I am afraid Miss Pcnruddocke won't
speak to me when she knows who I am."

" Won't speak to the man who saved her
life ! You haven't such a bad opinion o'
mv lass as that ? She's a rou2h little dia-
mond, Ijut she is one. She has been taking
stock of you all day, and she likes you, —
I see that fast enough. After you pulled
her out of the water, she said very little, —
she was a bit upset, may be, but you wait
till to-morrow morning ! "

And, lo ! the next morning, as I was
sitting down to my Vjreakfast, my Cousin
Elizabeth entered the room, and walked
straight up to me. I rose, waiting to see
what she would do. She colored a little,
and then hehl out her hand.

" So you are Cousin Osmund."

" JTes," said I. " I hardly expected you

would speak to one who, you had made up
your mind, was " false and cold-!)looded.' "

She looked fixedly at me, and then tossed
her head.

" Listeners never hear any good of
themselves, — not 'that I ifas speaking of
you, when I said those words ; but how
mean of vou to listen to what I was say-
ing ! "

'• I couldn't help it, you talked so loud
all the time I was at supper."

" Then you ought to have got up, and
walked away."

"What without my supper? Come,
that is hard. I did not know the least who
you were, and your conversation interested
me exceedingly, long before our relation to
each other dawned on me."

" Well, I didn't come here to quarrel,"
said the girl, playing abstractly with a knife
on the table ; " You pulled me out of the
water yesterday, and I suppose I must be
very grateful. Dad says so. At all events,
I think I like you well enough to call you
' Cousin Osmund.' "

" Thank you. I am grateful for that."

" Don't laujrh at me," said she lookin<T
sharply up into my f ice. " I wonder if you
are true ; if not — I hate lies. Why did
you call yourself Mr. Smith ? "

" Oh ! all great poeple have travelling
names, so as to pass unrecognized. I want-
ed to pass unrecognized by a very sharp
young lady, so I became Smith of London
for a few hours."

"Humph! I felt I had seen your face
somewhere, though it had only been for a
minute."

Then, after a moment's pause, she added
eagerly, —

" But we heard you had run away from
home and were lost : was it true ? "

" Yes, I ran away, and enlisted."

" Why did you do that ? "

" I cannot answer thar (juestion. Ask me
any thing that has no relation to my home,
and I will tell you."

" Only one question more about your home
— have you been there since ? "

" No, but I have seen my mother. I am
here with her full knowledge, if you mean
that."

" Then you are not a soldier now ? '" she
pursued, in a disappointed tone.

" No : but I am to be one again shortly.
My discharge was purchased, and now I am
to have a commission in the Guards."

" Shall you be a genera4 ? "

" Not at once — some day I hope.",

" When you've been in battle, I suppose ?
Oh ! how I should like to be a soldier !
Tell me what you did all day."

" Drill, parade, make our beds, clean our
arms and belts, fetch our diuuers ; but

PENRUDDOCKE.

most of the timo T was an officer's servant,
ami only went to full parades."

" A servant ! I should hate that. But
what is a soldier's drill V "

" I will drill you, it' you hke. You want
settinn; up very much. As a brother-soUiier
used to say to ine, ' You poke like a goose
in the stubble.' Now, then, heads up, arms
straight down, elbows in, shouldei's back.
Don't stick yourself out like that. There,
now, put out your rii;ht toot, and balan(;e
yourself on your left. See how you totter !
You can't bahince yourself a bit I Try to
put your foot slowly to the ground without
shaking your whole body, then do the same
with vour left foot, — that's it."

John eanie in a quarter of an hour later,
and found Elizat)eth marching gravely, in
slow time, round the room, and I, in true
sergeant-fashion, walking backwards before
her, roaring out lustily the words of com-
mand, " Riiiht half-turn ! " " Mark time 1 "
" Forwards ! "

John stood and laughed heartily.
" Brayvo, Osmund, my boy ! It's a pity
you can't stay here, and drill all the girls
at Mam'selle's ; but they'd be fiilling in love
Avith you, — it wouldn't do, I suppose."

" All girls are not such stupids, dad, —
fallin'^ in love, indeed ! " and Lizzie halted.
with her head more erect than I had yet
succeeded in making it.

"Ah! wit till youVe a bit older, Liz.
You'll know what it is some day."

" Ot eour.'^e I shall. I shall fall in love
when I'm — let me see — when I'm thirty,
I think, — with the bravest man I can find ;
and when we're married " —

" Ell I stop a bit! How do yon know

the cliap will like you, jMiss Lnpudence V "

She made no reply, but looked out of

window ; then suddenly turning to me, she

sai<l. —

" Cousin Osmund, you promised to an-
swer any cpiesiions I asked that were not
about your iiome. AVill you answer hon-
estly the one I want to ask V "

" If I can't answer it honestly, I won't
answer it at all."

" Well, then. — now, dear dad, you
musn't Ijc vexed, but the other day I over-
heard a man say " —

" Ilalloo ! " I exclaimed, " I thought you
couldn't do such a mean thing?"

"I couldn't help it, — it was on board
ship. And I heard this man say to anotlier
that I was the udiest girl he had ever seen
— am I ? "

I was ratiier staggered, but laughed.
" How can I teil V He is very lucky if
he has never seen an uglier."

" That is not an honest answer." She
fixed her keen eyes on me. " Am I very
ugly, or not? "

" No, not now : T mean, that T don't think
so now. I thought so when I first looked
at you ; but I'm sure, if that man had talked
to you for a few moments, he would have
changed his opinion."

'• There, my lass ! now I call that a bet-
ter conn)liment than you deserve. If your
looks are good enough for them that know
you, and love you, Lizzie, what do the rest
matter? "

She was silent for a minute ; then she
said very gravely to me, —

" Do men ever love ugly women ? "

"Certainly: I have heard that most of
the women who have been c(debrated for
their influence in the world have not been
beauties."

" But clever, Liz," said her father, think-
ing that he would improve the occasion :
" the less looks a girl has to boast of. the
more she must improve her wits. Ain't
that so, Osmund ? "

'•I su[ipose so, — lint my cousin Eliza-
beth has no lack of wits. I'll be bound,
if she chooses it, she beats every girl at
Mademoiselle Pla(jant's at the end of a
year."

Elizabeth shook her hend, but I saw by
the expression of her eye that she was
pleased.

We sat down to breakfast, and John
Penrnddocke began discussing his plans.
lie was to leave for Ostend liy the after-
noon train, after taking Elizabeth to her
school.

'• W^here are you going to live in Eng-
land ? " I asked.

" I go back to America for three months,
to wind up my affairs there. Humphrey
wishes us to settle over here ; and so, at last,
I have 'taken the decision : but, at my
time o' life, it's a hard wrencdi, Osmund.
It's like tearing up an old tree, and stick-
ing him into the ground again. My roots,
ye see, are all struck there. I was born and
bred and married there ; and there my jioor
wife lies, and I thought to lie too ; but it
seems it ain't to be."

"I am very glad you have made up your
mind to come and live in P^nuhind," I said.
" You return, then, for Elizabeth's Christ-
mas holiday. Where do you mean to take
a house ? "

■ " In the suburbs of London, on account
o' Humphrey, who wishes us to be near him.
He's very fond o' Liz, you see. Else I
should feel the change less, if I took some
bit of a farm in the countrj'."

" O dad ! Let us go to the country.
We shall die of those horrid streets, I know.
We were not made for towns, you and I.
Let us take a snug little farm, and have
some pigs, and some cows that 1 can milk,
and a horse that I can ride into market,

PENRUDDOCKE.

Avitli the butter and cirprs. Oh ! how jolly
that will be ! And we'll invite very, very
particular friends to stay with us — no one
else — and Cousin Humphrey can come
down when he likes."

Jolin stroked his girl's head.

" Ah ! it soinids pleasant, my lass; Init
it won't do. They tell me you nuist see
something more of the ways of othei- fulk
now, — not go on as we have been doing,
living like Red Indians, my dear. You're
half a little savage already, Liz ; and it's
time you were tamed. Iluniplirey says so,
and I know he's ri'dit. I'^lse, d've think
I'd have broken up the old home ? "

I noticed that Elizabeth, instead of re-
plying by a burst of passionate regret for
her old home, as she had done the first
night I met her, only said that she hated
towns, and should never be happy but in
the country, where she could do just what
she liked.

" Eh, Liz, but that's just what we ain't
meant to do. That's why I send you to this
Mani'sell's, — besides the book-learning, to
find out that here, in the world, you mayn't
do just what you like. Ain't that so, Os-
mund V "

"I don't know much about ' the world '
myself, Cousin John, except a barrack-
room, where one certainly d(jesn't do as one
likes. I am going to school too, like Eliza-
beth : and we'll compare notes, when we
next meet, which of us is in the highest
state of subordination — I, in the Grena-
diers ; or she, at Mademoiselle ria9ant's."

I did not see much more of Elizabeth.
She and her father were alone together the
greater part of the morning. I was in the
salle in the afternoon, when she came to
bid me good-by. The poor child's eyes were
red and swollen, but she was perfectly calm.

"I hope you will be happy at your
school," I said.

" How can I be hapyy without dad ? '
she answered almost fiercely. " You use
wordj that mean nothing, like every one
else"

" I mean, that I hope you will be less un-
happy than you expect. There's nothing
r.ke work to keep otfthe blues. I found it
so when I was a recruit."

" I shall Avork, because I've promised
dad, — not because it can make any differ-
ence," she said, with a look of determina-
tion. "I hate it. No one can understand
what it is to me to be without him, and to
be a prisoner behind four great walls.
Good-by ! "

She held out her jiand rather coldly. I
felt infinite sympathy for her, jioor child,
though she did not think it.

"I hope we shall meet next summer,
Elizabeth," I said.

She turned away, without a word, and
left the room.

I met John Peni-uddocke two hours later
at the railway-station, where we were to
separate. He looked very sad.

" Eh ! but it's hard jiarting with an only
child, OsmumJ. My poor lass ! she bore
u[) to the end, before me, because I begged
of her, for my sake, not to give way ; but
as soon as the door was shut betwixt us in
the passage, I heard her sobs. She is a
strange mixture, is my Liz, — the soft
heart of a cliild with the pluck of a man.
God bless you, my lad ! we shall meet
again in a few months, I hope, and meet
not only as cousins, but old friends."

I found a copy of " Philip van Arte-
veldt " in Brussels^the next day, and sent
it, without a word, to Elizabeth.

CHAPTER XVm.

I RECEIVED my commission in the course
of the winter, and about the middle of
February was installed in a lodging in
Mount Street, and made my first plunge
into London life. The water was cold, and
the current strong : my Uncle Levison
undertook to teach me how to breast it ; and
an able instructor, no doubt, he would have
proved to one better able to profit by his
advice. Worldly wisdom, however, I never
accjuired, and I fear now I never shall.
When he pointed out to ine the men whose
society I should affect, and why, his words
fell upon inattentive ears : it was not in my
nature to cultivate intimacy for anv other
consideration than a strong personal liking.
When he said, " Be careful how you express
an opinion about anyone, — always wait to
find out what the person you are talking
to thinks, before you commit yourself," his
advice was so utterly antagonistic to my
liahit of direct utterance of my thought,
that he migiit as well have told me never
to converse but in Greek. Finally, when
he said, " ximuse yourself with women, but
take care whatever you do, never to get
entangled. Never icrite any thing. Let-
ters are the very devil ! Talk what non-
sense you like. A flirtation with a married
woman in a certain position (take care
she's in the right set), you will find rather
an advantage ; but she mustn't get too
strong a hold on you, or you'll find it a
deuced bore. If she takes to being jealous,
your life is not worth having." When he
used such language as this, I only laughed.
I felt my heart to be proof against all the
sirens of fashionable or unfashionable life ;
but had it not been so, the caution would

PENRUDDOCKE.

Lave been wholly unavailing;. The idea of
applying to love the precept, " Thus far
shalt tliou go, and no farther," was to mo
absoluttily comical. I knew that, in my
case, whether wisely or unwisely, it would
be " all or nothing."

My uncle really took considerable trou-
ble about me. In his own way, nothing
could be kinder. He introduced me to
every man •' worth knowing," as he termed
it, in and out ot the club ; he took me to
all his pet tradesmen, and pointed out tliose
who were to be avoided as " infernal duns,"
He procured for me invitations to the few
lar'^e parties and political drum^ that were
going forward, and presented me to so
many ladies in succession, that I found it
quite hopeless to remember one-half of
their names. What could he do more ?

I had written constantly to Evelyn, but
had only heard twice from her in the course
of six months. She told me her mother
objected to her writing often ; but I must
not think she forgot me ; and with this I
was fain to be content. One morning,
shortly after my arrival in London, I re-
ceived the following : —

" Beacmanoir, March 4.
"My dear Osmuxd, — -You are now
settled in London, as a Guardsman, and I
am sure you are too sensible not to under-
stand that it would not be at all the tldng
for my darling child to continue writing to
you, as she has hitherto done. Your dear-
est mother and I are quite of one mind
upon this point ; for you know she feels
towards Evelyn as if she were her own
child, I trust the cousinly regard my
darling has felt for you, dear Osmund, may
never again receive the ruda shock it did
when you ran away from home ; and that
you may never give your angelic mother
any further cause for anxiety. Still, it is
much better, and I leel sure your own (jnod
sense will see it in that light, that there
should be no correspondence between Eve-
lyn and you, now that she is no longer a
child, — for she is very nearly seventeen.
I always feel the deepest interest and nnx-
ielij about you, my dear Osmund : it will be
the greatest pleasure to us both to hear
that you are doing well in your new career.
You cannot have a better example than
your beloved brother, of whom your peer-
less mother may justly feel proud !

"Ever your ailectionate cousin,

" Belinda Hamleigh."

Of course I was a good deal irritated,
and, in the first heat of my indignation, I
was unreasonable enough to tliink that
Evelyn ought to disobey this mandate : as
if a gentle, fawn-like creature, who had

never left her mother'si side, never diso-
beyed or disputed her authority, could sud-
denly belie her whole natiu'e, and do that
which would seem to her utterly unjustifi-
able, I wrote to Mrs. Hamleigh, suftplicat-
ing lier to rescind her cruel injunction ;
but I pleaded my cause so passionately
and unwisely that 1 received a reply by
return-{)Ost, saying it was clear that I at-
tached an undue importance to a mere
child's letters (this after reminding me that
Ii^velyn was no longer a child! — but Mrs.
Hamleigh was never famous for consist-
ency), and that such extreme folly on my
part only proved how necessary it was that
the correspondence should cease,

I made up my mind at once. Mrs. Hara-
leigh's prejudice against me was only too
evident from her first letter. If Evelyn
and I were parted for an indefinite time,
without a word on my side, every effort
would be made to loosen the hold I had
upon her heart. But for the rupture of our
intercourse, the vow which was registered,
in my heart might not have found open
expression so soon : her mother, however,
had left me no choice, Evelyn must receive
the assurance of my imalterable attaoJa-
ment; though I would not attempt to bind
her, child as she still lived in my memory,
by any form of promise.

And to that effect I wrote. I said that
she had no choice but to obey her mother's
will at present, and to give up writing to
me ; and that as for me, knowing it would
distress her to receive my letters contrary
to her mother's wish, I should make no
attempt, after this, to communicate secretly
with her. But I conjured her, lor all that,
not to forcret me, though it mitrht be long
ere we met ; for I could never return to
Beaumanoir, and Mrs, Hamleigh was not
likely to invite me to " The Cottage,"
When Evelyn was introduced into the
world, no one could prevent our meeting ;
and, in the interval, I pledged myself to re-
main constant to her. Until then I would
ask for nothing; but if, when she left the
schoolroom, the love of her childhood was
unchanged, I assured her that I felt confi-
dent of overcoming her mother's opposi-
tion, and every other obstacle, in time.

I enclosed this letter to Sparshott, our old
butler, who was always a friend of mine,
and I bade him deliver it privately into
Miss Ilamleigh's own hand.

When I had done this, I felt happier. I
woulil not regard this as moi-e than a dark
cloud blown across the summer of my sky :
it was not to be eternally overcast on that
account. The worst of it was, that I had
no one to whom to confide my troubles. I
longed for some good woman friend, into
whose sympathizing breast 1 could pour my

PENKUDDOCKE.

complaints; but as yet I had no friends,
only a daily-inereasiiig array of acquaint-
ances. Several tellows at the club, of my
own stamlinjj;, 1 liked, anil was sooii (juile
at home with them; but it was '•home"
in a foreii^n land. They knew little or
nothing of me; i knew, still less about
them ; and confidence between men is a
])lant of slow growth. But a man who lias
never opened his heart to another will
sometimes be moved to trust a woman on
the shortest acquaintance. It was so in
my case.

1 had called at Madame d'Arnheim's
house on my arrival in London, and had
learnt that she was absent. 1 lelt my card,
though I thought it probable — no, not
probable, but possible, that she might have
forgotten my name by this time. Nearly
a mouth later, 1 received a little note: she
had just come to town, and begged me to
call any day at live o'clock. The very
next afternoon at dusk found me in Ches-
ham Place.

It was a moderate-sized house, very sim-
ply furnished, but made bright with a pro-
fusion of dowers. Madame d'Arnheim
had introduced the German itishion of ivy
trained up columns of trellis-work in the
corners of the rooms, and over a screen
■which encircled her writing-table. It was a
bleak March evening. In the streets all had
looked pinched, and blue, and wind-bitten ;
here there was a general aspect of cheer-
fulness and warmth. The room was aglow
"with the ruddy firelight, which fell upon
Madame d'Arnheim's simple brown dress
and the edges of her soft light hair. She
sat with her back to the window, and her
feet on the fender ; and, as I entered, she
laid a book upon her lap, and held out her
hand, saying, —

" How good of you, Mr. Penruddocke, to
answer my note so quickly ! I am so glad
to see you again. I have often thought
over our steamboat acquaintance, and won-
dered whether you would find me out when
you came to London. I have only been
home a week, and found your card on my
return. And now tell me all about your-
self. How long have you been here ? "

'• I believe, really,- only five weeks ; but
it seems about five months."

" What ! Has the time hung so heavy
on your hands? How is that V Have you
not already made heaps of acquaintances ? "

''Oh! yes — only too many. I forget
half their names. I have been to so many
places, and have seen so many new faces
every day, that it accounts, I suppose, fur
the time seeming so long ; besides," I added,
with a little hesitation, " other reasons,
perhaps."

JShe looked at me for a moment, as if

waiting for what I should add ; then, will
the fine tact of good-breeding, she took nc
further heed of my embarra.--sment, bul
passed on to another subject. She askeu
me what I had been doing since we met, —
a narrative which Avas summed up in li
very few words ; and then she inquired
how I liked military life V

" You forget I am an old soldier," I said,
laughing ; '• though I am seeing militarj
life under rather different auspices now,
I like my regiment immensely ; but I should
prefer going on active service to kicking
my heels about London drawing-rooms."

* ■n • • 1

" Thank you. That is not civd to the
London drawing-room you are in."

"Oh! I am sure you know I didn't
mean that ! I always express myself awk-
wardly."

" Never mind. Perhaps I like you tht
better tor not hiving acquired a superfine
London polish yet. A little nature is v^'vy
pleasant. I see so little of it. ' /cA haU
sie Ueber icie Bilr als AJf'e,' as we say in
Germanv."

" The choice lies, then, between my
being a bear or an ape ? "

" Well, the bear-element in you is stron'j,''
she said, smiling. " It makes you long lor
fighting. You will never become an ape,
I think. But as to active service, as there
is peace all over the world just at present,
thank Heaven ! you must be content to re-
main at home, liy the by, how is the lit-
tle cousin ? "

I sighed, and murmured something ; and
then, by degrees, how I scarcely know, it
filtered out, and she knew all my trouble.
Nothing could be kinder than she was :
she listened and sympathized, as women
only know how ; while, at the same turn;,
by taking a common-sense view of the po-
sition, which, with my excited feelings, I
was incapable of forming for myself, she
administered just the stimulant that my case
required.

" I feel for you very much," she said.
" I see enough of your character to know
what the breaking off of this correspond-
ence must be to you ; but I cannot say
that Mrs. Hanileigh lias acted otherwise
than as any sensible mother would. She
sees that a boy and girl love' has sjn-ung up
between you and her daughter. Is this a
marriage she would wish V Putting aside
the fact that you are a younger son, what
yuu have told me of yourself would cer-
tainly seem to justify her discouraging such
an idea. You ran away from home, and
enlisted ; you were not heard of lor
months ; you have quarrelled, or half-quar-
relled, with your mother. All this would
naturally leatl Mrs. Ilamleigh to disap-
prove of an engagement between you and

PENRUDDOCKE.

her daufrlitcr. What you have to do is to
prove, by your conduct, that she is mis-
taken in licr (i])inion of you. Let not the
ill-natured world be able to throw a stone
against you, Mr. Penruildocke. Be steady
and constant in your attachment ; and, if
Miss Hanilei2;h is the girl you believe her
to be, a year or tAvo's silence will not change
her."

The door at this moment opened ; and a
tall, fine man sauntered in, with the air
that told he was master of the house.

" Oh ! is that you ? INIr. Penruihlocke
— my husband. Mr. Penruddocke is my
acquaintance of the Antwerp steamer, Carl,
about whom I told you."

He shook hands with me; an<l the fire-
light fell clearly on his lace, which I had
before seen but indistinctly. I believe it
was thought handsome — the features were
shai-ply cut, if that constitutes beauty ;
but the face was bloodless, and the eyes
like two gray flints, which might, indeed,
upon occasion be made to strike fire, but
were, in ordinary life, utterly dead and col-
orless. His voice had a hard, metallic ring ;
and his manners the fine veneer which is gen-
erally found amono: diplomatists, — the best
counterft-it of that ingi'ained courtesy which
is the outgrowth of a genial nature. He was
dressed with great care. He always smiled
when he spoke to his wife, which he did in
English, with a strong German accent, and
with a sort of intimate politeness, which
struck me as strange ; but I had never seen
a foreign husband and wife together before,
and could not tell if their intercourse was
commonly of this nature.

Alter a few civil words to me, " Are you
going to Lady Castle's to-night V " he
asked, turning to his wife. She went on
knitting.

" Iso. — I think I shall remain at home.
You dine out, I suppose ? "

" Yes : I am going with Walstein to the
' Strand ; ' but I will meet you at Lady
Castle's after, if you like to go."

'• Oh ! 1 know what that means : you will
be there at one o'clock:," she said, with a
laugh which did not sound to me very joy-
ous, — " when I shall be in bed and asleep,
Ihope."

'• Do come, INIadame d'Arnheim," I said.
" I have got a card from Lady Castle, whom
I don't know ; but my uncle says I nmst
go."

" Yes," she said, with a smile, " of course
you nmst go, — it is the thing. All the
best people who are in town will be there,
— and by ' best,' you understand that
among them are perhajjs some of the worst V
but that is of no consequence, I am always
told."

" My wife inquires too curiously what

people are, without being content with
what they seem," said Arnheim, showing
his white teeth.

" Well," I laughed, turning to her, " if
you won't come, and tell me ' what to eat,
drink, and avoid,' I shall be sure to be
tempted by all the worst dishes."

" I never Ibund that any one avoided a
dish because he was told it was unwhole-
some," she replied. " However, it is pure
laziness my not going, — these parties are
so little interesting to me ; and I will screw
up my courage, Mr. Penruddocke, for the
sake of giving you a ?ne/m of your feast to-
night. I so seldom have the happiness of
finding any one who does not know it all,
and is not thoroughly blase."

'• I hope you are flattered at being con-
sidered so innocent," said Arnheim, with a
mocking smile ; then, turning to his wife,
" Mr. Penruddocke has accomplished moie
than I can ever do ; but then I am afraid
you do not believe in my virtue, as you
seem to do in his," and he laughed a short,
hard laugh. " Mr. Penruddock, I hope my
wife may long continue in the same belief,
and that you will persuade her, consequent-
ly, to go out more than she has done of late,
whereby we shall all be gainers."

He ended with a little bow in her direc-
tion, much as he would have done towards
a lady whose acquaintance he had made
yesterday. Madame d'Arnheim knitted on
in silence. I rose to take my leave.

The count walked down stairs with me.

" Have you seen the new dancer at the
' Strand ' ? No ? I have been three nights
running."

" Rather monotonous, isn't it ? " I asked
dubiously. " One ' breakdown ' is very
like another."

" It is not the dancing, — but such a fig-
ure ! The best-made woman in London."

•' You don't say so ! "

"Will you come? I will give you a
place in my box ? "

'' No, thank you. I shall go to Lady
Castle's early."

CHAPTER XIX.

Lady Castle's was one of the least
spacious houses in Belgrave Square ; and
its size was a valid excuse for never invit-
ing above one-half of her accjuaintance.
The other half spoke evil of Lady Castle,
it is true ; but her charming manner, when
they met, generally made them condone
her sins of omission, until the ne.xt offence.
People might shake their heads; but when
she threw herself on your mercy, and of-
fered her cheek to be smitten (or kissed, as

PENRUDDOCKE.

the case mijrht be), who could resist her ?
She wiis like a n;iu'j;lity but en-^aglnii child,
— thouiili, ill reality, her first youth was
past ; and her face, when seen under a
strong <j:as-lamp, or by the searchinfr liiijlit
of (lay (unsottened by a spotted veil), told
that she had lived every hour of her life ;
but her fi<inre was light and round as at
sixteen, and when " got up " of an evening,
she was still an extremely pretty woman.
"\Mion all vestige of beauty, however, shall
have departed, so long as life lasts, the wo-
man's undefinable attraction will remain
unchanged. People may say what they
like of her when she is absent ; they cannot
resist the influence of her voice and smile
when she is by.

She stood at the top of the stairs, sur-
rounded by a knot of men, among whom
were my uncle, a certain inane-looking Lord
Al'i^ernon, — with. whose lace and whose
character, as a notorious fortune-hunter, I
was already familiar, — Sir Walter Selden,
and others. There were two women in
the group ; one a regally-beautiful person,
with a diamond crescent on her brow, and
no clothes, to speak of, on her back ; the
other, a lady no longer young, who sat on
the lower steps of the upper flight of stairs,
and "chaffed " whoever went up or down.

" Lady Castle," said my uncle, " here is
my nephew, whom you were good enough
to send me a card for."

Lady Castle gave a gracious little wave
of her body, inimitable by any one not " to
the manner born."

" Your debut in London, I think, Mr.
Penruddocke ? "

" Yes," cut in my uncle, patting me on
the back, "you behold a youth who never
set foot in a London drawing-room till
three weeks ago."

" And you know no one yet, Mr. Penrud-
docke ? What Arcadian freshness ! How

wish I were you

That's awfully cruel," murmured Lord
Algernon. " You wish you didn't know
any one, — what shall we all do ? "

" K I didn't know you." smiled Lady
Castle, " I should have the pleasure to look
forward to making j'our acquaintance."

" And still have some illusions left about
Algy ! " laughed a good-natured face, be-
longing to a burly frame, the owner of
which seemed only known as " Old Jack."
His name was Horton.

" Illusions, Jack ? " said my uncle.
" Who wants illusions ? Facts are the
things we all want, — realities 1 Some like
Alg}', in pounds of gold ; some like Shylock,
in pounds of flesh, eh ? "

The wit was not excessive, but the laugh-
ter was loud.

" Here you have them I " cried the lady

seated on the stairs, looking over the bal-
ustrade at a huge back whif-h was ascend-
ing. '"No illusion about Mrs. Guildmore's
shoulders. It's a comfort in these days,
when one's faith is shaken in most things,
to find something one can really depend
upon."

" The girl's balance at Coutts's is solid
enough, i\h's. Chaflinch. Algy means to
depend on tlutf, if he can."

" What an idiot you are. Jack ! She'll
hear you," returned Lord Algernon.

" What are the odds against him now ? "
laughed the beautiful lady, whose manners
were not as stately as they should have
been, to suit her statuesque appearance.

" Just five to one. Lady Ancastar," said
my uncle, " and I don't mind if I (mter an-
other horse;" then he turned and whis-
pered something to Lady Castle.

The portly frame of Mrs. Guildmore, and
her daughter, who, report had already told
me, was the greatest heiress goin'i, were by
this time landed opposite Lady Castle.
The mother was an honest-looking vulgar
old soul ; the daughter, a plain girl, with a
sensible countenance, who looked out of
her element in this assemblage. She would
have been at home in a quiet country party,
where fashionable gossips were unknown,
and women wore last year's gowns. Sur-
rounded by all these pretty butterflies,
newly painted from Paris, she was as mis-
placed as a buttercup in a bouquet of gar-
denias, and evidently knew not what to
say, in the tide of nonsense that ebbed and
flowed around.

." Mr. Penruddocke," said Lady Castle,
touching me with her fan, " let me intro-
duce you to Miss Guildmore." And there I
was nailed, as much to my own annoyance
as to Lord Algernon's, whose flabby offer-
ing of small talk was thus intercepted.
The girl seemed simple and sensible
enough ; but, as I had no fancy to be en-
tered on the betting-list, I did not follow
her when she moved on, after a lew minutes.
Mrs. Guildmore, by the sheer force of
weight, had borne down all oppo>ition in
the doorway, and was cleaving a pus-
sage for herself and daughter through the
crowded rooms. A crowd of men swam
after them, like carp after a loaf of bread.

" Osnmnd, my boy," said Uncle Levison,
"there's an opportunity for you to redeem
all the erroi's of your past. You've as good
a chance as any other fellow. The mother
is a sensible old woman, who doesn't ' hold
to a title,' as she expresses it, but is going
to let the girl choose ibr herself."

Before I could reply, a very artificial-
looking lady, with a lisp, and highly orna-
mented manners, accosted my uncle. I
heard him address her as Mrs. Hawksley,

PENRUDDOCKE.

and tlien I turned aw.iy. As I did so, my
foot cau<:ht in Mrs. Chaffinch's dress, and
tore it. She laughed good-humoredly when
I ajmloiiized.

" Never mind : it does as an introduc-
tion, Mr. Penruddocke ; lor I'm such an
ohl admirer of your uncle's, that we must
know one another, and so we may as well
break the ice at once."

" I didn't know there could be ice where
you were, Mrs. Chaffinch," said Sir Walter
Selden.

"Didn't you? I can tell you I'm dan-
gerously slippery at times. Impudent crea-
tures like you, who don't know how to keep
your distance, generally get a fall. Ha,
ha ! And now, Mr. Penruddocke, tell me,
you've been here at least a quarter of an
hour, whom have you fallen in love with V
I give you your choice ; but you're bound
to fall in love with some one."

" It is Vemharras du cUolx" I returned,
rather shyly, not feeling quite up to the
sort of repartee that seemed to be expected
of me.

" Oh, a base subterfuge ! What do you
say to Lady Ancastar ? — beautiful, isn't
she ? Such a head, and such shoul-
ders ! "

I assented mildly ; when Sir Walter said,
wiih a sardonic smile, —

" Lady Ancastar, with that crescent, looks
like Diana gone astray, — in the woods, of
course, I mean."

" And almost ready for the bath,"
laughed another man, in a lower voice.

Mrs. Chaffinch now taking up the fire,
there was a smart interchange of somewhat
equivocal jokes, interspersed with a great
deal of laughter ; and I, seeing an opportu-
nity, as I thought, of penetrating the dense
crowd in the doorway, slipped behind my
uncle, in the hope of finding Madame d'-
Arnlieim. Impossible ; a surging mass of
white shoulders and black coats, of heads
crowned with other people's hair, and com-
plexions bought with a price, met my eye ;
but as to discovering the particular head of
which I was in search, it was as hopeless as
it was now to move either backwards or
forwards. " And this is called j^leasure ! "
I said to myself.

At that moment my ear caught a name
behind me, which made me start.

" His mother is Belinda Hamleigh's
great friend, isn't she ? Ya-as, of course,
your beautiiial sister, Lady Rachel. Ya-as
— oh! I know all about him. Father
dead, isn't he ? Ya-as, and the property
a fine one — long minority, I think —
ya-as."

It seemed unnecessary for my uncle to
say any thing, as the lady answered all her
own questions in this manner ; but she

paused for a moment, and he cut in with a
laugh, —

" Counting yoiu' chickens before they're
hatched, Mrs. Hawksley. Unfortunately
for this boy, he is the second son. I wish
he wasn't — worth twenty of the other; but
so it is."

" Oh, what a pity ! I thought this was
the one that Belinda hoped — ya-as. I
assure you. Col. Rich, for my part, I think
second sons are quite as agreeable some-
times as eldest ones ; and then they're so
useful for balls — ya-as. My girl always
says they give themselves more trouble —
ya-as, she does, really."

There was a break in the crowd, and I
caught sight of INIadame d'Arnheim in a
corner. I threaded my way to her.

" I am so glad to find you at last — only,
being a second son, perhaps you won't care
to talk to me," I began, laughing. "I have
just learnt that they are useful at balls,
and can sometimes, but with difficulty, be as
pleasant as elder ones."

" You forget I have no daughter. But
who has been making you so M'orldlv-
wise ? "

" A Mrs. Hawksley, I believe her name
is. She seems to know the Hamleighs.
Who is she ? Any very tremendous swell ? "
" By no means. Iler husband is member
for the county in which the Castles and the
Duke of Kendal live. He has a large
property, and his wife's whole aim in life is
'to get on,' as it is termed. She is a not
uncommon mixture of extreme silliness and
worldly sharpness; and by dint of wrig-
gling and pushing, she has achieved her
object. There are very few houses where
she does not go. But oh ! wlmt a life of
incessant toil, — what slavery, what morti-
fications, what humiliation, to obtain it
all I " ■

•■' I thought Laily Castle's was one of the
most exclusive sets V "

" Yes ; but she is politic. Mrs. Hawksley
is a country neighbor; and it would be un-
wise to make an enemy of lier, tor many
reasons I cannot enter u])on."

" And those Guildmores — what can
make her ask Ihem f They look quite out
of their element."

" Half the men in Lady Castle's set are
hoping to marry the girl : they are asked
on that account. Do you know, the girl
told m(! the other night, with a look half
jiiteous, half comical, that she had had a
pi'oposal at every ball she had been at
since she came to London ? She is so dis-
gusted that I don't think any man who
pays her such ojien attention has a
chance."

" Why don't you tell Lord Algernon ? "
" I am not sufficiently interested — I will

PENRUDDOCKE.

leave that to Carl. He is a fi-iond of liis
— none of luinr."

'' But, of course, you know all these peo-
ple very well V "

She shruLiged her pretty shoulders.

" They are the only people I see ; and
yet I am not intimate with any one of
them."

" Lady Castle seems charming — don't
you like her? "

" No. I don't," she said decidedly. " I
don't like any woman I can't trust ; but I
will not talk about her — at ail events, now.
Only that is one of the dishes which, if you
take my advice, yon will avoid."

" Like all forbidden fruit," said I, laugh-
ing,. " it looks tempting. And the gor-
geous Lady Ancastar — what do you sav
ito her ? "

'• AVith twice the beauty, none of the in-
sidious charm of the other. A vulgar-
minded woman, with no positive harm in
her, I think, but whose aim is to be con-
spicuous as the leader of the fastest set.
She does most outrageous things, which
scandalize people, and most of all the
dufdiess, her mother-in-law. They say she
rode a donkey-race on Hampstead Heath
last summer."

"Lord Ancastar is the Duke of Kendal's
son, isn't he ? What sort of a fellow is
he V "

" Clever/.s/;, — the leader of the new dem-
ocratic party ; but a man of no deep con-
victions, I fancy. He takes up this line,
as his Avife does hers, for the sake of notori-
ety. His radical opinions, which he an-
nounces on every occasion, irritate the
duke as much as Lady Ancastar's pranks
do the stately old duchess."

" A nice family party. Now for an-
other entree — I don't mean it as a pun —
but the black man, just come in, talking to
Lady Castle in the doorway."

" Did you ever see so villanous a face ?
I am sure that man has the evil eye. I
shudder whenever he comes near me ; and
yet half these ladies are mad about him.
His name is Benevento — Count Beneven-
to, he calls himself; and he is a irreat gam-
bier."

" Clearly another dish to be avoided,"
said I. " Li fact, according to you, Mad-
ame d'Arnlieim, it seems as if I had better
go in for general abstinence. By the by,
is there a Lord Castle ? "

" Yes ; but you never see him. He is a
book-worm, and rarely leaves the coun-
try."

•' And lets his wife come to London by
herself? That seems to me very odd."

'• You will find so many things that
are much odder, before you have lived
among us long, Mr. Penruddocke, that it

will not strike you. You will find hus-
l)ands and wives completely seitarated,
though living in the same house. Tlu're is
a solitude greater than living in the coun-
try alone."

She turned away her head, and our con-
versation was interrupted for some minutes
by a brisk little old gentleman, in apjK'.ar-
ance, very like the comic father in a farce,
who came up and shook hands with Mad-
ame d'Arnlieim. His conversation sparkled
with wit, and with French and German
quotations, which, it was evident, he
was pleased to have an opportunity of
airing. Madame d'Arnheim's brilliant
intelligence was displayed, of course, far
more now than in talking to me. I stood
by, and listened with admiration and
amusement. As he shook her hand at
parting, he stooped down, and said in a
low voice, with a laugh, —

" You are the only woman in the room
who can converse. The others I talk to,
and pay compliments to, — I never do to
you."

'• That is the greatest you can pay me."
And then he passed on.

" Who is that old fellow, who seems to
be a combination of Voltaire and Mezzo-
fanti ? "

She told me who he was, — a name I
knew well, as one of the most eminent of
the day, — but I never made his acquaint-
ance, and only introduce the episode here,
to show in what estimation my friend was
held by those whose standard of judgment
was high.

WTiile we were discussing the dignitary
who had just passed on, my attention was
attracted to a voung and frairile-lookins
woman, who aj)proached, leaning on the
arm of a foreign attache. Their communi-
cations were of a confidential nature ap-
parently. He was tall and aquiline, and
bent over his companion till his mustaches
almost touched her forehead. She, upon
her side, gazed up into his small brown
eyes, wrapt in the beatitude of vacancy.
Surely it must be a flirtation of the very
tendei'est character. " My heart beats
only for you," he seemed to be saying. But
a stoppage in the crowd pressed him close
to me ; and I caught the actual words
which fell in honeyed accents from those
lips, — _

'• Moi, je prefere la glace- k la vanille —
et vous V '■'

I turned to Madame d'Arnlieim with a
laugh.

" Well, appearances are deceptive cer-
tainly. Who would have thought that
fellow ivas talking of an ice ? "

" It's all part of the same thing,"she re-
plied, with a smile in which there was more

PENRUDDOCKE.

of sadness than mirth. " That silly little
woman — slie is married — has only one
idea, to be ' the fashion.' There is really
no harm in her, but she has an utterly un-
occupied lite. She sees that all tlie leaders
of society have their admirers ; and, though
she doesn't care the least about that man,
or any other, slie thinks it ' the thing ' to
liave I he semblance, at least, of a flirtation.
It is like a parody upon your poet's line,
* Assume & failing, if you have it not.' "

" Jiy Jove ! " I suddenly exclaimed, fix-
ing my eyes upon a man's head in the
crowd.

" What is the matter ? " asked ray com-
panion.

" To think of meeting him here ! By
Jove ! how gh^d I am ! "

" Who is it V "

" My old master," I returned, " whose
shoes I blacked for more tlian three months,
— one of the princes of the earth, — such
a prime fellow ! " and I told her all about
Artliur Tufton.

" Well," said Madame d'Arnheim, rising
" it is getting late. Give me your arm
down stairs, and you can return to vour
friend."

" Won't you wait for Count d'Arn-
heim ? "

" Oh ! no," she said, shaking her head,
with a smile. " People never wait for
their husbands. He may not come till two
o'clock, or perhaps not at all, — if he is
amused elsewhere."

We reached the stairs, where Mrs. Chaf-
finch was still posted, entertaining her
circle by random shots fired at those who
passed her. No matter at what cost,
wliether of delicacy or kindliness (and Mrs.
Chaffinch is not an ill-natured woman at
heart), she must procure a laugh, or that
chorus will leave her for some other woman
who is " better fun." Catching sight of
Madame d'Arnheim, she cries out, —

" What ! going already, my dear ? See
what it is to be a virtuous woman, — - re-
tiiing to all the secret sweets of domestic
life at this early hour 1 "

Madame d'Arnheim colored, but she
only said coldly that she was tired, and
passed on. ]\Irs. Chaffinch pursued her
over the banisters, with her shrill cackle.

" Come to Evans's to-morrow night, will
you, my dear ? We want to seduce your
husb.ind to join our party. Do come also,
and do something improper for once."

" I wds there once," replied Madame
d'Arnheim, over her shoulder, but not
sto])piiig on her course downwar*!, — "1
ux'/.s tiu'i'e once, and did not think it im-
proper, only dull. But to be improper is
not always to be amusing, Mrs. Chaifinch.
Good-ni^ht."

CHAPTER XX.

A nRiGiiT smile broke over Tufton's
face as he caught sight of me.

" Halloo ! Smith, — I mean Penruddocke,

— my dear boy, how are you V I am
really delighted to meet you. If London,
like another place, was not paved with
good intentions, I should have found you
out before this ; but I've been v(>ry busy
during the few days I've been here."

" And how long do you stay V " I askod.

"You haven't heard, then ? I am. try-
ing to eflf'ect an exchange into the Guards.
Six months of India was enough for me :
I couldn't stand it. Lord Tufton, who has
never done any thing ibr me before, said
he Avould buy my exchange ; so I came
home straight, and I hope, now, the thing
is pretty nearly settled."

Of course I was delighted at the news;
and then I gave him a succinct history of
myself since we had parted.

" And how do you like a London life ? "
he asked.

" So-so. I like my regiment : rhey are
very jolly fellows ; and you know I am
really fond of soldiering. My expei'ience
in the ranks tauLrht me a ureat deal
which I find useful."

" And do you go in much for this sort ot
a thing ? " he said, with rather a contempt-
uous look over the heads of the assembly.
" It doesn't seem to me very interesting,

— perhaps because I'm an outsider."

" Well, you see, I'm not ft/ase, like you ;
and every thing amuses me. I remember
vou always despised society, even in the old
days."

" Not despised," he raid rather sadly.
" I envy people who can be easily amused.
The only simple pleasure I have lett, I aai
afraid, is my violin. I have already received
an invitation to join the 'Erratic Harmon-
ists,' which I mean to do, and grind away in
an atmo-phere of beer and "baeky once a
week. That will be more coniicnial to me
than these fine parties. What can a fel-
low who knows nothing of London gossip
talk about to these women ? They don't
care for Mozart and Beethoven, I suppose ? "

" Some of them play at whist with pound
points, and five pounds on the rubber," I
said slyly.

" I never play with women," he replied.

" Are you a' — what is the word V —
misogamist V " I asked, laughing. " I re-
member you always avoided the fiur sex."

'•I did, and I do still," he answered;
and a shade passed over his brow. " If I
ever marry, wiiich is most unlikely, I shall
not choose my wife from a London draw-
ing-room. \jy the by, who is that girl in

PENRUDDOCKE.

blue? The one that absurd fellow is
evidi'iitly makiivj; up to? "

" A Miss Guilihuore, — a 2;rcat heiress."

" A pity, — I fancy I could talk to her :
she has an honest, simple expression."

•• You'd better not try. Sho fancies,
naturally cnou'^h, every man that talks
to her is after her money."

" Let us walk throu'j;h the rooms : thev
are eettini;- thinner."

AVe reached a liltle boudoir where there
■was a whist table, at which sat Sir Wal-
ter Selden, and three others. The faces
of two were unknown to me. Selden's
partner was the Italian, Benevento, whose
appearance had so much struck me earlier
in the evening.

I had now a good opportunity of watch-
ing him. He was under the middle height,
and to jud'ie by the breadth of his shoul-
ders, the depth of his chest, and the set-
ting of his limbs, possessed of uncommon
nniscular strength. He looked as if lie
wore stays ; but the manner of present-
ing Lis full-breasted shirt-front, and his
being excessively girt in at the waist, may
have t)roduced a I'alse impression. There
were men, and women too, who swore that
he rouged ; but this I really think was un-
true. The colors of his face were deep
and rich ; wonderfully glittering eyes, and
hair and beard of the bluest black ; eye-
brows that met across his forehead, a well-
shaped nose, and dazzling white teeth.
Undeniably handsome ; but one of the
worst fac"s it has ever been my ill-fortune to
behold. I understood what Madame d'Arn-
heim meant, as I looked at him; and an
indescribable loathing, so utterly unprece-
dented in my expeiience that it now seems
to me to have been a presentiment of all I
was to suffer because of this man, possessed
me. His manner, like his countenance,
indicated to me the presence of two char-
r.cteristics. Clever and fluent, I saw that
the upper floor of his house, where he " re-
ceived," was gaudily decorated and fur-
nished ; but throuih the half-open door, at
moments. I caught glimpses of the basement,
where all was stone and iron. If ever a
man was unscrupulous, if ever a man was
untrustworthy, it was the Italian before me.

He glanced up from his cards, as we
entered, and, to my surprise, smiled and
nodded at Tufton. There was a pile of
gold beside him; two or three men stood
round, and were betting on the rubber.
Sir Walter Selden and his partner had
been winning ; but the former took it, as he
did his reverses (which were more com-
n)on), unmoved. That jaunty supercili-
ous manner never deserted him, though he
was sometimes in "reat straits ibr a five-
pound note.

Tufton soon became absorbed in watch-
ing the game ; but there was only one more
rubber ; then Selden's antagonists rose, as
the rooms were nearly empty. Though as-
sured by Benevento, with what seemed to
me questionable taste, that Lady Castle
would not object to their playing for the
next hour, they elected to defer their re-
venge to another opportunity.

" Well, Arthur, how have you been
getting on ? " asked Selden. " Ain't your
eyes dazzled, after a course of garrison
hacks and nautch girls ? "

" I'm an old eagle,* and can look at
the sun itself," replied Tufton with a
suule.

" Will you come to my rooms presently?
It's too early to go to bed."

" Not to-inght, Walter," he returned
quickly. " I'm tired, and am off now," and
they separated.

The tide, which was ebbing down stairs,
bore us along with it. The last thincj I
saw was Benevento seated by Lady Castle
in the first drawing-room : the few people
who remained seemed to have divided, by
natural selection, into couples.

The hall was one serried phalanx of
cloaked and hooded ladies ; and through
them I observed d'Arnheim makinii liis wav
from the street. He passed me, and nod-
ded. I thought he would inquire if his
wife had gone home ; but he turned to Mrs.
Chaflinch, who stood near me.

'• Is there any one left up stairs. Is my
lady gone to bed ? "

" Not yet. There's safety in numbers.
At least six men are left. But where have
3'ou been, you dissipated wretch? In very
immoral company, no doubt."

" What, did you think I had been here
all the evening ? "

She hit him with her fan, and declared,
with a shriek of laughter, that he was an
incorrigible monster ; and then I heard no
more, for we had secured our coats, and
were in the street. As we walked along,
arm in arm, I said, —

" How long have you known that Bene-
vento ? "

I fancied there was a moment's hesita-
tion ; but ]>erhaps it was only that he was
getting his cigar to draw : he gave a Iou't
pulF and replied, —

" I met met him last night at Selden's."

" You are an old friend of Selden's ? "

" He is my cousin. He sent me Lady
Castle's card, and insisted on my coming
to-night, though I told him this sort of
thing was quite out of my line."

But I was not going to let Arthur escape
in this way.

" I suppose there is high plav at Sel-
den's ? "

PENEUDDOCKE.

" Well, — there i's play ; yes."

" And is that Beiievento a friend of
his ? "

" I don't know about a friend, — he seems
to know hiai pretty well. A clever dog, —
nothinix he can't do, I'm told — sings like
a bird."

" H'm 1 looks like a bird of ill omen, I
think."

'• You are severe. Master Penruddocke."

" Well, God never gave a man such a
countenance as that for nothing, I'm
Bure."

" It's imwise to trust first impressions.
I am — how many years older than you?
eight or, nine ; and I have learnt that."

" What ! don't you believe in human ex-
pression ? I'll be bound that fellow's as
false as he can be."

"I hope not, lor the ladies' sakes," said
Arthur, with a smile. " He has great suc-
cess with them, I am told. It is even said
that our fair hostess to-night is not alto-
gether insensible to the charms of this
Kizzio."

I pursued the subject no fni-ther, and we
Walked down Piccadilly, talking of othci-
matters. I asked him where he was stay-
ing.

" At Limmers', for the present ; but I
must Look out for permanent lod'j;ings."

" Come and take the ground-floor under
me. It is vacant, and will ju.^t suit you.
It will be like old times. If both our ser-
vants should be out, why, you know, I can
valet you."

He laughed, and then grew suddenly
grave.

" I don't know that I should do you any
good. I'm not the best com])aniou for a
lad of your age."

'' Well, I know your Aveakness. ' No
man is a hero to his caht de chamhi-e' and
I assure you there's no danger for me. I
haven't the smallest taste for gambling, in
any shape."

"Then there is the violin, — have you
well considered what a trial that is to the
nerves, at all hours? "

" Bless your heart ! I don't know what
nerves are. It will do me good to hear
you aiain grinding away at the old ' Kreut-
zcr Sonate.' Ami you may i)lay in the
dead of night, — nothing ever wakes me.'"

" You're a good fellow, Penruddocke,"
said he, wringing my hand, "' and your
cheery young n;iture would, I dare say,
rouse me when I am low, — as I too often
am. It did so, in the olil days, to hear you
whistling as you brushed my clotlies."

A fortnight later he was gazetted to
Her Miijesty's llegiment of — (iuards, and
was installed in the apartment beneath
mine.

CHAPTER XXI.

F«OM this time forwards, I was always
at Madams d'Arnheim's three or lour times
a week. Whenever I was not on duly, or
engaged elsewhere, I was there for an hour
or two at dusk. It became as much a mat-
ter of habit as going to my club. Visits
of ceremony I alyured. I never cared to
go anywhere that I did not like the mis-
tress of the house, and feel more or less
" at home." This I very soon did at Ma-
dame d'Arnheim's.

When strangers called, I seldom staid
long : what I enjoyed were the long quiet
tete-U'leles with a woman who ti-eated me
as a younger brother (lecturing me with a
freedom which was the best proof of the
interest she took in me), antl whose con-
versation was a wholesome antidote to
much that I heard and saw elsewhere.
Except the darkest secret of my short lifi-,
she got to know most things thatconcernol
me : I could talk to her uni'eservedly of
Evelyn, of my prospects for the futuri', of
my old home, and of the happy days in my
dead father's time, that could return no
more. I am bound to confess' I received
l)ut little confidence in return. She seldom
reverted to her own past, and unless goad-
ed by some sharj) memory, causing her to
yield to a momentary weakness, showed no
portion of her own imbittered heart.
D'Arnheim I rarely saw, unless I dined
there ; and then, in the company of half a
dozen other men, I never came into much
personal contact with him. He always
welcomed me with urbanity, always had a
word or two of " chaff," always seemed
quite willing that I should come to his
house as often as I felt inclined. I had a
secret conviction that he looked upon me
as a harmless greenhorn : but 1 was not
quite so green as not to suspect that he
hailed the fact of his wife's friendship for a
young man as a sort of make-weight to his
own neglect. His opinions and his princi-
j)les, liowever, were alike indillerent to me:
I had too strong a regard for Madame
d'Arnheim not to feel a certain resentment
towards her husband ; but as regarded his
behavior towards myself, I had certaiidy
no reason to conq)lain.

Had it not been for Madame d'Arnheim
I might have sunk into a slough of idle-
ness ; but, findin"- mv defective knowledge
of French when I met foreigners at her
house, she urged my taking lessons in that
tongue.

" You have plenty of time on your hands.
Billianfs and rackets are very good things
in tlniir way ; but you may well devote a few
hours in the week to acquiring something

PENRUDDOCKE.

wliioh will be a possession to you for the
rest of j'our life."

So I (locked olf an hour from my morn-
in<x's ride three days in the week, and went
bard at it. And aiuon<T the many debts of
gjratitude I owe to ^larie d'Arnlieiui, not
the lea>t is that she made me a tolerable
French scholar.

Tulton and I always breakfiisted to-
gether. However late lie had been the
previous nip;ht, — and he now played at

the club almost nigiitly, — he never

failed to a{)pear, and .«howed no other
traces of his dissipation than by his varia-
ble spirits. lie now discussed his losses
and winniniTS 0])enly with me. Of course
it would have been absurd, as well as use-
less, for one to preach to him. He was
much older, much cleverer, and, in most
ways, a much better man than myself.
How he could lead such a life, how he could
consort, by preference (for it came to that),
■with men of the stamp of Benevento, I
could not understand. Sometimes this
wonderment reached the stage when it be-
came irritation, to learn that he had lost
lar'i'elv to the Italian the ni;iht before, and
I could not reirain from some expression of
my sentiments. He never took it in ill-

Sart, though he was too generous not to
efend his companions, and to maintain
that they were no worse than himself. He
did not care much for Benevento, — no;
but allowance must be make for foreigners ;
their ways were not always as our ways ;
and, after all, he was a clever dog, and
amusing enough for half an hour. As to
Seiden, under all that sarcasm and appar-
ent selfishness, he was really good-natured,
and the rest, he assured me, were excellent
fellows; of course they and he were ruin-
ing themselves, — that he knew very well,
but a man must have some excitement, and
it was the only thing, except his violin, he
cared for.

Sometimes, when he was in unusually
good spirits, lie would defend himself by
some such verbal paradox as this : —

" Alter all, I don't know that it's worse
than stock-jobbing, or any other game of
chance which bears the more creditable
name of ' speculation.' And marriage, —
such marriages as are generally made here,
at least, — what is it but gambling? The
stakes are high, there is a certain skill shown
in the plav, and the result is, — nothinrr but
luck, Pen."

" Well, try your hand at it : it's a better
game than this," I rejilied, one morning,
when he thus plaj'fully fenced with me.
" Seriously, why don't you think of marry-
ing? There's Miss (niiMmore, whom I sat
next to at dinner last night : .she told me
she had heard you play at the ' Erratic

Harmonist' concert, and praised you tre-
mendously; it was evident the sul)ject had
so much attraction fur her that I gave her
her head, and talked of \-ou through two
entire courses. The ground is prepared,
and now " —

''You young ass!" launched Tiifton
heartily. " This is what it is for babes and
sucklings to meddle with matters beyond
their years. No woman ever praises — I
might say she rarely speaks of — any man
she really fancies. Probably she has a
secret penchant for you. Not that I wish
you to yield to it, in spite of her money. It's
time, if you think of marrying, ten years
hence."

And this frafrment of conversation leads
me here to mention two things. In conse-
quence of my friend's banter whenever I
began to speak of love, and of his affecting
to consider that I was too young to have any
serious thoughts on the subject, I never
could make him my confidante as regarded
Evelyn. I knew that he would receive my
confession with an amused air, and assure
me that I was going throu^rh one of the or-
(iinary complaints of youth, like the mea-
sles, which I should get over in the course
of time. I began to believe that Arthur
never had been, and never would be, in love.
1 could talk to him upon every other sub-
ject ; but upon this he was generally cyni-
cal, and sometimes almost bitter.

The other thincr I have to sav has refer-
ence to Miss Guildmore. It so chanced
that we had met very often during the last
few weeks ; and owing chiefly, no doubt, to
the fact that I did not persecute her with
attentions, we had become very good
friends. I really liked the girl, and I be-
lieve, in a way, she liked me ; but there
was nothing to justify the violent assump-
tion of my uncle, and of one or two others,
that she would marry me if I were so mind-
ed. I received a letter from my mother,
however, in which was the following pas-
sage : —

" I am glad to hear you go into good
society ; and, though I am aware that
fashionable life is full of snares, I trust you
are in all ways turning over a new leaf, and
forgetting your boyish follies. Tlie necessi-
tv of making vour own fortune, since vou
chose to reject what your father left you, is
fully apparent to you, I imagine ; and with-
out wishing you to make a mercenary mar-
riage (which is the last thing any one would
accuse ?neof), I cannot but hope that you
are already entertaining thoughts of settle-
ing in life in a manner which shall be ad-
vantageous to you in all ways. I am given
to understand that a young lady of very
large means shows a marked preference for
your society. It remains with you to choose

PENRUDDOCKE,

•vvlietlier von fjravitate towards resppotabili-
ty anil tomrort, or dissipation and poverty."
' My reply to this was sharp, short, and de-
cisive. It respL'ctability necessitated inar-
ryin'j; Miss Guil<hnore, I would be disrepu-
table ibr the remainder of my days.

1 could vi'ry rarely induce Arthur Tuftoii
to "■o into society. lie occasionally dined
out, but drums and balls he steadily de-
clined. Concerts were the only exceptions
he made, but even these he treated very
contemptuously.

" 1 had rather go to a ' Monday Pop,' any
night," said he, taking a card of Mrs.
Hawksley's, on which was inscribed "mu-
sic," froni the chimney-piece. " There I
should hear music I care foi", and hear it in
peace. If I go to this place, I shall be
jammed in a doorway, and catch as much
as 1 can of some worn-out old opera songs
and duets that the same singers have been
bellowing in London drawing-rooms for the
last twenty years ; but it will cost a lot ol
money, and so one is bound to call it ' a
charming concert.' "

" It won't cost a lot of money, if that is
your objection, for it is amateur ; and Mrs.
riawksley is very an.xious that you should
play. I met her last night, and she told me
she ' adored — positively adored musical
talent ; couldn't live without it, ya-as ! '
And did I think you would be induced V
Then, as an inducement, she gave a string
of names which seemed to embrace half the
peerage, who were enrolled among the per-
formers. It'll be the ai'istocratic-esV thing
in the way of music you ever heard."

He laughed, and shook his head.

" That is not re-assuring. I jirefer my-
' Erratic Harmonist,' where wc grind stead-
ily away at our symphony, regardless of
■who each man is, provided he has a good
bow-arm ; but we'll go. Pen, thoutrh I de-
cline performing. It will be something new
to me, at all events."

I should like to give some account of that
evening, but it would occupy too much val-
uable space. There was one young lord
■who made a lasting impression upon me. I
never have had the advantage of hearing
him since, but I have never forgotten him.
. The things he did not do with his voice, but
supplemented with his eyes, eyebrows, and
lips, which he protruded so that it seemed
as if he were blowing kisses to the audience,
the histrionic powers he displayed altogeth-
er, were surely remarkable. He was a
good comic actor spoilt — if he had but
known it. Then there was a lady who
sang, and who always lost her time (so
Tulton aflirnied, for I knew nothing about
it), but who invariably turned and cast a
reproachiul look at the accompanist, when-
ever they were not together, whereby the

ignorant were delude<l into the belief that it
was A(s- fault. Two songs were ])Ut down in
the programme to be su-ig by Count Ben-
evento ; but he never appeared. After
this came the inevitable bass, who did the
" buffo " business, and was moi'e Italian and
more jocose than the original article, as im-
ported direct. But upon the whole, Tufton
was agreeably surprised. A great deal
of the singing was excellent, — only there
was about twice too niurh of it ; and if the
young ladies would not have selected son:i;s
which we were accustomed to hear exe-
cuted by Grisi and Bosio, no doubt their
sweet voices would have ijeen heard to still
more advantage. The choruses did not
satisfy Tufton's critical ear so well.

" The tenors and the altos are both fl it,
and they drag the time most horribly," he
said.

" Bless the man 1 " cried Mrs. Challinch,
who was in front of us. "He thinks it's a
common chorus, that goes in for time and
tune, and ail the rest of it. He forgets he
is listening to the crime de la crane."

" Then the cream would be better for
being whipped," was Arthur's laughing re-
joinder.

]\Iadame d'Arnhcim was not there ; and I
regi'etted it doubly, because I was anxious
to introduce Tufton, of whom I had so often
spoken to her. I-cannot say that he evinced
any desire to knowniy ''diplomatic friend,''
as he called her, and positively refused to
call there, when, at her suggestion, I pro-
posed to take him ; but I looked upon this
as belonging to his general prejudice
against fashionable ladies, which would
yield at once, in Madame d'Arnheim's case,
if he only knew her. As it happened, they
never once met the whple of that season.

At the end of the evening, as I was com-
ing down stairs, Mrs. Gnildmore asked me
to call her carriage. I did so ; but appar-
ently the footman did not answer the sum-
mons, for I stood beside Miss Guildmore in
the hall nearly twenty minutes, waiting to
hand her out. The lady of the house
passed us on her way to the supper-room,
and gave me a gracious smile, which seemed
full of subtle meaning ; but, as I had only
spoken to her twice in my life, I was a little
puzzled to know what it meant. Almost
innnediately after this Lady Castle came
down stairs alone.

" Will you take me in to have some sup-
per, Mr. Penruddocke ? " she said, with her
sweet natural way. "Iain (piite deserted
— you're the ordy man li.'lt I know. How
do you do, INliss Guildmore ? "

" Will you excuse me ? " I said to the
young lady.

" Oh 1 certainly. Did you think I could-
n't walk to the carriage by myself? "

PENRUDDOCKE,

Lady Castle and I sat down at a small
round table.

•• What a horrid party ! " she began, in
a low voice. " These sort of women al-
ways have such crushes, and so lew men
one knows."

" Why didn't Count Benevento sini^ ? "
I asked.

" Because he was in a very bad humor
to-day, I suppose." she replied quickly.
"It is disi;racclul throwin'^ people over in
that way. Talk about the caj)rice of our
sex ! it is nothini;; to men's ! "

'• Dear Lady Castle ! " said Mrs. Hawks-
ley from behiml our chairs ; then, witli
some surprise in her tone — "Ah! Mr.
Penruddocke, is it you ? Ya-as. Dear
me! I thought you were — ya-as. Well,
I hope you are taking care of Lady Castle.
Shocking disappointment about Count
Benevento, was it not? — ya-as. Bad
cold. These charming delightful tenors
do get such sudden colds — ya-as. Too
sad, isn't dear Lady Castle ? "

" I think you did very well without him,
Mrs. Hawksley," replied Lady Castle, " 1
am sure you had quite enough music."

" So gl:id you thought so — ya-as. Well,
that is what the dear duchess said also —
it quite consoled me. Sorry, liowever, Mr.
Penruddocke, that your friend, Capt.
Tufton, wouldn't play — violin, so parlanf
— adore it — ya-as. Though of course it
is nothing to the voice. Dear Lady Lou-
isa ! loo delightful ; and Lord Algernon !
so much pathos in that bass in the qiuntet,
thought it miL^t touch Miss Guildmore, but
I saw afterwards, —^ ya-as — that she was
otherwise — ya-as, ha, ha ! What I going
already, dear La ly Castle ? — I'm sure
V'ou'vc had nothing I "

" That woman would have gone on f jr
another half-hour, if I had remained," said
her ladyship, as I placed her cloak on her
shoulders, in the hall " and I had rather go
to bed supperless. I do so dislike her ;
not because she is so silly and vulgar, but
because she is mischievous. Nothing but
a stern sense of county duty — I knew Cas-
tle would wish it — brought me here.
H ive you any thing to do to-morrow ?
Wii^l you drive down with me to the Han-
del Festival ? I have a spai-e ticket now,
and can give you a seat in my carriage."

I assented, and a very pleasant day I
had. Benevento was not of the party,
which reaiained, after the oratorio was
over, to dinner ; and though Lady Castle
was not in good spirits — she cried diu'ing
a great part of the " Messiah " — I thought
her very attractive; so soft and womanlv.
Here is a little anecdote I find noted down
in my journal for that day. I produce it,
because it is characteristic : —

My attention was attracted, soon after
the performance began, by a handsome
but very sad-looking woman, accompanied
by a man, who were seated directly before
us. The lady turned her head once, and
once only ; for whatever cause she seemed
to avoid looking again in our direction.

"Do you know who that is in front?"
I whispered to Lady Castle.

" Ahxs ! indeed I do," she sighed. " She
was a great friend of mine once. Poor
Helen Gray ! Untbrtunately she cut her-
self off from us all by running away. Don't
vou remember the divorce three years
ago?"

I had never heard of it ; and she went
on : —

" I am so sorry for her. I often think I
will go and see her, poor thing ! but in
London it is so difficult to do what one
wishes."

" Why don't you speak to her now,
then ? "

" Ah ! unfortunately it would never do
— in public — to be seen with her. The
world is so censorious. But I really do
mean to go and see her, poor dear, some
day. Listen ! Sims Reeves is going to
sing 'Comfort ye.' How I wish I could
hear such music as this forever ! It makes
one feel how hollow the world is, doesn't
it?"

I was puzzled. Was what this world
said true of Lady Castle ? If so, was she
not a thousand-fold worse than the woman
belbre us ? " Yet the one whom th vt
same world delighted to honor was of
purer eyes than to behold t'n public the in-
iquity of the other who had once openly
erreil.

My education was advancing daily; and
yet I had a great deal to learn. I decided
that all that I heard to the prejudice of
my fair companion must be untrue. She
was weak, impressionable, carried away by
any excitement of the moment, whether
religious or otherwise. She could not be
culpable.

CHAPTER XXH.

"I HAVE not seen you for four days,"
said Madame d'Arnheim, one afternoon a
fortnight after this, when I entered her
drawinz-room. " What have you been
about ? " and she lo:)ked into ray face,
with that scrutiny which is the prerogative
of a woman's friendship. No Orestes ever
brings Pylades thus to task.

'• I wa? on guard all yesterday."

" And the day before ? "

" At Richmond."

PENRUDDOCKE.

" Who with ? Perhaps I am indiscreet."
"Laily Castle, Lady Aneaslar, and a
large party."

" And the night before, I heard you were
in Lady Castle's box at Covent Garden.
I am id'raid you are getting into that set, in
spite of my warnings."

" My dear Madame d'Arnhcim, don't
look so severe. Lady Castle has been aw-
fully kind to me, and I can't help likinii
her. I know you don't, which I'm sorry for
but" —

" Oh ! my likings have nothing to do with
it. W you only went to people I like, you
would see very thw. But I forgot — you are
a man ; you have no discernment where a
woman is concerned. No matter what she
realiy is, if you are ' taken ' with her, it is
all up with you."

" I3ut how is one to know what she real-
ly is V "

" If you frequent Lady Castle's, you must
see enough to draw your own conclusions,
unless you are blind."

" Upon my lite, I don't know what to be-
lieve. I dare say half the women who are
never talked about are much worse."

" Pray, has that Italian become a friend
of yours too ? "

" No : I hate the brute. Lady Castle is
very foolish about him, I grant; and the
way she goes on about his singing makes
him very cheeky. I fancy they are con-
stantly quarrelling — at least I have heard
him very impudent to her more than once ;
but she is too soft and forgiving ; that's
the worst of it. She is a generous-hearted,
imprudent woman, I think."

" Oh ! " she said slowly ; then after a
pause, " Are you aware that he is by no
means the first person to whom she has
been so ' generous ' ? "

" I have heard a great deal of scandal
talked about her, but I didn't believe it.
And one good quality she certainly has,
which is rai'e. bhe never speaks ill of any
one."

" And I do speak ill ? I understand."
" Nonsense ! I was not thinking of you.
I know it is your kind interest in me makes
you speak. Besides, I have not forgotten
that the first time I saw her you refused to
discuss Lady Castle."

" Thank vou tor remembering that. No :
1 am not given to scandal ; but never to
speak ill may be pushed too far. To make
no distinctions bcitween good and evil is
diplomatic in society, no doubt ; but re-
member, in citing it as a proof of Christian
charity, that the Founder of our religion did
not hesitate to call men sinful who were so."
" Didn't he say, however, ' Let him that
is without sin among you first cast a stone
at her ' ? "

" He did not deny her sin. He did not
even extenuate it. He Ixide her go and sin
no more. 'Ilie people who are called in the
world ' good-natured,' on the contrary seem
to say, ' Go on sinning, if you like. It is
no business of ours — until you are actually
caught. You are very pleasant ; and wheth-
er you are good or wicked, is of no
consequence to us.' Ach ! That sort of
sentiment seems to me a very different
thing from divine charity."

" There is such a lot of humbug in the
world," said I, thinking of the jjious lessons
that had been inculcated in my childhood,
" that it is hard, if not impossible, to tell
what is real ; but, at least, the humbug of
good-nature is more graceful than the act
of stoning one's neighbors, which people
indulge so freely in."

" You are very young," said she, after a
pause. " Take my advice, and avoid this
society : it will do you no good. It will
take the edge off your appetite for better
things. If your little Evelyn " —

" My dear Madame d'Arnheim, don't
name her, for Heaven's sake, in the same
breath ! Evelyn belongs to another world,
of course, altogether. I should be very
sorry for her to be in this society, but what
harm do you suppose it can do me ? I am
not going to fall in love with any one of these
women. I am happily heart-proof. And
you don't suppose I am so innocent as to be
hurt by Mrs. Chaffinch's pleasantries, or by
— by any thing I may see or hear, do you ? "
Madame d'Arnheim sighed, and said
nothing. Perhaps she sorrowfully recog-
nized that the few months which had
elapsed since I arrived in London, a raw
youth, had already wrought a change in me.
I was becoming more a man of the world.
And the fact, which I have chosen to illus-
trate in the foregoing conversation, rather
than narrate it at length, is that the world
took very kindly to me, and I took not un-
kindly to the world. Six months before,
I should have believed it impossible that I
could have been swept into the vortex of
London society. It was contrary to all my
boyish tastes and habits ; and I possessed
a strong counter-attraction to guard ine
from the seductions of its sii-ens. But I had
youth and high spirits ; and there was the
unexpected novelty of finding myself —
after being treated all my life as of such
small account — suddenly transformed into
a popular young man of fashion. Why
people found me amusing, I can't think ; for
I certainly never set up for a wit. I can
only suppose it was fi-om my habit of saying
])retty much what came uppermost ; and,
in this hit-or-miss way, even duller fellows
than myself occasionally strike out a good
thing. But I found that it was accepted

PENEUDDOCKE.

as incontrovertible tliiit " Mr. Penruddooke
does say such droll thinjis in liis na'ifyvny ; "
and, in certain Iiouses, wliatever I advanced
■was received witli a <:i'j:slt^. wliieli is one
of the most distressing phases of social suc-
cess I know, involving, as it does, a perpet-
ual strain to meet the demand. I was
asked to more dinners that season than any
three men could have eaten ; and as to
other invitations, my table every morning
■was covered with cards, many of them from
people whom I had never even heard of. I
lelt this to be the more personally flattering,
inasmuch as I was not a parti, but belonged
to the phalanx of ineligibles ; " and even
Mrs. Hawksley was beginning to recognize
that I had no ulterior views upon Miss
Guildmore's money, or the heart of any
poorer damsel. I was clearly not to be
marked " dangerous " by mammas.

When Lady Castle and a few line ladies,
therefore, " took me ujj," as it is called, the
world decided that I was a very charming
young man, who only made himself agree-
able to married women.

My bitterest enemy would hardly have
erased my name from her list after that, I
believe. The only enemy I had, however,
belonged to my own sex ; but of him I will
speak presently. I have said enough to
explain how it came to pass that this change
was wrought in me, who had hitherto been
much more at home in the field than in the
drawing-room, and whose amljition and
tastes would certainly have prevented my
continuing this life very long ; but, while
it lasted, I went in for it with all the fresh-
ness of twenty years and an unimpaired
digestion, eating the unwholesome plums
and apples as I walked along, knowing that
it would not last forever, — that beyond
that garden lay the long upland reach, with
fame and honor on the heights, if I could
but reach them, and the temple of pure
love cro'.vning all.

In the whirl of dissipation, however, I
never forgot Madame d'Arnheim ; and, in
her peaceful green drawing-room, when I
turned out of the dusty, crowded streets, I
always Ibund repose to the eyes and to the
spirit. Sometimes — as on the occasion I
have above described — days elapsed with-
out mv being able to see her ; but she was
always the same. A iriendly little I'epi'oach,
which, as showing that I had been missed,
I greatly preferred to unconcern ; a close,
almost maternal inquiry as to what I had
been about; a resolute reserve touching
herself; the discussion of books, or of ab-
stract questions, with all the Schwdnnerei
belonging to the nation, — these were the
characteristics of her intercourse with me.
I may trulv sav I never (rathered au'dit but
good from her. I might dilFer from her

views, but they were always noble ; and
even when unpractical, or, as her husband
and the world called them, " sentimental,"
as refreshing, in contrast to the language I
heard daily around me, as the draught irom
a running stream after imbibing the turbid
water of a pond.

My one enemy, to whom I have referred,
was Benevento. 1 had, irom the first, avoid-
ed him ; and he was much too acute not to
see it. I never gambled ; I was Tufton's
friend; I had now established a certain
footing in Lady Castle's house. He spared
no pains to win me over, but I rej)ulsed all
his attempts at familiarity ; for the one
point on which his astuteness i'ailed to sup-
ply the want of good-breeding was a belief
that intimacy could be stormed by a coup-de-
main, instead of being stealthily crept into
by a breach in the walls of acquaintance-
ship.

At last he began to see that it was use-
less. Instead of coming up, and ibrcing
his hand upon me when we met,?, scarcely
perceptible nod passed between us. He
was not a man to forgive my marked avoid-
ance ; and I heard (one always does hear
in such cases !) that he said I had the
manners of the caserne, where, he under-
stood, I had lived as a common soldier.
Our hostility remained in a jjassive condi-
tion, however, until another motive, more
powei'ful than my impudence, was added
to intensify the bitterness of his resent-
ment. I might seriously interfere with his
views ; in which case, woe betide me !

The pretty little theatre in Tottenham
Court Road was iust comin^ into vo^ue at
this time ; and a few days after the con-
versation recorded in the beginning of this
chapter, Lady Ancastar made a party to
the stalls, inviting us to supper at her
house alter the play was over. I sat next
to Lady Castle at the theatre, Benevento
being on the other side of her. Through-
out the early part of the evening, I was
conscious that a discussion, more animated
than pleasant, was renewed several times
between these two. They spoke in Italian,
with which language the la<ly was as fa-
miliar as with her own ; and Benevento's
vehemence was so great, that, though I
could not understand a word he said, I
telt sure he was urging something which
annoyed and distressed Lady Castle ex-
tremely. It was impossible to mistake
that she begged him more than once to
be quiet. Then she became angry — at
least so I guessed, and turned herself to
me, replying to him only by monosyllables
durinc; the rest of the evening. She asked
me to give her my arm as we came out ;
and, when her bi'ougham drove up, offered
me a seat to Lady Ancastar's. Benevento

PENRUDDOCKE.

looked liviil ; he gnawed his mustache ;
but the next moment turned with a suiih^
to receive some witticism of Mrs. Chaf-
finch's. That acute Uidy was not to be
taken in, however. She whispered to me
as I passed her, —

" I hope you'll disagree with him, if he
eats you, — as he certainly will."

Lady Castle looked sparkling and ani-
mated as we drove along, with the lamp-
lights flashing in her face.

" What horrible creatures foreigners are !
ain't they ? "

I replied, with a little hesitation, that I
hated some of them.

" One does very wrong ever to have any
thing to say to them, I believe."

" All ! perhaps so."

She began pulling ofT her gloves. Her
hands were lovely.

'• Don't be afraid : it is going no fur-
ther," she said, laughing. Then she pro-
duced a new pair of gloves, and a bottle of
eau de Portxigal, which she poured on her
handkerchief.

" How close that theatre was ! I felt
sutfocated. What a bore it is going to
Lady Ancastar's ! I had much rather be
going home, hadn't you V "

" Well, to say the truth, I feel rather
hungry."

At this moment — we were driving
through the very worst part of St. Giles's,
and had reached an intersection of narrow
streets — I heard a shout from both ser-
vants on the box, and then — crash, a cart,
furiously driven, ran into us, smashing the
panel and glass upon my side, and fright-
ening one of our horses so that he kicked
liis leg over the trace. Lady Castle
screamed and clutched my arm so tight
that I had some difficulty in jumping out,
which I did at last, with the blood pouring
down my face. The inhabitants were turn-
ing out of dark doorways on every side ;
the gin-palace at the corner emptied itself;
in two minutes there must have been near-
ly a Imndred people round us. Tlie ser-
vants were both oft" the box, trying to
calm and to extricate the excited horse,
who threatened every moment to break
his leg. I turned to the druidcen brute
who had craused this mischief^ and who,
far from being sobered by the event, on
finding that his own horse had sustained
some damage, was now adding insult to
injury by his language, as he roared out at
the top of his lungs, —

D your eyes ? What the hell

are you d — d swells doing here, a-drivin'
like this, eh V What do I care for your

b carriage V It was your Jarvie's

fault — a-drivin' like that in Seven Dials."
1 asked one of the crowd whether there was

no policeman at hand. The man went
on, —

" Oh ! you want a bobby, do you ? I'd
like to see 'im lay a finger on me. Come
on, if you're a man, and have a round.

D ve : d'ye think I'm afraid o' the

likes o'''you?"

My blood was up; and regardless of the
consequences, which might have been very
awkward for Lady Castle, I gave him one
from the shoulder, straight between the
eyes, which sent him spinning to the
ground. There was an applauding laugh
from the crowd.

'• (lo it, swell ! Give 'im another ! "

" For Heaven's sake, Mr. Penruddocke,
leave the man alone !" cried Lady Castle.

But partly owing to the effects of liquor,
no doubt, the fellow could hardly pick him-
self up : he kept cursing in thickened utter-
ance, and by the time he staggered to his
feet two policemen appeared, to whose
charge I relegateil him for furious driving.

And what was now to be done with Lady
Castle ? To remain in her brougham, sub-
ject to all the witticisms of the crowd,
which was increasing every moment, drawn
hither by the fun of seeing " a swell upset,"
and who were not sparing in their remarks,
or choice in their language, would be most
disagreeable for her; but if we waited for
a cab to be brought, this was wdiat she
must do ; and there was no possibility of
moving the brougham in the present con-
dition of affairs. The horse had been ex-
tricated, but not until he had smashed the
pole ; and there the poor animal stood in
a cold sweat, trembling all over, and shrink-
ing even from the coaxing pat of his own
well-known groom.

" I had rather get out and walk to the
nearest cab-stand," whispered Lady Castle
over the door to me. " Any thing is bet-
ter than sitting here surrounded by these
horrible people. The servants must, of
course, remain with the carriage. Please
let me out — I can't stay here, I can't,
indeed."

The coachman, to whom I applied, said
he must send for ropes before he could
move the carriage ; that it would take some
time, and, even then, his progress must be
very slow. There seemed nothing lor it,
therefore, but to accede to Lady Castle's'
wish. I begged one of the policemen to try
to clear a passagt;, and, desii'ing her to wrap
her biu-nous as tight round her throat as
possible, — for I really was afraid of some
of the roughs making a grab at her diamond
locket, — I opened the carriage-door, and
dragged her out, somehow or other, through
the fold mob, which closed aroiunl us.
The arm which held mine trembled through
her cloak, but she said nothing, till we had

PENRUDDOCKE.

left the frlnixe of the crowLl. and were scud-
diiiLj along the dark and dirty streets, un-
molested.

" At last, thank Heaven 1 I was really
more frightened of those horrible people
than at the aecident ; ])Ut what a dreadful-
looking street 1 Where are we ? "

" I haven't any idea. I only know we
are p-oing back in the direction of Oxford
Street."

'' AVhat a position ! I only hope yon are
going right. Just think if any one — if Mrs.
Chaillnch, for instance — saw me ! "

'■ Well, it would be a good thing. She
would give you a lift, of course."

" Ah I you would be glad to be rid of
the encumbrance. I meant that people
who are ill-natured" —

'■ Who could be ill-natured when your
carriage is smashed, and you have narrow-
ly escaped with your life ? "

" Oh, you don't know ! I would not be
in this position with any one in whom I
had not confidence, for the world. You're
sure you know where you are going? "

" Not at all ; but it is a fine night, and
if you are not afraid of catching cold, you
need fear nothing else. AVe shall all be
right in a few minutes, depend upon it."

" I can't go on to Lady Ancastar's — it's
perfecily impossible. My nerves are so
dreadfully shaken, I must go straight
home. And you — good Heavens! I am
afraid your face is badly cut ? "

" Oh ! it is nothing ; a little sticking-
plaster will set it all right. My shirt has
rather suffered, that is all."

" How you frightened me when you
knocked that dreadful man down ! "

'• Yes, it was very wrong : I ought to
have had more self-control, considering you
were by."

" And think, what should I have done,
if, in return, he had knocked you
down ? "

" Ah, I shouldn't have been afraid of that,
even if he had been sober," said I conceit-
edly. " I saw he was only a flabby brute,
though twice my weight. I hope the ma-
gistrate will give him enough to make him
remember his drive to-night. I shall have
to go to the police court to-morrow, and —
halloo ! well steered ! Here we are in Ox-
ford Street ; and now, fur a ' crawler.' "

I shouted, and one in the distance
quickened his pace towards us. As he
drew up to the pavement, close to a lamji-
post, and I opened the door to hand in
Lady Castle, a hansom passed ; not so rap-
idly, however, but that I saw two heads —
well-known to me as containing two of the
most unscrupulous tongues in London,
— craned out at the very moment that the
lamjj-light fell full upon Lady Castle's face.

It was an unlucky coincidence, but T knew
there was only one thing to be done. If
Lady Castle went home, and if I did not
show my cut face and soiled shirt at Lady
Ancastar's, scandal would be busy with
our names to-ni(jrrow morning. Now, as it
will be tolerably apparent, from what has
passed, that I did not in the least aspire to
trans])lant Benevento in her ladyship's
good graces, I had no fancy to have the
spurious honor of so doing thrust upon me.
1 told the cabman to drive to Grosvenor
Place, and stop, on the way, at the first
chemist's where he saw a light.

" If you take my advice. Lady Castle,
you will go to Lady Ancastar's, if it be but
tor five minutes," I said, as F took my seat
beside her. To mv great distress she burst
into tears.

"I — I really feel too ill. I have had a
great deal to upset me to-night, before —
before this accident. If you only knew —
but it is of no use talking of it, though I
am sure you are to be trusted."

I remained silent, not being desirous to
be made her confidant ; and she continued,
after gulping down her hysterical sobs, —

'•Still, if y — y — you think I ought —
if y — you wish it, I will try to make the
efTort. I — I — I feel, dear Mr. Penrud-
docke, I owe xoxx so much ; and I am sure
you arc so good and high-principled."

The enumeration of my virtues was for-
tunately cut short by our drawing up at the
chemist's, where I got my wound plastered
up, and brought Lady Castle some sal- vol-
atile to the cab-door.

" If I had not such confidence in you,"
she murmured, as she took the slass from
my hand, and fixed her swimming blue
e\es upon mine ; " if I had not such confi-
dence in you, I should be afraid to take
this"

When we entered Lady Ancastar's sup-
per-room, I saw a suppressed smile on the
faces of all the party, save Beneveyto's,
who turned his head awny, and the indom-
itable Chaffinch actually pulled out her
watch, crying uut. —

" One hour and five minutes, my dear,
^ince you left the theatre I I hope you've
had a j)leasant drive ? But, good gracious !
how pale you are ! and Mr. Penruddocke's
face 1 What does it all mean V "

Tlien followed explanations and ques-
tions, and lamentations and commiserations,
in which, I am bound to say, every one
showed a kindly feeling except the Italian,
who remained absolutely silent, until, lean-
ing across the table, and addressing me, he
said, with marked emphasis, —

'• You gave the man in charge ? At
what police-court do you attend to prose-
cute him to-morrow ? "

PENRUDDOCKE.

I saw his drift : he disbelieved the whole
story.

" At Bow Street, at eleven o'clock, where
I shall Ih' happy to meet you, if you like to
hear further particulars."

CHAPTER XXIII.

The case was summarily treated the
next morning, and very briefly reported in
the papers. I hoped, therefore, that any
gossip concerning this unfortunate circum-
stance would soon die away ; but in this I
was mistaken.

My uncle was the first to undeceive me.
I met hini in St. James's Street.

" My dear boy," said he, laughing, " I
hear of nothing but your adventure. What
will your mother say about your bonne
fortune, eh ? They say you've comi)letely
cut that Italian fellow out."

'• I hope you don't believe it," said I,
cnlorin"-. " There isn't a word of truth in
it."

'• Oh ! of course not — of course you say
that, vou youn^ Don Juan. Well ! we
Lave all sown our wild oats, — only 1 m
afraid this puts all Miss Guildaiore's chances
at an end ; and your mother won't be as
pleased to hear of your celebrity in this
new line as at the prospect of your marry-
ing the heiress."

It was in vain that I reiterated mj' as-
sijrance : I saw that it made but small im-
pression.

The next day I called upon Madame
d'Arnheim. She received me very coldly.

" Have vou nothing to ask about mv ac-
cident ? " I began. " Don't you see my
wounds ? "

" I see some plaster. No : I am not curi-
ous to know any thing about it."

" That's unkind. Did you hear of my
knocking down a drunken drayman ? I
was the hero of ' Seven Dials ' for about
two minutes and a half."

She did not look up from her knitting.
Her fingers plied rapidly.

" I heard (|uite enough — more than I
wished ! "

" Then, I suppose, like the rest of the
world, you have heard some lies. Let
me " —

" There are things it is useless to talk
about. As a man of honor, you are bound
not to tell me the truth ; and I have cer-
tainly no right to ask it. Let us change
the subject. I am sorry, and I am disap-
pointed in you : that is all."

" But, it is not ail. Do you think I am
going to let you believe any lies people

choose to say ? You must hear me, Madame
d'Arnheim."

" I knew how it would be," said she, with
a sigh. " I warned you. You are young
and very silly ; and Lady Castle is the
most dangerous woman in London."

" Nonsense ! She is not dangerous to
me, at all events. A most unluckv series
of accidents the other night led to our
being seen alone together ; but, after all,
what happened might have happened to any
one — to you, for instance. Do believe me,
won't you ? "

She had been looking at me steadily in
the face. Her cheek flushed as I finished ;
and then she held out her hand.

" You do not know how much pain this
has (riven me. I had refjarded you as
a King Arthur among men, who, loving
early, kept his heart pure and true to that
first love. It grieved me to unthrone you;
but how could I doubt what I hoard ?
My husband met two men at the St. James's
Club, who swore that they had seen you —
under circumstances which — but we will
say no more about it. I believe you : if
I did not, all my pleasure in your society
henceforward would be gone."

I made her listen to my story, never-
theless ; and then, from that day forwards,
we neither of us ever alluded to it. Lady
Castle's name was rarely mentioned be-
tween us. Madame d'Arnheim no longer
questioned or counselled me. She knew
that I was constantly invited to Belgrave
Square ; but I suppose she heard what was
the fact, that Benevento's quarrel with
Lady Castle had apparently been com-
pletely made up. He was as much in the
house as ever. And I, for my part, excused
myself as often as possible from accepting
Lady Castle's pressing invitations. She
always called me 'her preserver,' and- re-
proached me with not calling oftener ; but
I could no longer remain blind to the state
of things. She was completely and fiitally
under the influence of the Italian. His
extreme cleverness dominated, as his per-
sonal charms had originally fascinated her.
She was as helpless in his hand as a silly'
bird who tries to escape from his cage, and
who, fluttering round the room, is soon re-
captured by its jailer. A weak woman,
who required to cling to something; if' it
were not this man, then it would be another,
from sheer inability to walk without some
support, whether lawful or otherwise.
With another sort of husband, she would
have been another woman ; but Lord Castle
liad no idea of what love meant. Ih; was
a studious, honorable, kind-hearted man,
whose frame was of the consistency oi" un-
U-avened bread, and whose mind was too
abstracted to see any thing that went on

PENRUDDOCKE.

around liim. He was content that lii< wife
should remain away ti'uni him lor nearly
half the year, and no thought of evil ever
entered liis imagination. lll-echieated,
childless, surrounded from her girlhood by
admiration and bad examples, could the
result in her case be dili'erent V The ex-
cuses to be pleaded for such as love, not
wisely, but too well, were of no avail in
])oor Lady Castle's case; but are tempera-
nunt, training, circumstances, not to be
taken into account when judging such as
she V I know I heartily pitied her. But,
tor all that, I abstained irom going often
to her house ; not because of the Italian's
jealousy, but because the world, having once
coupled" my name with Lady Castle's, could
not be induced to leave us alone. I was
constantly annoyed by some chaffing al-
lusion to " Castle Dangerous," as it pleased
the wits to call her. Therefore, towards
the end of that season, I saw, comparatively,
but little of her.

I have now to speak of Arthur Tufton,
in whom a creat change had been gradually
working for some weeks. His fits of depres-
sion were more and more frequent, until
the gloom became so permanent and pro-
found that I could scarcely extract a word
from him. He was not like the same man
1 had remembered eighteen months befi^re.
It grieved me ; for I was sincerely attached
to him, and I guessed but too well what
the cause must be. I resolved to force
some coniession of the state of his affairs
from hiui, if possible; for I knew, judg-
ing by my own experience, that even the
heaviest trouble may be, in a measure,
lightened by discussion and sympathy.
Somehow or other, my own secret had
never been as intolerable a burden to me,
after I found that Mr. Francis shared it,
and that I was able to speak of it to him.

Therefb)"e, when this state of things had
* been getting worse instead of better for
some (lays, 1 broke ground thus one morn-
ing : —

" Look here, old fellow. It is no use go-
ing on like this : it (|uite takes away my
appetite to see you. Of course, I can guess
pretty well how it is, but I wish you would
tell me plainly how much you have lost.
It's far better to talk of it, even to me,
Tufton, than to brooil over it."

" My dear boy, it's no use talking. There
is nothing to be done"

" Let me judge of that. Sometimes two
heads are better than one."

" Neither two heads, nor twenty, can set
me straight. Pen. I must sell out, that is
the long and short of it."

" Impossible ! Why, how much are you
in for ? "

" Two thousand."

I gave a long whistle. It seemed to rae
almost incredible that he should have gone
on losing at whist up to this extent, in the
short space of four months.

'• Whom do you owe the chief part of
this to V " I asked at length.

" To Benevento."

" I thought so. Well, of course he will
give you time V '•'

'• I don't choose to ask him. I must bor-
row the money at usttrious interest, without
any prospect of being able to repay it, or I
must part with my commission. The lat-
ter is the only honest course, I am afraid ? "

'■ Have you been to the Jews ? Surely
with your prospects " —

" My de;ir Pen, I have none, — that is
just it. No man in his senses would ad-
vance any thing upon tlie chances of my
succeeding to the Barony. Lord Tufton
has a better life than mine. And as to
getting him to help me, — that is quite out
of the question. I have no security of any
sort to offer but my commission. If I am
to part with that in the end, I may as well
do so at once, and save being robbed by
the Jews."

" Promise me to do nothing for a few
days, will you ? " I said, after a pause.
" There can be no such great hurry, and
we may, perhaps, think of some means ; but
do you still go on jilaying V "

" No, I have not been to the club for four
days, and I feel utterly T7r(>tched. I am
ready to hang myself sometimes. How-
ever, there is no use thinking about it. I
must sell out, and emigrate."

" Have you made a vow not to play
again ? " I asked.

" No ; for I shall have to play with .Sel-
den once more. I won fifty of him the
other night, and must give him his revenge,
I suppose. After tlial — Well, I'll make
no rash vows, but I think I shall never
touch a card again."

We talked over his affairs for a long time.
I was no man of business ; but it was man-
ifest that he could not remain in the Guards
upon the miserable income that would re-
main to him if he now took from his capital
the two thousand pounds he owed. If he
could not raise the money somehow, there
seemed no alternative for him but to part
with his commission. The prospect of this
sacrifice for my friend made me miserable.
What means were there of averting the
ruin of his career? I racked my brain all
the morning to suggest some. The only
outlet from the difficulty, which I had too
much respect for my friend to urge, was an
appeal to Benevento for time.

" The fellow is an adventurer," he said,
" who lives chiefly by play. I know that
now ; but he owes Selden and others money,

PENEUDDOCKE.

and ho has allowed my debt to mount up
— as hv saw I was ass enou<fh to <;a on
playin<ji;, — till it has come to this. 1 will
not appeal to the "generosity of a man like
that, lie would, of course, reply that he
can't pay his own debts till he <;ets my
monev ; and, after all, he would be quite
right."

"I am pel ad you have come round to my
opinion of him," I could not resist saying.

" I don't think him a scoundrel, as I be-
lieve you do. Pen, but simply a fellow
' without any visible means of subsistence,'
as the police say, who lives by his wits " —

" And his good looks," I added, with in-
dignation.

He shrugged his shoulders .

" It may be so. I do not wish to be un-
just, because lie has had the luck to win
my money. If not he, I suppose it would-
have been some one else. I have been a
fool, Pen ; and a tool and his money, you
know, are soon parted."

He took up his violin ; it seemed his only
consolation, — a confidant to whom he
could tell far more of the remorse and long-
ing of his soul than he could to me. I left
the room quietly, and for more than two
hours I could hear him below me, drawing
out the wild, passionate, and plaintive tones
from his beloved instrument. Then it
seemed to me that the music changed, by
slow progressions, into something deeper,
stronger, more manful than unavailing re-
gret : there was resolution in it, — a reso-
lution to arise and conquer the weakness of
a wasted youth ; and, as I listened, my own
hope grew larger that my friend's ji^^i'i') if
once passed, ndght be the turning-point in
his career, beyond which the man's fine and
gifted nature should develop itself, free
from the debasing bondage in which it had
hitherto been held.

CHAPTER XXIV.

I w^AS a long time revolving a plan in
my mind, the execution of which I knew
would be difficult. Nothing but the strait
in which Arthur Tufton was would have
led me to think of calling on my old cousin
and trustee, Humphrey Penruddocke, to
•whom I had never spoken in my life ; but
to acconi])Iish what I desired, it was abso-
lutely necessary that I should do this ; and
soon after twelve 1 threw myself into a han-
som, and drove to Cheyne Walk, Chelsea,
where I knew Humphrey lived.

The house was of dark red brick, stand-
ing a few yards back, with high and v(n-y
narrow windows set flush with the wall, the
woodwork being painted white, and the

door green ; a brass knocker as good as
gold, for brilliancy, and a path of spotless
white pavement conducting from the iron
wicket to the door. It was opened by a
prim little old woman, who ushered me into
a wainscoted parlor to the right of the
door, where she left me.

This room was painted of a pale water-
green ; there was nothing much less than a
century old in it, I think, from the thread-
bare Turkey carpet, upwards; and yet it
had an air of great cheerfulness. This was
partly owing, no doubt, to the brilliant
cleanliness of ever}' thing. The mahogany
spindle-legged tables shone from rubliing,
till they had become so many darkened
mirrors ; the fine glaze of the old Worces-
ter cups and saucers on the mantle-shelf,
undiuuued by any speck of dust, glittered
iu the light from the windows opposite ; the
fire-irons, and the old-fashioned brass fen-
der, carried on the sparkle down below.
All belonged to the past, nothing to the
present. Two or three generations may
have passed away, and have left that room
absolutely unchanged. Time deals gently
with the inanimate furniture of such quiet
old houses as this, while it furrows and
bends, and finally removes, the human fur-
niture that dwelt there.

The door opened, and in walked my
cousin, — the short, iron-gray, bristle-
headed man I remembered, with a sharp,
penetrating face. As he came forward, he
eyed me very narrowly, not from head to
foot, but rather from forehead to mouth, —
that is, his eyes never left my face, either
then, or, as far as I can recollect, during
the whole of my visit. He held out one
hand, and waved me to a chair with the
other.

'• So you are the boy who has been in all
these scrapes, are you ? Hem ! John Pen-
ruddocke spoke to me of you. You and he
met somewhere, — you came to inquire
about them, perhaps V "

" N — no, I can't say that I did ; but I am
very glad to hear they are well."

"I did not say they were well," said
Cousin Humphrey rather cruelly. " I aui
afraid John is any thing hut well. He has
been a great sufferer for some months
past."

'• I am very sorry to hear it. Where is
he ? "

" At Paris just now, with Elizabeth.
When they have seen the sights there, they
are coming here to me." A pause ; then,
with some severity, " His position is a hard
one, young man, — a very hard one, I con-
sider."

" So do I," I replied, coloring. " I know
the fetdings you entertain towards my
branch of the family, and that no membei

PENRUDDOCKE.

of it can be very welcome in your house.
I sliouKl not have inmuU'd upon yon, there-
fore, Mr. Humphrey Penrmldoeke, but for
one circumstance, that, by Gen. llicli's
■will, you are left as one of my trustees."

I knew it was an awkward way of begin-
nin'i. but I was nervous.

lie looked at me more suspiciously (I
thou'iht) than ever, uttered the monosylla-
ble '• Oh I " .Tnd drew his lips tightly.

" You will, pcrhajis, remember that Gen.
Rich left me ten thousand pounds ? You
and my Uncle Levison are trustees for the
same until I am of age — which I shall not
be for another year. In the mean time I
have a great friend, who is in immediate
want of two thousand pounds. It' he can-
not obtain it otherwise, he must sell out of
the army, and his prospects in life be
ruined. I want to save my friend by ad-
vancing him this money."

The tight lips unclosed.

" You are speaking in a parable, are you
not, young man ? The ' friend ' is yourself,
I conclude ? "

I replied that I was telling him the sim-
ple truth.

•' What is your friend's name ? " he
asked.

■' Capt. Tufton."

" And how comes he to have contracted
such a debt ? "

" By gambling," I answered boldly.

" Hem ! a nice friend for you to have.
And do you really suppose that your uncle
or I could commit this insane act, even if
we wished it, young sir ? The thing is
quite out of the question."

" Hear me first, Mr. Penruddocke.
Capt. Tufton is an officer in the Guards.
His commissions are worth a great deal
more than this. You may bind him by a
deed, to sell out if, when I call upon him to
refund the money, it be not forthcoming."

" And how if he dies in the interval ?
What account should we be able to give of
our stewardship when w6 deliver it up?
By that time your sentiments may have
undergone a complete change as regards
this valued friend, and " —

" Nothing will ever change them. I am
ready to sign any number of papers. I
swear to you that I had fir sooner lose this
money, out and out, than that Capt. Tufton
should now be forced to leave the ser-
vice."

"But you forget that the money is not
yours to lose. You may die befljre you are
of ag«, in which case Gen. Rich's money
returns to his own family ; and we are re-
sponsible (or it, not to you alone, but to all
the other residuary legatees. What \'0U ask
is simply impossible. Surely Col. Levison
Rich must have told you so."

" I did not ask him. I knew that he
would regard a cjuestion of this sort purely
from a worldly point of view. I hoped
you would take a ditierent one, and bring
my uncle, at last, to acquiesce in yours ;
but I see the justice of your argument
about the Rich Family. I had not thought
of that 1 There is nothing to be done,
then V Poor Tufton ! "

" No : there is nothing to be done, in
this way." He paused, and then continued
slowly, " Your brother is a very wealthy
man. Two thousand pounds would not be
nmch to him. He might possiblv advance
it."

" I would not ask him for all the world 1 "
I replied vehemently. "I take nothing
from my home. I do not touch a shilling
of Penruddocke property. I am imlepend-
ent. I have left Beaumanoir never to re-
turn ; and, not even to save ray friend, would
I apply to Raymond."

Something akin to a smile came into the
old man's face.

" You and your brother, I see, are not
cast in the same mould. He is a prudent
young man, I fancy, who would never com-
mit sueh folly as you are capable of, for the
sake of a friend. I am sorry yours is not
better worth the deep interest you take ia
him."

" You wouldn't say so if you knew him
as I do. When I ran away from home, and
enlisted as a private, he was lieutenant of
my company, and I became his servant."

My cousin's eyes opened rather wider
than before, but thev never relaxed their
hold of my face.

" He was very kind to me then, and now
that fate has thrown us together upon an
equality, he is more like a brother to me
than my own ever was or ever will be. He
is the only friend — except one — I have
ever had ; he is the best and cleverest fel-
low in the world, with only this weakness,
of which I believe he is now cured. I
would give anv thins; in the world to save
him."

" As a man makes his bed so he must lie
on it," said my old kinsman severely.

" Some get feather-beds who have no
right to them, all the same," I replied.

For one instant our eyes met, and I knew
that he read the application of my words;
but when he s[)oke aixain it was to say, —

" Then this gambling friend of yours,
young sir, has no prospects ? He has not
fooled away his money in anticipation, but
actually ruined himself without any ulti-
mate hope for the future ?

" I am sorry to say it is so. His father
is dead. His uncle is not an old man now.
He may survive his heir, or he may marry.
Arthur can't build upon that."

PENEUDDOCKE,

" Bless my soul ! What fools men are !
It is ineonceivaljle."

" On this head he has hardly been sane,
— I admit it. It has been like some poison
in the blood, goading him on, in spite of
himself, to his ruin. On every other sub-
ject 'a wiser, more sensible fellow never
existed."

" And pray, how can you tell that the
poison is out of the blood now V The
cases are very rare indeed in which a man
who has imbibed any fatal habit of this
kind is radically cured. The more allow-
ance you make on the plea of its being a
species of insanity, the more chance of the
sufferer, as an irresponsible agent, relapsing
into his old courses. I am not sure that
the best tiling that can befall the man is to
have to leave the army, work hard for his
daily bread, and be out of temptation's
way."

'■ It does no gentleman good to be de-
graded," I said rather hotly.

" There is no degradation in working
hard for your daily bread, young sir."

" No : but there is in having to leave the
army for debt ; and, when the man is such
a fellow as Tufton, to think of his whole
career being ruined, and of his emigrating,
as I fear he would, it makes me mad. Is a
man to be punished forever for a folly of
his youth V "

" Not forever, I think," returned Mr.
Humphrey with composure, " for I do not
believe in eternal punishment ; but very
often for the period of his natural life.
That, however, is not the question. The
point is, whether it may not be for his hap-
piness, even on this side the grave, to suf-
fer the penalty of his folly now. It' the
man has the stuff in him you describe,
transplantation will not ruin him ; and
the world's cold shoulder will not degrade
hiin lower than he is already degraded in
his own estimation. If the man has a grain
of sense, he will see it in that light."

It was hopeless to argue with him. Our
standpoints being wide apart, every step
would only sunder us still farther; but a
suggestion — like a flash of light — shot
through my Ijrain just then. If I could
bring him and Tufton face to face, might
not a personal knowledge of the man suc-
ceed where my feeble eloquence had failed V
Succeed in what ? I asked myself the
question, but did not stop to answer it. I
certainly had given up all hojje now of in-
ducing my trustees to yield to my wishes ;
but a vague idea that my old kinsman, as
a shrewd business man, might, if he so list-
ed, be of essential service to my friend,
was paramount in my mind, as I said, —

" 1 would give a good deal, Mr. Penriid-
docke, that j'ou should have a talk with

Tufton. Tlie discussion of his affairs with
a man like you would, at all events, be a
great thing for him. Perhaps you may
bring him round to your view of his ease.
At present he has spoken to no one but
me, who am ignorant and incapable of giv-
ing any advice. I can only speak as I
feel in the matter, and I do feel very
strongly. You would understand this, I
think, if you talked to him for half-an-hour.
Would you — would you mind seeing
him ? "

It was nearly a minute, I think, before
he replied, —

" Well, I will see him, — that is to say,
if he likes to come here, — after you have
prepared him for the sort of visit he must
expe(;t. He will hear hard truths i'rom me ;
and, if he can't stomach them, he had bet-
ter keep away."

He then said that he should be at home
the whole of the afternoon ; and I took my
leave, after expressing my gratitude clum-
sily enough. Old Humphrey had too
much penetration, however, not to read
that the sentiment in me was real.

CHAPTER XXV.

I HAD anticipated no difficulty in per-
suading Tuifon to go and talk over his
affairs with my old lawyer-cousin ; but I
found it less easy than I had imagined.
What was the use of it ? AVhy should he
bore a stranger, and distress himself, by
a discussion of his financial condition ?
There was but one course open to him, —
unless he went to the Jews, he must sell
out. That was plain : not all the talking
in the world could alter it ; and it was a
mere waste of words, to enter upon this
painful topic with a stranger.

I spent nearly an hour in discussing the
point with him ; and when I did bring him
at last to consent to this interview, it was
due to no arguments of mine in favor of
such a course, but arose solely ti-om his re-
luctance to pain me, after I had done all
that lay in my power for him, and when he
saw that his continued refusal would grieve
me.

I do not mean to trouble the reader with
any account, at second hand, of several
interviews between Tufton and Humphrey
Penruddocke, which tuUowed hereon very
rapidly. That the latter, with all his ;i])-
parent hardness, was a man singularly
susceptible to impressions, I had already
divined ; that he was generous, where his
sympathies were enlisted, I knew ; but I
was i'ar from fbrseeing the result of bring-
ing him in contact with my friend, ardently

PENRUDDOCKE.

as I desired to acconiijlish this. Tufton's
subtle cliarin, of wliicli I liave endeavored,
but vainly, to give some iilea, fairly won
over the acute, stiif-necked old man. In
liim, Balak and Balaam, so to speak, were
fused, — the former had harshly called on
him to curse the sinner, and behold I the
latter had blessed him altojjether ! Or, if
not altogether, at least, with such temper-
ate admonitions as saved Mr. Penrud-
d<K'ke's kindness from appeariu'^ to be the
niei'e weakness of capi'ice. lie lent Tuf-
ton the two thousand pounds, with no other
security than that of his bond, that the
money should be repaid by small instal-
ments, yearly.

1 never was better pleased than at hav-
ing been instrumental in bringing about
my friend's deliverance ; and my gratitude
to old Humphrey knew no bounds, but he
was rather churlish in accepting it. He
desired tne never to allude to the suljject
again, and observed, that the event would
aloue prove whether he had been a fool or
not. He did not encourage my returning
to the house, which — though I Mt but ill-
at-ease with him — I should have done as
a duty. When John and Elizabeth ar-
rived, he would let me know. And so we
I^arted.

Having exhibited myself in no unfavor-
able light in this transaction, it remains
for me to detail an incident, connected
with the same events, in which, no doubt,
I cut but a sorry figure in the eyes of the
greater part of the world.

Bcnevento was paid: Tufton had with-
drawn his name from the Club, and

had announced his resolution to abjure
gambling in every shape. Selden had
been called to Scotland on flimily business,
so that the cousins had not yet met since
Tufton had won Selden's money ; which
fact, it may be remembered, he named to
me, as obliging him, in honor, to play once
more, should Selden desire it.

Some athletic sports were got up by the
Life Guards at Windsor, to which we went
down, a large party of men, on a drag.
Tufton was with us ; Lord Algernon," old
Jack," and most of the well-known faces
about town, appeared there in the course
of the day, and staid for the mess-dinner
afterwards. Amang those who did so —
arriving by rather a late train in the after-
noon — were Selden, just come from Scot-
land, and Benevento.

After dinner, what I had foreseen came
to pass. Tables were laid for whist ; and
W^alter Selden, sauntering up to Tufton,
said, —

" Well, mon cou.fln, though you have ab-
jured these naughty delights, you are
going to give me my revenge, eh ? You

cleaned me out the other night, remem-
ber."

" Yes," replied Tufton with a smile,
"111 give you a chance of revenge, — but
only one. If the gods give it against you,
you must abide by their decision. I am
never going to J^lay for high stakes again."
Was it by accident that Benevento was
close to them at the moment, and that Sel-
den turned first to him, — there being
nearly fifty men in the room, — and said he
su|)posed he wouldn't mind taking a hand ?
After all, it was natural : these men were
accustomed to play almost nightly to-
gether. Perhaps I did Selden a wrong,
God only knows : the truth has never been
quite clear to me ; but the fact, which I can
no longer deny, is that I suspected these
men of playing into each other's hands to
despoil my friend. I had drunk a good
deal of wine at dinner, and though I have
always maintained that I was not only per-
fectly sober, but that my bi'ain was as clear
as it ever was, I will admit that I was just
fired enough to make me regardless of any
prudential considerations in my conduct.

The rubber was made up, some man
whonti I did not know being the fourth ;
and when they first cut for partners, Bene-
vento and Tufton played together. I felt
an unaccountable conviction that my friend
wouM win now ; and he did, thus obliging
him to go on playing. There were two or
three other tables ; and I saAmtered about,
apparently watching them all, but, in real-
ity, never losing sight of my friend.

Benevento was seated with his back to
the window, against the curtains of which
the table was drawn so close that no one
could possibly stand between them and
it. Wlien the first game was over there
was a change of partners, l)ut Benevento
kept his place. Selden and Tufton moved ;
and the former, having lost an inconsidera-
ble bet or two, began to ofTer to lay heavier
odds on the rubber, which were taken by two
of the lookers-on. Tufton resolutely re-
fused to bet. I took up my post near the
curtains, as close to Benevento as I could,
upon his left hand; and in front of me
stood old Jack. One or two Guardsmen
were behind Selden, watching his play,
which was re(;koned to be fii-st-rate ;
another stood upon Benevento's right hand.
All idea of collusion between these and
any of the players would have been ab-
surd — they were officers and gentlemen — ■
fine, frank soldiers, almost strangers to the
Italian uj)on whom my suspicions were
fixed. I scanned his hard, handsome face
the restless glitter of his eye, the rapid
movements of his serpentine white fingers ;
and on these latter iny attention became
riveted. I no longer attendud to the prog-

PENRUDDOCKE.

ress of the frame, I no lonjrcr watched the
cards ; it was the hands that held them
upon which my eyes were fastened. Once
— twice — I thought I saw it. Did my
eyes deceive me ? Was it an hallucina-
tion ? I had heard of peojjle brin^■in(T
themselves to believe they saw things, such
as " winking Madonnas," owing to an ex-
cited state of the system. I set my teeth,
and breathed hard ; I would wait — I
would be quite sure — there should be no
selt-decejition about it.

/ saw it a third time.

And, without a moment's hesitation, I
dashed upon him, seizing with both of mine
the left hand next me, and calling out, —

"You blackguai'd! You've got a card
up your sleeve ! "

Before tlie words were out of my mouth,
I was on the floor, doubled up liy a blow
from his right fist ; but I never relaxed my
grasp of his left, dragging him down with
me, and nearly upsetting the table as we
rolled ton-ether under it. I heard con-
fused cries of —

" What the devil does it all mean ? "

" Separate them ! By G — ! the boy's
mad ! "

'• What did he say ? "

" He said he cheated."

"Take the Italian fellow off! — he'll
kill him ! " shouted one ; for his right hand
had now seized my throat.

" For God's sake. Pen, are you drunk ?
Get up, man ! " cried Tufton.

" Not — until you — search his sleeve ! "
I gasped out, nearly choked ; but I clung
on like grim death, all the same.

Benevento relinquished his hold of my
throat, and we both rose to our feet, while
he exclaimed, in a voice quivering with
passion, —

" Gentlemen, I appeal to you — I appeal
to you against this unwarrantable, coward-
ly attack u[)on a foreigner. You hear his
accusation ? Search me. You see his
hands have never left me. I demand to be
searched ! "

" Yes, search him ! " I cried ; " and if
you don't find the ace of diamonds" —

1 let go his arm, and he slipped off' his
coat, unt'astened his gold sleeve-links, and
rolled his shirt-sleeve up. There was no
card there. How he had got rid of it, I
cannot conceive : that he liad secreted it,
I feel morally certain ; but of course pub-
lic opiniiMi was dead against me.

" 1 must say it's a most (ionfbumled
shame ! " said Selden. "I never heard of
a more disgraceful attack. And, by Jove !
here the veiy card is ! " and he jiickcd it
up irom the cunlnsed mass upun the floor.

" Monstrous ! " said Lord Algy. " Of
course, Penruddocke, you will apologize

amply to Count Benevento for this gross
outrage ? "

" Yes, yes — I will undertake that he
does," interrupted Tufton, before I could
reply ; and he took hold of my arm. " Pen-
ruddocke has had rather more than is good
for him ; but in the morning I am sure he
will be the first to regret what he has done,
and to apologize to Count Benevento."
Then turning to me, in a low yoice he
added, " Come away ; don't say a word
now — it can do no good. Leave it all to
me to settle " —

" But I tell you that I saw " —

" Never mind ; perhaps yon did. There's
nothing for it but to apologize. If you
reiterate the charge, after that test, every
man will be against you."

'■ Such a scene as this, I am haptiy to
sav, has never occurred before in our mess-
room," said a captain in the Life Guards,
addressing Tufton, though his wonls were
directed to me, " and I am sure that INIr.
Penruddocke, as a gentleman, will not
refuse to give Count Benevento ample and
immediate satisfaction, in the shape of an
apology, before all of us here, who have wit-
nessed the insult he has just olfered one of
our guests."

Tufton led me away by the arm to the
other end of the room. My appearance,
no doubt, lent itself to the assumption that
I was more than half-drunk. I telt dazed,
confounded by the miserable failure of my
denunciation, convinced that the testimony
of my eyes had not deceived me, yet ut-
terly unable to prove its truth; and, ])er-
plexed as to what course honesty and hon-
or ought now to lead me to pursue, I told
Tufton circumstantially what Iliad seen.

'' My dear boy, you fancied it. You
have always been strongly ])rejudiced
against that fellow, and you fixed your
eyes on his hands with a sort of pre-con-
viction that he was not ])laying fair." (I
could not deny, that, so lar, he was right.)
" Similar hallucinations are not uncommon ;
but in your case it has an ugly look,
because " — he hesitated.

" What do you mean ? "

" Because, you see, the world fancies
that he has cut you out with Lady Castle,
and that }ou arc; jealous."

" You don't mean that ? You're not
serious 'i "

" Indeed I am. I should never have
named such idle gossip to you, but tor this,
Pen. And now you see how doubly ne-
cessary it is that you should frankly e.\pri:ss
your regret (or what you have done. You
haven't a leg to stand on, my boy — you
haven't, indec;d."

'• Jf the man wants satisfaction, I'll fight
him," said I stubbornly.

PENRUDDOCKE.

" Nonsenpe ! You forcjet that you would
lose your commission, and find no one to
act as your i'ricnd in such a pieces of folly.
/certainly would not. Now, just take niy
advice. Come out of the room quietly,
and leave me to settle this business. I
will not com])romise your honor, depend
on it."

" Remember," said I, at last, as he led me
reluctantly away, " I won't eat my words.
You may say that I am very sorry for what
is past, and that I foel I acted rashly, — that
is true enough. I ought to have known that
the scoundrel would be clever enouirh to

J"i

■"cle away the card somehow. If he

chooses to take that as an apology, he
may ; but mind, I won't say I was mis-
taken."

Old Jack came up, and took my other
arm, as I was leaving the room. AVlth all
his faults, the old vaurien is kind-hearted,
and thought to help me out of my scrape
by imposing on the spectators the fiction
that I was unable to walk unassisted.

" Never mind, my boy," he whispered as
he grasped my elbow. " I know you're not
drunk ; and I believe you saw it, just as you
see me ; but he was too many for you. So
there's nothing for it but to knock un-
der."

I have always had a sneaking affection
for old Jack from that moment. No one —
not even Tutlon, my friend, in whose inter-
est it was I had set myself to watch this
blackguard's play — believed me (or, at all
events, would admit that he believed me),
with this exception of " old Jack " !

How Tufton terminated the affair, I
need not detail at length. That he ten-
dered an apology more conciliatory in
form than in substance, which was held to
be far from satisfactory by the majority ot
Guardsmen present, formed the topic of
conversation for some days afterwards ;
but, at the time, it seems to have been
agreed by common consent to regard my
attack as the outburst of a jealous, tipsy
boy, whom it behooved the Italian to treat
with generosity, if not contempt. And
Benevento, yielding to the advice of Sel-
den and others, graciously consented to do
so.

Madame d'Arnheim was very kind and
sympathizing when I told her what had
l\appened. Of course she had heard her
husband's version of the affair, which was
pretty much what Tufton suggested it
would be ; and my friend would not have
been a woman if she had resisted saving, —

" All this arises from your having gone
so much to Lady Castle's. You met the
man constantly there, and took a, violent
dislike to him. This was, no doubt, very
evident ; and the world put its own con-

struction — which is always the worst —
upon it. Do let this be a lesson to you,
that you cannot touch pitch without some
of it sticking."

CHAPTER XXVI.

The season was over. All the world

was at Goodwood; but I, as junior ensign,
was not entitled to leave of absence, and
was on duty, pretty constantly, for those
of my brother subalterns who were away,
without which employment, indeed, the
time would have hung heavy on my hands.
But I fielt more and more every day that
soldiering was mv true vocation. I took
a keen interest in my men, and they knew
it ; while, at the same time, they learnt
that it was not easy to humbug me.
Having lived as one of them, I was ac-
quainted with all their " little ways," their
good points and their weak ones; and I
believed that I could generally distinguish
a lying sneak from an honest fellow better
than officers of three times my standing in
the service.

I made the internal economy of my com-
pany a study that summer. A man can be
a soldier in nothing beyond the name, if he
have not a thorough knowledge of the ma-
terials at his command. It is as essential
as the art of moving a battalion ; and, to
obtain influence in that heterogeneous
family over which a man is set, I have
always held to be as important as to direct
its movements on the parade-ground.

I was coming out of barracks one day,
when I observed a private of some regi-
ment of the Line speaking to the sergeant
of the guard. His back was towards me ;
but the well-known j-ellow facings struck
home to me like a familiar tune. He
turned : it was Joe Carter. He saluted
me without a smile — decorum personified.
" I was inquiring for you, sir," he said,
grave as a judge — no twinkle of re-
cognition.

" I am coinff home : will you come and
see me there, Carter ? " and I gave him my
address.

Half an hour later he was standing at
attention in my sitting-room, and I was
listening to his story. He had been left at
the depot, which was at Chatham. See-
ing my name and regiment mentioned in
some paper, he had come up to London in
the hope of finding me, and with the ob-
ject, moreover, of preferring a request.
His desire was to be transferred to the
Guards, and he should like to become my
servant.

" I'm sick of knocking about ; but I've

PENRUDDOCKE.

no home, nor friends like, to go to. You
and me, sir, was good friends when you
was a lad ; and I should like to be your ser-
vant. You mind as I always had a taste
that way ; but I wants some master as I
can take an interest in. I wouldn't be at
the pains for any officer as is left now in
the th."

" Well," I said hestitatingly, " I should
like very much to have you about me, Joe ;
but how about your character of late ? —
often in the defaulter's book ? "

" I'm to go out with the next draught as
lance-corporal, if I sticks to the regiment ;
but I'm dead sick of it, that's the truth :
and if the Guards won't take me, I've a
bit of money, and I'll Ijuy my discharge, —
that's about the long and short of it, sir."

We had a long parley, in the course of
which he pointed out how badly my boots
were blacked; and it ended in my undcr^
taking to do all I could to effect his trans-
fer. Had I been a few years older, I
should, probably, have hesitated before un-
dertaking to ask for the personal services
of one with wliora I had been on such terms
as I had with Joe ; but I had a great regard
for him : he was among my pleasantest
memories of the ranks, and the very tact of
this request of his proved his attachment to
me. With the rash impetuosity of twenty
years, I overlooked all the drawbacks to
such an arrangement, and — though I am
bound to admit these were serious ones —
the event justified my imprudence. The
transfer was effected, and Joe became my
servant, vice the pri\ate who blacked boots
so badly. Our mutual relations were pecu-
liar. I will not say that he did not permit
himself a license of tongue at times, which
would have been intolerable in any other
servant ; he often lectured me. but it was
with the strong interest of a man who re-
garded himself as especially instituted to
be my monitor, not with the presumjttion
of one who encroai^hed upon the limits per-
missible in our relative positions. I had
occasion, as this narrative will show, to
bless the day that Joe Carter entered my
service.

The D'Arnheims were gone to Germany.
She gave me, at parting, a little purse of
her knitting, and bade me write to her,
which I did with tolerable regularity.
Tufton Avas in Scotland ; Lady Castle and
her set at Cowes ; my uncle paying a round
of visits. Exccjit one or two desolate
Guardsmen, like mvself, left to defend the
metropolis, there was no creature to sjjcak
to. We jjlayed at jiool of an evening at
the club, or drove to iiichmond, or tried to
sit out some dreary extravaganza, the sole
point of which seemed to lie in the short-
ness of the trirls' skirts. Heavens ! what

would our fathers, trained in the schools of
Kean and Kemble, say to the cohorts of
fat girls, crammed into flesh-colored tights,
and lean ones, padded to fit the same?
What would they say, could they witness
their " break-downs," listen to the inane
rubbish the poor wretches have to utter,
and ])e told that our stage has come to
this V

The monotony of my life was delightfully
broken in upon, towards the end of August,
by a visit, one morning, from ]\Ir. Francis.
He was passing through London with the
boys whom he had been educating in Ire-
land, and who were now going to the col-
lege of St. Omer. Mr. Francis was to take
his pupils there, after which his plans
seemed unsettled. If employment, such as
he liked, came in his way, he would take
it ; but, though poor, he was always indif-
ferent to money, and it was not every post
he would accept. Unless he saw a prospect
of usefulness, a field for exertion which was
likely to return fruits in kind, he could not
throw himself heart and soul into the work.
He had been asked to take charge of tlie
son of a fond and foolish duchess, wlio
wished her dear boy to travel, and enlarge
what she was pleased to call his mind.
The tutor was to have four hundred a year,
and all his expenses paid. '■ But," as Mr.
Francis said, •' I saw that any other man
would do as well, ])erhaps better than I
could, with Lord Reginald. I had one or
two interviews with him : but I found there
was no ground upon which I could get any
firm hold ; and, without that, it is disheart-
ening work, Osmund. Every man has
something laid out for him to do in the
world ; and when he finds out what that is,
he should do it, and not turn to other men's
work. Most lives are failures, I am afraid ;
Inu there would be less of self-reproach and
disappointment, if we all stuck to this."

I could read between the lines of what
he said. I knew to what extent his noble
character, even more than his fine intellect,
had influenced me. My brother had bene-
fited by the latter, and had become a rare
scholar. I, with my poorer abilities, had
imbibed what was of yet more value, — a
belief in goodness, a respect and admiration
for what was tiiithful and upright. Sur-
rounded by much that tended to make me
cynical and distrustful of sincerity, from
my earliest years, I had never lost my faith
in human nature ; and, though too often
weak and backsliding myself, I never for-
got the high standard of excellence set
before me by Ambrose Francis. He was
right in feeling that his work lay in higher
fields than those of the mere jjedagogue.

A few days after i\Ir. Francis's visit I
had another pleasant burj)rise. In walked

PENRUDDOCKE.

my Cousin Jolin ; a p^ood deal clian^cd in
the fifteen niontlis which had ehipsed since
wc liad met at Ghent, lii? face sliowiiiji; the
traces of Mitlcrini;, and his fi<inre, whicli
had been so active and erect, niucli ben',
but tlie same kindly smile, the same heart\
manner, as of old.

"I'm come from Humphrey, to ask, if
vou're not too fine a gentleman, my boy,
whe4^her \ou'll eat a slice roast beef at his
bouse to-d;iy, at six. We've only been
here two days, but there's Liz is wanting
badly to see you. She pricked up hen-
ears, I can tell you, when she heard from
Humphrej' of your visit. The lass is finely
grown ; and, bless you ! she parlny-vous now
like any French monkey."

" I shall be charmed to dine with Cousin
Humphrey. He is a regular brick, though
I confess I feel rather shy of him, but
Elizabeth will be tiiere to protect me. I
shall be so glad to see her. Hu-.v long are
her hoUilays ? "

"Well, you see, I am not sure; I am
half thinking of keeping her here now.
Humphrey says her education could be
carried on at home, as well as in ibreign
parts now ; and, the truth is, my boy, I've
been very ill. I'm not the man I was. I
feel I may be carried otF any day, and it
would just break the lass's heart if she
were away from me then."

" Come, you mustn't talk like that, Cou-
sin John. There is many a good year in
store lor you yet ; but I think you are (juite
right about Elizabeth. Why should you be
separated ? A clever girl, as she is, will
get on at home quite as well with a gov-
erness."

" Hm ! I don't know about that. She
likes her own way, you see ; and, between
you and me, I doubt an}^ one woman being
able to manage her. At school there were
several, besides masters, and even then,"
he raiseil his ej'ebrows significantly, " they
had often a rough time of it. My Liz is a
good girl, but she wants a tight hand, and
discipline. I'm sadly afraid Humphrey
won't be of any more use than I am : he
spoils her too ; and what will any gover-
ness be able to do against us V I am afraid
I ought to send her to school in London, if
she doesn't return to Ghent."

" I wonder," I exclaimed, suddenly fired
by an idea ; and then I stopped.

" Well, out with it, my man ? "

" I wonder whether Mr. Francis would
undertake a girl's education."

" Who is Mr. Francis ? "

" The best and cleverest man in the
whole world. He was my tutor, — but
don't fancy that you can judge of what he
is by what I am. He is a man whom Eliza-
beth would learn to love and to obey, before

he had been a week in the house; and she
is just the sort of character that would in-
terest him. The only thing is, he has
never had any thing to do with girls."

" So much the better for Lizzie. She
likes being treated like a boy," laughed
Cousin John. " Upon my life, Osmund, I
think your idea a very good one. A tutor
never occurred to Humphrey or me; but,
if we could really find such a man as you
describe, nothing could be better."

I sat down, and wrote to Mr. Francis, at
St. Omer; and six o'clock found me at the
old house in Chesne Walk.

CHAPTER XXVH.

I WAS ushered into a long sitting-room
up stairs, overlooking the river. The ceil-
ing was richly ornamented in plaster, after
the fashion of Queen Anne's day ; on the
walls were some fine old engravings, from
Hogarth ; the floor, of polished oak, had no
car|)et. The two old gentlemen were on a
hard, thin-legged settee at the farther ex-
tremity of the apartment, earnestly dis-
cussing some matter, evidently of interest
to both. At the other end of the room, on
one of the window-seats, which were raised
a step, so as to command a better view of
the river fi'om the high narrow windows,
sat Elizabeth, w-ith a book in her lap ; but
I rather think she had been watching for
me, and not reading her book. Her face
was beaming with smiles ; and she ran up to
me, as I entered, with a naturalness, an ab-
sence oi' 'retenue, which no schoolmistress
had been able to spoil.

I must not be unjust to the school-mis-
tresses, however. They had done much
for her. She had been a singularly awk-
ward child fifteen months ago, — angular in
her movements, and slouching in her car-
riage. She was now erect, well-grown,
free and firm in her walk, and, though not
absolutely graceful, fiir from being conspic-
uously the reverse. Grace has more to do
with the mind than the body ; and it did
not belong to my cousin's character : but
the education of the body, like that of the
mind, had develo])ed, and strengthened,
and balanced it. Her face, by force of its
great intelligence, could no longer be called
ugly, — scarcely even plain, I think; the
mouth was so full of play, the eyes so full
of light, the whole movement of the fea-
tui'es so spontaneous. How many a hand-
some mask is spoiled by the absence of
this latter charm, beautiful in repose, dis-
cordant when animated ! Elizabeth's face,
on the contrary, could never be judged
properly until she spoke. To the passer-

PENRUDDOCKE.

bv in the street it had no beauty to recom-
iiierid it : few who knew her could fail to
think it interesting;. Iler looks, like her
nioveuients and like her mind, Hashed with
the rapidity of liihtning, — twenty differ-
ent fleams of expression in a minute, when
she was really excited ; and the eyes never
contradicted the mouth, nor the mouth the
words to which it gave utterance. 'J'hcre
■was a completeness about the girl's nature,
which, in these days of half and halfness,
was very uncommon.

She wore a brown hoUand dress, with a
leatlicr belt round her waist ; her red hair,
which was not long, was brushed back
froin her full, wide brow. Nothing could
be more simple than her attire; ; but (I
noted with pleasure) every thing about her
was scrupulously clean, forming, in this
respect again, an advantageous contrast to
her a])pearance when we last met.

'' Cousin Osmund, I am very glad to see
you again ! " slie exclaimed, grasping my
Land. " It seems about a hundred years
since that time at Ghent."

" How old and wise you must have be-
come ! " I said, laughing. '• Well, I am
delighted to see you, Elizabeth" — and
then, before adding any thing more, I
turned to my old host. He held out his
hand with a friendly word and a nod.

He was not a man who dealt in exagger-
ated phrases at any time ; but I believe he
was glad to see me there : and it needed
no acute perception to tell that the pres-
ence of John and Elizabeth — especially
the latter — made the old fellow really
happy. He did not talk much : he left
that chiefly to us ; but he threw out a dry
little joke every now and again ; chuckled
quietly at some of the girl's strange, unex-
pected sayings ; and once I observed him
stroke her hand, as it lay near his on the
table. But it was chiefly the softened
expression of his face which indicated its
owner's satisfiiction. He had had little to
care for in his long life : he had found a
living interest in his old age.

The neat, antitjuated parlor-maid an-
nounced dinner; Cousin Humphrey cere-
moniously oH'ered his arm to Elizabeth,
who looked as if she did not exactly know
how to hook on to it, or any thing else that
interfered with her perfect independence
of movement ; and we descended to an oak-
wainscoted room at the back of the house,
looking on to a greenery, erst a trim-bor-
dered garden, no doubt, now a pleasant
wilderness of shrubs, over-shadowed by lar-
ger trees. The arrangement of the table,
and the repast, were in harmony with the
hotise and its master : none of your new-fan-
gled arrangements of dessert and flowers;
a silver cruet-stand in the centre ; two full-

stomached decanters, wearing silver neck-
laces, labelled '-Port" and "Madeira," at
oj)posite angles ; our foo<l before us, in
handsome old Nankin dishes; and then,
when it was despatched, the cloth removed,
and the mahogany revealed, black with age,
and bright with daily rubbing, so that
fruit, glass, and china stood reflected like
so many dazzling islands on a brown lake.

" Did you make many li-iends at Mad-
emoiselle Pla^ant's, Elizabeth ? " I asked.

" No, I hate girls : they're all mean ! "

" Come, that is sweeping. Whv, what
did they do V "

"Tell tales, listen at keyholes, blab to
mademoiselle, — every thing that is horrid.
If I tried to get over the fr u'den wall, one
of them was sure to go and peach. My
only friends were the Abbe and the gar-
dener."

" The gardener ! What was he like ? "

" Well, he never tohl. If I stole the
apples " —

" Come, now, I call tJial mean. Stealing
apples I "

" It would have been, if they'd given us
enough to eat ; but they didn't. I consid-
ered it quite fair that I should get all I
could, when I knew dad was paying such
a sum for my food."

" And so you liked the gardener because
he let you steal the apples ? "

Humphrey smiled; Elizabeth frowned,
and then laughed.

" He was very kind to me : that is why
I liked him. He used to tell me in which
trees the birds' nests were, and I used to
climb up and get them. Then he let me
keep my rabbit in a corner of the garden,
and gave me lettuce and things " —

" Mademoiselle Pla9ant's lettuces," I
struck in, — " what generosity ! "

" So, on the Jour de I'An," continued
Elizabath, heedless of the interruption, " I
bought him a beautiful china pipe, with a
red-cheeked lady on it — for we were al-
lowed to go out, just once, to buy elrennes,
— and, after that, he let me do just what I
liked."

" And those are your conditions for
friendships, Miss Lizzie ? " said Humphrey,
with an amused twinkh- of the eye.

" N — no. Cousin Humphrey, not exactly.
If I respect any one's will — not merely
their authority ; but, if I can feel that any
one is really my master, I don't mind obey-
ing. 1 think I had rather, than have it all
my own way."

" And pray, did you respect the Abbe's
will V " I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders.
" Partly, Vnd partly not. He was a dirty,
little old man, who spilt his snulf all over
his book ; but he was very clever — 1 re-

PEXRUDDOCKE,

spected tliat, you sec ; and he was amus-
ing, particularly when lie was in a rage.
He was very often in a rasje with me ; and
vet I know lie liked me better than all the
other !j;irls."

'• You weren't behind the door, Liz, when
a good opinion of yourself was served out,"
laughed John, shaking his head.

" 1 don't know abuut that, dad. I only
say what is true."

" That is right," muttered Humphrey.
" I hate mock modesty."

" You took to learning, then, after all,
Elizabelh, more kindly than you thought
you should," I said.

" Yes : I liked some things. I liked his-
tor}'. Cousin O.-^mund ; you were quite
riuht, and I didn't mind French and mathe-
matics. I hated music, — in I'act, I never
did any thing, and gave it up at last. They
saw it was no use."

" Ah ! that was a i:)ity, lass," said her
father. " I like to hear a woman play a
choone. Your poor mother could play any
choone almost 1 asked for, — beautiful it
was ! "

" Well, dear dad," cried the girl, lean-
ing over towards him, and putting both
bands caressingly round the arm that was
near her, " if it is to please you, I'll try
again; but I've no talent, — I shall never
play fit to listen to. You can't make me
an accomjjlished woman, like mother,
dad."

" Try and be as good a one, my Liz, and
I shall be satisfied." John sighed, and
kissed her forehead. And Humphrey, who
never wasted his powder, here fired a shot
opportunely in another direction, which di-
verted the thoughts of fiither and child from
sorrowful memories.

'• Can you do a rule-of-three sum in your
bead, j\Iiss Lizzie ? If twelve hogsheads
of hwv cost " —

•' Oh ! please, don't. Cousin Humphrey.
This is holiday-time, remember."

" There is no holiday from pounds, shil-
lings, and pence, I am sOrry to say, in this
■world. As you say you cannot be an ac-
com[)lished woman, you must be a woman
of business, Elizabeth."

" No, I mean to be a woman of pleas-
ure."

This innocent speech nearly choked me
in the effort not to laugh, which I would
not have done for tlu; world. I did not
dare look at the two old men ; but John
said at once, with the most perfect simpli-
city, —

" You mustn't use that expression, Liz-
zie. It means something bad, — something
quite diflferent from what you wanted to
say, my lass — remember that."

Elizabeth stared at her father, and her

cheek flushed ; and then she looked down
at the doyley, and presently up into my
face, startled, angry, and curious.

Humphrey came again to the rescue.

" About this tutor, Mr. Osmund, whom
you spoke to John of this morning, what
age is he ? "

" I don't think I can tell you, — past
forty, nearer fifty, perhaps. He is a sort
of man whose age one never thinks about.
One respects him like a father, — one loves
him like a boy."

" Was he your tutor, Cousin Osmund ? "
asked Elizabeth eagerly. " And did you
i-eally love him V "

'• Indeed I did ; and if you are lucky
enough to get him, Elizabeth, so will
you."

" The only demur in my mind," said
Humphrey, '' is whether little miss here
may not be at a disadvantage, brought up
entirely among elderly men. Now, as
Mrs. Nonsuch's Academy at Chelsea, hard
by" —

" No, dear Cousin Humphrey, no. Don't
persuade dad to send me there. I know I
should hate it worse than Pla9ant's. Let
me have Osmund's tutor. I can get on so
much better with a man."

" All, that's where it is 1 " said John,
shaking his head, yet unable to repress a
fond smile at his daughter. " You want to
be more feminine, Liz "

" I am so sorry, dad," replied Eliazbeth,
looking quite penitent ; " but going to a
girls' academy won't make me any better.
On the contrary, in my disgust at all their
nasty, petty ways, I — I'm afraid I try to
be as little like a girl as I (!an."

We all laughed ; and Humphrey pro-
posed that we should take a turn on the
mall, and have a pipe. Elizabeth fetched
her hat ; the two elders strolled on, I and
my young cousin followed.

'• This is to be your home, now, then ? "
I said to her.

" Yes : Cousin Humphrey wishes us to
live with him ; and, if we we to be in town,
I had sooner it was here than anywhere.
I mean to have a boat, and row in the sum-
mer."

" Prav can you seiv as well as row, Eliza-
beth ? ""

" Sew ? Well, I can put on a button, or
cobble up my glove. I can't do much be-
yond that."

I said nothing ; and, after a minute's
pause, she went on, —

" I know what you're thinking, — what
a useless creature I shall be when I grow*
up ! Do you think people can change
themselves? I know I would if I could."

"Would you? Why? You wouldn't
be ha])pier than you are, — very independ-

PENRUDDOCKE.

cnt, and indifferent to what people think ;
which is the next thing to contentment, I
fancy."

" You are wrong," said she, fixing her
clear eyes upon me for a second, " I am not
at all indifferent to what some people think
of me. I know dad is right, — men hate a
mannish woman."

'" Dad did not say that."

" Oh ! but he meant it, — meant it with-
out knowing it: do you understand? I
know dear old dad's thoughts better than
lie does himself; and I am afraid he is
right. Of course no man ever really loved
tiiat glorious, terrible old queen, my name-
sake." ,

" Come, you have been studying history,
I see, though not the latest lights, or your
entliu-iiasm would not permit you to use the
word ' terrible.' After all, if you come to
' what people think,' though no one indi-
vidual may have loved her, the country at
large certainly did."

" I should not care about the country at
large. I cai-e for individuals Cousin
Osmund, I want to ask you about your
life. You have made me tell you all about
mine, and you have told me nothing in re-
turn."

'• There is very little to tell, — military
duty, and London society — hot field-days,
and hotter balls at night, — that is the sort
of work I have been at for some months
past."

" Then you haven't been fighting yet ? "

" No, my dear child : there's nobody to
fight."

" Don't call me ' child ; ' I am very near-
ly sixteen. How can men in the army
distinguish themselves now ? "

"Ah! that is the question. If there, is
fighting in India, by andby, when I have
got my company, I shall exchange out
there ; till then, there is only one thing to
be done."

" AVhat is that ? "

" My duty. There isn't much distinc-
tion to be gained in it : but Mr. Francis
will tell you it pays in the Ion':; run : and I

1 1 • ^ • T ' •

uulieve nun. 1 am not going to prose,
however. You're sharp enough to know
all that, and much more. I say, what a
brick old Cousin Humphrey is ! I am still
just a little afraid of him ; but I feel that I
couhl really love him if I knew him better."

" Afraid ? /'?n not a bit afraid of him.
He'll do any thing I ask him. Cousin Os-
mund, you must love him ; for he likes you
— I heard him say so."

" I am glad of it; but he knows nothing
of me. And ' — I stopped short. I was
goin^f to allude to the great family division,
in wliirh Humphrey had taken so prominent
a part ; but it was to me so painful and hu- 1
6

miliating a subject that I could not Itring
myself to speak of it, even in vague terms,
to Elizabeth. She was too acute, I think,
not to guess the cause of my sudden silence.
She said nothing; and almost at the same
moment John and Hum;)hrey approached,
the former leaning heavily on the latter
for support. I could not see his face ; but I
felt sure, from the attitude, he was suffer-
ing. Elizabeth flew to the other side of
her father.

" John has had one of his attacks," said
Humphrey, " and I must get him back to
the house."

Without saying a word, Elizabeth
dashed across the road, regardless of a
hansom which was coming down on her at
the rate of twelve miles an hour. AVe were
some fifty yards from the house ; but, in less
time almost than it takes to tell, the girl
had flown there and back, bearing a phial
in her hand. We had, as yet, advanced
only a few paces ; our progress was slow,
the suffering man, supported by Humphrey
and me, being unable to walk but with
difficulty. Elizabeth put the phial to his
lips : it was evident that she was used to
these attacks, and knew how they were to
be treated. John stood still, breathed
once or twice heavily, then said, in a low
voice, —

" Thank'ee, lassie, I can get on now."

The girl's tender solicitude was touch-
ing. I, of course, resigned my place at her
father's side to her ; thenceforward she had
not a thought for anybody else. During
the whole way home she did not utter a
word ; but one hand held his, while the
other was around his arm. Her eyes were
fixed upon his fiice ; and he looked down
every now and then at her, and smiled.

When we reached the house, as I could
be of no more use, I felt it was best to Ijid
Humphi'ey good-night. He took my hand,
— we were standing on the doorstep, tiie
others had gone in, — and he murmured,
between compressed lips, —

" A bad case, I fear, Osmund Penrud-
docke. He has a fatal disease, and he
knows it. He mkiht have lingered for
years; but anxiety and disappointment are
hastening the end."

I turned away, silent and saddened.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Three days later, Mr. Francis answered
my letter in person. He walked into my
room, early in the morning, having just
landed lr(;m the Antwerp boat.

" I was coming home, at any rate ; and
your proposition only determined ine to

PENRUDDOCKE,

return at once. You nnderstanrl, Osmund,
that loving you as I do, and knoiving all I
do, there is nothing I should like better
than to be of use to this girl, if I can. I
am interested about her and her father;
and if I think I can be of service to them,
depend on it I v?ill not refuse. But I must
see her first. You know my views on tiiis
subject : I must have a talk with the child
before I decide."

The result of his visit to Cheyne Walk
that afternoon may be told in a few words.
My three cousins, after their several fash-
ions, were fovorablj' impressed by Mr.
Francis ; and he liked what he saw of them
enough to accede to Humphrey's proposi-
tion, that he should enter the fxmily as
Elizabeth's tutor, on a month's trial.
Humphrey named the salary, which was a
liberal one, and made every arrangement :
John left it all to him. Mr. Francis, as he
told me, was interested in Elizabeth, but
did not feel at all sure that she had not
been so much spoilt as to render her quite
unmanageable. " I am well pleased,
therefore, that there should be a probation-
ary trial on both sides. If the girl takes to
me — if I feel that I can gain in time an
influence over her, and that the two old
men's fondness does not entirely neutralize
any good results I may hope to effect, then
I will stay : not otherwise."

All that autumn, John's health was
gradually failing. He had frequent attacks
similar to the one I had witnessed ; and
each one seemed to leave him more feeble
than before. The decline of a strono; man,
— the falling away of the massive lines,
the loss of strength in the once powerful
limbs — is a sad spectacle. To watch the
gradual decay of any living thing is pain-
ful ; doubly so of a human being, not long
past the prime of life, a grand oak-like
frame, eminently fitted for its work. We
feel as if these giants auiong men ought to
lie down to their rest in the plentitude of
stren'j;tli, or else in the ripe fulness of age,
not wither branch by branch, as it were,
and linger on the bed of sickness, which is
no unfitting prelude to the last great
change in weaker mortals. And yet how
" of the eartii, earthy " is all this ! Little
recks John now that he stood six-foot two
upon this earth, where he had lived but
fifty-eight years. And he would not have
given up those last months of suffering, if
he could. They were sweetened to him by
the knowledge that his child was well and
wisely cared for.

But it did not appear to me that Eliza-
beth herself, though full of solicitude for
her " dad," had any perception of his real
condition. Humphrey and Mr. Francis,
howevei", were both fully aware of it.

I used to walk down to Chelsea three or
four times a week, and generally staid to
dinner. Before the month was out, Mr.
Francis and Elizabeth Avere staunch friends.
He told me that he found no difficulty
whatever in making her work, nor in exact-
ing implicit obedience from his pupil.
Though fear was foreign to her nature, she
mij,ht — for want of a better term — be
said to be afraid of her tutor. Certainly
she stood in far greater awe of the gentle-
voiced Francis than she did of sharp, taci-
turn old Humphrey. For her father she
had the tenderest love ; for her guardian-
cousin, a strong affection, in whicii grati-
tude, and the supremacy which a young
creature sometimes feels she possesses over
an olil man, formed part; but to Mr.
Francis she looked up with the admiration
which force of intellect and quiet strength
combined were sure to inspire in a girl
peculiarly constituted like Elizabeth, Far
from rendering her more masculine, in
manner and freedom of speech at least, I
observed a gradual softening in her from
the beginning of Mr. Francis's tutorship.
Not that she ever could become like most
other girls of her age, nor would Mr.
Francis have wished it ; he had too much
respect for individuality to have sought to
destroy it in his pupil. But that change
which the best kind of education — con-
tact with a noble, cultivated mind — pro-
duces, began to be apparent. Francis was
every inch a man ; and he was gentle as a
child : the influence of his manner made
itself felt on Elizabeth. She was as in-
independent in her thoughts and opinions,
as averse from feminine employments, as
ever ; but she was less brusk, much more
silent and reflective at times ; and though,
at others, her spirits were still high, she
was less vehement and impatient in her
discussion.

I had always liked Elizabeth, and, owing
to our constant intercourse at this time, I
became really fond of my cousin. She
interested and entertained me beyond
measure : I found true pleasure in the
society of this perfect child of nature, after
ihe conventionalities of fashionable life ;
but the idea of love in connection with hL-r,
I can honestly say, never so much as oc-
curred to me. I remember often contrast-
ing her mentally with Evelyn (her cousin
as well as mine), and wondering how any
two creatures cast in the same mould, of the
same sex, of nearly the same age, could be
so utterly different. There was not one
point of similarity : they had scarcely a
thought or a feeling in common. And I
used to say to myself, " My Evelyn is of the
stuff that wives should be made, — sweet,
lovable, womanly ; Elizabeth will be a

PENRUDDOCKE.

man's hon camarade tlirouc^h life, and never
re(]nirc any thing more."

llow mistaken I was ! Imt I did not know
it then ; I little gnessed the mischief that
my eonstant presence was working. Oth-
ers saw it, however, and, strange to say
(proving how the shrewdest and wisest
may be deceived), entirely misconstrued
the real staie of the ease. I can now look
back upon the circumstances dispassion-
atel}' ; and this will, perhaps, be the fittest
place to relate what only came to my
knowledge some months after the time to
which I am referring.

That Humphrey should believe that my
attachment to Elizabeth was of more th in
a cousinly nature was easily to be under-
stood. In the Hrst place, he knew notiiing
on earth at)out love ; he had got to hke me,
to think well of me, to waive his |n-cjii(lices
against my birth, and to entertain, with a
certain satisfaction, the idea of a union be-
tween the two branches of the family.
There was not much of reparation in it to
the wronged iiciress, of course ; for he knew
exactly the limits of my income ; but he
also was aware that I had refused to accept
any portion of the Penruddocke moneij left to
me hij inij father, — a fact to winch he more
than once referred with pleasure in conver-
sation wida me. And as to Elizabeth, she
would inherit; all his savings, which were
considerable, so that she would not want
for money.

Very soon after John's first taking up
his residence at Humphrey's, it seems that
the possibility of such a union occurred to
both the cousins, and neither was inclined
to discourage it. I was very young; Eliz-
abeth was but a child. It might end in
nothing ; but if we became seriouslj^ at-
tached, did not the prospect hold out a fair
share of happiness for the girl ? John
knew his child better than any one ; he saw
more than any one saw of the state of her
heart. Unhappily, his perceptions were
not equally acute as regarded myself. The
two old cousins often talked it over, I believe,
before John's death ; and they agreed that
the interest I had shown in Elizabeth's edu-
cation from the first, the pleasure I evidently
found in coming to the house, and in pass-
ing hours in the girl's society, and that of
three elderly men, all indicated a nascent
love, which it only required time to de-
velop.

I'liat Humphrey and John, then, should
deceive themselves in this matter, I rejjcat,
was not surprising ; but that ]\Ir. Francis —
wise, deep-sighted Fi'ancis — should have
been under the same delusion, is still an
inexplicable mystery to me. Had he not
been so deluded, his sense of dutj^, which
never suffered any compromise, would have

stopped the mischief at the very beginnino-.
He would have bidden me desist from inv
frequent visits, and not trouble the peace
of that house; l)ut, like the two Penrud-
dockes, hope blinded him to the truth.
The interest he felt in his pupil strength-
ened <laily; he often expressed to me his
amazement, notonly at her facility in learn-
ing, but at the vigor of her intellect, grasp-
ing a difficult subject in all its details, and
often bringing acute observation to bear tm
it. Penetrated as he was, then, with ad-
miration for tlie girl's abilities, and with
the conviction that what was noble in her
had but to be fostered to render her a fine
character, he hailed the signs (as he
thought) of my growing attachment. He
looked upon my love for Evelyn as a boy-
ish fancy belonging to the ])ast. He knew
that there was no comnnmication between
us, direct or indirect ; he knew that she
had not a farthing, — that a marriage be-
tween us, under existing circumstances,
would be absolute penury, which Mrs.
Hanileigh would never hear of. And, over
and above all this, Evelyn was so immeas-
urably inferior, in his eyes, to Elizabeth,
that he regarded the transfer of my affec-
tions to the latter as a natural and com-
mendable infidelity. Excellent and un-
worldly man as he was, too, the flxct that
Elizabeth would have a very comfortable
fijrtune could not be left out of cunsidei-a-
tion in looking at my iuture. That any
tiiought, any hope, beyond this, entered
into his calculations, I will not affirm. He
had my welfare, temporal and spiritual,
warmly at heart, as I knew well ; but he
was too wise ever to press religious ques-
tions upon me, lor which I had no taste.
It was liardly possible, in their close daily
communion, but that points connected wiiii
the distinctive dogmas of the Church of
Rome should arise. I was present more
than once when Mr. Francis discussed
these in a large and liberal spiiit. He
never hesitated to admit the corru|)t prac-
tices which had grown up in that branch of
the Catholic Church. " But," as I heard
him once express it, " though olu- Mother
may have faults, we believe in her truth.
Her arms are ever opened to us, and we
cast our burdens there. There are men
who feel strong enough to bear their own
burdens. Our Church is not for tlicin.
They may belong to it in form, but their
heart is not in it. Only those who feel the
need of self-renunciation should enter its
doors."

Tlie prospect of conversion, I maintain,
never [(resented itself to Francis's mind.
He had always avoided such ([uestions at
Beaumanoir, and it was only when una-
voidably driven to discuss them with Eliz-

PENRUDDOCKE.

abetb that he did so ; but I do think it pos-
sible that the joyful hope of seeiiicr ns both
brought by conviction to embrace bis faith
mai) have occurred to him. I emphasize
this wonl, for I i'eel uo certainty about it.
But in pondering over my dear old tutor's
delusion about me, long afterwards, I found
some ground for the assumption that he
had indulged in such a day-dream.

One evening an incident occurred which
exercised me much for some days. I had
heard from ^Madame d'Arnheim that morn-
ing ; she was alone, staying with her friend,
the Grand-Duchess of Bodensee, to whom
she had been " Hofdame " before her mar-
riage ; and d'Arnheim was gone to Vienna
and IIunLrarv, where fixmilv business would
detain him some little time. They were
not to return to England till December.

I was with a brother-oflicer at the Strand
Theatre, when our attention was attracted
by a singularly handsome woman in a
siage-box. She was evidently not alone,
but lier companion remained at the back
of the box the whole night. At the first
move she made to leave the theatre, my
friend rushed from the stalls, and followed
her. I was only in time to catch a glimpse
of the man's face who was with the lady,
as they stepped into a bi'ougham, and drove
off. It was D'Arnheim.

None of the corps diplomntique whom I
asked knew of his being in London ; and, as
it was no concern of mine, I remained si-
lent as to having seen him. My brother-
ofiicer, however, whose admiration for and
curiosity respecting the lady were more
ardent than mine, took some pains to dis-
cover who she was. lie saw her, the week
following, in a brougham; jumped into a
lianson, and followed her to Emanuel's.

One of the shopmen he knew informed
him she was an Hungarian countess, over in
England for a few days only. A gentle-
man with her had bought a diamond
bracelet, into which she had now brought
bis photograph to be inserted. I could not
join in my friend's laui:h when he told
me he had seen it, and that it was D'Arn-
heim'?. His wife was not one of the compla-
cent kind, who treat these things lightly.
She suH'ered enough as it was. If it should
come to her knowledge that her husband
had not only lied to her, but had outraged
all decency in coming over to England
with this woman at the time when his wile
believed him to be in Vienna, it would be
a bitter aggravation to her troubles.

It was towards the end of the autumn that
I had a conversation with our old butler,
wdiich first opened my eyes to the extent
to which idle gossip had been carried about
me.

Sparshott had come to London, with my

mother's leave, for a day, upon business,
and Avould not return to Beaumanoir with-
out seeing me. After the conventional
inquiries ihv my "nearest relatives, I said, —

" You gave my letter to Miss Evelyn
last sprinir, that I sent under cover to you,
Sparshott"? "

"Yes, ]\Ir. Osmund; but you mustn't
send me no more. I don't know as I was
altocrether right, — unbeknownst to her
mother."

" All right. Are they at Beaumanoir
now ? "

" Xo : they went home a fortnight ago.
Miss Evelyn's that growed you wouldn't
know her, — a fine young lady as ever I
saw."

" Is my name ever mentioned at home,
Sparshott V "

" Y — yes, Mr. Osmund ; sometimes."

" Do my mother and ]Mrs. Ilamleigh
ever talk about me ? "

" Y^es," returned the old man, after a
little hesitation. Then he looked up at the
cornice and at the window-curtains, —
anywhere but into my face.

" Well, Sparshott ? Come, out with it,
— what do they say ? "

" Mr. Osmund, I've known you since
vou was in arms. If I miGrht give vou a
bit of advice," —

" Go ahead."

" It is that you should come home, if you
can, for a bit. I know that you and my
lady ain't altogether just as you might be
together ; but, after your running away that
time, Mr. Osmund, if my lady did say
any thing hard, why, it's best to let by-
gones be by-gones. if you never go near
her, no wonder my lady believes any bad
she hears of you."

" Some by-gones can't be by-gones ; but
what makes you say that my mother be-
lieves ' any bad ' of me ? " •

He hesitated.

" I don"t know as I ought to. Servants
has no business, — and besides it's more
Irom putting two and two together. Mrs.
Hamleigh has dropped things, now and
then, as I couldn't help thinking was
meant for you."

'• What did she say ? Try to remem-
ber, — there's a good old chap."

" I come into the dining-room one morn-
ing, last July, just after the letter-bag was
opened. My lady and Mrs. Hamleigh was
alone. ]\Irs. Hamleigh was I'eadinsr a let-
ter from, — I mind me the name, cause I
knew it once, — Mrs. Hawksley. There
was sometiiing about a ' scandalous connec-
tion ' and ' a gambling brawl ; ' and then
Mrs. Hamleigh laid down the letter, and
said, ' What awful depravity in one so
young 1 ' I don't know as I should have

PENRUDDOCKE.

tliou2;lit more of it, but for seeing Miss
Evelyn crying that afternoon."

" You saw her crying ? Yes, — well ?
— go on." *

'' That was on Saturday : the next flay,
curious enough, we had ' the Prodigal Son '
in church, for second lesson. I saw the
tenrs a-rolling down Miss Evelyn's face,
under her veil. I made no doubt then,
Mr. Osmund, as what I'd heard related to
you."

Nor had I any doubt, though I did not
tell Sparshott so. 1 asked whether Miss
Hamieigh's spirits had seemed affected
after this.

" Yes, Mr. Osmund. She is not like the
same young lady she was in the spring, —
seems so dull and quiet like. It's that
makes me say you should come home for a
bit : it'd do them all good, that it would."

" I can't, Sparshott : it is no use talking
of it."

" Well, it's a pity, Mr. Osmund : that's all
I can say. A young gentleman may get
into a scrape, and no great harm perhaps;
but if he bides away, and tales get exagger-
ated, why, it plays the very deuce with him,
that's what I say."

" If they choose to believe evil of me, they
must ; but, by Jove ! it is too bad, without
one ])article of proof ! "

The old man and I had a good deal more
conversation ; but the gist of it is here.

I was much annoyed ; and the worst of
it was, I did not see well what I could do.
To write to my mother, and betray what
I had heard, was impossible. However
darkly I might veil the communication, she
could not iail to detect that it had reached
me through Sparshott ; aud I knew he would
be discharged at once. The tittle-tattle of
servants was one of those things she always
said, in her mild way, she never would tol-
erate. Moreover, no good would be done.
She would deny that the old butler's infer-
ences from what he had picked up were
correct ; or else she would decline discuss-
ing the point at all, and show me, by her
angelic tone of toleration and maternal sor-
row, that she remained unshaken in her be-
lief about me, whatever that might be. It
was as if I had received the letter, I felt
so sure what I might expect.

At the end of three days, I suddenly made
up my mind what I would do. Though I
had vowed not to enter the doors of Beau-
manoir again, there was nothing to prevent
my running down to Mrs. Hamieigh's in the
New Forest ; except the fact that I should
be ])ariiculiirly unwelcome to the mistress
of the house. That, however, was a second-
ary consideration. Taken unawares, Mrs.
Hainlei.rh, I thought, could lianlly prevent
my seeing Evelyn. One word with her was

all I wanted. If the mother attacked me,
so much the better. I asked for nothing
but to have an opportunity of meeting any
anonymous slander against my character.

I obtained leave from parade the follow-
ing day, and left Waterloo by the eight,
A M., train for the New Forest.

CHAPTER XXIX.

It was a gokh i autumn morning. The
sunset of the year, as of the day, illuminates
all objects in nature with a richer and more
mellow li2;ht. The burninor brilliancy of
noon among the flagrant greens of midsum-
mer is harsh and monotonous ; the evening
glory, tremulous through the mist of the
gathering annual twilight, plays with infi-
nite variety through the thinned silver
branches of the beech, the brown, burnt-up
ferns at its feet, the silent rain of yellow
leaves, falling without a flutter through the
still, blue, misty air.

My three-miles walk through the forest,
from the station, I keenly enjoyed, though —
it seems a contradiction — my thoughts
were engrossed with matters foreign to the
silvan scene. But, ardent lover as I always
was of the country, after my long im-
prisonment in London, the perfect stillness,
unbroken save by a woodpeckei', the sweet
smell of fallen leaves, the divine sense of
liberty and repose in those deep woodland
hollows, winding away to right and left of
the main road, filled me, almost uncon-
sciously, with a delight to which I had long
been a stranger.

The village clock was striking twelve as
I lifted the latch of Mrs. Hamieigh's gate,
and walked up the gravel circle to tlie door,
which, like many of the doors in this prim-
itive district, was wide open. There stood
the old oak up which I had climbed that
memorable night, and, over against it, my
darling's window, with its box of mignon-
ette, now running to seed, on the ledge,
and embowered by the scarlet leaves of the
Virginian creeper which covered this side
of tlie cottage, and even sent its tendrils
over the rich brown tiles of the olil roof.

I hesitated whether to enter unannounced,
but I decided against this course. A
woman who was a stranger to me answered
the bell ; and, on my incjuiring for Mrs.
Ilamleigh, said she believed her mistress
was at home. I felt my heart come into
my mouth as I followed her. I believe it
is a nustake to think that men are not, mor-
ally, as nervous as women, very (jften. I
was going to sec my darling at last, and I
never doubted how her heart would meet
me, even if her manner should be constrain-

PENRUDDOCKE.

eil ; 1>nt T must also see lier mother; and
how much miijlit depend upon this inter-
view ! I was in some measure on my own
deience (never a very airreeable position).
I should probably have to listen to a jxood
deal tliat would try my patience ; and the
■worst of it was, in one direction, my tongue
■was tied.

The maid took my name, and I was shown
into the (h'awini:j-room. It was empty, and
I was left, alone here for at least a quarter
of an hour, at which my impatient spirit
chafed. There stood her open piano, with
an (I'mle of Heller's on the desk ; there her
workbox, with tlie neeille in the piece of
muslin, just as slie had left it ; on another
table, lier dear little s-arden-gloves and scis-
sors, with some heliotrope and a rose or
two, the last spoil of the garden, now ahnost
flowerless, upon which the wide-open win-
dow looked. I stole a rose, and did not
])ut it in my button-hole, but treasured it
next to my heart ; for I knew my darling's
hand had plucked it this very morning. I
have that rose still. Its cream-colored
leaves are brown and shrivelled^ like an old
man's cheeks ; no vestige of scent is left ;
but it lies in the secret drawer of my desk,
among the precious relics of " a day that
is dead."

Among the books upon the table — I
turned them all over, a volume of travels,
horribly instructive, some religious novels,
and an emasculated edition of Shakspeare
— I came, to my surprise, upon a miniature
edition of Victor Hugo's poems. Glancing
at the title-page, I found it was a present to
Evelyn " de la part de sa tres aflectionnee
Cecile Gretry," — a French music-mistress,
who, I now remembered, came here every
year for six weeks, in her summer holidays,
to give Evel}n lessons. Mrs. Ilamleigh, I
should think, had never looked into the
book. Slu! was not strong at poetry, nor,
indeed, at French either. But Evelyn, who
had had a Swiss governess at one time,
spoke it with facility ; and, as I turned over
the pages, I saw by the pencil-marks that
some, at least, of these poems had been
read, and i-e-read, with all a girl's enthusi-
astic admiration. The one at which the
book seemed naturally to open, and which
was more scored, be-crossed, and underlined
than any other, was that beginning, " Es-
]>ere, enfant, demain." It was new to me ;
and, as I read it, it seemed as if I were
placing my hand upon the heart of the dear
child, and could understand the applica-
tion which she had given to that second
verse.

"Nos fautes, mon pauvrc ange, out causees nos
soull'rances,
Peutt'tre qu'en rcstant bien long temps a genoux,
Quand il aura borii toutes lose innocences,
Paid tous les repeutirs, Dieu linira par nous."

I had just finished reading this for the
second time, when the door opened, and
Mrs. Hamleigh entered, grinniu'j; as usual ;
but then it is true tlrat she could not open
her month without producing this effect,
however far off her soul was from merri-
ment. It was partly a constructive, partly
a spasmodic peculiarity ; whenever she was
nervous, or had any disagreeable business
on hand, she grinned worse than ever.

" You are surprised to see me, Mrs. Ham-
leigh ? "

'•I — I am indeed surprised, Osmund. I
had no idea you were in — in this part of
the country. Have you — come from
Beauraanolr ? "

" No, I am come down from London, ex-
pressly to see you and Evelyn, and go back
again."

The boldness of this avowal seemed to
stagger Mrs. Hamleigh. She coughed, and
repeated, after her wont, —

" Back again ? Oh ! won't you sit down ?
Perhaps you — you would take something —
after your journey ? "

" Thank you. 1*11 wait till you go to
luncheon."

"Luncheon? I — I a:n sorry to say I
am going out to luncheon — an engage-
ment " — Here she coughed again, and
leant one haiul upon the table.

" And is Evelyn going out too ? " g^

" Oh ! she — she is out. I am sorry —
very sorry."

" Come, Mrs. Hamleigh, no humbug.
She is at home, and you don't choose me to
see her. Why don't you say so honestly ? "

"I — I am very sorry, Osmund. I had
rather not say anything unpleasant. It is
very painful to me — very painful indeed.
You are placing me in a most — most dis-
tressing position. My duty to my child
compels me to treat you thus. It is really
unkinil — very unkind of you to — force
yourself u])on us in this way. If you had
any right feeling, you would feel that —
yes, feel that."

" Will you tell me what I have done to
deserve this treatment ? " I asked, with
concentrated anger.

" Deserve this treatment ? Oh ! you
know as well as I. Your life in London —
I — I really blush to allude to it — has
been such as to unfit you, even in your own
eyes, from returning to the pure atmosphere
of your angelic mother's home ! How can
you expect that I can permit Evelyn to be
contaminated by your society? It is very,
very sad I Having known you ever since
you were born, I " —

" Stop, Mrs. Ilandeigh. You have known
me ever since I was born ; and you never
knew me tell a lie. I expect you to be-
lieve me, therefore, when I say that ray

PENEUDDOCKE.

refiisina; to return to Bcaumanoir has been
the result of no conduct of mine. I will
never set foot in a place to which I know
my brother has no right. That is the long
an<l short of the matter."

'• No right ? " cried Mrs. Hamleigh, grip-
ping the table nervously. " That itself is
such a shocking, wicked thing to say, after
all that your dear mother and that angel,
Ray, have gone through ! But indeed, Os-
mund, denial is useless. We know too much
fH of your life — poor Lady Rachel and I —
and — and she is quite agreed with me that
all communication between you and Evelyn
must cease henceforth — quite agreed —
quite."

" Mrs. Hamleigh, I insist upon knowing
what you have heard. I don't leave this
house until you tell me."

"Oh! it is no use — no use at all." Her
voice quivered, and her hand shook ; but she
replied very much to the point. " Of course
you would deny every thing ; but I can be
firm - — verij firm when occasion ref[uires.
It is impossible that I should let Evelyn
see you, Osmund. I am very sorry — very
sorry, indeed ; but you have brought it on
yourself"

" And you think yourself a good woman ! "
I cried, beside myself with rage. " You
believe any vile scandal you hear, rather
than me, when I give you my sacred woi'd
it is a lie ! Should I come down here to
court an explanation, if I had not a clear
conscience ? Your conduct is cruel and
unchristianly, — yours and my mother's
too, though you do say so many prayers I "

" So many prayers ? Ah ! your irreli-
gious tone, Osmund, is only what one can
expect. But it is too, too sad to hear you
speak of your angel mother in such a way !
Such an example as she has set you ! "

" V/ell, we won't talk of her. But just
listen to me, Mrs. Hamleigh. If you think
you are going to separate Evelyn and me
forever, you are mistaken. You can't pre-
vent our meeting when she comes out. I
love her, and she loves me — oh ! it is no
use your denying it, she does, and she will
not forget me — I know that."

'■ This is too bad ? Really, Osmund, this
is quite enough to show how demoralized
you have become ! There was a time when
you would not have treated a parent's au-
thority with such contempt. But Evelyn,
thank (Jod ! is a dutiful child, who would
never fly in the face of my authority —
never ! "

" Evelyn will not disobey you by writing
to me, I know, but " —

" Yes, she shall — she shall write to you,"
interrupted the agitated lady; "that you
may have no delusions ; but, understand,
I will not have her receive any letters Irom

you. If you send any, they will be returned
unopened."

" Don't be afraid. Like Ravensworth, ' I
bide my time,' Mrs. Hamleigh. I have no
fear of Evelyn's tsrning false to me : and
when she goes into the world, no one can
prevent our meeting. I am glad to know
exactly how I stand in your estimation and
mother's, — there's nothing like frankness,
depend on it."

" I am very, very sorry you came down
here," quavered Mrs. Hamleigh, in an hy-
sterical counter-treble. " It is most un-
pleasant to me to — to — to " —

" To turn out of the house the son of the
man who was your best friend 1 Well, I
should think it was. Some day, perhaps,
you will change your opinion of him, and
be sorry. Good-by ; " and seizing my hat
and stick, I strode out, without another
word.

My Parthian shot, I flattered myself, had
told. She had been under heavy obliga-
tions, as. I knew, to my father ; my mother,
though she liked Mrs. Hamleigh's flattery,
and invited her to Bcaumanoir for many
weeks at a time, would never have helped
her in the substantial way he had done ;
and this was her gratitude ! His favorite
son was treated thus, in order to curry favor
with Lady Rachel ! My blood boiled within
me. How I had been able to answer her at
all, was a marvel to myself. I glanced up
at Evelyn's window, as I reached the gate ;
but there was no sign of life there, — not
even a little hand waving a handkerchief
to me. She had probably been kept in
ignorance of my visit, or else she was sent
into some other part of the house. That
she would not have let me depart, had she
known it, without some signal, I felt sure.

Full of bitterness at heart, but never
daunted in my determination to persevere,
to win her, sooner or later, in spite of
mother and every one else, I walked back
again into the forest, broke my fast at a
little road-side inn, and caught the after-
noon up-train, which landed me at Water-
loo by six o'clock.

CHAPTER XXX.

I PASSED two miserable days. I felt there
was nothing to be done. I nmst sit down
and chafe under the knowledge of misrepr*-
sentation and injustice ; and my heart was
very bitter within me. On the third morn-
ing I received the following lines from Eve-
lyn, which, though written with restraint,
were not certainly dictated by her mother ;
indeed, I think, if that lady had seen the
letter which she permitted her child, ia

PENRUDDOCKE.

tlic plenitude of confidence, to send me, I
should never have received it : —

"Dear Osmund, — Mamma tells me
you have been down here. It is very sad
not to see you ; but our meeting just now
would be painful to us both, I think. You
will not return to your home, and they tell
me you are cjuite changed. I can scarcely
believe it; and yet I feel 7n?/seZ/' so differ-
ent from what I was two years and a half
ago, that there may be as great an altera-
tion in you. But 1 cannot think, however
wild you maybe now, that you will not
repent ; and then our meeting will be hap-
))ier than it could bo now. Oh ! dear boy.
if you love me still a little, try to be a good
man. Go home, and beg de^-r Lady
Rachel's forgiveness. I shall never see
you otherwise, I fear.

" Your affectionate cousin.

" Evelyn."

Though this brief epistle made me
wrathful, in one way, as proving how suc-
cessfully our two mothers had impregnated
my darling's mind with the belief in my
moral turpitude, the tender childlike way
in which she still clung to the hope of my
repentance, and of our meeting when my
filial iniquities were wiped away, comtbrt-
ed me beyond measure. It is true that
that which she looked for as the touchstone
of my reformation would never come to
pass ; but time would surely disprove the
truth of the allegations against me, even
though I should never play the part of the
prodigal son at Beaumanoir.

Evelyn was changed ; yes, I could per-
ceive that ; but the sweet, faithful nature
remained unimpaired, tliough, as regarded
me, the implicit confidence of childhood
had given place to a state of feeling in
which hope was largely mingled with sor-
row and anxiety. She would never desert
me, — that I felt confident of; yet she had
believed — or, at all events, had not re-
fused utterly to disbelieve — the evil she
had been told of me. And how could it
be otherwise V Loving her own mother as
she did, and reared in the blind acceptance
of all that fell from Lady Rachel as the
utterances of an oracle, could she suddenly
emancipate herself from the traditions of
her young life, and refuse to give credence
to what she was told ? Elizabeth would
have done so under like circumstances ;
but then she was cast in a different mould.
Such self-assertion would have been foreign
to Evelyn's nature. She would chug with
tlie tenacity of ivy to the wall, however
fierce the storm that beat against it ; but
slie had none of the bold, thorny character
of the aloe.

I liad not been to Chelsea for nearly a
week, — quite an unprecedented absence,
since I had acquired the liabit of going
there ; but I did not feel in spirits to cope
with Elizabeth's " cliaff," should she chance
to be in a merry humor; and so it was not
until Wednesday afternoon that I made my
way to Clieyne Walk.

It was a warm, gray autumn day ; there
seemed but little life left in any thing ; the
very current of the river appeared languid,
as I watched it from the doorstep of Cou-
sin Iliunjihrey's house. Old Anne, the
parlor-maid, who was now a great friend of
mine, came to the door. Master was in his
own den wi'itlng, she said ; poor Mr. John
was in his bed, — he had been very ill, but
was better; still the doctor ordered him to
be kept quiet ; Mr. Francis was out ; Miss
Elizabeth was in the garden, — would I iro
to her ?

Of course I went ; threading the tangled
mass of lilac-bushes and seringas, over a
moss-grown path, till I came to what had
once been a summer-house, the roof of
which hail now fallen in, and the boarded
sides were gradually droj^ping away. It
was a dreary haunt enough, but apparently
Elizabetli thought otherwise ; for here she
was, seated on a three-legged stool, leaning
her elbows on her knees, and her chin in
her hands, with a plate of chicken-bones,
parings of cheese, and fi-agraents of pud-
ding on the ground before her.

" What ou earth are you doing here,
Elizabeth ? "

She started up, and a flush came into her
cheek.

" At last ! I thought you never were
coming again. O Osmund ! I have been
so wretched, — so wretched these last few
days. Have you seen poor dad ? "

" No. I am sorry to hear from Anne
that he has been ill again ; but he is bet-
ter."

Her eyes were filled with tears ; she
looked at me steadily, with an expression I
could hardly mistake.

" Yes, he is better, or I shouldn't be here.
But he is changed, — oh ! so changed, Os-
mund. He will never be the man he was
again. He sleeps now most part of the
day ; and I never leave him, except to get
a breath of air out here. jVIy bed is moved
into his room. Poor, dear dad ! He doesn't
suffer now, — he seems stunned since this
last attack."

" When did it happen ? "

" The very night you were with us last,
— Thursday, wasn't it Y It was terrible, —
much worse than it ever was before. His
usual medicine had no effect : we sent for
two doctors, and I thought they never
would arrive. He was so exhausted with

PENRUDDOCKE.

the violence of the spasms that he lay mo-
tionless as a eorpse for hours."

" Mr. Francis and Humphrey were with
■ you ? "

" Yes : if it hadn't been for Mr. Francis,
I don't know Avhat I should have done, —
he was so wise and cahn, and told me wliat
to do, — only I couldn't obey him quite.
Poor Cousin Humphrey has never seen any
illness in his life ; he was no use. Mr.
Francis got a sceu7' de charite next day,
who lias been here ever since ; he tried to
persuade me not to sleep in dad's I'ooni. I
told him I would sleep on the bare boards ;
but I would not be j^arted from my dad
when he was so ill."

'• WeH, I think you were right ; but
now that he is better, you must try to get
some good nights' rest, for you look very
seedy ; and, if you were to fill ill, you could
be of no more use to dad — eh ? "

" I'm not going to fall ill," said Eliza-
beth resolutely. " I'm not such a poor
creature as not to be able to stand two or
three nifhts' watchinii. It isn't that makes
me look seedy, Osmund: it is — it is " —
she turned her face suddenly away from me ;
and the next words came out in a sort of
hoarse moan, — " it is that I know I shall
not have him long with me. They think I
don't see it, — they think I am blind ; but
I am not. He may rally now, but another
of these attacks will kill him. I read that
in the doctors' faces, — I couldn't be de-
ceived."

I murmured something about never
knowing the limits of resistance in a fine
constitution like her fother's. Then I
said, —

" Will he like to see me presently, do
you think V "

" He is asleep ; he will see you before
you go ; you're not in such a hurry, are
you ? " she added, almost sharply, as she
brushed the back of her hand across her
eyes, — still keeping her face from me.

" No, I am not in a hurry."

" You might have come to see us, all
these days, I think."

" I didn't know your father was ill ; and,
to say the truth, I have had a good deal to
worry me this week. That must be my
excuse, though of course, if I had known
you were in trouble, I should have come
here at once, in spite of every thing."

" What is ' every thing ' ? U hat have
you had to worry you ? " and she turned
now, and scrutinized my fice anxiously.

" Private concerns. Tiiere are certain
things one can't talk to any one about;
don't you know that, Elizabeth V "

She made no reply ; and by way of
changing the conversation, I said, —

" And now tell me, lor I am really curi-

ous to know, — what are you doing here
with that plate ? I see neither cat nor dog."

" I should hope not, indeed ! " replied
Elizabeth, swallowing the bait, and with
more animation in her tone than I had yet
observed. She then pointed to a hole in
the boards, in a corner of the shed just op-
posite to her. " Look there ! She won't
come out, though, while you stand here.
Go outside the door, and watch from
there."

I obeyed, and Elizabeth began a low coo-
ing whistle. For nearly a minute this pro-
duced no results ; then from my post of
observation, I perceived a long gray whis-
ker protrude from the hole, followed by a
sensitive nose, that sniffed cautiously from
right to left, and, finally, the body belong-
ing to it, that of a very large old rat, ap-
peared, followed by three young ones. They
all gathered round the plate at Elizabeth's
feet, and then began a family repast which
was really curious to watch. The mother
permitteil her progeny to devour up the
pudding and cheese parings as they chose ;
but the bones she selected, dividing the
small ones with impartiality among her
young, and keeping the big ones, which re-
quired tougher teeth, for herself. I, whose
ideas of a rat were inseparable from a ter-
rier, and who had never seen one at Beau-
manoir but in either a fugitive or a bellicose
attitude, was astonished as much as I was
entertained by a peep into this domestic
interior. Elizabeth half-turned her head
towards me with a smile ; and, putting her
finger to her lips, she produced from her
pocket an egg, which, as soon as the plate
was cleared, she placed there. The old rat
raised herself on her hind legs, leant over
the edge of the plate and smelt the egg.
Having satisfied herself, she carefully rais«l
it in her fore-paws, and as carefully deposit-
ed it on the floor. Then she rolled it along,
as a man rolls a barrel, to her hole ; but
now came the difficult part of the operation.
Evidently there was a drop of four or five
inches from the flooring to the ground be-
neath, which the astute animal was con-
scious might smash the egg. She, therefore,
descended first ; and, standing on her hind-
legs, one of the young rats pushed the egg
towards her, ami she raised it in her
fbre-|)aws. I never saw any thing more
cleverly done, and could not resist an ex-
clamation, which sent the three juniors
scampering down their hole at a pace which
must have somewhat imperilled the egg, I
fear.

" Bravo ! Elizabeth. How on earth did
you ever tame the brutes to come to you like
this V "

"Oh! by perseverance. Somehow all
animals get to know me very soon."

PENRUDDOCKE.

*' Well, but, like every otlier acquaint-
ance, there must be a bejiinning."

" I saw the ohl rat onv day run into that
hole; and then 1 brought something here
evory ihiy for her to eat, and always whis-
tled when I came. At first I put it close to
the hole, then a little farther off, and so
on. It has been my only little amusement
since dad's attack, coming here once a
day to feed my poor rats. They are always
so glad to see me ! "

" 1 should think so — accompanied by
such a repast. What a strange child vou
are ! "

She looked annoyed.

" Strange is another word for barbarian.
Is it so very odd to be fond of all animals V "

" I never met with any other girl who
■would make pets of a family of rats. You'll
be having a menao-erie of tame lions and
leopards some day."

" Yes," she said quite gravely, " perhaps
so. Whenever I am left utterly alone in the
•world, I shall make my friends of animals,
of one sort or another."

There was a rustle among the bushes,
and Mr. Francis appeared. After shaking
my hand, he said, —

" Mr. John is awake, and would like to
see you. He is certainly better this even-
ing, Elizabeth. Suppose you come and
take a short turn with me ? "

She shook her head.

" I must go back to dad."

" He wishes to see Osmund alone for a
few minutes. Tlie air is fresher by the
river than in this close garden. Come."

She made no further objection, and we
all three retraced our steps to the house.

I was shown up stairs, into a room which
■was almost completely filled by a huge
four-post bed, hung with white dimity fur-
niture. A narrow passage was practicable,
and no more, on either side of this bed, and
in the passage nearest the window stood the
sosur de charite, with a cuji in her hand. At
the foot of the bed was a sofa," and a mat-
tress was rolled u[) in the corner of the room.
I approached, and was painfally struck with
the change in John since we had parted a
week before. He held out his great brawny
hand, the flesh from which had shrunk away,
leaving the bones and muscles painfully de-
fined ; then he turned, and said, in a low,
but tolerable firm voice, —

" Sister Marv, vou can leave us for a few
minutes."

She glided out, and I and the sick man
■were left alone.

" Osmund, my boy, I wanted to say a
■word with you," he began. " I've been very
ill, and I don't know how long I may be
here. God'll take me when he sees fit, and
I'm ready to go, if it wasn't for leaving

my poor lass without a protector in tho
world but Humphrey ; and, ye see, Hum-
phrey is fifteen years older than me ! It
ain't likely that he will Ije long after me,
and then she'll be quite alone. Now, you're
the only one of the old stock we can say
we know, — the only relation I have in the
world who's any thing more than a stran-
ger, and I feel, somehow, almost as if you
were my son. You're an honest young chap,
Osmund ; I'm fond of you, and so " — here
John fastened his hollow eyes on mine,
and paused for a second — " and so, you
know, is Liz. She's very fond of you, is
Liz — and there ain't many that she likes.
I want you to promise that you'll look after
her when both of us old fellows are gone —
that you'll never desert her, but be like a —
well, like a brother to her — there 1 I
would he here happier if I heard such a
promise from your lips ! "

" Make your mind easy then. Depend
on it, as long as I live, I'll look after li^liza-
beth's interest before my own, feeling as I
do, what injustice she has suffered ; and
I'll protect her in every way I can. John,
until she finds a protector for herself."

He pressed my hand gently.

" She won't be so ill off, you know, my
boy. I've saved very little, it's ti'ue : but
Humphrey has shown me his will, in which
he has left every thing to her. She won't
be so ill off."

" I'm glad to hear it. After your cruel
disappointment about the Penruddocke es-
tate, of course Humphrey's money is a drop
in the ocean ; but I'm very glad that she is
at least fairly provided for."

He scanned mv face wistful) v,

" Kiclies don't make happiness, my lad.
Maybe she'll be happier with just enough
than she would be as a great heiress."

" I hope she may."

" And that's what I look to, that she
should be hapj)y. I've never been ambi-
tious myself (if it hadn't been for Liz, I
wottldn't have tried for the estate) ; and
now that the sand's nearly run out, Os-
mund, I'm not ambitious for my lass. I
hope she'll marry any honest young fellow
who loves her, — no matter his fortune. I
and my dear missis were very happy,
though we were as poor as church-mice."

" A suspicion of John's wishes flashed
upon me for the first time as he spoke. I
felt rather confused, with those large hol-
low eyes riveted on me, and scarcely know
what I said ; but I remember his reply-

" Well, my boy, you'll give her your best
advice when I'm gone. She'll obey you,
for she's fond of you ; and Liz is one
who'll go through fire and water for those
she loves, but'U never be driven."

PENRUDDOCKE.

I shook John's hand, and bade huii good-
by, promisiii'j; to return in a day or two.
■vvlien I hoped to find liim better ; and then,
without waitinn; to see Elizabeth again, I
h!{'t the house.

I ft'lt perj)lcxed how to act. Had sim-
ple-hearted Jolin hinted to any one but
myself his visionary scheme? He was dy-
ing', I felt very sure ; and I could not bear
to grieve him at such a time by undeceiv-
ing him, unless, indeed, he should speak
more openly. On the other hand, if I
went there almost daily, as my feelings
would prompt me to do at such a time as
this, might not Jolin be encouraged to be-
lieve what as yet could be but a vague
hope ? Might not both poor Elizabeth and
myself be placed thereby in a position
which would render my subsequent conduct
very eml:)arrassing ? I had promised him
what I most I'ully meant to carry out ; and
this being so, it was unnecessary, per-
haps would be unwise, that I should be too
often at Cheyne Walk just at present.
Not that I, lor a moment, suspected the real
state of Elizabeth's feelings. I only feared
that John might be led to speak to her on
the subject, and thereby estrange the j^roud
and sensitive child from me.

On reaching home, I found a telegram on
my table. It was from Tufton in the High-
lands, and was in these words : —

"Just got news of Loi'd Tufton's death.
Hope to catch evening mail, and be in town
at 5, A.M."

CHAPTER XXXI.

" It was very sudden," said Tufton, as
we sat at breakfast the next morning.
" He had a fit on Sunday night, and died
in a i'ew hours. The letter followed me
about, and only reached me in Invernes-
shire yesterday morning. I telegraphed
that I couldn't get to Somersetshire before
this afternoon. Fancy, he died without a
friend, without a creature, near him, but
the village apothecary ! I'm not a humbug,
ycu know. I can't pretend to feel any re-
gret for a man I never saw but two or
three times in my life, and who, I am per-
fectly sure, has left every farthing lu; could
away from me ; but tliere's something aw-
ful in the idea of dying like that, — utterly
uncared for ! Poor old fellow ! I wish he
hail not always kept me at arm's lenglh "

" \\'hat's the entailed property worth,
Arthur? " I asked, after a while.

" Upon my soul, I can't say : three thou-
sand a year, j)erhaps — not more. The
{»la(;e is wretched, I fancy, — has been neg-
ected for years. He never would spend a

farthing on it, as it was entailed. Suppose
you come down on IVIomlay (when the fune-
ral's over I shall have enough to look after,
and must remain at Tufton Kuynald for
some weeks) ; suppose, then, you get leave,
— you can easily do so now, — and come
down to me ? There'll be an odd pheasant
or two for you to kill, at all events ; and
we'll wander about the old place, and see
what can be done to it — eh ? "

I gladly assented.. The proposal would
have been a i:)leasant one to me at any
time ; at this moment it exactly jumped
with my humor to absent myself from Lon-
don for a while, and enjoy the country
quietly with my friend in his new domain.

I saw Elizabeth twice befbi-e I left town.
John had rallied sufficiently to be in the
drawing-room on the occasion of my last
visit to Cheyne Walk. Still, I entertained
no hope of his ultimate recovery, nor I
think did any one of us, though we all
talked cheerfully. I pleaded an engagement
when pressed to stay to dinner; and, at
])arting, begged that either Francis or
Elizabeth would write and give me tidings
of the invalid.

" How long shall you be away ? " said
Elizabeth sadly, as she opened the hall-
door for me.

" I am not sure, — some weeks at all
events. I have got my winter's leave ; but,
as 1 never go to Beaumanoir, when my
friend leaves his place, or has had enough
of my society, unless I pay some other
visits, I shall return to town."

" I hope so. How I wish I were going
too ! that we wei-e all going to leave this
dismal hole for the country ! " and she
looked up at the fog-laden sky with a sigh.
" I hate gloomy, sorrowful London. ]),id
would get well, I think, if he saw the fields
again. Well, good-by once more. Come
back soon — do come back soon."

And her earnest face peered out through
the half-open door into the twilight, and
was the last thing I saw, as I looked back
towards the house.

Arthur Tufton had said no more than the
truth when he told me that his uncle had
neglected the small family estate to which
my friend now succeeded. Partly, 1 am
inclined to hope, from a horror of cutting
down a tree, partly from indolence and
want of interest in the place, the late Lord
Tufton had allowed the woods, which sur-
roundtid the damp and desolate old house
on all sides, to go to ruin for want of thin-
ning. It was a ])erfi'ct wilderness, where
more than half the trees, which, if allowed
air and room to expand some years ago,
would now have been valuable timber, were
absolutely worthless ; a tangle of miserable
sa^jlings, struggling upwards to the light

PENRUDDOCKE.

■with an impenetrable un(lei"<^rowth of
briers. The house had this distinction,
that it was, without excejition, the most
hiik'ous and hopeless buililing I over be-
held. One's heart died within one as one
drove up to the door over a heavy, wet
gravel sweep, which, being on an inclkie
downwards, enabled a small lake to settle
round the house, imparting a fine green
tone to the lower part of the walls. Archi-
tecture there could not be said to be any.
Four walls ])ierced with holes for windows,
and a long straggling tail of offices, no vis-
ible roof, and a depressing portico sustained
by pillars, from which the stucco was peal-
ing in flakes, — this was the first aspect of
Tufton Reynald. Inside, the only tolerably
comfortable room was the librai-y. There
Arthur Tufton received me ; and there we
always sat, as long as I was in the house.

" By Jove ! " he said to me one morning,
" when I look back six months, I feel like
a man just awoke from a nightmare. I've
had a stroke of luck I didn't deserve.
When I see so many poor devils who have
never tempted fortune live and die pau-
pers, I feel how unjust is the division of
the loaves and fishes in this world."

" What I can never make out," I said,
" is how on earth you ever took to gam-
bling. Some fellows take to it from love of
excitement, but you never got excited ;
indeed, you always seemed to dislike and
avoid excitement."

" I did it to try to drown thought," he
said slowly, "just as some men drink. It
was the only thing except music that could
absorb me for a time. However, we won't
talk of that. I registered a vow, when,
thanks to you, dear Pen, I pulled through
my difficulties, that I would never touch a
card again ; and I mean to keep it."

" And now, Arthur, I declare you must
marry. This place wants a woman's eye :
nothing else will set it to rights ; and
now you're a lord with a castle (like the
lover in those religious little novels — he's
always a lord), why, you've all the world
to pick from."

" Ah ! " he said, with something between
a smile and a sigh. '• There you are, at it
again. Well, Pen, when I find my ideal
woman, she shall be Lady Tufton ; but I
fancy I shall have some time to wait."

'• What is she to be like, Arthur ? De-
scribe her, am' I'll look out for the article."
" Fair, and fabulously beautiful, of course.
Very young, very innocent, and utterly ig-
norant of the ways of this wicked world."

" Hum ! we'll ride those two old screws
about, and make acquaintance with the
neighborhood, Arthur : who knows what
may turn up ? There's a table covered
with the cards that have beeu left for you.

We'll penetrate every house within fifteen
miles."

This sort of chaff was constantly re-
newed : his way of taking it only convinced
me more than ever that it would be diffi-
cult indeed to find the woman who should
touch Arthur Tufton's heart.

The days sped swiftly. There was a
septuagenarian keeper and a couple of half-
blind old dogs, in whose company I wan-
dereil about whenever Arthur was enoiaged
on business. There was a great deal to be
done, and he went at it manfully. It was
a pleasure to watch the change in him.
Even in the days of his profound depres-
sion I had always preferred his society to
that of any other man ; but now that the
load was lifted, as it had never before been
lifted during my knowledge of him, he was
a most charming companion. More char-
acters lose than gain in prosperity. His,
like a picture steeped in shadows, needed
sunshine to bring out its luminous corners.

Early in December I heard from Mail-
ame d'Arnheim of their return to Lon-
don ; and, by the same post, Tufton and I
received invitations to Kendal Castle for
the beginning of January. The D'Arn-
heims, I knew, were to be there ; for she
named it in a recent letter from Germany.
I had some little difficulty, in persuading
my host to accept the invitation, his indif-
ference to general society having in no
degree diminished ; but I succeeded at last
— partly by the assurance that, even if the
rest of the company bored him, he could
not fail to like ^ladame d'Arnheim, whom
he had never yet met.

The Duke of Kendal, as of course every
one knows, is the father of Lord Ancastar ;
and a gceater conti'ast than exists between
these two men cannot be found. The duke
is a fine old Tory peer, — none of your
milk-and-water Conservatives, but a genu-
ine old Tory. Need I say that his son if
an out-and-out Radical ? His grace is a
good classic, and an indifferent French-
man. Ancaster tells you he despises dead
tongues, and ever}- thing else that has not
within it the elements of vitality and prog-
ress. The duke is Lord Lieutenant of tht
county, and commands the militia ; his son
delivers lectures in the town-hall, wrires
letters to the papers to prove that the sole
hopes of the country are in the volunteers :
and, on the smallest provocation, will head
a processional demonstration against some-
thing or other, with a baldric and a ban-
ner in his hand.

And, utterly unlike as the father and
son are, the duchess and her daughter-in-
law are yet more violently opposed. The
duke and Ancaster have at least this in

PENRUDDOCKE.

common : tliey have strong natural affec-
tions ; and, in spite of all their quarrels and
essential ilifferences of opinion upon every
subject under the sun, they are attached to
each other and to their homes. As much
cannot be said for the ladies. The duch-
ess is a proud, rigid lady of the old school,
whose conduct has always been as unim-
peachable as her manners, and her tongue
as cruel as her eye. When people say of
a woman, " It is better to have her as a
friend than an enemy," you know what
you have to expect.

The only point of resemblance between
the duchess and Lady Ancastar is their
height. They are both nearly five ii?et
eigiit, without heels to their shoes. But
Lady Ancastar is graceful, as stature is
graceful ; and the duchess is only erect,
like a niedia?val image of the Virgin. The
one is of marble, the other of wood and
paint. Her Grace's clothes hang on her
— they don't sit ; Lady Ancastar's dra-
peries ilow rhythmically about her limbs.
The duchess is peculiarly bitter against
M'hat she calls •' the low-lived ways of the
j)resent day ; " Lady Ancastar, as I have
already hinted, is one of the fiistest of the
fast. Her dress, or rather undress, is in
itself an offence which the duchess cannot
find language strong enough to condemn.
That her daughter-in-law should hunt, and
shoot, and have a betting-book, and make
parties to Evans's, and smoke cigarettes,
ai-e enormities which make the duchess's
blood run cold : no high-bred woman ever
thought of imitating cocottes in her day.
Lady Ancastar hates her mothei'-in-law,
and is delighted when any one will turn her
into ridicule ; but if it comes to a sparring-
match between them, she always gets the
worst of it — for the one is clever, and the
other is not; indeed. Lady Ancastar, for
all her noisy clatter, is a dull woman.

The Ancasters stay at Kendal Castle
twice a year. In January there is always
a large party and a ball, and Her Grace is
a good deal troubled, for at least two
months beibrehand, as to the making up of
her party. If she can possibly help it,
she will never invite any of the fast Ancas-
tar set, — that is, the women ; for, as to
men's morals, she is not particular, though
she is about their manners. The laissez-
aller of the younger generation, their talk-
ing to her with their hands in their pock-
ets, sprawling over the sofas, and leaning
their elbows on the table, she is most se-
vere upon; still one cannot do without
young men at a large country-house, and
the duchess is obliged to tolerate a number
of dancing boys " of good birth, but exe-
crable breeding," as she says. As to the
women, there are politic or political rea-

sons for asking some, whom the duchess
squares it with her conscience by snubbing
when they come ; and then the duke, in
his good-nature, occasionally asks others,
whom the duchess receives with polished
sarcasm, and over whose backs she empties
the vials of a virtuous indignation. They
require to be of the very toughest material
— like Mrs. Chaffinch, or that beautiful
cruche casse'e, Mrs. Hartman "Wild, who, by
patronage in high places, has crept into
the best society — ever to pay a second
visit to Kendal Castle, after the treatment
they experience ; but it shows what suffer-
ing humanity will stand — few of theip ever
refuse. The rest of the society there is
maile up much as the society of every other
country-house is, the solidly dull and high-
ly respectable element being well repre-
sented. It is this strange contrast and
combat between the old style and the new,
the duchess's friends and her daughter-in-
law's, like antagonistic liquids in one ves-
sel, fizzing at each other, which is the pe-
culiar characteristic of Kendal Castle.

Wq got there late in the day, the jour-
ney from Tufton Ileynald being a long one
across country. There was a hard i'rosi ;
and the huge outline of the 'castle stooil
out against a star-lit sky, as we drove up
to the old iron-bound door.

CHAPTER XXXIL

Only the duke and a ?ew men were in
the library when we entered; the ladies,
(with such of the men as enjoyed a novel
in their dressing-gowns and slippers) having
retired for that hour before dinner, which
is a sort of moral " pick-me-up " between
the social exertions of the morning and the
evening.

Among the knot assembled I was sorry
to find Selden. Since that disaiireeable
affair between Benevento and me, he and I
had not met. He had blamed me, as I
knew, in no measured terms, and had de-
fended his Italian friend very warmly ; and,
moreover, if it were possible that so old a
stager could be jealous of a boy yoiuig
enough to be his son, I was inclined to
think that Tufton's fondness for me irritated
his cousin. He had written to offer him-
self at Tufton Ileynald soon after Arthur
came into possession ; but the latter had
maile some excuse for deferring his visit ;
and Selden was aware that 1 was his cous-
in's guest at that moment. So, there was
no love lost between us ; but, being English-
n)en of society in the nineteenth century,
of course we shook hands as though we
were the best friends.

PENRUDDOCKE.

The only other f;xee I recognized, and
recoirnized with pleasure, in the <iroup, was
old Jack riorton's, — kind old Jack, who
had iJ|)oken a friendly word in good season
to me at the time of my puljlic discom-
fiture.

The dnke received me very courteously.
I am not at all sure that he knew my name.
I was one of the ruck of young men whom
the duchess asked occasionally, and he cer-
tainly had once shaken hands with me in a
crush at Kendal House. Still, I am in-
clined to think that he did not know me
from Adam when he greeted me to Kendal
Castle.

Tufton he had never seen before ; but,
wifh a fine geniality of manner which be-
longs to old Englishmen of the highest
class, he said, as we stood round the fire, —
" You and I ought to know each other,
Lord Tufton, for we are related. My great-
grand-mother's brother's daughter was your
orand-molher's mother ; did you know
That '! "

No, he did not. He laughingly confessed
that he was not well up in his ancestry ;
but added that he should improve the
acquaintance of his great-grandmother
fortinvith, if she was a link connecting him
to the house of Kendal.

'• All relations beyond first cousins are
humbugs, and should be abolished," said a
young man in a frieze coat, and very dirty
boots ami gaiters, who had entei'ed the
room while Tutton was speaking.

"My son, Ancastar — Lord Tufton —
Mr. Penruddoeke. My son," continued
his grace, with a laugh which was a little
forced, " my son's law is what I call ' the
law of topsy-turvy,' Lord Tufton. What-
ever has been is wrong, and must be re-
versed. But you were not aware that
Lord Tufton was a third cousin of yours,
I am sure, when you made that speech,
Ancastar ; as to myself, I hold'by relation-
ships very much, and hope never to see tlie
day when the claims of kindred are set
aside. ' Blood is thicker than water ; '
but all ties seem to be considered as water
in the present day."

•• Isn't a man's individual claim to re-
gard," began Lord Ancastar, " better than
one founded on the fact that two people
whom none of us know or care any thing
about " —

"I beg your pardon," interrupted the
duke, " i both know and care about my
ancestry."

" I never heard of one of them doing
any thing worth being remembered for,"
said his son.

•' That is to say, none of them were So-
cialists or Radicals," returned the duke,
with an extraordinary command of temper.

" I am all for remembering a man who
is useful in his generation, — not otherwise,
— whether he is my ancestor, or my ances-
tor's shoe-black."

" But yoti'd rather he were the shoe-
black — you know you would, Ancastar ! "
laughed Selden.

•' As to that, if I only looked long enough,
I might find one among my forefathers, I
dare say. In my mother's family (though
she never will own it), I know that a man
was hanged lor" —

" Come, come, Ancastar, ' De mortuis nil
nisi bonum !'" said the duke, rather im|)a-
tiently. " If you can remember nothing
good of your ancestors, at all events do not
drag their names through the dirt."

Ancastar shrugged his shoulders.

" Castle, who is always poring over
musty old folios, tells me he traced his ped-
igree up to a butcher of oxen in Edward
the Third's reif>n, when he thought it time
to stop."

" He still assumes the horns as one of
his crests," laughed Selden, sotto voce.
Either the duke did not hear, or he did not
choose to understand. He was one of
that loyal old race who discourage scandal,
and was always chivalrous in defence of
women's reputations. There was a laugh,
more or less audible, but the duke only
coughed, and said, —

"We expect Lord and Lady Castle here
to-morrow."

And then he turned to some of the older
men, whom I did not know, and began
discussing the prospects of the next ses-
sion.

"By the by, where is Benevento, Sel-
den V " asked Lord Ancastar. I never could
decide whether he was absolutely tact-
less, or had some sixth sense ibr discover-
in"- awkward subjects, which he felt must

O t/-" ^ 1111

have been given him to use, just as he held
it to be his duty to " speak his mind " upon
every occasion.

" Benevento has been making a sort of
royal progress through Scotland all the
autumn," replied Selden, glancing at me,
— " made immensely of, wherever he went ;
a,nd no wonder ! The best-looking fellow
I know, and certainly one of the cleverest."

'• Yes," muttered old Jack. " Clever
enough."

" He is now in Ireland — at Castle Orey,
I believe," continued Selden.

" What ? The Guildmores ? " cried old
Jack. " Is he trying to capture that castle
now by a coup de main f "

" If he is, it will prove to be a Chateau
en Espagne" said Ancastar.

" Yes," returned Selden. " He isn't the
heiress's style — and he knows it. I have
heard it whispered that she showed some

PEXRUDDOCKE.

weakness for Arthur," he added, Liuci;hiii;^,
" but he would Iiave nothin<4 to say to her.
Sounds increililjle, doesn't it? "

" What stulF you do talk, Walter ! Your
hair is i^ettinjj; gray — and yet you're just
like a schoolboy, repeating such rubbish."

" I can't change my ways : all I can do
is to change my hair. I'm going to take
to ' Rossiler.' I'm only four years older
than Benevento, and I don't see why I
shouldn't be juvenile and seductive a little
longer as well as he."

" Some people," said Ancastar, with a
twinkle of his eye, " would account for
Benevento's not requiring ' Rossiter ' by
saying that he was already of the ' blackest
dye.' By the way, hadn't you and he
some row, Mr. Penruddocke '? I never
heard the riglits of that story."

I grew crimson, and was casting about
for a reply, when Arthur came gallantly to
my rescue.

" Yes, there was a row on my account.
Penruddocke, with more generosity than
prudence, interfered once, when it would
have been wiser not to have done so.
That's all. It is one of those subjects
upon which 'the least said, the soonest
mended.' "

" I shall, always maintain," said my old
champion, Jack, lifting up his voice, "that
Penruddocke behaved with more moral
pluck than one young fellow in fifty would
have shown on that occasion. To denounce
a man publicly in a mess-room is a job
which most men would shrink from. Of
course he was mistaken — the man is Sei-
dell's friend, and he answers for him — but
that's no matter ; it was a devilish plucky
thing to do."

Selden and I both " rose to speak " as
they say in the House ; but I was the
(juicker, feeling that it was time to put a
stop to these awkward discussions in my
presence.

•' Thank you, Horton. It's very kind of
you to say all that; but the subject is a
disagreeable one to me, and I hope no one
will introduce it again. I wish I could
forget all about it."

After this, there was a moment's silence
in the knot among which I stood. It was
broken by the sound of the gong : the
duke turned to us, and rang the bell.

" The gi-oom of the chambers will show you
your rooms. We dine at eight o'clock."

Tufton and I inhabited the same tin-ret.
As we went up the stairs, he said, —

"My dear Pen, you did that capitally.
If you hadn't si)oken out firmly, you'd
have been annoyed with chaff oa that sub-
ject all the time you were here. Ancastar
is an ill-conditioned hound, in my opinion."

And so wc separated.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

I ENTERED the drawing-room, a lon^
gallery hung with crimson satin, in which
are all the famous Vandyeks of the Ken-
dal family, just as the second gong sound-
ed. The duchess held out the tips of her
fingers to me.

" Have you come from Beaumanoir, Mr.
Penruddocke ? "

'• No, — I came with Tufton from his place ;
and an awfully cold journey we had across
countrv."

" I liope Lady Rachel is well ? "

" Yes, — when I last heard from her,
Duchess."

" I hope you are not remiss in writing
to your mother, Mr. Penruddocke ? Young
men in the present day are to apt to call it
' a bore.' "

" I always answer my mother's letters
at once. Duchess."

" I am glad to hear it. I have not seen
Lady Rachel for many years ; but she was
one of the most beautiful persons I ever
knew, and had a distinction which all the
young women now seem to have lost."

Her grace spoke with an incisive clear-
ness which penetrated farther than louder
voices ; and two girls, who had just entered
the room with their mother, looked ])ain-
fuUy conscious that the remarks of their
stately but sharp tongued hostess applied
but too well to them. Their mother was a
marchioness, and their veins were filled
with the bluest blood ; but less aristocratic-
looking young females I never beheld. I
found them good-natured, however, full of
fun and high spirits ; and, on the whole, I
am inclined to think they added more to
the hilarity of the party than had they pos-
sessed more dignified patrician manners.

The room began to fill. Lady Ancastar
glided in like a white swan, on a wave of
pale green satin. Her arms were bare to
the shoulder ; indeed, sleeves there were
none. I saw the duchess raise her double-
glass, and scan her daughter-in-law, and
her nostrils curled as she did so. I went
forward and shook hands with the beau-
tiful nude, and with her friend, jMrs. Hart-
man Wild, whom I knew slightly, — a
lovely, r)each-like woman, excessively vain
and foolish, whose hold on society consisted
chiefly in the dimples on her shoulders.
Lord Henry, Algy Littleton, the great
leader of cotillons, and general master of
the revels. Lord Wilverly, and half a doz-
en other men, now came in ; then three or
four women, whom I oidy knew by sight,
in London, as belonging to the " cream of
the cream." But even superlative cream may
be kept till it turns soin- ; and two of these

PENRUDDOCKE.

ladies, sisters, of unimpeacliable manners
and morals, were decidedly cnrdled. The
Ladies Pynsent were ^rroat fi'iends of the
diK'lu'ss's : they had the remains of beauty,
and were considered clever, I l)elieve. 1
can only say, I never talked to them with-
out havinj; my blood chilled : I infinitely
preferred the wholesome bitter of the duch-
ess's tirades, which were honest and to the
point, to the spitefulness, veiled under a
thin watery smile, which stun<r every thing
it tonehed throughout the talk of the two
faded beauties. But enough of them, whom
I only name now, as I shall have to refer
to them once or twice in the course of this
visit.

Almost the last who appeared — and
we sat down thirty in the great banquet-
ing-hall — were the U'Arnheims. 1 was
standing near the door, waiting for her.
Her sweet face beamed out all smiles; but
I was shocked to see how thin and ill she
looked, as she returned the pressure of my
hand.

"I am so delighted to see you again," I
began. " It seems such years since we
met. Mayn't I take you in to dinner ? "

D'Arnheim had walked on, without ob-
serving me.

" This is the house, above all others in
England, for strict etiquette," she said.
" We must go down with whom we are
told. But you can, at least, try to sit near
me."

And I did so, by the force of will and of
what I thought was good luck, combined.
I tell to the lot of a Miss Douglass, a con-
nection of the duchess's, and not a bad
girl ; only I wished her at the bottom of
the sea, tor I wanted to talk exclusively to
my other neighi^or : but this was not so
easy. The Board of Trade, or the Colo-
nies ([ forget which), had taken JNIadame
d'Arnheim in to dinner ; and I was quite
provoked at her being drawn into a long
argument as to the state of feeling in
Germany, and the " Bund," and the politics
of the Grand-Ducal Court, and a great
deal more, of which I caught snatches.
I felt aggrieved, as though I had an undis-
putable right to monopolize my friend's
conversation. At last, towards the middle
of dinner, after I had made several efforts
to induce her to devote her attention to
me, she turned, and said with a smile, —

"Not now. Be a little patient. We
shall have plenty of time to talk by and
by. I see you are not improved — as
inconsiderate as ever — and, please, don't
crumble your bread about in that way."

I turnwd wrathfully to j\Iiss Douglass,
and talked unmitigated rubbish to her for
the next half hour, which accounts for the
opinion that young lady, I am told, ex-

pressed of me, that I was " nice, but cer-
tainly very odd ; silent and absent at one
moment, and then, the next, with such a
(low of conversation."

'• Now, presently, we can have our chat,"
said ISIadame d'Arnheim, as the ladies rose
from the table.

I hate sitting long over one's wine ; and
there was some '34 claret, with an argu-
ment on female suflfrage, broached to-
gether, which threatened to keep us till
midnight. It was curious to hear the
duke, that most chivalrous of men, inveigh
against the extension of the franchise to
women ; and Ancastar, who treated the
fair sex — as he did every thing in heaven
above, and on the earth beneath — with
far too little respect, fighting for the re-
moval of their disabilities; but the dis-
cussion bored me after after a time, and I
was thankful when the duke at last rose,
and we adjourned to the music-gallery.

There was a piano at one end of it,
round which were sathered Miss Douglass,
and the half-dozen other girls who were
in the house. Near one of the fireplaces
there was a colony, headed by the duch-
ess, supported by the marchioness, the
Ladies Pynsent. and the cabinet-minister's
wife. Lady Ancastar and Mrs. Hartman
Wild were of course not with these : they
had set up a rival camp conjointly, at the
other fireplace, where they meant to get
all the men of their own set. D'Arnheim
was of the number, devoting himself the
whole evening to Mrs. Hartman Wild.
They were well mated. And some dis-
tance off, by herself, sat Madame d'Arn-
heim, at a table, turning over a volume of
valunble drawings by old masters. Of
course I instantly joined her.

" At last ! Well, I hope you'll deign to
give me a little of your attention now?
After six months' absence, it is too bad to
treat me as you did at dinner. You don't
know howl have missed you all this time."

" Have you V " she said, looking up with
a sweet, but sad smile. " It is pleasant to
hear. I often think how very few would
miss me at all if I were to die."

" Don't talk like that. Besides, isn't it
enough to have one or two who really
care ? I don't believe in ' large circles or
mourners ; ' but, tell me, how did you
enjoy your visit to Germany?"

" Not at all."

" Why didn't you come back, then,
sooner ? I'd have given any thing for you
to have been in London this autumn."

" I will tell you why. Karl did not
choose to take me into Hungary ; and, on
the other hand, I did not choose his family
to say that I had left him to return to
England Therefore, I said I should stay

PENRUDDOCKE.

the grand-duchess till he came

with
letch nic."

'' W'cll, at all events, she is a great
friend of vour.s, — you liked being with
her ? "

" What can one like, when one's heart
is sore V I sometimes longed to go and
hide myself in a desert, where no one
sLouM ever hear of me again. The
grind-duchess was very kind, but I was
miserable. You can't understand it, — no
man can, I think, — that delaisse'e feeding,
that feeling that one is of no good to any
cue!"

" Dear Madame d'Arnheim, don't talk
so. You. are of the greatest good to me.
I don't know what I should do without
your friendship."

My hand was near hers, on the sofa:
she pressed it gently, for all reply. Then
she began to talk of abstract matters, —
of poetry and philosophy, of elective affin-
ities, and of the undue predominance of
the objective over the subjective in our
lives. Her conversation evinced, as it
always did, a cultivated intelligence, with
just that dash of transcendentalism, which
would raise a smile on the lips of those
who could not appreciate her, as I did.

More than half an hour passed thus.
At last she said softly, —

" And now tell me about yourself. Yon
know how truly interested I am in all that
concerns you. Have you heard of the
little cousin lately ? "

I told her every thing, very nearly as I
have told it here. When I had done, —

" Ah ! it all comes," she said, " of that
unfortunate intimncy of yours with Lady
Castle's set. I warned you how it would
be. All this gossip about you and Lady
Castle has been written to your mother ;
ami she and Mrs. Hamleigh very naturally
think it ric,dit to keep the little y;irl out of
the way of such a Don Juan. 1 am not
surprised."

" Nor am I, though I don't exactly take
your view of it. My mother is bent on
my marrying a girl with money — that is
the real secret, as regards her."

'■ Take my advice," said she, fixing her
eyes uj)on mine, and laying her hand upon
my arm at the same moment — "take my
advice, and don't do that. Let nothing
ever induce you to marry a woman bul
because you love her. Think of my words
when 1 am no longer by, perhaps when
I am gone. People who have loved may
be miserable in after-life, but at least they
have ihat to look back to. Dante is wnjng,
I think, when he says, ' Nessun maggior
dolore die ricordarsi del tempo felice ncUa
miseria.' No, no! There is a far greater
misery, — that of feeling that one has
7

wrecked one's OAvn life ; that one has
placed all one's happiness on the cast of
a die, and that one has lo-it."

She spoke with unusual vehemence for
her. And long, long afterwards, I did
recall her words, with the very look and
gesture that accompanied them, — recalled
them at a time, and under circumstances
that I little anticipated then 1
We were interrupted.
" M idame d'Arnheim, arc yon telling
Mr. Penruddocke a ghost-story V" said
Ancastar, as he sauntered up, with his
hands in his pockets. " I've seen nothing
so tragic as your face since Rachel."

She had recovered her etjuanimity, and
replied, —

'• Though we Germans are said to be so
stolid, we never attain to that impassive,
expressionless way of speaking which you
fashionable people in England" —

'' Don't call me a fashionable person, for
Heaven's sake ! "

" ' Your speech bewrayeth you,' Lord
Ancastar. You know you carefully mask
any emotion when you talk."

"Oh! no -Englishman has emotions —
at least, in public. They keep them for
home-consumption."

" Well, the result is a very level, — may
I say the word? — apathetic delivery.
Englishmen of your class seldom pro-
nounce more than half their words; and
those they let drop from them as if it was
a trouble : the rest they swallow."

" You are very severe on us, Madame
d'Arnheim."

" Remember, it was you who began the
attack — -But hush! who is that beiiinnin"-
to sing ? "

" One of the Tenby girls. How she
bellows ! By heavens ! Come, tJiat ain't
English apathy."

Madame d'Arnheim shook her head with
a smile.

" She shouts, it is true ; but she does not
pronoiuice one word. Can you tell what
language she is singing?"
"It's Italian," I hazarded.
" It's French," said Ancastar authorita-
tively.

" It's English," pronounced IMadanic
d'Ai-nheim, after a couple of minutes. " I
caught a th. No language but yours has
that sound. Pity such a good voice should
be thrown away, — should say nothing at
all to one ! "

" What could a puddingy little thing
like that ever say to you ? She is of
dough — doughy," I remarked.

" Then that accounts lor her music. She
is in the key of ' do natural ' " said Ancas-
tar. " I only wish she would rise."

" She sings in tune, at all events : that

PENRUDDOCKE.

is soinetliing," said Tufton, who ha'l just
joincil us. His t'at-e of comical suflcriu'j;
uinicr the iiiflictiou was a stu'iy. I intro-
duced liim to JMadaiiie irAi'nli«aui.

" I know you are a f;;reat musician. Lord
Tufton," she said. '■ I wish vou would
phiy to us."

"Not now," he answered, with a signifi-
cant smile, whicli was fully justified a mo-
ment later.

" Shall we have a round pjamc ? " called
out Lady Ancastar, in a loud voice, from
ber throne near the fire. " It is really too
dull doiuii nothiu'T. Let us play at pips."

All her faction — the Fronde, us 1 got
to call them at last — rose and came near
us, there being a large round table in our
vicinitv. Madame d'Arnheim thou'jjht it
civil to get up, too, though she hateil cards.
There had i:)een a lull at the piano. " The
first round," as Ancastar expressed it, was
over; but the little lady had " come up to
the scratch again," and was now barking
at " Roliert, toi que j'aime " with such fury,
as would have struck terror, rather than
pity, into the heart of that unworthy Nor-
man, could he have heard her. She yelji-
ed, she snarled, she panted between eadi
bar, like a plethoric spaniel; it was really
distressing to listen to, and Tufton showed
signs of much mental anguish. Still I
thou'jcht it hardly well-bred to break in
upon these exertions with the clamor of a
round game. But Lady Ancastar was
proof against any misgiving of the kind :
and, with unabated cackling, the counters
were divided, and the chairs collected.

Suddenly the duchess stood like a fate
in the midst of us.

" I think you can hardly be aware, Ara-
bella, that Lady Sarah Tenby is singing
at this moment."

" I don't see how any one who isn't deaf
could be ignorant of the fact," muttered
her son.

'* Does your Grace mean to prevent our
having our innocent little game ? " saiil
Lady Ancastar, with tlie air of a victim.

" I wish to prevent any act of ill-breed-
ing in my house, if I can prevent it," re-
sponded the duchess severely. " If you
must make a noise, go into the drawing-
room." and with this she stalked away.

" She knows there's no c^ird table in
the drawing-room," ejaculated Lady An-
castar, — "that's the reason she sends us
there. It is really too slow ! Never mind,
we wont remain here ; we'll do something
at all events. I've g )t an idea," and she
clapped her hands, and led the way into
the adjoining room.

About eight or nine men followed, and
the three or four women who were round
the card-table ; excepting Madame d'Arn-

heim, who, not wishing to enroll herself in
the noisy faction, bad glided away, follow-
ed by Tufton. There was a change of
performance at the piano. Lady Sarah
Tenby had made way for the thinnest and
sharpest of the Ladies Pynsent, who was
" reckoned a viny fine player — a pupil of
Herz's, you know," as the duchess said,
hoping to awe the muhitude into silence.

'■ Go and ask those girls wheth(;r any of
them like to join a game," said Lady An-
castar to me just as she reached the door.
And my errand was successful ; for the mer-
ry little Tenbys infinitely preferred a romp
of any kind to sitting in solemn silence tor
twenty minutes, while Lady Louisa Pyn-
sent punished Henri Herz for all his sins
of" variation " from the truth. Miss Doug-
lass, bound by ties of various kinds to
the duchess, did not venture to do what
she knew would be disj)leasing to Her
Grace, and so she continued her duty of
sitting by the performer at the piano, and
thanking and applauding at the end of
each ])iece.

" I'll tell you what I propose," said Lady
Ancastar, in a sort of stage-whisper : " we
will hive a paper-chase over the castle.
rU be the hare. You must give me three
minutes' start ; by that clock it is just a
quarter past eleven."

"And the duchess ? " suggested some one.

" Oh I she gives the signal for retiring
a quarter before twelve always. We
have a good half-hour — plenty of time ; "
and away she started, with a bag of paper,
evidently ready torn up for the pur;)i)se,
slung over her shoulder. I suppose we all
felt there was safety in numbers. The
duchess could hanlly resent a frolic in
wliich sixteen people were conc-erned. And
at the expiration of the three minutes, the
hounds, headed by Mrs. Hartman Wild,
set out upon the chase.

The track of paper led us up the great
stair-case, along corridors, in at one bed-
room door, and out at the dressing-room,
down a winding turret into the servants'
hall (where our appearance caused great
consternation), up again into high liie —
up, up, and yet liiLcher up, into the I)aclie-
lor's towers — nothing sacred from our
invading feet — laughing, shrieking, bark-
ing, stumbling along; at one moment
fancying that we liad gained upon the
hare, and that another vigorous etFort would
run lier to earth ; nay, even catching a
glimpse of her sea-green garments at the
farther end of a corri(ior, and giving a
" tally-ho ! " thereupon, that rung through
the castle, — but only to find, at the end,
that she had doubled upon us, through a
suite of rooms, and was farther from us
than ever.

PENRUDDOCKE.

Ko sot of schoolboys ever iii'lul'jjed in a
madder chaso ; and when I rellcctt'd after-
wards, in cooler moments, that I was very
much the youngest man present, and that
three out of the six ladies were married, it
did seem a sinj!;ular diversion ibr persons
of such mature years.

The clock in the hall was just striking
the three quarters as we followed the
paper-track down the great stairs once
more, to the drawing-room, where we knew
that the hare mu>t have ariived, trium-
phant at her speed having baffled pursuit.
But one or two of the foremost hounds were
now fairly out of breath; and the excite-
ment of the pursuit being over, they lagged a
good deal as we trooped across the hall. I
was fourth ; and when the drawins-room
door was thrown open, my eyes fell upon a
tableau which was not calculated to acceler-
ate the speed of our foremost hound, —
Mrs. Hartman Wild.

There stood Lady Ancastar, panting,
scarlet from her exertions, wiping the per-
spiration from her face, her hair rumpled,
her lace flounces torn, her arms scratched,
a more undignified figure, a more deplora
ble contrast to the marble goddess I had
been admiring an hour ago, it was impos-
sible to imagine. And beside her — alone,
with a silver bed-candlestick in her hand,
stood the duchess, rigid, inexorable, terri-
ble to behold. Not a hair of lier head
was ruffled ; the stiff crepus curls stood
carved round her fice as if nothing short
of an axe could dissever them ; the folds
of her moire antique, every separate point
of her black lace, were exactly where they
ought to be, and where they had been since
the beginning of time. She was close to
her daughter-in-law ; and she had been
speaking to her, — of that tliere could be
no doubt. Lady Ancastar's face, usually
so stolid, showed some discomposure ; ami
Her Grace's thin, drawn-in lips told me
that they had jus( uttered some sharp and
trenchant reproof But she was far too
well-bred to make us party to any family
scene: she was silent as we, entered, turn-
ed, and eyed us, one by one, as we poor
hounds slunk in, so to speak, with our tails
between our legs. U[)on the luckless Mrs.
Ilartman AVild, as foremost, fell the duch-
ess's only words, like sharp little hail-dr(ips,
after a nunute's pause.

"I should think you must be tired, Mrs.
Hartman Wild, — you look so, — and per-
haps will not object to going to bed now."

With that she stalked into the gallery,
and we all followed. There stood the vir-
tuous ladies whose; steps had not been led
astray over the castle, each with a bed
candlestick in her hand, like the seven Miss
Flamboroughs with their oranges ; or, as

Ancastar said, " like the wise virgins with
their lamps, only in this case it is they who
are sleepy, and the foolish ones who are so
very wide-awake ! "

I looked roiuid for Madame d'Arnheim,
but she was gone.

CHAPTER XXXTY.

The next day the frost was harder than
ever, and the ice on the lake was pronoimced
to be some inches thick. Those who had
not brought skates sent in by a messenger
to the large neighboring town to procure
them. Among these, at my urgent request,
was Madame d'Arnheim.

'• But I never put on a pair but twice in
uiv life," she objected. " I cannot skate a
bit."

" Never mind. You shall be my pupil.
You'll see how quickly you get on."

By twelve o'clock we were all down on
the ice, and a pretty sight it was, — the
flower-like knots of brilliant ladies, among
whom Lady Ancastar, in a costume whicli
was a combination of an Esquimaux and a
" Crncovienne," was the most conspicuous ;
and the lithe dark figures of men gliding
over the polished-steel ice, powdered wltli
silver, which glittered m the winter sun,
as the skates cut their way, leaving fantas-
tic figures on the agate-like surf ice behind
them. The frame that bound this picture
was banks of frozen grass, above which
rose dark masses of wood, fringed with a
delicate tracery of branches against the
clear-swept sky. The wind had done its
work up there, driving every little cloud
befoi-e it, in its passage from the north ;
and now it was so still that not a dead leaf
stirred upon the frozen lake, but as it fell
it lay.

Madame d'Arnheim's pliant, well-bal-
anced figure rested upon feet which were
not the ideal of an artist perhaps, but the
perfection of agrandedame, — - long, elastic,
slender-ankled. She was not nervous ; and
with the help of my hand she got on rap-
idly.

" It is really very pleasant," she said,
looking up into my face with a sn'iile. " I
have not enjoyed myself so much, I don't
know when.

" And you look all the better for it — you
have (juite a color. Now, then, strike out
more with your left foot."

She did so, but S(jme little inequality in
the ice caught her foot ; and, before I could
save her, she fell — very ligtitl}-. however.

" I am not the least hiu-t," and she
scrambled on her feet nimbly; "but it
seems to me there are too many spectators

100

PENRUDDOCKE.

just here to go on exposinfj my awkward-
ni's.s. Could we not get to some quieter
corner ? "

'• By all means. Several stran^jers, T see,
have- appeai-ed on the scene. I hear that
the duke has given all the country houses
round leave to come and skate here. I
dare say in the afternoon the lake will be
crowded."

We doubled a tongue of land, on the
farther side of wliith we were screened —
at ail events, from the great mass of non-
skiiters, though a path ran round the lake,
which, of course, commanded every corner
of it. Here the lesson went on steadily
enough for nearly an hour.

•■ I like your friend, Lord Tufton, very
nuich," she said, as we glided cautiously
along. '"Hearing he was such a gambler,
I expected a very different sort of man."

*' He has given up play, I am happy to
sax', entirely. That love of speculation,
V, aich is ineradicable in some men, is turned
now into a lietter channel. He is devoting
himself to all sorts of farming experiments
on his new estates. He'll probably lose
money, but that doesn't signify. The land
and the tenants will both benefit ; and he
will buy his experience."

'• He is very handsome ; but he is not
what is called ' a lady's man,' I see. He
talked very little to any one last night. Is
he a woman-hater V "

" Honestly speaking, I am afraid he is
rather inclined to underrate women. He
has never been in love, you see. Whenever
he is, it will be a serious matter."

" Lady Castle comes to-day, I hear. Who
knows, perhaps he will succumb to her ? "

I laughed aloud.

" You little know Tnfron. To begin with,
he knows her ; and then she is the last
person to attract him. By the by, have
you heard that Lady Ancastar is trying to
cet up some tableaux for to-night, or to-
morrow .'

" The duchess spoke of it just now ; but
they are put off till later in the week.
There is not time to get them up to-night ;
and to-morrow is the ball."

•• And the duchess makes no objec-
tion ? "

*• On the contrary. Tableaux were the
great fashion in her day ; and she considers
them a comme-il-f aut -dmuxment, — better
than steeple-chasing over the castle, as half
her guests did last night."

" That is a hit at me ; but what could I
do when Lady Ancastar proposed it ? 1
should have seemed a horrid prig if I had
refused."

" I don't blame you."

" You look as if you did. Of course one
must do what the rest do in such a case."

" Excuse rac, I don't think that. I like
people who are indepiMidciit," — here slie
let go my hand, and tried to get on alone,

— '* who are not guided entirely by others,
who choose their own path for tliemselves,
and pursue it, regardless of — Ah ! "

She uttered a sharp cry, as her feet went
from under her ; and, before I could save
her, she was lying doubled up upon the
ice.

" That comes of being too independent,"
r said, laughing. " But you are not hurt,
I hope?"

She did not attempt to ri^e.

'• I am afraid I have sprained my ankle

— it gives me such pain."

" Let me take off your skates, then, at
once. Don't move ; " and I knelt down be-
side her on the ice, and began unbuckling
the straps round her pretty feet.

" It was very foolish of me," she sighed,
with a faint smile, " and I am properly pun-
ished. I was so conceited, I thought I
could get on without you."

•' I should rather say you were so plucky,
you tried to carry your theories into prac-
tice, which isn't always to be done."

" I have to do it alw.iys. There is small
merit in that. I am used to walk my own
road, you know, which makes one dread to
become dependent upon any one — in anv
way."

'• Well, pride must have a fall," I replied,
willing to appear to ignore the application
of her words ; " and you'll have to lean
much more heavily on me now, in order tu
walk at all, I am ali^aid. Don't atteinf)t to
stand on that foot : let me lift you up."

'• She was very light. I put my arm
round her waist, and raised her ; but she
was obliged to cling to my shoulder, for as
soon as her foot touched the ground, she
found it impossible to rest her weight upon
it. I saw by her face that she was in pain.
She became very pale, and leant her head
back upon my arm for a moment.

" Shall I put you down on the ice again,
while I go off for a chair ? 1 can push ) ou
along in one to the bank."

" No, no. — don't leave me. In a min-
ute or two I shall be able to limp along.
It was only the first moment of standing.
It is nothing."

I heard the sound of voices near us, and
looked up. About fifty yards off, on the
edge of the lake, four ladies were walking;
they were not of the castle party ; their
dress and general outline I did not recog-
nize ; but their faces, tightly veiled from
the sharp north wind, it was impossible to
see. One was tall and very slight : I just
saw so much in the hasty glance I gave
them. They were walking slowly along,
and their faces were turned in our direc-

PENRUDDOCKE.

101

tion. It occurred to me that they had. per-
haps, driven here, and that I might ask
them to allow their carriatre to convey
Madame d'Arnheim to the castle ; but Just
as tliis idea struck me, and I was thinkini^j
how I could carry it into execution, Tuf-
ton came skating round the little point
of land which concealed us from the greater
part of the lake, and I called to him. After
explaiuin;^ the state of the case, I begged
him to see if he could procure some con-
veyance for ]Madame d'Arnheim, who was
quite imfit to walk as far as the castle. He
skated away, and I watched him approach
the three ladies, ami take otfhis hat. Then
one of them held out iier hand ; there was
an evident recognition between her and
Arthur.

'* It is ]\Irs. Hawksley," he said, on his
return to us. " She has driven over from
her place near this, and will desire her car-
riage to drive to that corner, where the
road comes close to the lake. You can
walk so far, I hope V "

"Yes," she said faintly, '-I can walk so
for."

" A surgeon should see your ankle."

" Yes,""l returned quickly. "I will tell
D'Arnheim. I will send for one, if you will
remain here, Arthur."

" No, no, — neither Carl nor the surgeon,
please ; one is as unnecessary as the other.
Arnica and cold water is all I want. Karl
would vote it a dreadful bore. Husbands do
not care about their wives' sprained ankles."

" Perhaps that depends on the ankles,"
said Tufron, ti-ying to treat the remark as
mere badinacje ; '' in which case Count
d'Arnheim cannot be indifferent."

" Men never care for what belongs to
them. If it is anybody ehe's, — yes, there
is interest enough, and to spare."

(We had been watching D'Arnheim and
Mrs. Ilartman Wild flying over the ice to-
gether for the last hour.)

" You are hard on the institution of mat-
rimony," said Arthur, a little dryly, as,
with the help of our two arms, she limped
to the bank.

" Not on the institution, — ach, no ! "
she sighed. " What in this world can com-
pare with the union of two souls in perfect
love ? But it is so rare."

We had now reached the spot where the
barouche was waiting. The owner was
not there. After lielping jMadame d'Arn-
lieira into the carriage, Arthur returned to
the skaters, and I accomj)anicd my poor
friend to the house, that I might give her
my arm across the hall and u[) the great
stairs. On our load we passed the Ladies
Pynsent and Walter Selden, who stared
W(jnderingly into the carriage. I saw the
latter smile.

I wasrettirning to the ice, when the gong
for luncheon sounded, and I saw most of
the party coming up the terraces. The
ground here is steep, and to avoid a long
flight of steps, beneath the lower terrace,
broad pathways lead, to right and left, by
a gradual descent, to the lake. I leant
over the balustrade, half concealed by a
Cuba-laurel, clipped orange tree fashion ;
so that, unless the groups ascending the
slope immediately beneath me were minded
to glance up, they were unaware of my
proximity, while every word they uttered
reached me distinctly, upon tjhe frosty air.

I recognized the duchess's sharp tones
even before I saw her.

" Xo lady in my day ever skated, and I
think it a most unbecoming exhibition."

" Particularly in a married woman of her
age," struck in Ladv Louisa Pvnsent.

" I must say it serves her right," contin-
ued Her Grace severely.

'' Oh ! I don't think she is much hurt"
sneered the aciil spinster. " We met them
driving to the ca>tle just now, looking very
.comfortable, — and I hear she was actually
lying in his arms upon the ice', — too
shocking, — really ! "

''In his arms? Impossible! So quiet,
so well-conducted as she always seems ! "

" I don't know about well-conducted.
Did you see the way she was going on with
him last night ? And last season they say
she went on in a very odd way with this
boy. He was there every day of his life.
The husband encourages it, I am told, that
he may amuse himself in his own way ! "

The speakers passed on, and I lost the
duchess's rejoinder. I stood petrified.
Poor innocent Madame d'Arnheim to be so
traduced! Words cannot paint my rage,
^ly impulse was to face this hag, and charge
her with uttering the basest calumnies.
Fortunately my better sense came to my
aid. What could I say V The actual /aci
was not to be denied ; Madame d'Arnheim
in her faintness had been supported by me,
and her head had lain upon my shoulder;
it was the tone in which Lady Louisa had
spoken which was so injurious to my friend ;
and would not my championship do her
more harm than good ? It was her hus-
band's pi-ovince to defend her ; but she
might wait long enough for that.

While debating how I shoidd act under
the circumstances, I heard two men's
voices, which I recognized as Selden's and
Tufton's. They were coming up the lower
slope, in animated discussion.

"I tell you it is all nonsense," said Ar-
thur.

" Hm ! ' Still waters run deep,' " sneered
his cousin.

" But the waters in this case are any

102

PENRUDDOCKE.

tliiivj l>ut still. She is a pushing, si-nti-
incntal (jerman, — you don't understand
the sort of" woman."

" Yon must he greener than I take you
to lie, Arthur, if you believe all tliis is Pla-
tonic."

•' 1 am any thinix hut 'screen ' aV)out wo-
men. Ferha])s 1 tiiink too ill of them <j;en-
erally. — hut I don't believe there is any
harm in this one. I don't care i'or those
' femmes incomprises ' myself; but Pen has
conceived a boy's enthusiastic friendship tor
a^ woman nmcli older than himself and has
always been boriufjj me to know her. There
is nothing more in it than this, I am cer-
tain."

" Oh ! I don't blame her. With such
a husband as d'Arnheim, I think she is
quite ri'j,ht, — only she nii'^ht have found
somethinsx better than that youni; jacka-
napes. She has a deuced good foot and
ankle!"

I was furious. It was too bad ! It had
never occurred to me that my intimacy
with Madame d'Arnheim could be so mis-
construed. She was so unlike the women
of wiiom I heard such things said every
day, that it seemed hard she should not be
allowed one friend, — so much her junior
that she could lecture him with all a moth-
er's freedom, — -ixhen she bore her wrongs
and sorrows with such uncomplaining dig-
nity ! It was shameful! — it was incon-
ceivable ! I bo:led over with indignation,
and stamped about the garden for half
an hour, more perplexed than ever what to
do.

Should I speak openly to D'Arnheim him-
self ? No : I knew too well the cold sneer
wiih whii.-h he wouLl receive my communi-
cation, and assure me that he was not in
the least jealous. Let the world talk —
what did it matter? It would talk about
something; and he had perfect confidence
in ine. There was no use in looking for
hel|) in that direction.

I would consult Arthur. Though he did
not appreciate Madame d'Arnheim as she
deserve!, he was just and clear-sighted, as
regarded her, and showed always the in-
terest of an elder brother in me.

Luncheon was nearly over when I enter-
ed the dining-room. I slipped into a chair
beside Lady Ancastar. 'The conversation
was apparently about some new beauty,
whose name 1 did not catch : and mv fair
neighbor remarked that " she seemed to
have a scraggy figure ! "

" Ah ! " said her lord, with his mouth
full, *' if you were diplomatic, Car, you'd
swear she was the loveliest creature you
ever beheld. Freshness, you see, is every
thing. The girl's got the dew of the morn-
intr oo her still."

"Jove!" cried Selden, "how poetical!
Ancastar wants to play the part of the
sun."

" He has my full liberty," said La<ly An-
castar, with a laugh. " If Miss Hawks-
ley " —

" SIk; is not Miss Hawksley. That
dreadful woman never gave birth to this
divinity. I forget the name Mrs. Hawks-
ley told me, but the girl is to come out to-
morrow night ; and, if all you fellows don't
fall dep)erately in love, you are made of
ice!"

" What a pity you are not free ! " tittered
his wife.

" Well," lie replied demurely, while he
peeled an apple, "as, unfortunately, I am
not, I did llie next best thing for her I
could, in promising IMrs. Hawksley to in-
troduce a friend of mine, — a Manchester
man, worth a couple of millions. What do
you think she had the conscience to say ?
— that she ' wanted blorjd ' ! Sanguinarv
idiot ! "

" From what I could see of her face
through a thick Veil," said Arthur to Lady
Ancjistar, " she looked to me ratlier like
the girl in Millais' ' Huguenot.' Could
you not get up that among your ta-
bleaux?"'

" And how abmit the man ? That is the
difhculty. The girl's mammal should think
would object."

" Oh ! you had better get Penruddocke
to do it," saiil her incorriu^ible lord ; " Ppu-
ruddocke and Madame d'Arnheim. They
were rehearsing the attitude just now, —
they'll do it to perf(2Ction."

" Call that rehearsal ? What must p<.'r-
formance be ! " said Selden, not so low but
tliat I cau2;ht the words.

" I don't know what you mean," I blun-
dered out, with flaming cheeks, " about
rehearsing attitudes. I — I — helped Ma-
dame d'Arnheim up, and " —

" Never mind them, Mr. Penruddocke,"
giggled Lady Ancastar : " it was Xkiry
graceful, — very graceful indeed ! "

" Penruddocke is no Huguenot, but
Catholic in his devotion to the lair sex." in-
terposed Arthur readily, seeing that I
needed a friend to the rescue ; " and I ad-
mire him for it, having so little chivalry in
my own composition."

" No one can say / am not chivalrous,"
said Ancastar. " I am Koiny; in tor the
' Ri'ihts of Women ' and ' Female Suffrage.'
I hope when I get upon my legs in the
House, the image of my wife with a vote
won't rise up and choke me ! "

" I am sure, if 1 were your wife, / should
choke you. Lord Ancastar," cried Mrs.
Ilartman Wild ; and then there was a
"eneral rise from the table.

PENEDDDOCKE.

103

I took Arthur's arm, and drew hiiu away.
In a corner of the library I poured out my
tale of indignation, and asked him what
I should do. Should I go to the duclu^ss ?

" Certainly not," he replied. " What
could you say ? It would be making your-
self ridiculous, and placing Madame d'Arn-
h^im in a false position. You ought to
know something of the world, my dear
Fen, by this time. If you are much with
any woman, it will talk, — you must know
that."

" Well, I certainly am not going to let it
interfere with my friendship with Madame
d'Arnheim," said I hotly.

" By all means ; only don't complain, in
that case, of its gossip."

Madame d'Arnheim was not well enough
to appear at dinner. The count was de-
voted to Mrs. Hartman Wild all the even-
ing ; but, as I heard Lady Louisa Pynsent
observe, " it is his way, you know, — he is
alwnys like that, — it means nothing."
This was the worlil's justice! But, unh'ss
I was much mistaken, the way in which
D'Arnheim's eyes followed the handsome
Creole's every movement, indicated more
than a passing atti'action.

Lord and Lady Castle and Mrs. Chaf-
finch arrived that evening. Laily Castle
looked ill ; but I had no conversation with
her. She seemed on the most affectionate
terms with her husband. CouM it be that
she had " turned over a new leaf? " 1 was
undeceived by Tufton.

'• Walter Selden says that Lady Castle
and Benevento have had another row, —
worse than ever this time, and that she has
behaved very badly. That is his version
of it."

CHAPTER XXXV.

After breakfast, the next day, the frost
turned to rain. It came down in that deli-
cate, noiseless way which indicates continu-
ance all day. Some men went out shooting,
nevert heless ; others, with D'Arnheim, Sel-
den, Tufton, and myself, repaired to the
billiard-room,

A match between D'Arnheim and Selden
was going on. The betting had been pretty
even at first, for both were admirable
players ; but, after a few strokes, it was
clear that the German was not " in good
form " this morning.

" Five to four on Selden."

A knot of ladies, among whom was INIa-
dame d"Arnheim, entered the room at this
inonient. They were come to relieve the
tedium of the day by watching the play.
1 had not seen my Iriend since the previous

morning : she leant upon a stick, but did
not seem very lame. I joined her, and
found a seat near her on tlie settee, Mrs,
Ilartman Wild was next to her, and on the
other side of me sat the incorrigible Mrs,
Chaffinch,

" It is but fair that I should have my re-
venge," said Selden, as he glanced at the
score, after two clever strokes. " You re-
member how you licked me into fits that
last time at Richmond,"

" And he'll do it again, now that the
ladies have come in, if you don't look sharp,
Selden," said old Jack Ilorton. " D'Arn-
heim requires the eyes of beauty to inspire
him, you know,"

" Yes, — and tliey always distract me,
confound it ! which shows how much more
I really care for them than he does,"

" That is another way of saying that our
room is better than our company ! " said
Mrs. Chaffinch,

" Pray, whose were ' the eyes of beauty '
that shone on you both at Richmond ? "
asked Mrs. Hartman Wild, with a laugh.

" The barmaid's, I suppose," said D'Arn-
heim quickly. He had just missed his
stroke, and turned away,

" I d<jn't believe it ! I am sure it was
' Nine-Pins,' or some lovely creature of
that sort. Now, be honest, wasn't it, Sir
Walter ? "

" ' Je u'ose pas, pour un empire, vous la
nommer ! ' " hummed Selden, lookin.;; up at
the lady, after making a carrom, with an
amused twinkle in his eye. " You were
not in town, Mrs. Wild, or we'd have asked
you to join our Richmond party ; but it
was in October, and you wei'e in Scot-
land."

D'Arnheim became scarlet.

" You are mistaken, Selden, — it was
in July,"

I saw that he was trying to catch Selden's
eye, whose back was now towards us. Ap-
parently he faileil ; for our antagonist per-
sisted obstinately, as he would certainly
not have done had he known all that -de-
pended on his silence.

" Wrong, my dear fellow. I happen to
remember, for it was my birthday, — 7th
October."

D'Arnheim played ileliberately ; but his
hand shook, and he missed his stroke. He
then walked roiuid the table, ostensibly to
chalk his cue; but he brushed very close
to Selden,

" 1 was in Hungary in October ; so I as-
sure you, you are mistaken."

Selden paused a moment,

" Ah 1 well — yes — perhaps so. It may
have been in July. It was Alverstoke, I
remember now, I played with in Octo-
ber."

104

PENRUDDOCKE.

" Delightful ! " screamed Mrs. Chaffinch.
" Xo\v, I ciill that actiiTj; really like a
fiienil ! Uiitbrtunately, I\Ir. Alverstoke
was with us in tin; IIij;hlan(ls in October."

" Certainly, D'Arnheini, I could swear I
saw you in London in October," said An-
castar, who never lost the ojiportunity of
addin;:; to any one's discomtbrt, from his
wife downwards, and did so as though
it were a matter of principle. "Yes, I am
positive I j)assed you twice in a hansom."

" Ah ! likenesses are very deceptive.
You are really mistaken, — I was in Ger-
many."

" D'Arnheini has a double," said Selden.
" I have ol'tcn met him, and taken him at
first sight for our friend here."

Mrs. Chaffinch shouted with laughter.

" Even to the point of playing billiards
■wiih him. How very ready of you. Sir
Walter, to come to the count's rescue in
that way ! He was drowning, he was sink-
ing rapidly, when you held out that hand.
13ravo ! Isn't it fun, dear Madame d'Arn-
heim, to see men floundering in this
way ? We manage our prevarications so
much better."

My poor iriend's face had become white ;
but she replied with perfect calmness, —

" We did not return from Germany till
November, so Lord Ancastar must be mis-
taken."

" And are you sure you never lost sight
of him, my dear? Ah! well, we won't
press the point ; but we have a right to
ask who the lady was, haven't we Mrs.
Wild? — the lady who presided, like Mi-
nerva, over these games in July ? Have
you confounded her, as well as the date, Sir
Walter ? "

" I did confound hc>r at the time ; for she
made me lose the game by chattering to
me."

" The wretch ! That is meant for me.
I am shut up. I shall not open my lips
again."

" And they have never told us who it
was ! " pouted the Creole beauty. " That
is the way of getting out of it."

" There is nothin<i; ' to sret out of,' "
laughed D'Arnheini, who had regained his
composure. " It was Mrs. Ward, the
American. I have' not seen lier since that
day."

'• Ha, ha ! I should be surprised if you
Lad,'' said Mrs. Chaffinch. " This is de-
lightful ! Why, the Wards left England
in May. Better luck to you the next time
you invent, count ! "

" You see how little impression the lady
made dTl either of us," said Selden, " that
we have really forgotten who it was. Now,
had it been you, or Mrs. Hartman Wild," —

" Ob ! connu, mon cher, that is too old a

story, — a very lame way of getting out of
a scrape."

" Of course, every compliment to you,
Mrs. Chaffinch, ifs an old story ; but you
wouldn't deprive a ftillow of such an inno-
cent irratification ? "

" When lie has so few ! What wretches
men are, Madame d'Arnheim ! No trust-
ing one of them ! If it wasn't for our
little revenges, life would be unendurable,
wouldn't it? "

But Madame d'Arnheim had reached
the door ; and, as her back was turned to
Mrs. Chaffinch, she apparently thought it
unnecessaiy to reply. I sprang forward
to open the door ; and then, catching sight
of her face, I offered her my arm, for I
really was afraid she would faint.

As the door closed behind ns, she leant
back against the wall of the corridor, and
jiressed both her hands to her eyes. An
inward sob convulsed her frame, and ihe
long-controlled passion found a momentary
vent in words : —

"Blind! blind! AcJi ! da lieher Golt!
— treachery and falsehood ! — nothing but
treachery and falsehood ! How much long-
er can it last ? "

She forgot that I was beside her ; she
forgot every thing, until a door opening
at the farther end of the gallery roused
her. She withdrew her quivering hands
from her face, took my arm, and, by a
great effiDrt, dragged herself along ; but
it was hardly possible that her agitation
should escape notice. Her whole frame
shook, the burning tears still trembled on
her eyelids; and, to my disgust, I saw i^,
was Lady Louisa Pynsent who approached.
She stopped us, ostensibly to m:d<e a chilly
infjuiry for the countess's sprained ankle, —
in i-eality, as I felt sure, for the purpose of
prying into my poor friend's face. Madame
d'Arnheim murmured that she did not feel
well, and was going to her room. At the
top of the stairs she dropped my arm with
a little silent nod, and limped on alone. 1
saw her no more till the evening.

Nor, strange to say, did I see Lady
Castle, who appeared neither at breakfast
nor luncheon ; until, late in the afternoon,
when the rain cleared off, I beheld her, to
my surprise, walking arm-in-arm with her
husband on the terrace. Of course I took
care not to interrupt the tcte-a-tele. The
wife's way of gazing up into her pale com-
panion's fice seemed to indicate perfect
confidence and well-ordered affections.
He had rather a moth-eaten look, — with
his spectacles and stooping shoulders, he
might have passed for a kindly f)edagogue,
and she (at a little distance), for his youu"-
and favored pupil.

What a strange couple !

PENEUDDOCKE.

105

CHAPTER XXXVI.

There are occasions when all the wo-
men of one's acquaintance, bv some coinci-
dence, shine their very brightest ; and the
ball at Kendal Castle was one of those rare
occafions, as I well remembi-r. Lady Cas-
tle, to my thinking, had never looked so
well. The color she wore became her ;
her face, which was apt to be too much
flushed, was pale ; the diamond net which
held her hair revealed the lovely shape
of her head, which I used to see concealed
undi'T some vast pyramid oi friset.tes and
flowers. Madame d'Arnheim, too, whom I
sometimes accused of despising personal
appearance too much, had ibr once taken
evident pains with hers. Why, on this
particular night, it puzzled me at the time
to account for. Perhaps I could do so bet-
ter now ; but it is sufficient to remember
that it was written in the book of fate
that these two women should appear to
unusual advantage on this cccasion. Mad-
aiiie d'Arnheim wore, for the first time, cer-
tain old Bohemian jewels of rare value,
lately be(^ueathed to her. The massive
firclet for the head and waist, the throat-
collar and pendants, somewhat barbaric as
they were, distinguished their wearer more
eti'ectively than all the contents of Hunt
and Ruskell's could have done. The long
•lines of her graceful figure were seen to
the utmost advantage in some dark flowing
drapery, which contrasted with all the bril-
liant-tinted gossamers of the ball-room.
She sat the whole night in a deep bay-
window, where the light was softened by
palms and other exotics, against which the
whiteness of her shoulders, and her lumi-
nous iiiir hair, told well — but I am getting;
on too fast.

My dinner was dull enough. I took in
one of the Tenbv girls, and tried to get
something out of her ; but it was updiill
work, though scarcely less fatiguing than
the jolting rattle of the cabinet minister's
wife on my other side, which might, in dis-
tinction, be designated as a rapid descent,
from which there was no pulling up into
the dismal swamps of bahlerdash. Lord
Castle sat next but one to me. I had
never s[)ok(m to him before, but when we
" closed up " after dinner, we talked ; and
I found, rather to my surprise, how agree-
able a man he was. He looked physically
weak — was he morally so V I could
hardly doubt it, knowing all I did ; yet the
upper part of the face was intellectual, and,
though the lines of the mouth were j)liant,
they were not undecided. His voice and
manner were gentle — a little too gentle,
perhaps, to jjlease me ; but what he said

showed him to be a man of refimnl taste,
of considerai)le cultivation, and with an
unusual felicity in expressing his ideas.
He said his health and inclination alike
ilisposed him to a quiet country life, but
added that of course he could not impose
this on Lady Castle. She naturally ])re-
f'erred London, and he was very glad she
should amuse herself there during a certain
number of months. All that be bargained
for was not to be obliged to go too. This
kind of thing — the staying out in coun-
try-houses — was quite out of his line ; but
Lady Castle had persuaded him to break
through his rule for once, and to accom-
pany her. As to the ball, he certainly
could not stand that — he should go to bed.
One thing he said struck me much. I re-
marked that a country life must be a
change for Lady Castle — did she visit a
great deal ?

" Oh, no ! " he replied, with a smile,
" very little ; and, with the exception of
one or two of her friends occasionallv, we
see but few people at home. I dare say
you, like many others, fancy that my wife
is nothing but a fine London lady, who
only cares for dissipation ? You should
see her in the village, with her school and
her poor people. She is the most domes-
tic creature possilile when we are alone."

I stared, — inwardly, that is to say. I
was provoked with the man ; and yet I
could not help feeling both a pity and a
liking for him.

The carriages had begun to set down
some of the company before we left the
dining-room. I was surprised to see Tuf-
ton, generally so indifferent on such occa-
sions, evince an interest in the arrivals.
He posted himself near the door of the ball-
room, where he could see and hear each
person announced who entered, and he
wanted me to take up a similar position ;
but I was more anxious to seek out Ma-
dame d'Arnheim, with whom I had not ex-
changed a word since the morning. I
looked round the saloon, but could not see
her, and was moving on to the other recep-
tion-rooms, when Lady Castle stopjied me.
" I want to speak to you, Mr. Penrud-
docke. Will you take a turn with me be-
fore the rooms (ret crowded '.■' "

Something in her manner struck me as
peculiar. I gave her my arm, and we
walked on. She began at once, in a low
voice.

'•Mr. Penruddocke, I am going to do a
very odd thing. I don't know what 3-ou
will think of me."

She stopped ; and, as I was at a loss what
to say, I remained silent. She continued.
" I want your advice. I am in the most
painful position. I feel that 1 can trust

106

PENRUDDOCKE.

you, anil you are the only man here 1 would
trust. Youii'j; as }ou are, I have implicit
confitlenee in you."

"I am miieh flattered by your gon<l opin-
ion," 1 blurted out, wondering what was
cominy;.

'• Yes, you are a man of honor, and you
are prmUmt; and, above all, you know what
love is. Your conduct iu your own ailairs
shows that you have true delicacy of feelin;r
for a certain person. I know all ab(jut it."

" Upon my lite, it's more than I do ! I
haven't an idea what you mean. I have
no" —

" Oh ! of course you will deny every
thiu'j. I never expected you to make a
conjidante of me, — why should you ? Be-
sides, you would never talk of this to any
one, I am sure. It is my own affairs I
want to speak of. I am in a most difficult
position ; and there is no one here I would
so soon ask an opinion of as yourself. As
to a woman, I would never trust one."

I said bluntly, —

" There is certainly one woman here —
perhaps several — who would give you bet-
ter advice than I can, Lady Castle I have
but little knowledge of the world at pres-
ent; and though I hope your confidence is
not ill-placed, it seems to be tbunded on
something or other which exists only in
your imagination. I do know what love is,
but I assure you, solemnly, there is no
secret, no mystery in it. VV^hat 1 feel all
the world may know."

She smiled, and nodded her head.

" Your denial is useless. I know much
more than you think ; but let that pass.
To come to myself — Castle tells me just
now he has made your acquaintance, and
likes you. I am so glad. If you knew
how good he is ! So much too good for
such a wretch as I am ! Unfortunately he
does not know what love is ; he never did.
Ho is very fond of me in his own way,
and lu! has the most awfully blind trust in
me, that's the worst of it. If he was
jealous, I should not have such self-re-
proach ; but, you see — wait, let me tell
you my history in a few words, that you
may better understand me. Let us sit
down here. I was married when I was
seventeen, without knowing any thing of
the world. I had a dream of what love
was to be, — as all girls have, — and I sup-
posed it would come after marriage ; but
the fact is, we were neither of us in love,
as I soon found out. My husband was
not the sort of person I ought to have
married. Some women, I dare say, would
have asked for nothing more than he had
to give ; but I required a very different
man, — one who would have ruled me.
even had it been severely, but to whom I

could have felt I was necessary, part of"
his existence. It was just the reverse.
Castle has always been too indulgent, too
anxious that I should do exactly as I like ;
but I gradually got to feel that I was not
the least necessary to his life, and I felt a
want in mine. You can guess the conse-
cpience ? I went into the world, and had
a great deal of nonsense talked to me. At
first I cared for no one, and only went out
pour me dis'rnire. At last, I suppose I
ought to say utifirrtunatebj, I met the no-
blest and truest man I have ever known,
one who would have sacrificed every thing
to me if I had allowed him. He remained
faithful to me six years, and then it was /
who gave him up. His family wished him
to marry his cousin, a charming girl, of
large fortune, who was in love with him.
I resolved not to stand in the way. Well,
since that time, though I have often been
culpably foolish, I admit, I have never
really cared for any one^ until in an evil
hour I met Cesare Benevento. From the
first moment I saw him, I felt the man's
power, and he knew it. He pretended to
be devoted to me ; and, like a fool, I be-
lieved him. Then began a terrible time
for me : I am ashamed to tell you how I
eared for this wretch, in spite of all the
proofs I gradually had of his heartless and
mercenary nature. It was an infatuation :
I can't explain it in any other way. We
often had quarrels : I often tried to free
myself from a chain which I felt to be de-
grading; but it was useless. He pretended
that he had given up his profession, and
sacrificed his life to me ; and this he maile
the jilea for draining me of every farthing
I could give him. If I told him I was
over head and ears in debt, and really had
not wherewith to supply his reckless ex-
travagance, he made a scene, declared he
would shoot himself, that his death would
be at my door, and so on ; but my spirit
latterly was roused, when I learnt that
what he got from me he either (ram'jled
away, or spent upon other women. And
now he has taken a new line. He has
kept all my letters, it seems, since I first
knew him, three years ago, and he threat-
ens to forward them to Castle, if I don't
send him money ! "

" The infernal blackguard ! " I burst out ;
"but it is impossible he could do such a
thing. Of course, it is only an idle thn»at,
none the less cowardly for that. What
could he gain by carrying it into execu-
tion ? "

" This : he thinks he would extract the
price of those letters, and of his silence,
from Castle ; and he is right. It would
probably kill my poor husband, this reve-
lation ; but he would do any thing to save

PENRUDDOCKE.

107

niv roputation, though at the same tune
(f know him well), he would never see me
a^nin if he lived for years. You are sur-
prised, you think, perhaps, so careless a
husband would not mind much ? but you
are mistaken. He has the highest sense
of truth and honor. He trusts me uupli-
citly ; if he once found he had been de-
ceived, it would be all over between us.
What on earth am I to do ? Unless I sell
uiy jewels, 1 have no means of raising

money to send him; and besides, a few
months hence, it would bo the same story
over again. Do advise me ! Do tell me
what i ought to do, for I am really half
dead with fright and anxiety 1 I get one of
this wretch's letters every two or three
days, and each one is more peremptory
than the last."

" You have not seen him then, late
ly ? "

" Not since October."
Then I remained silent for some min-
utes, considering what I should say. We
had seated ourselves in one of the empty
rooms; and of the few people who had
strolled in, no one had interrupted our
te'e-a-lele. I happened, in this pause, to
turn my head towards the door, and saw
two ladies retreating. The first was al-
ready passin'j; out of siy;ht ; in the second
I reco'^nized Mrs. Hawksley.

" It seems to me," I said, at last, " that
there are two courses open to you, but one
of them I doui)t your adopting."
'^ What is it?"

"To be beforehand with this scoundrel,
and make a clean breast of every thing
to your husband."

" Impossible 1 " she replied instantly —
"quite impossible. I would sooner die
first ! Poor, dear Castle ! Any thing rath-
er than that."

" riie other course is this. Write to
the fellow tor the last time, saying that,
after the use he proposes making of your
letters, you must decline all further corre-
spondence, and that ids letters will be
returned unopened ; that you have placed
the alfiur in the hands of a friend, who
vill comnmnicate personally with him in
the course of a few weeks, and then you
must ajjpoint some man in whom you have
conlidence to negotiate this matter for
you."

" But how ? What can he do? "
"1 think the fellow may be intinudated
into giving up your letters, when he has a
man to deal with, who tells him plainly
that he'll kick him out of society if he
doesn't instantly yield them up."
She shook her head, with a sigh.

" There is no one I could ask."

"Why not Sir Walter Selden ? He
knows Benevento better than anv one,
and " —

" Oh ! I hate that man. I would not
trust him for the world."

"I cannot say I like him; but he is a
thorough man of the world; knows exactly
what ought to be done under such circum-
stances. I fancy he could, and would,
force this scoundrel into giving up your
letters."

" Oh ! I couldn't speak to him on the
subject. I know he has spoken of me to
Cesare in terms any woman would resent.
He is the last man I would ask to be my
friend in this affair."

•' And is there no other man of standing
in society to whom you can apply ? You,
who are surrounded by friends and admir-
ers ! What an idea you must have of the
world ! "

Her eyes filled with tears.
" There are women who have a right to
look for chivalrous devotion. I suppose I
have none. There is not one of these men
iiere who, if I applied to him for help, would
not fancy that — that I was in love with
him, in short ! "

" Well," I said with energy, " I'm young
and inexperienced, and not the sort of man
best suited to this embassy in many ways ;
but if you choose to trust me. Lady Castle,
I'll undertake it."

" Dear buy ! " she exclaimed, as she
pressed my hand, and wiped away her tears,
" you are worth all of them put together ;
but I will not drag you into this mire for
me, and nothing was further from my
thoughts when I asked your advice. In-
deed, what you suggest never occurred to
me. I will try and think of some one " —
and she stopped.

" Remember, if you find no one better,
I'll do it. He and I know one another.
Though I f;iiled to convict him of cheating,
when we had that row, he knows I'm a
rough customer, and perhaps will mind me
a little more than most fellows of my stand-
ing."

" Lady Castle 1 " cried young Ashridge,
running in at this moment, " you promised
me the first quadrille, and it is begun I
don't know how long ! "

'• Has it V "

She rose slowly, looked at herself in the
pier-glass opposite, and arranged her tuck-
er, took the eager boy's arm, and, while she
uttered some commonplace, turned her head
and nodded to me, with one of those tender,
expressive glances which had proved dan-
gerous to so many.

108

PENRUDDOCKE.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

" I HAVE been lookin<jf for you everv-
•where," I said, when, at the end of a (quar-
ter of an hour, I discovered Madame
d'Arnheim in the deep embrasure of the
window I have already described.

" You brushed past me nearly an hour
aso." she said (juierly. Somehow the tone
of her voice sounded ditferent from what it
generally did in my ears. " But you were
too much en;j:rossed to see me, though you
actually trod upon mv dress."

" Did I ? I'm awfully sorry ! " (I felt
myself coloring.) " Well — yes — the fact
is, I was listening to something Lady Cas-
tle was telling me, and " —

'' And vou were so engrossed vou had no
eyes for any thing else. So I saw. You
are just like all men, I see."

" Y'^ou are angry, because I had a few
minutes' conversation with Lady Cas-
tle ? "

" A few minutes ! I like that. You were
certainly in that farther room more than
half an hour; and I hear your interview
•was a very moving one. No, I am not an-
gry ; I am disappointed to find you so very,
t'firy weak — that is all. I had deluded
myself into hoping you were not so. I was
mistaken."

'• You certainly are mistaken, if you
return to that old ridiculous idea that there
is a flirtation between me and Lady Castle
— poor woman ! "

"'Poor woman!' Much to be pitied,
truly ! It reallj' makes one sick ! These
are the women who meet with all the sym-
pathy in the world ! "

" You know that is not the case as re-
gards me" I replied quietly. " The sym-
pathy I feel for your trials, though I seldom
venture to express it, the admiration and
pity, are unmingled with a reproach. I
think you simply the best woman I have
ever known, and Lady Castle one of the
most unfortunate."

" And pray why ? AVhy is she more
unfortunate than any other ill-conducted
wife ? " she pursued, with still some degree
of irritation.

" Because she is unfortunately constituted,
to begin with, has been badly educated,
anil, having made an unsuitable marriage,
has no legitimate interests in life."

" The worse people are, the more they
are to be pitied, in one sense," she replied ;
" but when you look around, and see what
other women have to suffer, I do not see
why one is to be lenitmt to a woman like
Lady Castle, whose married life has been a
succession of intrigues."

" I dare say she would have been a good

wife if she had married a different sort of
man."

" As men go. Lord Castle is a Phoenix,"
she said, with a bitter smile. '' I am sure
he has never told or acted a lie. He is true
to his wile, and only too indulgent. Pray
do you think many of us are so fortunate ?
Would she have been better if she had
married a man whose whole life was one of
cruel ne»ilect and systematic deceit ? "

" No, I don't say that ; but I do believe
that many a worse man might have made a
better husband for hnr. She is not a wo-
man of intellect, she has no children, and
she needs strong affections, — wants to feel
herself the necessity of some one's life. Had
Castle been passionately jealous of her, she'd
have been all right — if he'd had a hundred
faults, instead of being the cold, calm, trust-
ing husband he is."

" Your knowledge of woman's nature is
much enlarged since I first knew you." she
said, with a touch of sarcastic vehemence.
" Y'our arguments in defence of your friend
are specious ; but to any woman who has
suffered as I have, and who respects her-
self thuy seem miserably weak. What
would become of us all, if we accepted such
excuses as these ? "

" Tiials, you must remember, depend
upon temperament. What are trials to one
would not be so to another."

The blood rushed to her temples.
" Do you think my nature, then, so cold
that I cannot sutFer from neglect — that I
never long to be ' a necessity to some one's
life ' ■? You know too much of what I have
to endure ; and yet not half — ach 1 not
half I This UKjrning you — all who listened
to those men — must have seen what I did,
— that Carl had deceived me by pretend-
ing to be in Vienna, while he had come
over to England to visit his mistress. It is
Ijut one drop more in my cup, which was
full enough before, God knows ! And you
talk to me of Lady Castle's trials ! "

"I never thought of comparing them
with vours for a moment. It was you who
did that."

" But you are right — though I am not a
stone, as you seem to think."

" Dear Madame d'Arnheim — "
" Do not interrupt me. Yes ! Natures
are different ; and what you please to ex-
cuse in her would be inexcusable in me,
just because I know what love is, and feel
far. far more deeply than such a woman can.
Ach! du lieber Go/t ! '' she cried, clasping
her hands. " Such amours resemble real
love as — as a succession of muddy pools
resemble the pure sky darkly reflected
there ! "

She looked like the picture of some suffer-

in^: saint I had seen, one of the " noble

PENRUDDOCKE.

109

army of martyrs," as she continued, after a
lew moments' pause, with raised eyes and
qnivoi'inij; lips.

" I brlieve in self-sacrifiee here, in the
endeavor to do our duty, however mueli we
may sutler, and I beUeve tliat our best af-
fections will survive the sorrows of this
world. ' Durch Schatten nach dem Licht.'
If I did not believe this, I should go mad.
But aet like this woman — never, never !
1 could understand the open renunciation
of every tie for one — I should grieve, but
I could feel for her, then, — but the life
that is one lon.2; lie, and for a succession of
lovers — it is horrible ! I have no pity for
that."

" I don't defend her ; but I can t help
feeling for a woman whose conduct has
certainlv brought its own punishment with
it."

" How so ? "

" Well," I stammered, " I suppose' no
woman in her position, but must feel " —

" She has been making you her confi-
dant ! " said my friend, coming down upon
me like a falcon. " She has got you into
her toils, and you will be ruined I I knew
it ; I saw it all along ! "

" I give you my word of honor."

'• Honor ? Pshaw ! Shall I tell you
what I heard just now? Two ladies
passed me, one of whom said, ' It confirms
what I told you about him and Lady Cas-
tle last spring ! It is very shocking in a
mere boy, such wholesale profligacy ! '
The other murmured something alaout
' poor dear Lady Rachel ' as she passed on,
which removed any doubt as to whom they
were talking aliout, Now, this is what the
world ssiys, — this is what will be carried
to your mother ! "

" If you only knew half it chooses to
say," I began vehemently, " you would —
well, you would know that no one is safe
from malevolence. As to what is told my
mother, enough mischief lias been done al-
ready : she has made up her mind to be-
lieve every thing bad she hears of me — so
I can't help it,"

" But you can help giving people grounds
for gossiping about you at all," said Ma-
dame d'Arnheim earnestly. I almost start-
ed, as I thought of the application those
words might bear to herself. " You are
standing on the very brink of a precipice.
Be warned by me, ere it is too late. If you
see much of Lady Castle, on nnjj pretence
vhotdver, you will rue it some da}'. Have
nothing more to do with her Promise me
this, if you care for me at all."

She leant forward, and, laying her hand
on my arm. looked eagerly into my face for
the reply she wanted to extract

But as she uttered those last words I

heard the rustle of a gown behind my chair ;
for my back was turned to the loom,
and I could not see any one who passed.
But my name was uttered, — uttert;d by a
man's voice that I recognized as Ai'thur's,
and I turned quickly round. I started up,
as if I had been shot. Two figures were
moving away. The man was Arthur, the
girl in white upon his arm was Evelyn.
There was no mistaking her. In spite of
the great change, development of the child
into the woman, I had not a moment's
doubt about it. She was very tall ; the
face was much longer, the features more
formed ; her hair, which used to hang over
her shoulders, was coiled tightly round her
head, and had Q-rown some shades darker ;
but the eyes remained unaltered, — those
sot't lustrous brown eyes, from which I
caught one startled, saddened look, before
she passed thorugh a door-way, and was
lost in the crowd beyond.

I stood there petrified for a moment or
two.

" ^Vliat is the matter ? " asked my com-
panion.

"I must leave you — you will excuse
me, won't you V "

" Oh ! by all means."

" There is some one here whom I must
see at once ? Shall I take you to the ball-
room ? "

" No," she said with a sigh, which re-
curred to me long afterwards, " I am
accustomed to be left alone. Do not think
of me. I prefer remaining here."

I flew off, without giving Madame d'Arn-
heim another thought. I was in a fever of
excitement. How came Evelyn here V
Why did she not speak to me ? What did
that look, so full of sad meaning, portend?
Had she heard and misapprehended those
last words of Madame d'Arnheim's — " if
you care for me at all ? "

The first question was answered, even
as I revolved these (juestions over in my
mind. There, in the doorway of the ball-
room, stood Mrs. Hamleigh, with Mrs.
Hawskley. My cousins, then, were stay-
ing with this hateful woman — it was them
I had seen and not recognized through
their thick veils, on the ice ; and Evelyn
was the beauty I had heard discussed.
Then, followed rapidly upon this revela-
tion, another conviction flashed upon me,
— that Mrs. Hamleigh and Mrs. Hawskley
were the two ladies whose words concern-
ing me Madame d'Arnheim had overheard.
It was an adverse conjunction of circum-
stances, which boded me no good.

I carefully avoided Evelyn's mother. I
passed into the ball-room by another door,
and sought Evelyn, but for some time
without success.

110

PENRUDDOCKE.

As is commonly the case at balls, there
vt'i'e many more girls than partners for
tlicm. Plialanxi'S of youn<^ maidens, in
(h-esses new for the occasion, blocked the
doorways and corners of the room, eyin^
wi^tt'iiUy tiie couples who floated past, and
tlunkin;j; no doubt that this jj;ran(l " Castle
Ball," whieh was the great social event of
the year to the entire neighborhood, was,
after all, not half so pleasant as those little
unpretending dances where the competi-
tion was more in proportion to the demand.

" Are you engaged V " said Lady Ancas-
tar, panting from the waltz, as I passed
her. " If not, do be good-natured, and
trot out one of those girls in pink. They
haven't danced to-night ; and their father
is one of Ancastar's most influential constit-
uents."

" I'm awfully sorry, but I'm engaged ; "
and I hurried on.

My eyes wandered over the crowd as I
stood behind old Lady Tenby, whose
daughters were not dancing ; and I heard
her say, —

'• Really too bad ! Lord Tufton dancing
with that girl three times running ; and,
after all, I'm sure / see nothing in her.
But I should be very sorry to see you mak-
ing yourself so conspicuous, my dear
Laura."

By dint of a gentle persistence, I pushed
my way round to where I caught sight of
Arthur's handsome face, beaming with un-
usual animation, and a small head close to
him, whose coil of dark chestnut hair I rec-
ognized, though the face was turned from
me. Then, just as I was within a few
yards of them, he put his arm round her
waist, and they waltzed off. For the first
time in my life I knew what a pang of jeal-
ousy was. It was silly, unreasonable, 1
lelt ; but so it was.

After a turn or two they stopped, vevy
nearly in the same place; but this time
Evelyn's face was towards me. For two
or three minutes I stood watching, without
attempting to interrupt them ; and I saw
that others watched them too. Is she
happy ? Is her head turned by her suc-
cess ? Has she actually forgotten me ?
were the questions that tortured me as I
scanned the sweet young countenance that
looked up at Arthur every now and then
with a smile ; and then across which an
absent look would pass like a cloud, until
chased away by some observation of his.
I noted that she said but little herself —
she listened, she laughed once or twice at
the grotesque dancing of a couple to which
Tufton drew her attention ; but the far-off,
wistful expression came back into her eyes
a moment alter. No, my darling has not
yetforgot^ten «iQe, I said to my beating heart,

as the waltz came to an end ; and moving
forward a few paces, I held out my hand to
her.

Though, of course, she was prepared for
our meeting, the blood rushed into her
face, and tlnv small gloved hand she gave
me trembleil ; but there was no smile, no
welcome : a deep sadness reigned in the
large brown eyes that were bent upon me ;
and, for a moment or two, neither of us
spoke.

'• It is strange our meeting like this, isn't
it? " I began at last ; " and you are grown
such a tali, grand. young ladv. I was afraid
for a moment you would forget me, E\elyn.
Miss Ilamleigh and Fare cousins, Arthur."

" I thought you would be surprised to see
me," she said, in a very low voice.

" Su!prised is no word for it. But come
and take a turn with me. AVe'll go into the
tea-room, and you'll dance the next qua-
drille with me, won't you ? "

" T am engaged, Osmund."

" Throw the fellow over, whoever he is."

" But the fellow has no idea of being
thrown over," laughed Tufton.

" You ! Come, that's too bad, Arthur.
But, at all events, my cousin's going into
tea with me now. You must come and find
her there presently."

She hesitated, I saw, for one moment ;
then, yielding to the impulse of lici- heart,
she placed her hand upon my arm without
a word. I smiled and nodded to Arthur,
and we left. him. I gave myself great
credit for having controlled my feelings so
successfully before a third person. As soon
as we were out of the crowd, I said, —

" This is the happiest moment I have
had, Evy, since I wished }ou good-by
from the branch of the old ehn-tree. I'm
afraid you can't say as much : you don't
seem as glad to see me."

I felt her hand tremble on my arm.

" I don't know whether I am glad or
sorry. I wish " — and here she stopped.

'• What ? Look here : I've lots to say
to you, and lots to a>^k of you. There has
been no end of lying about me, Evelyn ; and
I want to explain many things to you which
it is no use telling your mother. She won't
listen ; she has made up her mind not to
believe me, I know. We haven't time
now, but you'll keep all the dances you
have disengaged for me, dearest Evy, won't
you ? "

She shook her head with a sigh. " I
cannot keep one, Osmund."

" Do you mean that your mother has
made you promise not to dance with me ? "

'' Yes ; and she would be very much an-
noyed if she thought I was walking about
with you now."

" Why V By Jove ! such tyranny is in-

PENRUDDOCKE.

Ill

tolerable ! What on earth have I done
tliat we are to be separated completely in
this way ? "

" I don't know," she murmured, looking
down.

" After being brought up together, Evy,
isn't it hard I should be kept more aloof
than any stranger you meet here to-night
fur the first time ? "

'• Ah ! " she said, looking up sadly into
my eyes, " but you are changed — you are
not the same Osmund I loved as a child.
Yon are so different — oh ! so different
from what I fancied you could ever be ! "

" You mean in appearance, for you can
know nothing else of me, Evy ? "

" Yes, of course — I cannot explain, —
there is no use talking of it. You are
become what they call ' a man of the
world,' and I thought you would always
have I'emained the same dear b.>y I loved
as a child. You see, I'm sti'l an ignorant
little school-girl in some things."

She attempted to smile as she said this,
but the effort was feeble.

" So that you think it quite natural and
right that we should be separated ? " I
as'ked bitterly. " If you really think that,
I have no more to say ; only, in that case,
you are far more changed than / am, Eve-
lyn."

She grew pale, and I saw the tears
gather in her eyes.

" They say you are so awfully wicked —
is it true ? " she asked, with child-like
naivete.

" No : that is the rubbish of horrid old
scandal-mongers like Mrs. Hawksley, be-
cause I did not make u]i to an heiress they
all ihou'^ht I niiirht have married last
season."

She shook her head and looked down.

"Speak, Evy, — say something, won't
you ? "

" What can I say ? They tell me you are
in love with some one who is not at all
good."

" And you believe that old cat who tells
your mother all these lies ? "

" Oh ! it is not only Mrs. Hawksley.
There is Lady Louisa Pynsent, and some
other people, told mamma yesterday the
B:mu: thing."

" They are a nice lot ! I should like to
sec them all at the bottom of the sea !
They have such vile imaginations, Evy.
they i)ut the worst construction on every
thing."

She looked sadly distressed.

" Lady Rachel, herself, you know, has
warned me."

" My mother and I are two. You mustn't
listen to a word she says."

" Oh, dear Osmund ! don't say that — so

good as she is, — and you ran away, and
have never come home since 1 I always
say that you will some day, — that you are
only led astray, and that when you find out
how bad all the peojjle are by wh(jm you
are surrounded, you will return and be as
you once were again. I can't believe" —
here she broke off

" Evy, will you believe me when I swear
to you that all you have heard is false ? I
love you, my darling, as I did when I was
a boy, — only a hundred-fold more ; and I
never have loved any one else."

She flushed up to her temples, and raised
her clear brown eyes to my face. Then she
faltered, " But — but even this evening " —
" You overheard some words that fell from
Madame d'Arnheim, when you found us to-
gether ? Well, my darling, you misunder-
stand their nature entirely. She " —

" Miss Hamleigh, our dance has began,"
said Tufton, approaching.

" You must give me an opportunity of ex-
planation," I whispered. " You will take a
turn with me, when this dance is over ? Say
that you will, darling."

She had turned very white, and was lean-
ing against the table.

" A glass of water ! " was all she could
say.

Tuflon poured one out, and gave it her.
" The heat," she murmured, after a minute
or two. " Lord Tufton, I think if you will
forgive me, I will go and sit by mamma in-
stead of dancing. I feel giddy."

As she took his arm, our eyes met for an
instant. I saw what an effort it cost her,
poor child, to maintain her composure ; but
no more passed between us.

A few minutes later I heard some one
say, —

" The beauty has fainted, or something
very like it, and has had to leave the ball.
Tufton is in despair. I never saw a man
so bitten."

CHAPTER XXXVni.

Those last words rang in my ears all
the remainder of the night. I danced, I
took some one in to supper; I did all that
could be expected of me, without being
more than half conscious of what I was
about. At last I slipped away, got up to
my turret-bedroom, and sat down before
tlu! fire to think.

What ought my course now to be ?
There was no question about it, that my
darling's mind h.id been poisoned about
Madame d'Arnheim. I remembered now
that Evelyn must have seen my poor friend
in my arms upon the ice the previous day ;

112

PENRUDDOCKE,

all the idle gossip regarding us liad reached
her ; and now, this evening, she had seen
us again together, and ha(i heard words
spoken whiidi had evidently left an impres-
sion on luT mind tiiat my asseverations
h;id not tlispellcd.

I was bitterly hnrt and disappointed. T
had thonnlit that half a dozen vvords li'om
me would have prevailed with her against
all the rest of the world ; and yet, the
longer I thought over it, the more clearly
I saw, that, unless Evelyn's mind had re-
mained in the plastic condition of child-
hood, the iniluence and warnings of both
our mothers, the weight of the world's evi-
dence against me, — nay, the evidence other
own senses, — must preponderate against
my hasty disavowal in this matter. She
was no longer a child, although retaining
some. of the nai'ye/e of childhood. She had
reflected, and sutrereil, as any girl of strong
feeling must have done, separated from the
ol)ject of her first aiFections, and hearing
his delinquencies reprobated and mourned
over. She did not believe in my hopeless
depravity ; her mother had not succeeded
so iiir : I was led astray ; I had fallen into
evil company ; I should one day repent
and be forgiven. This, I saw, was the
frame of mind in which my darling was
respecting me. If I chose to bow down to
the reigning gods at Beaumanoir, why,
then I might be restored to favor, and my
delinquencies forgotten ; but I swore J
would not so bow down. I would be justi-
fied ; I would not be forgiven the sins I
had never committed.

The moment had arrived when I felt
that I ought to write to my mother. The
only possession in which I could distance
all competitors for Evelyn's hand was ray
unswerving love from early boyhood until
now ; and this it was sought to discredit.
She was told — and my mother had clearly
helped in the telling — that my fire was
laid upon other altars ; and, however leni-
ently the world might judge such peccadil-
loes, the charge was destructive to the
claim of unalterable attachment to my
cousin. Probably, on that very account,
had it been hailed by Lady Rachel and
Mrs. Hamleigb. The latter, who saw
every thing through my mother's eyes, wns
shown that it was of the last importance
to detach Evelyn from me, no matter how ;
and, of every form of ill-doing, that of which
1 had been accused was the best calculated
to eflfect this object ; and yet it had not
efTected it. Though grieving over the sins
she heard denounced, that look in her eyes
told me that I had not lost my hold over
my darling's heart.

If the reader of these pages understands
my character at all by this time, he will

not be surprised to hear, that, while medi-
tating over my future line of conduct, I
never contemplated altering it as regarded
the two ladies with whom my name had
been coupled. I had done no harm — why
should I? As regarded Lady C istle, I
had only a feeling of compassion, as I should
have had for some .poor hunted animal
that sought refuge at my feet. I had nb
especial deliglit in her society : 1 had even
avoided it of late ; but I had promised to
befriend her, and, if she needed my help, I
would not go back from my word.

Madame d'Arnlieim's was a very differ-
ent case. When I looked back at the
influence she had exercised over me dur-
ing the past year, I recognized more than
ever the precious gift that such a woman's
friendship may be to a man in the outstart
of life. I felt the deepest reverence, admi-
ration, and gratitude towards her. I might
think her a little severe at times ; she raiaht
be a little too high-flown for me at others ;
but I had the most absolute trust in iier
goodness and her unshrinking truth, which
never spared me; and I valued such a
friendship far too highly to sacrifice it to
the world's gossip. She filled a place in
my life no one had ever filled ; and was I
not conscious that I supplied a want, an
interest, in hersY If she learnt that idle
tongues were wagging about her, would she
not simply scorn the scandal ? At all
events, the rupture of our intimacy must
be her doing. It would be an act of miser-
able cowardice and truckling to the world,
and to those family powers who for the
present held my fate in their hands, if I
abandoned Madame d'Arnheim. It was
thus I argued.

I had sat there nearly an hour, meditat-
ing beside the fire, when I caught the faint
wail of the violin, like the cry of a soul in
pain, coming up from the room beneath
mine. Arthur and I had the turret Lctween
us. He was not in bed, then, and was no
more minded for repose than myself. I'
was seized with a sudden desire to talk
with him about Evelyn. Pi.'rhaps it would
be better that I should tell him at once what
I had never yet revealed? — the actual
condition of things between us. As I have
already said in another place, there was
that in this friend of mine, which, with all
my strong affection for liim, had hitherto
prevented my confiding the story of my
youthful love to him. It had never seemed
possible that he could be touched by love
himself. I had never heard him express
so much as a strong admiration for a
woman ; but to-night he had shown unmis-
takably that he was capable of such admi-
ration ; he had come out in a light so new
to me, that I had difficulty in believing the

PENRUDDOCKE.

113

evidence of my own senses. AVas it really
Arthur, "the man of adamant " as I was
wont to call him, who had been devotinjj;
himself to my liitle Evelyn all the night V
I had suQered momentary pangs of jeal-
ousy, but tliese were past. After the few
words that had passed between my dar-
h"ng and me, I fcdt that though she had
been told that I was desperately " wicked,"
and though she clearly believed that I was
not absolutely true to her, her heart was
still mine. It was in no man's power to
rob me of it.

But on this xery account I felt that our
friendship demanded of me an avowal of the
truth ; lest, haply, my friend should enter
into a rivalship with me, which, though
hopeless to him, might be productive of
much misery to us both. I would tell him
every thing. My natural candor rendered
such a step almost necessary to me now ; at
least I thought so, as I entered the room.

*' Come in, Pen," he said, as I opened the
door, and found him in the dark, except for
the red light from the fire on the hearth, and
the cold stars that shone through the uncur-
tained window. He stood near it, half un-
dressed, his violin in his hand, his clear-cut
profile, as he bent his head, just touched by
the pale starlight ; the strong soul within
him drawn to his fingers' ends, and passing
out in a broad stream of sound, as lie bent
his bow-arm with all the sinuous grace of
nervous mastery. So standing in the twi-
light, he recalled a drawing I had seen by
one of the old Florentines, on gray paper,
touched sparingly with white, of Orpheus
in the land of shades.

He did not stop for my coming in : he
played the passionate melody he. had begun
to an end before he laid down his violin,
and said, —

" I wanted to talk to you. Pen ; and I
should have come up to your room, but that
I thought you were in bed, and asleep.
Draw a chair to the fire, and light your
pipe, old boy. Do you know I've been
rather unhappy about you to-night ? "

I felt no doubt as to what he alluded. It
was a relief to find the opening to my con-
fidence made so easy to me.

" Have you ? What about ? I think I
know ; but don't light the candles, old fel-
low. We can talk much better in the dark."

" All right." He sat down opposite me. "It
has to do with something we sjjoke of yester-
day. I want to give you a word of advice,
which from a man ten years your senior, you
won't take amiss. Pen. I pooh-pooh'd the
world's gossip about you yesterday; but,
from what I have seen and heard to-night,
I think you ought to be careful. If not, you
■will burn your fingers."

" AVhat do you mean ? You don't rea-

ly believe this nonsense about me and
Madame d'Arnheim ? "

" I dare say there is nothing serious at
present, on your side, at all events. It may
do her harm, perhaps, in more ways than
one — I don't suppose it will do you any;
but the lady seems to me rather given to
sentimentality — and you are very young.
Your other little amusement, however, is far
more dangerous. Flirting with Lady Castle
is playing with edge-tools, depend on it."

" God bless my soul I " I cried, starting
up, " it is enough to drive a fellow mad, Ar-
thur, to find you, too, swallowing all this
rubbish. First, Madame d'Arnheim, and
then Lady Castle ! What on earth did you
hear about me and her ? "

" She was seen crying to-night when you
were alone together so long, and she raves
about you so openly, I am told, that it is no
wonder if the old story of last season is re-
vived, — that you have supplanted Bene-
vento in her good graces. Now, take care,
Pen, or you will find yom-self caught, before
you know where you are ; and, let me tell
you, the escape from a iiauion of this kind
is often very difficult."

" I assure you there is not the smallest
danger for me. You talk like " — I was
going to say " Madame d'Arnhiem," but
felt the unwisdom of bringing her into the
discussion — " like a man who has had
many experiences of this sort, instead of
being a model of prudence, who takes very
good care never to be talked of with any
woman," I added with a laugh.

" Shall I tell you something ? " he said,
after a pause. " I have not had many sim-
ilar experiences, but I have had one. Long
before I knev; vou, I got into an entano'le-
ment which well-nigh proved my ruin. It
was that which drove me to gamble — it is
that which has always made me shun socie-
ty, to a great extent. It has given me a
dread of women, — women of the world,
that is to say. Keep clear of their snares,
if you can, Pen."

1 repeated that there was no foundation
for the fear that I was to fall a victim to this
particular woman of the world. I said to
liim pretty much what I had said to Ma-
dame d'Arnheim, but I had the annoyance
of seeing that it did n(jt pi'oduce much
elTect. I was not in love yet — that, he
said, he quite believed ; but, if I continued
to play with fire, — unless I resolutely put
it from me — it was hardly possible that I
should remain unburnt. I tried to make him
understand, without betraying her confi-
dence, that Lady Castle had consulted me
as a friend, and it was in that light alone
that our intercourse now or hereafter would
be kej)! up. He shook his head incredu-
lously, and repeated two or three times, —

114

PENRUDDOCKE.

" DeponcI on it, it is a mistake jroing in
for married women as you do, Pen."

Alter this eonversiitiun, the diflieulty of
approaehinij that other subject on wliieh
I desired to speak was increased four-foUl.
In spite of every disclaimer, I saw that Ar-
thur believed I was carryino; on more or
less of a llirtalion with two married women
at the same moment. He even feared that
one of these would ingulf me. This an-
noved me beyond measure on every account ;
but, most of all, because it seemed to me to
render the opening of my heart impossible.
I had entered the room with the intention
of telling my friend every thing that con-
cerned Evelyn and myself. But now I said,
" Believing what he does, will he not treat
the story of my love simply as a romantic
episode of my youth, to which no enduring
importance is to be attached ? " I had never
even named my P2velyn to him during all
our intimacy, so completely had her image
faded from my memory until now, when we
had met again, and her beauty was the
theme of every tongue 1 I fancied I saw the
half ironical smile with which he would re-
ceive my communication. Were we en-
gaged ? No ; and our respective parents
■would undoubtedly oppose any such engage-
ment ; so much I must admit. Had my
fidelity been so conspicuous as to warrant
the assumption that my young cousin's
heart, in spite of our long separation, was
still mine V How should I reply to this V
Evelyn's constrained manner with me, her
absolute refusal to dance, the absence of all
joy in her greeting, could not have escaped
his observation. If I spoke the truth, I
must allow that she had not only heard, but
credited, these stories concerning me. ]My
bare assertion that I believed that her heart,
in spite of every thing, remained true to me,
would sound like a vain boy's braggadocio.
I knew it ; I felt all that he would not say,
and all that his suggestive silence would
imply, and I had not the moral courage to
speak at such a disadvantage. The mo-
ment, I said to myself, was not propitious.
Let me dispossess his mind of these erro-
neous ideas about mvself. and then, without
fear of misconception, I would tell him the
truth. And so the only moment, whether
propitious or not, in which I might have
confided in my friend, passed away, never
to return.

We sat there some time over the dying
embers, and then I went to bed.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

It was late the following morning when
I was awoke by Joe Carter's opening the
shutters with an unusual clatter. I knew

that something was amiss with him. When-
ever his mind was perturbed, he made an
unnecessary to-do. At other times he
could be deft and gentle in his movements
as a woman. On this occasion no pity for
my innocent slumbers caused him to falter
in his stern purpose.

" It's time as you was up, master."

" No hurry, Joe," I grumbled, turning on
the other side. " Breakfast will go on all
day, I should think."

'' yummut like tblks' chatter." Here he
paused for a minute, considering how he
should point his aphorism. " But the
tea gets bitter by standing, and, after a bit,
so do folks' tongues. I likes both hot my-
self."

" What the deuce are you talking about,
Joe ? " and here I opened my heavy eye-
lids.

" Only about a row I had in the servants' •
hall along o' you last night. I'd cut it if I
was you."

" About me?" I now jumped bolt up-
right. " I'm afraid you were drunk, Joe."

" No ; I might ha' had a drop too much,
— the ale hei'e's plaguy strong, — but I
wasn't that screwed I didn't know very
well what I were doin'."

" Well, go on."

Joe stropped my razor vigorously for a
minute belbre proceeding.

" All I say is, cut it, afore it's too late,
and let the blackguards talk as they will."

" Speak out, man, can't you ? What the
devil are you driving at ? Have you heard
any thing about me ? Is that what this
row was about ? "

" Yes," replied Joe, stopping suddenly in
his razor operations, and turning round to
face me. " I heard more than I liked, — a
deal. Lord Castle's man began it, and the
count's valet took up the chaflT. I knew
they were lies ; but, if paint sticks, it don't
matter if it's good or bad. They called you
a Don John, or some such name ; and so I
up with my fist, and knocked him down for
his pains."

" How could you be such a fool ? "

" Oh ! never you mind me, master : you
look out for yourself. I don't care for any
on *em, and so I told 'em. They called me
a low fellow, and I ofiered to fight 'em all
round."

" Upon my life, this is rather too bad, —
to be made the subject of ribaldry in the
servants' hall ! '

" As to that, don't flatter yourself that
every blessed thing you do isn't talked
over. As to what they said o' the ladies,
that was no concern o' mine. Women can
look out for theirselves. They're at the
bottom of every mischief, and I've no much
pity for 'em, whatever's said; only I wasn't

PENRUDDOCKE.

115

goin' to let 'em go on tellin' lies about
you."

" I think you have made the matter very
much worse by creating a brawl," I replied
shaiply. I was worried, far more than Joe
could possiby know, by his communication.
The jiossip up stairs was bad enough ; but
that the servants should have begun to re-
peat it b(dow, — it was most provoking. I
knew how swiftly evil report s])reads
through such channels ; for myself, I had no
fear of not living it down, and of setting
m\self right, sooner or later, with Evelyn
and the rest of my family ; but for Madame
d'Arnheim's sake, I was much more seri-
ously anii03'ed, and I visited my annoyance
rather unjustly upon Joe.

" You made the matter very much worse ;
and it all comes of your drinking I This
is the Avay you keep your promises to re-
form ! "

" I haven't been tight these six months,"
rejoined Joe indignantly, " and I wasn't to
say screwed last night; but just because I
wouldn't let them blackguards speak so of
you, you turn round on me for drinking !
I hadn't need to have told you a word
about it, — and why did I ? ' Because,'
said I, ' there's no smoke without the begin-
ning of a fire, — a chance of it, any way.
If the slicks is damp and disinclined, they
won't light ; but there the sticks is, and
there's the smoke, and I says to myself the
best thing master can do is to cut his
stick.' "

A caution as to morality and worldly
prudence from Joe Carter ! I could hardly
hel|) smiling, in spite of my irritation ; and
the curious thing was, he was the third
person in the course of twelve hours who
had tendered me the same advice.

I was not going to part with my resent-
ment, however, so easily. I considered it
but my duo, and that it would be extremely
weak if I succumbed at once to Joe's argu-
ments in defence of himself; therefore I
replied shortly that I had no intention of
leaving the castle for some days, if that was
what he meant, and that I should be obliged
to him to keep out of any further brawls
during the i-emain<ler of my stay there.

Joe was in no hurry to leave the room :
there was the boot inspection, and the for-
mation of figures on the toilet-table with
my bottles and brushes, the symmetrical
arrangement of my clothes on a chair, and
the deployment of a stiflly-starched shirt,
whose mouth and arms he opened wide
upon the bed to embrace me ; all this,
his clock-work routine, he went leisurely
through, while I shaved ; and he went
through it in dignified silence. Joe's feel-
ings were wounded. It was not till he had
left the room, and I was more than half-

dressed, that I perceived a letter on the
table, which Joe had laid there. I recog-
nized Mr. Francis's hand, and tore it open.
It ran thus : —

"My dear Osmund, — I have sad
news to communicate. jNIr. John Penrud-
docke has had another attack, and he is
d\ing. I have just parted from the doctor,
who says he may jjossibly last three or
four days, — certainly not longer. I have
thought it right to let you know this at
once, because your poor cousin has ex-
pressed a strong desire to see you, and has
asked when you were expected to return to
London. I could only reply that I did not
know, as I was unwilling to hold out hopes
which it might not be in your power to real-
ize. I know that you are staying in the
midst of a gay party, and may possibly feel
averse from coming to sad scenes ; I can
but say, that, if you decide on returning, it
will be a great comfort to more than one in
this house. Elizabeth behaves wonder-
fully. Her self-control, knowing her as I
do, amazes me ; but she feels the impor-
tance of not agitating her father, and,
before him, she is calm and collected, far
more so, indeed, than poor Mr. Humphrey
is. His nervous restlessness and excitabil-
ity are terrible. I will let you know when
all is over, if we do not see you before. I
feel sure that you will, at all events, make
a point of attending the funeral.

" In haste, to save this post, if possible,
" Your attached friend,

" H. Francis."

"P.S. — No one knows that I am writ-
ing."

My hand was on the bell as I finished
the letter.

" Joe," I said, when he appeared in an-
swer to the summons, " send for a fly to
meet the two o'clock up-traiu, and pack my
things at once."

No doubt Joe was satisfied that I had
yielded to the cogency of his arguments ;
but my thoughts were too full of other mat-
ters to waste time in unnecessary words.
While he set himself with alacrity to the
task of destroying the beautiful symmetry
of my wardrobe and toilet-table, and con-
signed them to temporary burial in my
portmanteau, shovelling in the clothes, and
then patting them down, like so many sods
of earth, I opened my blotting-book and
wrote two letters. The first, to Evelyn,
never reached its destination. The second,
to my mother, was a vehement protest
against her accepting every injurious ru-
mor that reached her concerning me.

" The bad opinion you express of me is

116

PENRUDDOCKE.

too consistent," I wi-ote, " for mo to be sur-
piiseil ;it your reiuliness to receive iind dis-
seminate reports disadvantageous to my
character. At the same time, I feel that
it' 1 allow these charges, — whicli atFect the
■'reputation of at least one lady whom the
breath of scandal has never before dared to
touch, — if I allow them to be made with-
out an energetic and indignant denial of
their truth, it will ajipear like an indiller-
ence which I am very far from feeling.
For the sake of that ladv, — one of the no-
blest of women, — even more than for my
own. I am bound to rebut these slanders,
althc)Ugh it may be that my future happi-
ness is at stake, if the mind of the only
ci'eature I love passionately on earth is
poisoned by falsehood. That consideration,
1 am aware, would weigh but little with
you. You may rest assured, however, that
truth will triumph in the end, and it is well
that I should tell you plainly that I will
never marry any one but Evelyn llam-
leigh."

It might be impolitic, but I resolved
thus boldly to state my hopes, while remon-
strating, in no measured terms, against my
mother's cruel interference. The composi-
tion of this letter took me more than half-
an hour, and the long drive to the station
did not leave me much time tor breakfast
and leave-taking before the hour when the
tniin was due.

Madame d'Arnheim, looking pale and ill,
was seated next to the duchess when I en-
tered the breakfost-room. I dropped into
an empty seat opposite, between Lord Cas-
tle and Arthur. Very few of the others
had appeared.

" Dear me ! " said Her Grace, with slight-
ly elevated brows, as I announced that I
had received a summons. " Your sudden
departure takes me, at all events, rjuite by
surprise, Mr. Penruddocke." And 1 saw
her glance at Madame d'Arnheim.

The latter looked at me intently. Her
face expressed astonishment, and a certain
degree of anxiety. Arthur half turned to-
wards me. I saw he was waiting with
curiosity for my explanation.

"It is family business that calls me to
London, Duchess. I am very sorry to go."

Arthur gave me an approving smile.
Like Joe, he was deceived as to the cause
of my sudden flitting.

'' And what are the tableaux to do with-
out you V " cried Mrs. Chaffinch. " Lady
Castle will be in despair ; or have you al-
ready softened the blow to her, Mr. Pen-
ruddocke? Poor dear, perhaps that's why
she is keeping her bed."

Before I could reply to this sally, Lord
Castle, gravely intent upon the egg before
him, said, with the utmost simplicity, —

"No: Clare told me just now that she
hoped to persuade you to return with us to
the Grange, for a few days, on Saturday.
She will be quite sorry, I am sure, to find
you have run away."

I I,neiv — though I did not choose to see

— the way in which Mrs. Chaffinch glanced
round the table, before I heard her disgust-
ing laugh.

" Yes. Lord Castle, that's the right word
— ' run away.' It's pusillanimous, isn't it ?
What Scrijjture hero shall we compare him
to ? David wouldn't have behaved so,
nor Solomon, — certainly not Solomon. I
scarcely know any one who would have
fled from the attractions of our sex, except
that virtuous young party who was sold by
his brethren. lie ran away. Ha, ha !
that's what it is to be spoilt 1 All these
boys give themselves such airs now. Here
I've been trying, ever since I knew him, to
make Mr. Penruddocke say a civil thing to
me, and never have succeeded yet. And
now he runs away ! "

" No wonder, Mrs. Chaffinch," said An-
castar. " He found himself yielding to
the seductions of your mellifluous tongue.
Thei-e was no safety but in flight."

" I'm afraid there is no safety from Mrs.
Cha-lfinch's mellifluous tongue even in
flight," said I. " ' Men may come, and men
may go, but it. goes on forever.' "

" There, if that isn't a civil thing, I don't
know what is!" cried Ancastar. "You
have it at last, Mrs. Chaffinch. You're like
Tennyson's ' Brook ' — nothing could be
prettier. You ' chatter, chatter on your
way,' and you ' move the sweet forget-me-
nots that grow for happy lovers.' That you
maybe said to do wirfeet? — nothing could
be more ajipropriate. Bravo, Penrud-
docke ! "

Amidst the general laughter, the duch-
ess's incisive voice was heard saying, —

" What rubbish, Ancastar, you young
men do talk in the present day ! There
was a time when genuine wit existed, —
now there is nothing but what you term
' chaff ' — such a dreadful word ! Mr. Pen-
ruddocke, is it true thaf the young person
we all admired so much last night — Miss

— Miss Hamleigh, I think — is a cousin of
yours ? "

IMadame d'Arnheim's eyes had been fixed
abstractedly upon a spot on the table-cloth
for some minutes. She raised them swifl-
ly to my face, and her cheek flushed as I
replied that Miss Hamleigh was my cous-
in.

" Jove ! she's a beautiful girl ; and so you
seemed to think, Tufton," said Ancastar.

" Yes, I did think her beautiful ; and,
what is better, natural, unspoilt, — perfect-
ly feminine."

PENEUDDOCKE.

117

"Is tke mother that woman with the
teeth V " asked Lady Ancastar hinfj;uidly.

" ;\Irs. Haoileigh has fine teeth," replied
Arthur, rather resentfully. " She seems a
particularly nice person, — so frank and
genial."

Mrs. Hamleii^h frank and genial ! Ar-
thur must be indeed blinded. I began to
reixret that I bad not made a clean breast
to him last night. But we should meet in
a few days' time in town, and then I would
tell him all.

A quarter of an hour later, I had taken
my leave of the duchess, and was in the
hall. The fly, with my portmanteau, and
Joe standing like a sentry over it, were at
the door. Madame d'Aruheim was beside
me.

" So it was your Evelyn, was it, last
night ? Ah ! I understand it all now."

" Did you not guess why I left you as I
did ? I was too much bewildered to ex-
plain any thing at the moment, — the un-
expected sight of her so completely upset
me."

" No, I did not guess. I saw a lovely
girl, but did not hear her name. I thought
perhaps you had suddenly remembered
something of importance you had to com-
municate to Lady Castle, and shortly after
I went up stairs, feeling very weary.

" I did not remain much later myself. I
passed a miserable evening, — but I have
not time to tell you any thing now. When
shall you be in town V "

" Poor boy 1 I feared as much. It is this
is taking you away ? We shall be in town
in a fortnight. You shall then come and
confide your troubles to me."

There was a rapid rustling of satin down
the great staircase behind us at this mo-
ment, and Lady Castle called out, —

" 1 am so glad I am just in time to wish
you good-by. Castle came to tell me you
were sjoing. It is too sad, isn't it, Madame
d'Arnheim ? "

But that lady responded never a word.
She froze into herself, and looked out of
the window upon the hard white road of
the park.

" Can't you come to us," continued Lady
Castle, " next week, or the week after ?
AVe shall have no party. It will be very
dull for you, I'm afraid, but if you will
come, it will be so nice. Do try to get
leave."

" Thank you very much, but I am going
up upon family business which will keep
me in town probably some time. At all
events, I should not be able to get leave
again at prcsimt."

" And I sha'n't be in town till the middle
of M trcli ! Two wliole months, — dread-
ful, isn't itV " Here she looked very sig-

nificantly. " But there is no help for it.
We are going to make great im])rovements
in the park and gardens at the Grange.
Mr. Thomas is coming down the beginning
of March, and Castle wishes me to be there
to discuss plans with him. I always make
a point, poor dear ! of doing what he wishes,
when he does express a desire, — it is so
seldom ! "

" Good-by, Lady Castle. I mustn't stay
any longer, or I shall miss the train. Good-
by, Madame d'Arnheim. I leave my char-
acter in the hands of both of voir, when my
back is turned. Save me from Mrs. Chat-
finch."

I hun-ied into the fly, and left the two
ladies standing there, waving their fare-
wells, — as great a contrast as any two of
their sex could have presented ; the one,
soft and scented, a very pretty object, at-
tired in Mr. Worth's last eccentricity, with
just a soup^on of rouge and powder to hide
the ravages of time and late hours ; a mys-
terv of lace and lockets, flounces and false
curls — the other, simple to severity, in her
tieht-fitting dress, and hair swept back from
her brow, her pale and worn face unas-
sisted by art of any kind, — by no means
pretty, as she appears this morning, yet
always noble and interesting.

CHAPTER XL.

It was past seven o'clock when my han-
som drove up to Cheyne AValk. The stars
shone brightly ; the cold was intense.

" How is Mr. John ? " was my first ques-
tion of old Annie, who, in answer to the
bell, unfastened the already-barred door.

The old servant shook her head.

" Died o' three o'clock this afternoon."

I entered. " Tell Mr. Francis I am
here."

I walked into the quaint little parlor to
the right of the passage, and waited. In a
minute or two he appeared.

" I am so glad you are come, my boy,
thou;rh it is too late to see Jiiin, — he was
taken quite suddenly at last; but your
coming will be a comfort to Mr. Hum-
phrey and to Elizabeth."

" Was he conscious at the end ? " I
asked.

" Yes, and he spoke a great deal of
you." Here he paused for a moment.
" But I will enter upon that anollier time.
Elizabeth will like to see you now.
She has not shed a tear, jjoor child ! I
wish she could. She has never left the
l)oily. You will not mind coming in there,
Osmund V "

We went up stairs, and softly entered
the room where I had last seen poor John.

118

PENRUDDOCKE.

There stood the dimity bed, with the
flickering firelight on it ; and upon the
bed the vast gaunt outline I knew so
well, dimly delined beneath the sheets.
The massive features just tipped with
light, the eyelid weighed down by that
solemn sleep whieli knows no waking, the
firm wide-sweeping mouth and square-cut
jaw looking far grander now than in life.
It reminded me in its impassive majesty of
a i)ietnre of the Sphinx in the desert.
How strange it is that when tliat mind is
forever at rest, whose activity we are
accustomed to think can alone give inter-
est to the human countenance, in the un-
broken stillness that rests there, it becomes
at once ennobled ! In the absence of that
which we chiefly prize in life, lies the
awful and unapproachable beauty of
death.

Kneeling beside the bed, with her back
to the fire, was Elizabeth. Her head was
buried in her hands : she was quite mo-
tionless when we entered. I spoke to her
softly by name, and she looked up quick-
ly. A shudder ran through the slight
young frame, and she rose to her feet.
1 took both her hands in mine, and held
them ; then, for the first time in my life, I
kissed her, and said, —

" Dear Elizabeth, I am so grieved not to
have been here in time. I came off the
instant I heard. I am so very sorry for
you, my dear."

She buried her face in her hands
again.

" I thought I was prepared, but I was
not. Oh ! my dad, my dad ! we were so
happy together ! "

" Yet he is happier now, Elizabeth.
Remember how much he suifered latterly.
Now he is at rest."

"Ah! Who knows that?" she said,
looking up in her old abrupt way. (Mr.
Francis had left the room). " When I
saw him sutfering, I used to think that
sometimes ; but who can tell ? His body
is at rest, but his soul may be suffwring,"
she added, almost in a whisper.

" You know how good he was, Elizabeth,
— why should you be tormented by such
a fancy ? "

" I don't know : it seems to me I ought
to pray for him, but I don't know how.
At Ghent they used too oiler up masses
for the repose of the dead. Mr. Francis
has offered them up for him, I am sure.
Perhaps it may do good, lor who knows
any thing beyond the grave ? All's dark."

" One thing isn't dark. Such love as
his cannot end with life. You're sure of
that, at least ? "

'• I think so; but, all the same, he may
be suflering now. Oh, dear dad ! If I

only knew you were happy, and that I
should join you soon ! "

I was perplexed what to say to her ; her
frame of mind was so strange. " The long-
est life is but very short, Elizabeth. As
to his happiness, is it not possible that,
putting masses aside, that may be still in-
iluenced by your conduct? Think of this
if your lieart is inclined to rebel. The
life we lead, and not the death we die, is
the important thing ; and few men, I be-
lieve, ever had a better account to render
up. I never heard him say a harsh thing,
even of those who had wronged him and
you ; and wrong to you must have been
hard to forgive, for you were his only
thought in life."

" I was — I was — and oh ! he was so
patient, so indulgent. He was father,
mother, every thing to me 1 All the
times I was disobedient to him come back
to me now. Who ever will be to me as
he was ? "

" No one, dear Elizabeth, can be to you
as he was. But the last time I saw him I
promised him that you would always find
a brother in me, — that I would protect
your interests in every way before ray own;
and, depend upon it, I will keep that
promise."

" You're very good," said Elizabeth, in
a dead tone of voice, and she turned her
fact; towards the fire. The dark hol|ows
under her eyes made them look twice their
natural size. She added, after a moment's
pause, still looking at the fiery castles
which burned with a still, fierce heat in
the grate, —

" He was fond of you, Osmund."

" Yes, I thinXAie was. He showed it by
the trust he placed In me. I am so glad
to have known him, — to have known his
real worth, and that he had a regard for
me, Elizabeth, — that he did not die think-
ing all our race were enemies to him
and you."

" He did not believe he had an enemy.
When Cousin Humphrey said hard things,
dear dad always softened them away. He
thought every one as guileless as himself.
His last words were, "I'm at peace with
all the world, Liz." Oh ! my dad, my dad !
To think that I shall never hear your voice
again ! " Here she sunk on her knees be-
side the bed once more. " I can't help it,

— I can't 1 My heart does rebel. A few
hours ago he could still speak to me, —
still call me Liz ; and now he is silent
forever ! Oh ! why can't I go with him ?

— why should I be left here ? No one
wants me, — I'm of no good to any one. I
don't want to stay."

I was with her more than half an hour ;
and Mr. Francis afterwards said that this

PENRUDDOCKE.

119

outburst of passionate utterance, which
even increased in vehemence, and lasted
the greater jJart of the time I was there,
was the first vent which the poor child's
grief had found. They had not heard tlie
sound of her voice before. Her hands were
hot, her eyes were dry ; her long, anxious
watch and etfort at self-control had
brought her into this unnatural, feverish
condition. I urged upon Cousin Hum-
phrey, whom I saw on leaving Elizabeth,
that the doctor should be sent for to look
at the child ; and this was done before I
left the house.

The old gentleman was taciturn and
fidgety, getting up from his chair every
two or three minutes to take a piece of
coal off the fire, and then to put it on
again ; to move the lamp, first on one side
of the table, and then on the other ; lastly, to
ring the bell for the patient Anne so often,
and fire off such numberless questions at
her, that ray belief is she adopted the ex-
pedient of remaining outside the door. He
said nothing of any importance to me then,
but his manner was kind ; and, from the
word or two he let drop about John, I saw
that he felt the loss of a man who was his
complete contrast in every respect more
than I had thought possible. But Eliza-
beth was the subject of all his present
anxiety. Anne was sent to try to coax her
to eat some dinner; then, when that em-
bassy failed, another was sent with a cup
of tea ; this meeting with no better suc-
cess, Mr. Francis went, at the old man's
bidding, to conjure her to take nourish-
ment in some Ibrm or other. After this,
message alter message was sent, begging
her to allow her bed to be moved back into
her room, — but all to no effect. Then it
was I suggested the doctor's seeing her ;
and Anne was at once despatched round
the corner to the house of the apothecary
who had attended John through all his ill-
ness. After this, it being then near nine
o'clock, I drove to the club, and had some
dinner.

I was in Cheyne Walk early the follow-
ing day. Elizabeth would not allow that
any thing was the matter with her ; but she
had scarcely tasted iboil, and could not be
got to swallow the cooling draughts which
the doctor had sent her.

" She is generally very tractable with
me," said Francis ; " but I have used all
my elo<juence with her in vain. You must
try, Osmund : she may, I think, listen to
you."

And, to my surprise, she did. Almost
without a word, she took the glass from my
Land, when 1 said, —

" You will take this, to please me, if for
no other reason, Elizabeth, won't you ?

Y''our poor father would be grieved if he
thought that you refused the very first
thing I asked of you when he was gone."

Francis drew me aside after this, and
said, —

" Thanks to you, we have gained one
point. And now, as I have told Mr. Hum-
phrey, we must hurry on the funeral, for, as
long as the body is here, Elizabeth will not
consent to leave it ; and every hour she re-
mains in this morbid condition increases the
evil."

As he had foreseen, the two days that
followed were very anxious ones. Not
even my supplications prevailed to induce
Elizabeth to leave the chamber of death,
and she looked wretchedly ill. The in-
ward fever that consumed her continued
unabated. What nourishment she took
was at my hands ; but though she said little,
one saw how diflicult it was to her to
swallow even a few mouthfuls. Her condi-
tion was one which made me apprehensive,
if it lasted, for her mind. I kept my fears
to myself; but I felt, as I looked at the girl's
hollow glittering eyes, which scarcely left
the bed, the hard-clinched mouth, and thin
hands, upon which every vein seemed start-
ing, that the sooner the last act in the sad
drama could be played now, the better for
my poor little cousin. When he was re-
moved from her sight, there would be a
natural revulsion of feeling, and the flood-
gates of the child's sorrow, I hoped, would
be tmloosed.

But it was hardly so. We followed my
cousin John to the grave on Saturday
morning ; Elizabeth, as chief mourner,
walking like one in a dream, with rigid
immovable face and glassy eyes riveted
upon the black slow-moving mass before
her. Once, and only once during the
whole service, I saw a shudder run through
her slight frame, when the first handful of
earth tell, with a dull thud, upon the coffin.
When all was over, she remained, with
clasped hands, looking down into the open
grave tor some minutes. Then, as it were,
with a wrench, she turned swiftly away to-
wards the cemetery-gate.

That night she was in a ravin"; fever.

" I have a word to say to you," said
Cousin Humj)hrey, as he and I stood with
a bottle of sherry and a plate of biscuits
before us, on the black-polished mahogany
table in the little parlor. Oiu- backs were
to the fire, which burned brightly ; Hum-
phrey took a copious pinch of snuff from
ids silver-box before he continued, " It
can't be long before I follow John now, —
v\\ V Elizabeth will then be left alone in
the world. Every farthing I have will
be hers — d'ye understand V "

120

PENRUDDOCKE.

I inurniurcd to the efibct tliat I was glad
to lu'nr it.

" Why do I toll you this ? I sec no use
in heating about tlie hush. I'm a practical
man, youknow. Folks can't marry without
mouev ; and John's great wish was tliat yon
and siie shotdd make a match of it I didn't
like the idea at first ; I'd a prejudice against
all your brarch of the family ; that you
know. But I've watched you. You're an
honest lad, and you're not a fool. I hate
t&ols ! Elizabeth might do better ; but she
min'ht do worse. John would have liked to
see von engaged befijre he died ; but that
wasii't to be. I've taken the fii-st oppor-
tunity since his death of speaking to you,
young man, because I like plain dealing."

I confess I was a little afraid of the old
gentleman, and felt rather awkward at say-
mg what I felt must get itself said some-
ho"v. Therefore, I jerked out bluntly^ —

" I don't think my poor cousin John took
personal inclinations into consideration
when he conceived this idea. Elizabeth
is still a child, and has no notion of love :
she is more like a boy, as you know — not
the least sentimental."

"Hump! Sentimental? — no. But she
likes you ; there's no doubt about that, I
take it. ]Mr. Francis says you can do more
with her than any one."

'• I have some little influence with her,
because she knows her father was fond of
me, and made me promise always to look
after her. And so I will; but " — here 1
pauxed — " that is a different thing from
marr}ing."

His shrewd eyes looked up under their
thick eyebrows into my face.

" Do' you mean you don't like her well
enough, ehV \Yhat's amiss with her?
They told me you took an uncommon in-
terest always in the girl, from the very first."
" So I did; first," because I believed, in
opposition to the i-est of my family, that
Elizabeth is the rightful heiress to the Pen-
ruddocke estate. That was her first claim
to mv interest; then, the more I came to
see of her, the more her very original
character interested me. But I have never
thought of her in any other light than as
a sister ; and it is in that light that I wish
to continue to regard her."

'• Humph ! " grunted the old man. " Then
there's no more to be said."

That he communicated the substance of
this conversation to Mr. Francis, I had not
a doubt, but the latter said nothing to me on
the subject. Nor did he allude again to
those last words of Cousin John's, touching
me, of whicli he had spoken vaguely upon
my first arrival.

Elizabeth remained very ill for some
weeks.

CHAPTER XLI.

On my return home that Saturday even-
ing, I found the following letter from my
mother : —

" Beaumanoir, Jan. 8.
My dear Osmund, — Your letter has
pained me deeply, on account of the con-
tinued spirit of animosity it shows towards
myself. How could you tor a moment im-
agine that I should disseminate these shock-
ing rumors of your immorality? To dear
Mrs. Hamleigh, who is like my own sister, I
have, once or twice, shown the wounds of
my bleeding heart ; but my care has ever
been to shield you as much as possible
from the worlil. When the contrast be-
tween your dear brother (wh(jse conduct
has ever been all my fondest hopes could
desire) and you has been drawn by others,
how often have I sought to excuse you on
the score of a temperament, which, alas !
you inherit from your poor father I You
have caused me great anxiety and great
sorrow, but I have borne my cross without
mui'muriu'j: ; and I should not write now
as I am doing, but for the terms in wdiich
you have thought fit to address me. It is
very sad to see that time does nothing to
soften your heart. Tlie pertinacious way
in which, ever since that disgraceful esca-
pade of yours, you have refused to return
to this roof, is in itself an insult to both
Raymond and myself, and the absence of
any filial tone in your letters makes me
feel but too keenly that you have complete-
ly separated your lot from us. I should be
failing in my duty as your mother, how-
ever, if I did not point out how destructive
to all your future prospects in tJiis world —
I will say nothing of the next — is the
course upon which you have entered. I
trust fervently that what you tell me is the
truth, and that your career of folly stops
short of actual criminallt// ; but the system-
atic avoidance of all girls (especially of
those possessing an independence), and
the conspicuous intiuiacy with married
women which characterizes the young men
of the day, I am told, cannot but be detri-
mental to your chances of settling satis-
factorily in life. Look at your Uncle
Levison. how he has thrown away his
chances 1 He might have married advan-
tageously, but he preferred the repiitation
of beiug a smart man about London ; and
how much good is that of now, in his old
age ? He is always in diflicultii-s, and the
strug'j;le to retain something of youth makes
him ridiculous to the younger generation,
who regard him as a bore. That is wdiat
the aduured Col. Levison Rich has conae
to; you know it even better than I do;

PENRUDDOCKE.

121

and that is wliat such a career as yours will
lead you to become. If you were wise,
you would now look out for a nicu; <.drl with
money ; lor, though I attach but little value
to money myself, in your case it is abso-
hitely essential that your wife should have
some fortune of her own. It is true- that
no <iirl who is penniless would think of
marryinf^ you. Your means, thanks to
your own wilfulness, are smaller tlian they
need have been, and you have no pros-
pects ; you can never liave more than you
now possess ; therefore, it is necessary,
that, if you ever do think of marriage, it
should be with some one who has at least
a competency. I have little hope that any
words of mine will liave mucli weight, but
I have eased my conscience by placing
your position plainly before you. And
now I have done. Tliat you may be led
into a better path prays your grieved, but
always atfectionate mother,

" Rachel Penruddocke."

I look upon this to have been a very
clever letter. To any one ignorant of the
actual circumstances, how completely it
made me appear in the wrong ! The sys-
tem of carrying war boldly into the ene-
my's country was never more successfully
adopted. My grievance was passed over
with scarce a word, — nothing that I had
advanced was actually denied ; though ex-
ception had been adroitly taken to the
word " disseminate ; " but then, " the
wounds of her bleeding heart," which she
had shown to Mrs. Hamleigh, might mean
just as much, or as little, as the writer
pleased. How skilfully she had taken ad-
vantage of the opening I had given her, to
preach the most worldly doctrine in the
most highly moral tone I IIow cynically
she had pointed her advice by a reference
to my Uucle Levison 1 And how ingen-
iously she had contrived to warn me, in
terms apparently of general application,
that it would be worse than folly for me to
cherish any hopes of ever winning Evelyn !
I had chosen to be a poor man ; and it was
not for such as I to think of marrying for
love, if, haply, I should entertain such an
idea. Surely the letter was a model in its
way.

1 walked into White's on Sunday, and
asked for my Uncle Levison, whom I had
not seen now since the summer ; but he
was out of town.

" It is of little consequence," I sahl, as I
walked away. " It suits my mother's pur-
pose, and Mrs. Hamleigh's, to believe, or
affect to believe, these re{)orts of me.
NotJjing that my uncle could say, even if I
got him to declare they were a pack of
lies (which perhajjs I could not do), would

alter their tone about me, — I see that now.
Nothing but my marrying Miss Guildmore,
or some girl of that sort, would suddenly
transform me into a paragon of virtue.
Well, no matter. Evelyn still loves me, —
I feel quite sure of that ; and they cannot
prevent our meeting during the season.
She thinks me an awful reprobate now,
poor child ; but she won't be so hard to
undeceive as her mother."

On Monday I heard from Arthur Tuf-
ton. To my amazement, his letter was
dated from Mrs. Hawksley's.

" I came on here from Kendal Castle
yesterday (Saturday)," he wrote ; " the
good-natured hostess of the charming place
having invited me to spend a few days
here, so that I shall not be in town before
the end of the week at earliest, — indeed,
I shall probably have to go home from
here on business. My return to London,
therefore, is uncertain." After asking me
to do something for him, he went on to
say, " The Hamleighs, as you know, are
sta,ying here. She — I mean the girl — is
the most delightful specimen of sweet,
fresh youth, with just a tinge of sadness
(arising, her mother says, from the soli-
tude in which she has always lived). She
is like a girl in an old romance, and be-
longs altogether to a different world from
that of the fast and fashionable young
ladies of the day. I cannot understand
why you never named them to me — Miss
Hamleigh, that is to sav. I imagine there
is some coolness between the families ; but
this would not affect your natural admira- ■
tion for so lovely a girl as your cousin.
Yet from her manner to you at the ball,
and her mother's tone whenever I have
spoken of you, I can see there is no cor-
diality." In a postscript he added, "I
am glad you beat a retreat when you did.
I applauded your wisdom immensely.

Lady C tried to get up a mild flirtation

with young Ashridge, after you left, but
it came to nothing. There was more
scandal talked, liowever, the last day than
ever. D'Arnheim and Mrs. Hartman
Wild were the subjects of it. It seems

Madame d'A had received a bracelet

by post some days before. The parcel was
addressed distinctly to her, and she hap-
pened to open it when the letters were
distributed at the breakfast-table. Lady
L. 1'} nsent, who was next her, saw the
bracelet when Madame d'Arnheim opened
the case, and instantly slmt it again,
whereupon the venomous old spinster of
course asked her what " that pretty thing"
was, and where it came from. Madame

d'A replied calmly that it was some

mistake — it came apparently from Han-
cock's ; but it was not for her. You will

122

PENRUDDOCKE.

not be surprised to hear that all the old
•women were persuaded it cauie from you,
ami remained in that belief until the fol-
lowing eveninfj, when the bracelet ap-
peared on the arm of Mrs. Ilartman Wild!"

This letter did not find me in very gooil
spirits; and, it will readily be believed, it
did not contribute to raise them. I cursed
my folly in not having spoken openly to
Arthur that night that we were alone after
the ball. However painful to myself, I
ought to have run the risk of being treated
as a susceptible boy, whose flirtations were
so numerous that no serious weight could
be attached to the confession of an addi-
tional one. That would only have affect-
ed myself; whereas the mischief now I
feared already done was mischief which
afl'ected my friend. I reproached myself
sorely. I knew how Mrs. Hamleigh would
be sure to regard the advances of a man
in Arthur's position, for her daughter,
even were he less charming than Lord
Tufton ; but the hope of detaching her
from me would render Mrs. Hamleigh
doubly eager to encourage so fascinating
a suitor for Evelyn's hand at this moment.
His affections would become more and
more engaged, that I foresaw ; and I felt
very sure that he was doomed to disap-
pointment.

" But," I said to myself, " it is too late ;
I have no longer any right to speak.
When Arthur first saw Evelyn it would
have been natural that I should have con-
fided the story of our early love to him.
He has continued the acquaintance in ig-
norance of the state of my heart, and what
business have I to step in now, and cry
' Hands off ? ' The field is open to us
both. On his side is every physical, every
mental, every worldly advantage ; on
mine, Evelyn's attachment. We are not
engaged ; we have only met once since
she was a child ; she does not even believe
in my fidelity ; on the contrary, she be-
lieves me to be a reprobate, and she prays
for my reform. I feel very sure that she
will not give me up ; but, for all that,
should I be justified now in preventing
mv friend from trying his chances against
me V "

I decided not ; the evil was done ; it
must be left to work itself out. Neverthe-
less, I was Very miserable.

The week passed slowly away. I
walked daily to Cheyne Walk to learn
tidings of Elizabeth, and generally took
with me a few flowers from Covent Gar-
den. I did not see her : the sccur de
charite who had answered John now at-
tended her, and the doctors enjoined per-
fect quiet. She was not absolutely in
danger ; but the constitution, at her early

age, had been subjected to a severe strain,
and it was in a measure doubtful how far
it would recover from this. Humphrey
was very anxious, and Mr. Francis scarce-
ly less so. The latter was the only person
besides the doctor and the nurse who en-
tered the sick-room. On the Thursday he
said to me, —

" The poor child did nothing but rave
about you all last night. The fever has
now assumed an intermittent character.
She is quite prostrate to-day, and can
scarcely raise her hand to her head."

I expressed my sorrow, and said I had
brought her some of the last hot-house
grapes of the year.

"I will give them to her, but not in
your name, ray dear Osmund," said Fran-
cis, looking at me with a grave, meaning
look. " I fear it might only excite her.
Not to talk, nor to listen — if possible, not
to think — this is what the overwrought
system now demands. You look ill your-
self, ray boy, as if you had not slept last
night. AVas it anxiety about Elizabeth? "

If he lioped I should say " yes," he was
disappointed, good man. I replied that
Elizabeth had such a fine constitution, 1
felt but little real anxiety about her. I
had a conviction that her recovery, though
slow, would be complete.

" So the doctors think. They say, that,
as soon as ever she can be moved, change
of air and scene will do more than any
thing for her."

Then he added, after a pause, —

" The great difficulty, I foresee, will be
to give her an object and interest in liie
now."

" In the course of time she will marry,"
I saiil.

" Ah ! will she ? Not unless she is in
love with the man who asks her. She
will never marry from expediency, or any
other motive, Osmund."

" Oh ! but she will fall in love by and
by, I hope, like every other girl. At pres-
ent she has seen no one ; and her thoughts,
fortunately, don't run on the subject. She
has too healthy and vigorous a nature for
such rubbish."

" She has a healthy and vigorous nature,
and will not succumb to weakness. In
that lies my great hope for her."

He said no more ; and I can recall
nothing else during the remainder of the
week that had any bearing on the events
recorded here. Sunday came and went ;
and then Monday, the most eventful Mon-
day in my life, dawned. It was not till
evening had closed in, however, that I re-
ceived a telegram at my club, which made
me start fpom the dinner-table, fling my-
.self into a hansom, and tell the driver he

PENRUDDOCKE,

123

should have five shillin;2;s if I caught the
" ei'^ht down-train," from Waterloo.

The telegram I received — tlie telecrrani
which obliged me to revoke my vow never
to return to Beaumanoir — was from the
old butler there, and ran as Ibllows : —

" Six o'clock.

" Sir, — Please come at once. There has
been an awful accident to rmj kubj and Mr.
Raymond. The latter, we fear, />• dying.

" Richard Sparshott."

CHAPTER XLII.

It was quite true. I reached Beauma-
noir soon after midnight. Sparshott had
sent the dog-cart to the station on the
chance of my catching the last train, and
from the groom who drove it I heard the
main facts. My mother and Ray had

driven into W with a new pair of

horses, which, on the road home, took
fright at something, going down the steep
hill which leads out of the town, ran away
for two miles, and finally dashed against
the railway bridge and uj)set the carriage.
My mother was taken up insensible, but
she was not seriously hurt. Raymond had
fallen on his head, and had moreover sus-
tained internal injuries, irom which there
was no hope of his recovering.

Thus much I learnt from the groom
during that bitter drive over the Dorset-
shire downs. I had started without my
dinner, and without an overcoat, and I was
frozen. It seemed horrible to be thinking
of my personal discomfort at such a mo-
ment ; but as we drove through one of the
small villages on our road, and I saw a
light still burning in the tap-room of the
" public," I could not resist drawing up,
and orderincj the "room to go and brinir
me a glass of brandy, gin — any thing — to
infuse a little caloric into me. My teeth
chattered, and I had lost all feeling in my
legs and arms. Was it from purely physi-
cal causes that my heart was also be-
numbed? — that I could awake no more
than a sort of dull stupefied horror witliin
me ?

Ths lodge-gates were open. Wo drove
through the dear old park, every hawthorn
of which I knew so well ; the outlines of
those near the road just visible now in the
darkness, as we shot by them. The shadow
of night had rested upon me, and on my
home, when I had bidden it farewell two
years and a half before ; and it was night
again now that I returned here, but under
what dilFerent circumstances ! It is strange,
that, though thought and feeling were al-

most inactive at this moment, my observa-
tion of outward things was keenly alive.
I remember saying to the groom, " The
road used to go down that dip — it has
been turned." Five minutes afterwards
we drove under the gray stone portico.

The sound of the wheels on the gravel
brought two or three servants to the door;
and behind them, in the hall, stood the
Rev. Mr. Putney. I was anxiously expect-
ed, and yet I was received in ])erfect silence.
I looked in their laces. Old Sparshott
shook his head, and clasped his hands ;
and then I guessed the truth. All was
over : my brother had breathed his last
half an hour before.

I stood motionless for a minute. The
servants shut the hall-door very quietly,
then one of them took my hat ; not a word
was spoken ; there was no sound but the
ticking of the great hall-clock. I followed
Mr. Putney mechanically into the dining-
room. A wood fire burned merrily on the
hearth ; its warmth seemed gradually to
melt my congealed heart, and unloose my
tongue.

" How is my poor mother ? "

" Wonderfully supported, Osmund ! won-
derfully ; though mu( h cut and bruiced her-
self, she never left dear Mr. Ravmond's
bedside. Ah ! what a blow ! Mysterious,
indeed, are the ways of Providence.
Trulv, in the midst of life we are in
death ! "

" My poor mother ! " was all I could say.
I could not quote texts appropriate to the
occasion, but I felt proibundly awed ; and
the rector took my silence for insensibil-
ity.

" Ah ! such an admirable young man,
who never gave Lady Rachel a moments
uneasiness, to be snatched away thus !
Ah ! dear, dear ! One can only say, ' The
Lord loveth whom he chasteneth ! ' Ter-
rible, terrible ! "

" Does she know I was sent for ? " I asked
presently.

" Yes, but she desired she might not be
disturbed until she rang the bell. Her
religious fortitude is a pattern to everyone.
A wonderful woman, truly — yes, a won-
derful woman ! Ah ! dear, dear ! "

After another silence of some minutes, I
said, —

" Was poor Ray conscious at the last ? "

He was conscious for an hour or two pre-
vious to his death, and he was in a very
blessed state of mind."

" AVas he left alone with my mother ? "

" No, I was thei'C all the time. It was
truly edifying ! "

" And did he say nothiitg ? — nothing
particular, I mean ? It ilid not appear to
I you that there was any thing on his mind ? "

124

PENRUDDOCKE.

" On liis mind ? Oh, de.ir, no ! IIow
slumld there be, leadin^j; such a spotless life,
dear young man, as he had done V "

I felt that I could not continue this con-
versation much lou'ier. ]\Ir. Putney's stere-
otyped phrases choked me at this solemn
moment, and I was really faint with hunger.
I hailed Sparshoti's entry with a tray of
Cold meat, though I saw by the rector's look
of ])ious amazement, Avhen I fell to eating,
that he held it unseemly to the last degree
that I should satisfy the demands of the
Hesh instead of listening to his platitudes.
It showed a callous and unregenerated na-
ture. I could not help it : I did not wish
to shock or wound any one ; but the pangs
of hunger were too strong for me.

" As I can be no longer of any use here
now, I see," said the rector, in a mildly re-
proachful voice, " I will bid you ' good-
night.' I only staid here to give you the
last sad particulars of your blessed broth-
er's end, Mr. Penruddocke. My mission is
over. I shall call early to inquire after
her ladyship, and perhaps she may desire to
see me. She has been always pleased to
say she has found comfort in my ministry."

" Gooil-night, Mr. Putney," said I, look-
ing up from my plate, •' I'm very much
obliged to you for staying. You must for-
give my eating, instead of my talking more
just now. I started without any dinner,
and I'm dead beat."

How glad I was to get rid of him ! After
I had satisfied the first cravings of hunger,
I called in Sparshott, and made the faithful
old man give me, ia his simple, straight-
forward way, evei"y detail of that sad after-
noon's history. And mui-h more did the
unvarnished tale move me than the rector's
funeral oration upon the virtues of the de-
parted.

My poor mother — I could think of noth-
ing else but her. Raymond I had loved
too little for his death to affect me person-
ally. All my sorrow was for my mother.
For the first time for many years my heart
felt softened towards her. I thought of
how, as a little child, I had envied Ray his
place upon her knee, while I was sent to the
nursery, or was at most suffered to play in
a distant corner of the drawing-room; ami
of how, as he grew up, all that he did had
seemed good in her e\ es, while through me,
the scapegrace, came only mortification and
bitterness. Xone knew so well as I what
my bi-other's loss would be to her. He had
been her sole aim in lii'e, in whom all
ambition, hope, and pride were centred.
Like her namesake of old, for him, for her
favorite son, had she sinned grievously ; for
his sake had she done that which must sit
heavily on her conscience in the still watch-
es of the night. And how could it profit

her now ? Her first-born was taken, and I
was left ; I for whom she had never cared
— I who was as a thorn in the flesh to her 1
Like the Rachel of Scripture again, T knew
that she could " not be comforted," for her
child, the onlv child of her heart, " was
not."

Truly, I also could read a lesson, though
not the same as the rector's, in this terrible
catastrophe.

I was roused from a painful reverie by
Sparshott.

" Pve got ready your old little room,
Master Osmund. I thought you'd like it
better than any other " — and he stood at
the door, with the bed-candlestick in his
hand, evidently thinking I had ruminated
over the fire loivi enou2;h. I rose and fol-
lowed him.

"You did quite right, Sparshott: I
wouldn't have had any other room for the
world. I suppose I must go to bed ; but, if
my mother asks for me, mind you tell her
maid to call me at once."

" Her ladyship will not ring her bell now
till the mornin'j, I think. Master Osmund ;
and I'll come in to you early, sir. Good-
night," and, at the door of my room, the old
butler left me.

I entered those four narrow walls, where
I had once been so happy, and from which I
had now been self-exiled so long, with a
strange confhct at heart. Have you ever met
after many years, a friend who is indissolu-
bly bound up with bitter memories ? You
loved him, and the first sight of his f;xce
brings a thrill of pleasure ; but a rush of
painful thought follows — you are sorry you
have met.

There stood the little white dimitv bed :
the row of my favorite books, as a boy,
against the wall ; the fishing-rod, and the
gun, a wretched water-color of my father
over the mantle-piece and a couple of herons
which I hail shot and had stuifed ; all my
favorite household gods untouched, exactly
as I had left them, nearly three years ago.

I drew back the window-curtain and
looked out. The branches of the old witch-
elm had cq-own now verv nearly to touch the
window-sill ; beyond it lay the dark mass
of laurels : and then, in the starlight, I
could just distinguish (because my eyes
knew its outline so well) the church-tower,
under the shadow of which I had seen
and suffei'ed that which had been the
tuining-jjoiiit in my existence. That one
hour had influenced, and would continue to
influence, all my subsequent life. It could
never be forgotten or done away with :
it had severed me from my home, it liad
embittered all my domestic relations.
Griefs will heal in time, and quarrels may
be adjusted; but the annihilation of re-

PENRUDDOCKE,

125

spect, the shame attendant upon dishonor,
where this ruin is, nothino; endurinij: can
ever more be built up.

IIow would it be henceforward between
my mother and me ? The intense compassion
I felt made me hope that she would in time
find some comlbrt in me ; but I dreaded
the meeting;;. Where no strong sympathy
exists, intercoiu'se at moments of over-
whelming misery is doubly difficult. She
knew but too well that her sorrow was not
mine, in any lieartfelt sense : there was not
even that bond of union between us — a com-
mon grief I could not wondei', poor thing !
that she showed no alacrity to receive me.

I lay awake for a long time, but at last
slept soumlly, and was only roused by the
old butler's opening the shutters. I start-
ed up.

" Has my lady rung her bell ? Has she
asked for me, Sparshott ? "

" ]\Iy lady is up. Master Osmund, and she
knows as you are come," said the old
servant, with some hesitation of manner ;
" but — she hasn't asked for you yet."
Then, seeing me lie down again,, and turn
my face towards the wall, he continued,
with a misapprehension as to my feelings
which was natural under the circumstances,
" You see, Master Osmund, you must give
her time. It's no use going again' nature.
My lady was that fond of Master Ray, she
can't come round all of a sudden ; and you
know what my lady is — she ain't one as
can bear to show her feelings. You must
give her a bit time."

In truth, I was not the least wounded :
it could hardly be otherwise. And yet
how strangely paradoxical it sounded to
talk of its " going against nature " lor a
mother to welcome her only surviving son !
I do not think it seemed so to Sparshott.
Like most of the servants, he lived under
the impression that his mistress was a su-
perior order of being, whose thoughts and
ways were not those of common humanity,
or to be judged by any ordinary standard.
I will not go so far as to say that she was
loved ; but her opinion was law, and her
actions were ever unquestioned. That
sweet voice, that had never been raised
above its ordinary pitch in my recollection,
that calm, goddess-like beauty and benefi-
cent dignity of demeanor, were influences
which 1 had once felt myself, and which, I
knew, subjected nearly all who approached
her, more especially her inferiors.

Sparshott had lived at Beaumanoir ever
since my motiier's marriage ; he was no
fool, and was cognizant of much in those
twenty-four years which must have seemed
to him blameworthy; but, if he ever .sul-
fered himself to criticise his mistress's con-
duct, it was in the inward recesses of his

heart alone. To others, even to me, my
lady was spoken of as an oracle, whose
utterances were to be accepted as all-wise
and irrevocable.

I got up by and by, dressed, and went
down to breakfast. The house seemed
unnaturally still ; maids and men alike
glided to and fro with a muffled tread ;
the very dogs looked as if they knew they
ought not to bark and frisk about. They
growled a protest as a shabby fellow passed
the dining-room windows. I guessed
rightly it was the undertaker. Then there
came another step upon the gravel, and
they pricked up their ears, but did not
growl : they belonged to too orthodox a
household to treat the rector so discourte-
ously.

While Mr. Putney was parleying with
Sparshott in the hall, my mother's maid
entered the dining-room.

" Her ladyship is ready to receive you,
sir, if you will come up to her room."

I followed her.

CHAPTER XLIII.

The room was darkened. My mother
was standing erect near the fireplace, as
if, by her very attitude, she wished to show
that she would not succumb to weakness,
and needed no support. Her forehead and
cheek had been cut, and were bound up
with black plaster, which increased the
extreme pallor of her face. It was abso-
lutely motionless. The eyes were like
blue stones ; her beautiful Vandyck hands
were folded calmly together ; the smooth
bands of hair were partially shrouded by a
black veil.

" JNIy dear mother ! " I began, and ran
up to her with open arms.

She pressed her cold lips to my fore-
head. Neither of us spoke again for a
minute or two.

" This is very terrible, mother ! " I said
at last.

" It is God's will," she murmured ; and
the hollow tone of her voice was almost the
only indication of feeling she gave. " It
seems like a dreadful (keam at present;
but I shall come to realize it, by and by,
only too well. To think that this time
yesterday " — She stoi)ped short, and I
saw her breast heave. " I never contem-
plated the possibility of his dying before
me. My beautiful, gifted Ray 1 God help
me to bear my cross ! "

I was affected, as I knew I should be;
but her sell-control during the whole of
our interview was wonderful. She seemed
surjjrised that I should be moved, making

126

PENRUDDOCKE.

use, as I well remember, of an expression
■which pained me exc'eodiiijily at the time,
for it probed so near, without touching the
actual truth.

" Of course this irreparable loss to me is
only gain to you. You never knew your
brother, and cannot feel his death : I do
not expect it. It leaves you in sole pos-
session of this property ; and as you
never loved Hay, you cannot pretend to be
sorry — you cannot really feel for me — I
know this." Then she went on calmly to
discuss the arrangements for the funeral,
and -wrote down the names of one or two
persons she wished to be invited. " You
will give what further orders you think
■well, Osmund. Of course every thing is in
your hands now : I can only suggest. I
hope that proper resjiect may be paid to
your dear brother's memory, that is all. I
will write myself to your Uncle Levison,
and to Mrs. Hamleigh, and ask them to
come for the funeral. I should wish all
the nearest members of the family to be
present. Of course the neighbors will all
offer to send their carriages ; let them
come ; let every possible honor be paid to
the memory of my poor boy. I repeat,
that is all I ask of you."

Naturally, there was but one reply, —
that her wishes should be complied with.
However distasteful to myself the parade
of pompous obsequies, if they afibrded any
consolation (strange that they could do
so !) to my bereaved mother, I had no
choice but to accede.

I Avas fully employed the rest of that day
in giving orders and writing letters ;
among the latter to Little, the family law-
yer, and to Mr. Francis, praying for their
presence at Beaumanoir by the early train
on Saturday. With Little this was a mat-
ter of course; not so with Francis, and I
was by no means sure that my mother
would wish him to be invited ; but I had
my own reasons for earnestly begging him
to come, were it only for a few hours. If
he did not like leaving P^lizabeth longer,
he could return to town by the eveninir
mail-train.

I may pass over the three following
days. 1 had much matter for grave delib-
eration, as will be seen presently. How
best to do that which I had resolved u^ion,
was the subject of anxious thought with
me all the week. Letters of condolence to
my mother poured in. Among those ad-
dressed to myself was one from Mrs. Ham-
leigh. The fact alone was pregant with
meaning. She wrote effusively, as though
nothing had ever occurred to interrupt
our affectionate relation towards each oth-
er. She and Evelyn would arrive by the
first train on Saturday ; it was impossible

to come before, on account of their mourn-
ing, but they would stay with dear Lady
Rachel after the funeral as long as I
wished. I could not help smiling a little
bitterly as I read my cousin's epistle, and
compared it mentally with the last I had
received from her, and with her words and
manner to me on my visit to the cot-
tage. I was a cast-away then, only to be
tolerated under protest. How had it come
to pass that I was whitewashed now ?
What had I done in the interval to redeem
my character ? What, indeed ! The one
ray athwart all this gloom was that I was
to see Evelyn, — to see her for a while
here, as in days of old, without let or hin-
derance.

Mr. Francis wrote that he would be with
me in time for the funeral on Saturday ;
and, if I wished him to remain till Monday,
he could do so, as Elizabeth was out of all
danger now, and was to be moved to Tor-
quay for change of air next week.

Joe Carter brought down my mourning,
and was much impressed with the grandeur
of my inheritance. The colonel granted
my application for leave until the end of
the month, and longer if I wished it. A
few manly lines from Arthur Tufton, like
the warm grasp of a friendly hand, was
the only other noticeable letter I received.
Those from our mighty neighbors, and
from my mother's family, I need not par-
ticularize. Such conventionalities are use-
ful, I believe ; the reading of them is
almost a mechanical employment, involving
little or no thought, and the prescribed
flattery of sorrow has a soothing effect on
some natures. My mother was so consti-
tuted. She could not believe in her heart,
I think, that many of these people cared
about poor Ray, but it afforded her a sat-
isiiaction that they should pretend they did.

I saw her very little ; once or twice a day
I went to her boudoir, and I begged that
whenever she wished she would send for
me. Occasionally she did so, about some
letter or matter of ceremonial — never be-
cause she craved for the sympathy of her
only remaining child. How could it be
otherwise ? Mr. Putney's sym]iathy she
really cared more for. He had known Ray
ever since he was born, and had never
wearied of proclaiming her elder son's tal-
ents and virtues on the house-tops ; he had
beslavered her with flattery, direct and in-
direct, for the last four-and-twenty years,
and it was meat and drink to her. It was
strange how a clever woman could listen to
his drivelling ; but use is second nature,
and his fulsome laudations of poor Ray at
this moment were really a comfort to her.

Our intercourse, on the other hand, do
what I would, could not but be constrained.

PENEUDDOCKE.

127

I was most anxious to avoid toucliing on
the future ; that topic would come soon
enou2;h, and very fruitful would it be of
bitterness, I well knew. Let my brother
be buried, at all events, before any discus-
sion between my mother and me arose.
But on Friday night — the night before the
funeral — after I had explained to her all
the arrangements for the morrow, she said,
looking at me iu her calm way, —

" How long do you mean the Hamleiglis
to stav, Osmund? Of course it rests en-
tirely with you : this is your house now,
and I have no intention of retaining the au-
thority here which dear Ray liked to leave
in my hands."

I have little doubt of the answer my
motlier looked for, which she thought I
coulil hardly tail to return, under the cir-
cumstances. It was cleverly conceived, too,
to make the Hamleighs' visit the point up-
on which my first decision should be pro-
nounced ; but, though perplexed for a
minute how to reply, I disappointed her as
gently as I could.

" 1 hope they will remain as long as you
wish to have them, — for thrc« or four
months if you like it. I shall be obliged
to return to my duty on Monday week."

There was a pause ; then she said, in a
very low voice, —

" I suppose you do not mean to remain
in the army — now ? "

" Yes, I do, mother."

" I am sorry lor it." Then another pause.
" With your taste for country pursuits, you
would find enousjli to do in looking after
this property."

" Perhaps so ; but I had rather not enter
upon that question just now. To return to
to-morrow, I wish I could dissuade you from
going to the church. It will be a most
painful trial to you, I am sure, in evcrij
way.'" Here my eye for a moment met hers.
" You bear up wonderfully, but I am afraid
of your physical strength giving way under
the strain put upon it."

" You need not be afraid — I shall not
disgrace you. I have had streno-th iriven
me to meet all my trials, and it will not
fail me to-morrow. If more are in store for
me, Osmund, I trust they may not come
through you."

She spoke these words in a low, distinct
voice, and without another syllable she rose
and left me. I saw iier no more that night.

The pompous and painful ceremony took
place at one o'clock the next day. 1 have
but little to say of it. The park was crowd-
ed with carriages for two hours before the
procession moved fiom the house. By tlie
carriage-road it was a (quarter of a mile to
the church. So close as we were, by the
path through the shrubbery, the natural

thing would have been to have walked ; but
I knew my mother would be grievously an-
noyed if I even suggested this, so every thin=f
was ordered to meet her wislies. The Ham-
leighs, Col. Levison llicli, Mr. Francis, and
Mr. Little arrived by the twelve o'clock
train. I handed Evelyn and her motlier
from the carriage, and saw no more of them
till all was over. They went to Lady
Rachel's room, and I had to receive those
who were come to pay my brother the last
token of respect. To the servants and
tenantry every thing — I have Sparsliott's
word for it — was considered to be most
satisfactory. The hearse and its plumes,
the long line of mourning coaches, the mutes,
the largesse of scarfs and gloves, the
baked funeral meats, the immense concourse
of the county " quality," — all were proper,
affecting, and creditable to the house of
Penruddocke. Joe Carter declared that
" it would gratify the gen'leman as is gone,
if he could but see it." My mother did not
belie herself. Her white, marble face,
slightly bowed, but distinctly seen through
her crape veil, never moved dui'ing the cer-
emony. Once, and once only, the arm
which leant on mine shook, — at least, I
fancied so. It was when we approached the
family vault. I felt my own breath come
quick. In spite of the solemnity of the
present moment, I could not but recall the
hour when she and I last saw tha{ door open.
I kept my eyes fixed upon the ground ; I
could not look up ; it seemed to me as if
all present must read the shameful secret
in my face. My mother, however, except
for that slight spasmodic movement, remain-
ed the whole time motionless and erect. I
heard many sobs around me ; tender wo-
men's hearts were wrung as they thought of
the poor mother's bereavement ; she alone
retained her self-control. Like a beautiful
lily, with head bent beneath the storm, yet
not broken, she stood there, the wonder and
admiration of all around.

Then, when every thing was over, and
we came out of the dark, mouldy little
church into the sharp air of the January
afternoon, the crowd fell back to let us pass,
and we were driven swiftly home ; but
there was as great confusion among the car-
riages in the narrow road as though the
event were a race, or an archery-meeting.
The villagers stood gaping round the
churchyard gate, and with coachmen sijuab-
bling and footmen calling for their masters'
carriages, it was a scene truly befitting the
solemnity of the occasion. Most of those
who had followed us to the church now dis-
persed ; but a few who came from a distance
returned to the house, where luncheon was
prepared. My Uncle Levison was now of
great service; my mind was too full of

128

PENPUDDOCKE.

other matter to be able to talk to these half-
dozen i;HMitK'iuen ; but he coiiversod, in that
undertone which les hienxeances demanded,
of the foxes, coverts, &c., as they hunj:;
about the fireplace, in the awkward condi-
tion of men who scarcely know what it be-
fits tliem to say. They have come here
with a profession of grief, but that is over
and done with : they are now hungry, and
would fain talk oj)enly and unconcernedly
if they dared. A Levison Rich is invalua-
ble at such a time.

" It was past three o'clock when tlie last
dog-cart drove off. The ladies were up
stairs, where they had remained since their
return from church. I was alone with my
uncle, Mr. Francis, and Little. My uncle
looked out of the window, and began a low
whistle, then suddenly checked iiimself.

" Shall we take a stroll, Pen, or go
through the stables ? Can't remain in the
house all day, eh ? "

"I am sorry. Uncle Levison, but I must
ask you for your presence, and that of Mr.
Francis, in the library. I have to speak to
Mr. Little, and I wish you both to be pres-
ent."

" Ray left no will, eh ? " asked my uncle
quickly ; perhaps the hope of some small
legacy shooting through his mind.

" iSTo, he did not ; but all his personality
1 look upon as belonginij to my mother."

" Deuced handsome ! " said mv uncle.
" What, horses and all ? "

1 opened the door, without further reply,
and the three followed me.

CHAPTER XLIV.

" This estate," I began, when we had
reached the library, " is entailed on me,
and I am last in the entail — is it not so,
Mr. Little V "

" Certaiidy, certainly, Mr. Penrud-
docke."

" And when I attain my majority, on
the 24th of June next, I have absolute
control over it — may do what I like with
it. V There is no doubt or question about
that ? "

" None whatever. You will be account-
able to no one."

" My reason for asking is this : I wished
to be quite sure of my position and power
b'jfore announcing to you the resolution I
have taken. On the '24lh of June, I shall
hand over the title-deeds of this property,
as a free gilt, to my cousin, Miss Elizabeth
Penruddocke."

'■ Good God ! are you mad ? What
foolery is this ? " said my uncle.

" My reasons, Mr. Little," I continued

calmly, " for taking this course will be ob-
vious to you. I believe Miss Penruddocke
to be the rightful owner of this property.
It woukl be impossible now to prove- this
legally, I am aware. Also I believe the
time has elapsed after which a property
can be claimed by law; but the obligation
to restore it is no less binding on me. Of
course I am powerless to act at present,
but I have called you together here to bear
witness to my recorded intention."

" Give up your property to that d — d fel-
low from America 1 " burst out my uncle.

" lie is dead — it is his daughter."

" Well, it's all the same. You must be
gone stark mad, Osmund 1 I never heard
of such a thin'^ 1 "

Then Mr. Little, who never spoke with-
out deliberation, cleared his throat, and
said, —

" I must be allowed the liberty, as the
legal adviser of your family for many years,
Ml-. Penruddocke, to counsel you that such
an act as this is without precedent in all
my experience. You are aware that when
the late Mr. John Penruddocke came over
to this country four years ago, in the hopes
of establishing his claim, it utterly broke
down ? "

" I am aware that one link in the chain
of his evidence was wanting."

" And one is as good as a dozen, my
dear sir. He hunted up all the proofs he
could in support of his claim. Mr. Hum-
phrey, I am sure, left no stone unturned ;
but it ended in their abandoning the idea
of brino-inf the case to a trial. Wliv, in
the tace of these facts, you should persist
in regarding Miss Penruddocke as the
rightful owner, I am at a loss to conceive."

" I dare say you are, jNIr. Little. I fully
understand your making this remonstrance.
As an old legal friend, it is not only j usti-
fiable, but right. But I may as well tell
you at once that no arguments can move
my determination. I believe my cousin
to be wrongfully dispossessed of this prop-
erty ; and, believing this, I could never
enjoy a moment's piece of mind if I re-
tained it. I make it a free gitt to her. I
am so situated that I can do so, without in-
terfering with any one's legal rights. Mv
mother's jointure, settled on her at her
marriage, will, of course, still be chargeable
on the estate — the change of hands will
not affect that ; and there is no one else to
be considered in the matter."

" By Jove ! " cried the colonel, " I should
like to hear what your mother would say.
Well, I'm glad there are only we three
present, Osmund. I wouldn't have it
talked of for the world. I'll undertake to
say you'll think better of it betbre next
June ; and in the mean time, gentlemen,

PENRUDDOCKE.

129

we had better agree to consider this com-
munication as if it had not been made, —
to promise that not a word on the subject
shall pass our lips."

" On the contrary, Uncle Levison, I
asked you and Mr. Francis in here that
you might tell my mother of the resolution
i have taken (I had rather not speak to
her myself, if it can be avoided) ; ]\Ir.
Francis, in order that he may inform Mr.
Humphrey Penruddocke and Elizabeth.
If I die to-morrow, I shall have discharged
my conscience of a burden, by at least
making my intentions clearly known."

" Conscience ! " muttered my uncle. " I
never heard of such a thing ! — never ! "
Then, aloud, " Mr. Francis, have you
nothing to say ? Surely you don't encour-
age this high-flown rubbish ? To give up
a fine property like this for some far-
straiued notion or other — it's perfectly
monstrous ! "

'* I cannot interfere between any man
and his conscience. Col. Rich," said
Francis slowly. " If Osmund believes it
to be right, he must do this thing. I say
nothing."

If my uncle had not been much irritated,
he was too well-bred to have retorted, as
he did, with a sneer, —

" I forgot you were living with those
other people."

A little flush came into dear old Fran-
cis's cheek.

" My living with Mr. Humphrey has
nothing whatever to do with this, believe
me, Col. Rich. Ask your nephew
whether the question of this property has
been talked of between us for years. No
influence of mine has been at work, I
assure you."

" Nor any one else's," I struck in
quickly. " The subject has never passed
my li[)s since I came into jx)ssession ; and,
I may add, it is one I have never discussed
with any human being. I formed my own
unbiassed opinion long ago, when there
was little prospect of my ever being called
upon to assert it openly ; thereibre I was
silent. And now, Mr. Little, tell me
about the Lincolnshire estate. Is it part
of the Penruddocke property ? "

" Certainly not; if you mean of the ori-
ginal property. It came into the family
through your father's mother. It produces
about eight hundred a year."

"That estate I shall retain, then, as
Elizalu^th's right cannot touch it. And
now I think I liave said all I need say."

" Stay one moment I " exclaimed my
uncle, who had gone to the fire, and was
leaning back against the mantle-piece,
standing on one leg, and warming his soles
alternately. " Before we separate, let me

put one question to you. Have you reflected
that you may want to marry, Osmund, who
knows, even before you come of age ? It
might make all the difference in your chan-
ces — altered prospects, eh ? Why be in
such a devil of a hurry to announce this ?
Time enough next June. Lots may hap-
pen between this and then."

" AVhenever I choose a wife. Uncle Levi-
son, it will be a woman who will not be
influenced by my haying hundreds or thou-
sands a year," I replied very grandly. " As
to the announcement of my intention to
the world at large, you and the rest of my
family can do as you please. All I
desire is that my mother, Humphrey, and
Elizabeth should be apprised of it."

I left the room, seized a hat in the hall,
and slipped out by a back-door into the
park. The deed was done, and in such a
manner, I hoped, as to prevent all discus-
sions between my mother and myself.
That was the only thing I dreaded.

The winter afternoon was drawing in.
Already the blue mists in the hollows were
creeping up towards the house, the out-
lines of the woods were blurred; in the
thick laurel shrubbery it was almost night.
I wandered on, careless of which way ray
footsteps led me, a prey to many complex
feelings, dominant over which was a sense
of joy at having had it in my power to
atone for a great wrong by a simple act of
justice. That it was possible to do this,
and yet shield my mother, was another
cause for thankfulness. It would have been
a cruel alternative had I been forced to
choose between the exposure of her crime,
and submitting to be a party to the fruits
of it. Bereaved of her favorite son as she
was, I felt doubly anxious to spare her as
much further tribulation as might be.
Her pride would suffer keenly, her wrath
would be greatly kindled against me —
that there was no help for; but, at all
events, she would feel that her own person-
al reputation was secure. The admiration
and esteem of the world, which she prized
so highly, I did not mean to rob iier of
that — if, indeed, I had the power of doing
so. How much or how little I knew had
been a constant source of anxious specula-
tion to her during the last four years, I
have little doubt ! that I had suspicions,
at all events strong enough to drive me
from my home, she must have felt very
certain. It was the conviclrion that such
was my mother's state of vague mistrust
regarding me, which gave me a reasonable
hope that she would shun discussion on the
point; it touched upon too dangerous
ground to be approached with safety by
her.

It would be afTectation to pretend that

130

PENRUDDOCKE.

the thought of giving up Beanmanoir, just
as it had so unexpectedly fallen into niy
hand;^, did not cost me some severe pangs.
I had never loved my old home so much,
1 think, as dirring this last week, when I
had been nominally its lord ; and now, as
I wandered on in the twilight, I felt like a
departed shade revisiting the scenes of his
past happiness. How joyous my childhood
seemed on looking back to it ! — more so,
no doubt, than it really was. There was
the spot where my father and I had planted
an acorn, now shot up into a goodly young
oak ; down there, near the turze-bush, 1
killed my first rabbit, and this was the old
hawthorn under which I learnt so many of
my lessons. Every foot of earth was en-
deared to me by some recollection, from
which time, with a softening hand, had
rubbed all the hard edges ; but sweet-
est of all were the memories of early love
bound up with the home of my childhood,
which was now mine no more. And even
as I thought of them, I saw a girlish figure
flitting in the twilight before me. I could
not be mistaken in it : I hurried after her
— it was Evelyn.

She looked startled at seeing me ; her
manner was very grave, but sweet and gen-
tle as it always was. She wrapped her
black shawl closely round her.

" I thought you were busy with Mr.
Little," she said.

" That is over ; and I came out here to
get rid of a splitting headache. This has
been an awfully melancholy business,
Evelyn; and yet, — strange, isn't it? — but
for poor Ray's death, I shouldn't be here
now."

She misunderstood me, and looked dis-
tressed.

" O Osmund 1 surely " — she began, and
then stopped hesitatingly.

" You didn't fancy I was thinking of the
inheritance? I was thinking of the delight
it was to be here in the old place, once
more with you, — not to meet, as we did
three weeks ago, in a ball-room."

" Why, then, have you never come home
all this time V Each visit we paid here, I
used to say to myself, ' This time he will
come ' — init you never came. If you cared
for dear Beaumanoir so very much " —

" I cared for it very much, and for you
still more, dearest ; and yet I couldn't come.
You must believe me, tor I can't explain
why."

She was silent, and I continued, —
" Have vou still some laith left in me,
Evelyn?"'

" It would be untrue if I said it had not
been shaken," she replied in a low voice.
" You were such a hero la my eyes, as a
child ! "

" And T want to be so still, my darling,
for I am in no one else's."

" So you shall be," she said with a smile,
'•' now that you are come home, and are
going to be a good boy again."

" And yet I have never changed — as
regards you, at all events."

" Don't say that — it hurts me," she
returned quickly. " It makes it seem as
if you did not care much about me in the
dear old times. I had rather think that
you are coming back again to what you
used to be, before you knew the world."

" The world 1 Shall I tell you some-
thing ? You would have heard nothing
but good of me, if I had done the worldly
thing my mother wanted, — married a girl
for her money."

" Oh, no, no ! I am sure she never
wished that. She is so noble — poor Lady
Rachel ! You do her injustice, Osmund 1 "
" Do I ? My poor mother ! I am sure
I feel sincerely for her sorrow now. Ray,
you see, was every thing to her, and I am
— nothing ! "

" Ah ! if so," she sighed, " whose fault is
that ? "

" Not mine originally." Then I added,
rather bitterly, "I fancy, from the tone of
your own mother's letter, that she is in-
clined to think rather better of me now
than she did three weeks ago."

" I see what you mean, Osmund ; but it
is very wrong to imagine that the change
in mamma has any thing to do with — with
your altered jiosition. You are come home
at last, and are reconciled to dear Lady
Rachel ; and mamma says that this awful
event must produce a great effect on you,
she is sure."

" Well, I am thankful for the result, at
all events; but I should be a humbug, Evy,
if I let you fancy that poor Ray's death has
made any great change in me. I am much
as I was this day week, neither better nor
worse. I never wronged my brother. I
have nothing to reproach myself witii."

" But it is so terrible, so terrible," she
repeated again, in her soft, pitiful voice.
" Poor Lady Rachel ! I do so feel for her."
" So do I — from the bottom of my heart.
But that doesn't change my character, you
see, dear."

" You will be kind to her, and remain
with her now, won't you ? "

" Mv mother's home shall be with me, if
she likes to make it so ; but that I doubt.
She never cai'ed for me, and has, unfortu-
nately, been too ready to believe all manner
of evil of me. Whatever I can do to com-
fort her, however, you may dej^end on it, I
shall."

She walked on in silence. Presently she
said, with a little hesitation, —

PENRUDDOCKE.

131

" Is it rlcjlit to speak so of Lady llacliel,
after behaving as you have done, dear Os-
mund? Remember how much cruel anxi-
t ety you have cost her."

'" I am tired of self-defence," I said an-
grily. " As I told you the other day, my
tongue is tied. People must believe what
they like. It all depends on whether they
do like it."

She looked with a saddened expression
into my face.

'• Are you one of those who like to believe
evil of me ? " I said more gently.

" You know I am not. Why do you
ask ? "

" Because you seem to have swallowed
all you have been told."

" No." .she rejjlied, and her voice shook,
" not all."

" You believed all that foolish gossip
about me at Kendal Castle?"

She said nothing.

" Sjjcak, Evy. My future happiness
depends on our being frank with each
other."

" There are some things," she murmured,
"which one must be blind, as well as deaf,
not to understand. But now, dear, that
you are come home, all will be right again.
Mamma herself thinks so."

" We shall see. I am afraid she will
change her mind. Now, tell me, how did
you like Lord Tufton ? "

" Very much : he was very kind, and he
spoke so affectionately of you."

" And did not that alter your mother's
opinion of me ? "

She shook her head.

" He confessed to mamma that he was
uneasy about you."

" By Heavens ! There is a fatality in
tliis. Arthur, who would never wittingly
injure me ! And what did he say to you'?
— you say he spoke affectionately of me."

'' Well," she replied, with a ^ad little
smile, " when he said that you lived like
brothers, and yet confessed that he had
never heard my name pass your lips, I felt
hurt. I said you had left me as a child,
anil I suppose you sliU thought of me as
such."

" You told him tliaf f Well ! There ts
a fatality in these things. I wonder you
did not guess the true reason, Evy — that
I could not talk of my love even to my
best friend, if he did not thoroughly sym-
pathize with me. lie thinks that 1 regard
you still as a child, then ! "

" What does it signifiy ? " she asked.

"Nothing — you are a child, I am glad
to see still, in simplicity, though you have
lost the blind confidence you once liad in me.'

" Love — true love is not blind, I think,
but quick- sighted."

" Ah ! you fancy so." I seized her hands
and drew her towards me. " Oh 1 my own
dai'ling, what thing is there I can do to
make you believe in me truly, implicitly,
again ? "

The sweet, half-shrinking face was lifted
to mine, and I kissed it passionately. Then
it was buried on my shoulder, and I heard
a low whisper, —

" Why do you ask me ? You know too
well. Give up that bad friend, — that for-
eign lady."

Then, as thoucrh frijihtened at what she
had said, she sprang from my arms, and
shot through the shrubbery into the house.

CHAPTER XLV.

It was agreed between my uncle and
Mr. Little to say nothing to my mother
upon the subject of my communication
until the following day. Let a night, at
least, intervene between the sorrow of bury-
ing; one son, and that of learnin<j that the
other was bent upon abandoning that fair
patrimony which had been the pride of all
her married life.

Now that the funeral was over, indeed,
she did, at last, in some measure, give way.
She had borne up as long as there was any
thing of representation to be gone through ;
she had even announced her intention of
joining the dinner-table that night ; but
when the hour drew near, she was unequal
to this fresh exertion, and kej^jt her room.
I asked if she wished to see me, but she
declined ; Mrs. Haraleigh only was ad-
mitted. Our evening was a dreary one, as
may be imagined. Very little was said ;
even my uncle's easy, empty loquacity was
quelled by the announcement I had made
to him. Mrs. Hamleigh was the only one
who had not a secret weight or anxiety at
heart ; and she thought it but decorous to
maintain a mournful silence.

The next morning, Sunday, we all went
to church, and Mr. Putney improved the
occasion, as I knew he would, by a funeral
oration upon my brother. It was fulsome ;
it sinned against good taste in every way ;
but he gained his end by it. My mother
sent him twenty-five pounds, " as a slight
recognition of his valuable services during
her heavy affliction."

In the afternoon, my uncle and IMr. Lit-
tle asked to have some conversation pri-
vately with my mother. The rest of us
went out walking. Mrs. Ilamluigh fastened
herself upon me : she was more than cor-
dial, she was effusive. For some time she
confined herself to such fragmentary ejacu-
lations as, —

132

PENRUDDOCKE.

" It is so nice having you here again !
So like old times ! Is it not, mj' darliii'T
child ? How often wo have longed for
hiiu ! — have we not ? "

'' Ah ! you longed for me to be awai/.
■when I came down to the cottage," said I
nitlilessly.

" To the cottage 1 Oh ! but you were a
naughty, naughty boy, then ! We will not
refer to that time. By the by," Evelyn
and Francis were a few paces in front just
then. ■' Lord Tufton spoke so 7ilcel)/ of
yon. It was such a pleasure ! You are
very intimate, are you not ? "

" We are, — very intimate."

" I hope it is not true that he is a gam-
bler ? It would be too sad. They say he
is half-ruined."

" Do they ? Poor Arthur ! That is so
like the world's good-nature."

'• Like the world's good-nature," — and
she wagged her head, while she looked in-
quiringly in my face. " Then it is not
true? — so glad."

•' Well, he has only come into the title
about three months, and he has certainly
not touched a card or made a bet during
that time, — in fact, he had given up play
long before, so his present Ibrtune is cer-
tainly not affected by that."

'• And is it — is it large ? "

" No, it is not large. For a peer, he is
decidedly poor ; but then he has everj'
thing else in the world, — talent, amiabil-
ity, good looks, — what does a little money,
more or less, signify ? "

I found a vicious pleasure in watching
my cousin's face as I said this.

" Yes, indeed, — ah 1 yes, what does it
signify V as your sweet mother always says.
Principle is every thing. And he has prin-
ciple, — orthodox, I hope ? "

" I don't know much about orthodoxy.
He is a right good fellow, — only you
mustn't believe all he tells you about me.
He has an idea that I am a soft-hearted
spoon. Now, I am nothing of the sort."

" Oh ! no, no," said my cousin, with her
nervous grin ; " I am sure if he saw you
here, — with us, so domestic, so very nice
as you can be. Lord Tufton would see that,
— that you only want to be in good hand.'i,
that is it, in good hands. You have turneil
over a new leafl, — yes, a new leaf. I was
savin? so to your dear mother this very
day."'

" Well, the old leaf was a good deal
dog's-eared by my friends, — any page can
be dirtied in that way."

" Ah ! I fear you have been a sad boy,
all the same," she said playfully ; and as
Evelyn turned just then, the interesting
conversation dropped.

It was du^k when we reached home, and

the dog-cart was at the door, to take Mr.
Little to meet our only Sundny up-train.
lie was in the hall, and drew me aside.

" Well, sir, the colonel and I have told
her ladyship ; but I hope, I do really hope,
that you will see fit to alter"your determi-
nation before the time comes for acting
upon it."

'■ "What did my mother say, Mr. Little? "

" Vei-y little. She turned as pale as
death, and did not speak for some time. I
never saw lier ladyship so visibly upset.
She saiil at last that she could not believe
it, — it was impossible but that you would
be brought to see reason."

" Was that all that passed ? Did she
say nothin:; more ? "

" Well, Mr. Penruddocke, — yes, she did
say something more. She asked me if
there was no legal impediment to your
committing this act of folly ; for, excuse
me, such I must call it. Your friends
would be justified in doing all they could
to prevent it, for the sake of any children
you may have hereafter, if it were possible.
Unfortunately it is not. As I told her
ladyship, you are your own master, to act
as you please, on coming of age. All we
must hope is that your good sense will pre-
vent your perpetrating an act which you
will assuredly repent all the rest of your
days."

Having spoken out this boldly, the old
lawyer, whom I respected the more for his
freedom of speech, took his departure.

The colonel was closeted with my mother
for nearly half an hour lonq;er. Then came
a raessa'j;e, desiring Mr. Francis's presence
in her ladyship's boudoir. When he re-
joined me in the Ubrary some time later, I
was standing with my back to the fire. He
came up, and laid both hands on my shoul-
ders.

" My dear Osmund, I have had a very
painful interview with Lady Rachel."

" I was afraid it mi'^ht be so, Mr. Francis.
I hope " — and here I (topped. I knew that
my mother had never really liked the man,
whom a respect for his great attainments
alone had induced her to retain with her
sons so long.

" Lady Rachel accuses me of influencing
your decision in this matter. She seems to
think, that, in becoming Elizabeth's tutor, I
have ' gone over to the enemy,' as she ex-
pi-esse(l it ; and that, but for me, this idea
would never have entered your mind. Now,
my dear boy, you know how carefully I have
abstained from ever speaking on this subject.
Ever since your announcement yesterday, I
have felt it better to be silent. I met your
mother's suspicions, therefore, with a per-
fectly clear conscience ; and I should not
tell you of the unjust accusation now, but

PENRUDDOCKE.

133

that I want to say something to you, upon
this subjt'C't, lor the first and hist time.*'
He paust;d lor a moment, not as awaiting
a rejoinder li'om me, but as if in considera-
tion liow he should proceed. "I hardl)'
know if I am jnstitied in saying what 1 am
about to say. Nothing but my strong affec-
tion for )'ou, and lor Elizabeth' too, would
induce me to do so. You are resolved to
dispossess yourself in lier favor. Why
should you not marry lier?"

Again he paused ; but I was too much
startled to rep\y at once, and he went
on, —

" You know enough to be aware that this
was her father's most earnest wish, while as
yet there was no prospect of your inheriting
Beauiiianoir. Wliat vou do not know, I
think, is tlie influcsnce you possess over
Elizabeth's heart."

" Nonsense, my dear Mr. Francis. It's
nothing but a child's fancy, I assure you.
• . . Say no more about it — it distresses
me. It could never be."

" And wliy not V You have always taken
the warmest interest in Elizabeth ; sucli an
interest as would ripen into love if you en-
couraged it. She is no common character.
If she marries a man to whom she is devoted,
she will make a very rare wife ; if she does
not — however, that is useless speculation.
Though scarcely more than a child in years,
she has the strong heart of a woman. 1
know — even, perhaps, better than she
knows herself — around what it has been
growing closer and closer, attaching itself
more and more every month that I have
lived with, and watched her. Tlie peculiar
circumstances of the case must be my plea
for saying this, Osmund. I see two young
lives that might make each other's mutual
happiuess likeJy to drift asunder — there-
fore I speak."

" My dear Mr. Francis, for once your
wisdom is at fault. Elizabeth is not a bit
suited to me. Her originality charms me
in a cousin. It would fidget me in a wife."
'■ She is still a little wild, I grant, but
there is no such tamer as love. Think of
what she was a year ago : she is marvel-
lously softened ; and it is, in reality, more
your work than mine, Osmund. You
mi'^ht nudie wlnit you pleased of her.
She is as superior to any other girl of
her age I ever met " —

'' Ah ! there I can't agree with you. But
of course it is a matter of oi)inion."

" I do not sj)eak of beauty, of course. If
you saw her mind, as I see it, in hourly in-
tercourse, jou would feel as I do. She is
above all the little pettinesses of her sex ;
she has a large, nobU; soul, and I believe,
Vf'lien she once obtained an iulhicnce over
you, that she would keep it. It would be

an elevating one, whereas that of many
women is often the reverse; and with your
temperament, I hold it of paramount im-
portance into whose hands you fall. Then,
my boy, remember the diiiicullies such a
marriage would smooth away. IIow natur-
ally' it would reconcile all interests 1 "

" Except my own. No, my dear Mr.
Francis, Elizabeth will have her property,
and 1 shall have my liberty. I won't de-
prive her of one, and she shall not deprive
me of the other."

" One word more, and I have done.
Promise me, that, between this and June,
you will see more ef her. When this
property is actually given up to her, many
considerations will interfere to prevent your
coming forward as her suitor. However
much }ou grow to be attached to her then,
the appearance of a desire to regain your
estate would be very distasteful to you.
Now the case is different ; nothing could
be more natural than such a marriage."

" My dear friend," I said at last, after
musing for a moment or two, " I hope to
Heaven you are mistaken in what you sup-
pose to be Elizabeth's feeling towards me ;
but, if it be so, I am doubly bound to refuse
what you ask. She and 1 had better meet
as little as possible, for I shall never marry
her. Why shouldu't I tell you the truth ?
I shall never marry any one but Evelyn
Hanileigh."

lie looked me steadily in the face, and
sighed.

" From all I heard, I thought you had
long since forgotten that boyish fancy."

" Never. 1 suppose, like the rest of the
world, vou have heard lies about me. Thev
are lies. You will believe me V I have
never loved anv one but Evelvn ; and, in
spite of her mother, I mean to marry her."

" Then 1 have no more to say."

I saw he was grievously disappointed.
There was a silence of some minutes.
Presently he said, —

" Flas it occurred to you that Elizabeth
may refuse to accejit, as a gift, what her
father would have proved, if he could, was
her right Y "

" I wanted to speak to you on that point.
Of coiu'se her right can never now be
prooed." (Here our <" • - met.) "There
is a secret which wi! .iways be safe with
you : it must never be unearthed. But I
wish you to tell Elizabeth and Humphrey
this — that, though her claim cannot legal-
ly be established, I am acting upon the ce/"-
tain conciction that this property is justly
hers. It is no act of generosity. 1 could
not retain it an hour, knowing as 1 do that
1 have no right to it."

" Be it so. And henceforward, my boy,
I suppose that I shall see very Iitt',e of you 't

134

PENRUDDOCKE,

That is sad news for me. Though you have
given me more anxiety and trouble," he
added, with a sad smile, " than any other
human being ever did. I always luved you
as my own son. Ah! how I wish — But
what is the use of wishing ? God knows
what is best for us. We are the blind in-
struments of his will. When we try to
work our own, we are generally punished
in one way or another."

The servants entered with lamps : the
first dinner-bell rang, and I had no more
conversation with Francis, He left 13eau-
manoir by the first train the Ibllowing
morning.

My uncle had renounced his intention
of returning to London on INIonihiy, owing,
I have no doubt, to my mother's instance ;
ibr 1 had not the courage to ask him,
knowing how bored he must be ; but, with
all his worldliness and fbllv, he had a kind
nature, and, when put to it, would sacri-
fice his own comfort tor others more readi-
ly than most people would have given him
credit for. What my mother thought that
she gained by his presence I scarcely
know : she had by so tar the better head
of the two, that she was not likely to take
counsel of her bi-other ; but the cleverest
women at times will lean, or ailect to lean,
on the weakest men. For myself, I was
sincerely glad be should stay : he broke,
in some measure, the iciness of our narrow
circle. Mrs. Ilamleigh had frozen again
below zero. Evelyn looked sorrowful;
but I had no opportunity of another tele-a-
tete, as I ardently desired.

It is strange, in these days of independ-
ence, to find a child so completely under
subjection to a parent as she was to her
mother; but to Evelyn, I need hardly say,
Mrs. Hamleigh appeared in a very difi'er-
ent light from what I have represented
her in these pages. Her mother's devo-
tion to her had always been true and
entire. Mrs. Hamleigh would have walked
barefoot all her days, if, by so doing, she
could have secured for her daughter those
things she esteemed of the highest worth
this side the grave. And Evelyn, believ-
ing her mother's character to be of the
rarest excellence, bowed down with al-
most implicit deference to her mandates,
if not to her opinions. Though she might
not think in all things as her mother
thouc^ht, the habit of her young life made
it impossible for her to act in opposition
to her mother's wishes. This is what I
could not understand at the time. Eve-
lyn's blind obedience chafed me. Why
should she submit to be treated still as a
child ?

My mother appeared down stairs on
Wednesday, and met me without visible

discomposure. Our intercourse was of
the '■ yea and nay " character, limited to
connnonplaces. She clearly avoided an
interview alone with me. My days were
fully occupied, for I regarded myself as
holding the property in trust for Elizabeth,
and I resolved that it should not suffer
during my stewardship. My uncle and I
walked througli the plantations, which
had been neglected since my father's
death, and needed thinning; we discussed
the re-fencing and draining of certain
portions of the estate : we looked over the
live stock of the farm with the baililF, and
valued it.

On Saturday, however, my happy, mer-
curial uncle left us, and I wandered about
alone. The ladies sat together in my
mother's boudoir : it was so arranged, no
doubt, to obviate Evelyn's being left alone
with me, even for five minutes. On Sun-
day, however, on their return from after-
noon church, she entered the library to
fetch a book. As I was always out till
long after dark, she little thought to find
me there : indeed, until she hail reached
the centre of the room, she did not per-
ceive me ; for I was in the embrasure of
a window, reading " Bell's Life " by the
fading rays of daylight.

" At last ! " I exclaiuied. " I have been
all the week waiting for this opportunity.
Don't run away, my pet."

" Mamma will be very angry if I re-
main. I must not, Osmund."

" Rather hard in my own house. Look
here, you niu!<t listen to me ; you really
must," and I drew her into the window.
" Do you know why I am suddenly tabooed
again ? "

" Ah 1 " she sighed, " why have you
spoilt every thing ? Will you not give up
this wild idea, even for my sake V "

" My own pet, you don't know what you
ask ; you could not, if you did. It would
be renouncing truth and honor on my part.
I can't tell you, or any one else, w/nj it is
a two-fuld duty with me to give up Beau-
manoir ; but it is so. There is no help
for it."

" You will never get Lady Rachel to see
it in that light," replied Evelyn, shaking
her head sadly.

'• No ; but when you are my wife, tjou
will see it in that light : there shall be no
secrets from you then." My arm w:is
round her waist. I bent down, so that I
could look into those sweet brown eyes,
•and continued rapidly, " The time is
come, darling, when you must decide be-
tween your mother and me. Will you
pledge yourself to marry me, sooner or
later, in spite of all opposition ? "

"I love you," she said, in a very low

PENRUDDOCKE.

135

voice; ")'ou knc(w that, Osmund — but I
will never marry in opposition to mamma."

" Wliat does this opposition mean ?
Listen to me for a moment. Slie treats
me lilve a dog as long as I am poor ; I be-
come rich, and for a few days she is all
smiles. She would have liked you to
marry Ray, but, as long as you become
mistress of Beauraanoir, it doesn't matter
whether it is he or I. And now she hears
that I am going to give up the property, I
am scouted once more. Is this any thing
but the most miserable worldliness ? "

She gently disengaged herself, and
looked up resolutely into my fdce.

" If you speak in that way of mamma,
I cannot listen to you. She has devoted
her whole lite to me : she is cpiite incapa-
ble of such base feelings. She hoped you
were reformed, and now she and Lady
Rachel say this step you mean to take
shows your tastes are unchanged. First,
you could hardly be got to leave the ranks ;
and now you only associate with the worst
people in London. You shrink from the
responsibilities of a large property, and
prefer a life of dissipation : that is what
they say, and that is why mamma is so
changed about you."

" And you believe this stuff? "

She hesitated for a moment.

" No, I will not believe it. I think they
are both mistaken ; but that does not
make mamma's motives base, as you say.
You will explain nothing, and it seems
impossible to understand your conduct,
after the law has so clearly given the case
in your favor."

" What says Tennyson ? ' Trust me all
in all, or trust me not at^all.' Some day
you shall know every thing. Do you re-
member your last words to me the other
evening? "

" I do," she murmured, looking down
and coloring.

" ^Vell, you must trust me in that too.
You must trust me when I tell you that a
better woman than Madame d'Arnheim
doesn't exist, and that nothing can be more
false than the aspersions against her."

She. was silent.

" If you knew what her counsel and
sympathy have been to me, ever since I
came to London, you wouldn't wish to part
me ii-oni so valuable a iiiend. And yet.
Evelyn, if you exact this sacrifice, 1 will
make it, — on one condition."

She still said nothing ; and her fingers,
almost unconsciously, played with the
locket that hung upon my wuteh-cliain. I
oj)ened it, and showed her her own lock of
hair.

" That has never left me since the hour
you cut it oil'. Promise, Evelyn, that you

will be my wife, and nobody else's, and,
hard as I shall feel it, I will then promise
you to break ofl" all intercourse with Ma-
dame d'Arnheim. But I will do this for
no one but my affianced wife."

When she looked up, I saw why she had
remained so long silent : the tears, which
had been gathering in her eyes, were now
raining down her cheeks.

" What am I to say ? — what can I do ?
God knows I would not separate you from
any true friend ! And, besides, what can I
promise ? It would kill poor mamma, if I
were to marry against her wishes ! "

" Will you promise never to marry be-
cause of her wishes ? — that, as long as I
am true to vou, you will remain true to
me ? "

"I will," she whispered; and I sealed
her promise with a kiss.

" Pressure will soon be brought to bear
on you, my darling. You will have need of
all your powers of resistance. I foresee
that now your mother will want you to be
Lady Tufton."

She started. The words were scarcely
out of my mouth when the door opened
quickly, and Mrs. Hamleigh appeared.

"■ Evelyn," she cried, in a sharper tone
than I had ever heard her use towards her
daughter, " what are you doing here, my
dear ? Sunday afternoon is no fit time for
idle gossip."

" We were not indulging in idle gossip,
I assure you, Mks. Hamleigh." said 1, with
a smile ; " but it seems destined that you
shall always misunderstand me."

CHAPTER XLVI.

TniXGS continued very much in the
same way for two days.

On Wednesday morning I saw a letter di-
rected to Mrs. Haraleigh on the breaklast-
table, and recognized Arthur's hand. A
couple of hours later my mother sent lor
me. AVith what object ? I asked myself,
as I very reluctantly obeyed the summons.

She was alone, and seated in her custom-
ary chair on one side of the fire, with her
back to the window. She pointed to a
ber(jere opposite.

'• Sit down, Osmund. I have not trusted
myself to see you alone yet, since I heard
of your intentions. But it is necessary
that I should do so now. Do not be afraid :
I am not going to appeal to you. I know
how useless any supplications of mine
would be. It is for the sake of others that
I have consented to speak to you."

She paused, as if expecting me to reply ;
but I was too much puzzled by this begin-

136

PENRUDUOCKE.

ning:, to fiiul any thino; to say ; so there I
sat, looking at her, and at last she contin-
ued, —

'• In your letter to me some weeks ago,
there was a passa;jje referring to Evelyn."

" There was, — I remember."

" IVrliaps it meant nothing ; bnt Mrs.
Ilamleigh is under the impression, from
language she believes you have held, and
letters of yours to Evelyn," —

" Which she intercepted."

" That you really are in love with your
cousin. Is this so ? "

'■ As I told you in my letter, I shall
never marry any one but Evelyn."

" I am glad you have still a capacity for
a pure and honest attachment left. But
to the point. A few days since, the idea
of t^uch a marriage would have been mad-
ness, — madness on both sides ; now, alas ! "
(and that long-drawn sigh came from her
very heart. I know), — "now, alas! the
case is dillerent. If, as you assert, you
have really changed your mode of life " —

" f '^'^o y<Jur pardon. I have asserted
nothing of the kind."

" If you are as attached to Evelyn as you
would have her believe " — she pursued,
regardless of the interruption — " her
mother authorizes me to say, that an
entia-jcement between vou is not altogether
impossible."

I began to see a glimmer of light.

'• Let me understand you, mother. Mrs.
Hamleigh consents to Evelyn's marrying
me as a poor man."

" No : " !-he looked me steadily in the
face. " She consents to her marrying you
if you retain Beaumanoir, — not other-
wise."

" I thought so."

" And tins, Osmund, is notwithstanding
a more advantageous oSer, in many re-
spects, — one which would have given
Evelyn a higher jiosition in the world —
which she received this morning " —

" I understand. She is to give up Tuf-
ton's coronet, and four thousand a year,
for Beaumanoir with fifteen. Isn't that
about it V "

■' If you choose to put it in that coarse
way, you can. Evelyn has known you all
her lili->, and likes you, and her mother has
no olijection to the marriage ; but she can-
not let her child marry a pauper. It en-
tirely rests with you."

" That is vour ultimatum, mother ? "

" It is Mrs. Hamleigh's."

" It comes to the same thins:. You hold
out the only bribe which you think has a
chance with me. And both of you talk as
if Evelyn were to be disposed of just as
her mother likes. After doing every thing
to make her believe that I was a monster

of vice (I was to be avoided as if I had
the plague), — suddenly you tell her she
may marry me. How does Mrs. Hamleigh
know she would consent ? "

My mother fell into the trap, and made
a false move. '

" I believe there is little doubt that she
would consent to an en2;agement with vou,

— a provisional engagement, I mean."
"Oh! you think ^ so ••' And Tufton ?

Would she be equally amenable as regards
him ?

" Her mother would find some diffi-
culty at first, possibly ; but if Evelyn saw
that a marriage with you was hopeless,

— if you made it impossible, — I believe
she would ultimately yield."

" You are mistaken. She will never
maiTy Lord Tufton, or any one but me.
She is very pliant, — too much so I think ;
but not quite to the point you imagine.
Every means, fair and foul, has been tried
to divide us, — and with what efieet ? She
loves me still, as you yourself have just
acknowledged, and she will never give nie
up for any man on earth."

" She has been brought up to respect
parental authority,' was the reply, given
with a reproachful emphasis on the last
words. " She will never fly in her moth-
er's tace, — that you may be sure of. But
why discuss this ? If you are really in
love, if this is any thing more than one of
your idle flirtations, you cannot hesitate,
of course, to sacrifice your own selfish in-
cliiiations, and submit to Mrs. Hamleigh's
terms."

" My reply is very short. I am really
in love, and I refuse Mrs. Hamleigh's
terms."

j\Iy mother leant back in her chair, and
her face became a shade paler.

" Then there is no hope for you. I half
expected as much. You are bent on your
own destruction, and that of your family.
Your obstinacy is so great that you will not
listen to reason, even for Evelyn's sake ! "

" ' Listening to reason,' in this case,
means acting dishonestly."

I saw my mother wince : her eyes avoided
mine. I rose.

" Do not force me to speak more plainly,
mother. Believe me, this is a subject best
avoided between you and me. Nothing
can change my determination."

" I have done," she began, in a voice
which, though she struggled to maintain
her composure, betrayed how deeply Aie
was agitated, as she went on : " I did not
send for you to plead, but to place your
position as regards Evelyn clearly before
}ou. I shall say no more. Your course
will be a downward one , but I shall have
the consolation of knowing that I did my

PENRUDDOCKE.

137

duty in waraing you. Henceforward you
must go your own way. The day may
conic when you will repent of your conduct
towards nie — and at a time, too, when I
am 1)0 wed down by sorrow."

" I am grieved to add to it in any way,
mother ; but, remember, you obliged me
to speak. I feel most heartily for you, and
if there is any thing I can do, except this
one thing — to add to your comfort " —

" Comfort ! " she interrupted, with a bit-
ter inflection of voice. " No ! you will
never be any thing but a disgrace and a
constant humiliation to rac."

" I hope not," I returned quietly. "In
spite of i\Irs. Hamleigh, mother, I mean to
win Evelyn by and by."

" That you will never do. You will
never meet, if Mrs. Hamleigh can help it.
They will leave Beaumanoir this very
afternoon, and Lord Tufton is to be asked
to the cottage next week."

" Very good. Let Arthur try his luck.
I'm not afraid. But it's a pity they should
leave to-day on my account. Mrs. Ham-
leigh's presence is a comfort to you, which
mine, unhappily, can never be, you say. I
have done all that is necessary here, and
may as well go up to town to-night."

" As you please ; " and, as if she could
not trust herself to say another word, she
passed into her bedroom, and closed the
door behind her. If she abandoned her-
self there to the anguish of her soul, it was
unwitnessed by mortal eye.

When I met Mrs. Hamleigh and Evelyn
at luncheon, they were evidently cognizant
of my approaching departure. Evelyn's
eyes were very red: she kept them tixed
upon her plate the whole time. Mrs.
Hamleigh grinned nervously, as she said, —

" I hope you will return soon, Osmund,
to keep your poor angel-mother company.
So lonely ! so sad 1 and we must leave her
next week, — I'm so sorry ! "

" I hope you will come as often, and for
as loner, as you like, until next June."

"Next June! — ah, yes, June! Dear,
dear 1 How sad ! you are very kind — but
oh ! how sad it is I J\ly child, you had
better get on your bonnet. There is the
carriage comimx round to the door. We
are going into W to do some commis-
sions for dear Lady Rachel."

Before their return I should be gone.
As the poor child gave me her cold, trem-
bling hand, I slipped a morsel of paper into
it. This is what I had written : —

" Dearest, you will be told that I have
given yau up. You will know whether to
believe that or not. You were oilered me
at the price of my honor. I have declared
that \ would win you without that sacri-

fice. Courage ! Faith ! Patience ! With
these one can overcome every obstacle in
this world,

" Yours devotedly till death,

" O. P."

I left Beaumanoir at four o'clock. My
mother declined to see me again, pleading
fati'zue as her excuse.

When I entered the club that night, I
was greeted by many with warm congrat-
ulations upon my " luck " I

CHAPTER XLVH.

The history of the next two months
may be compressed into a lew pages.

The house la Chej'ne Walk was empty.
I heard weekly, howevei, ."••'^m Francis at
Torquay. The amendment in Elizabeth's
health was steady, but the absence of ■
terest in all outward things continued. It
appeared impossible to rouse her. When
she heard of my intentions with regard to
her, she received the intelligence in si-
lence, until Cousin Humphrey's exultation
caused her to say, —

" If it had come before dad's death —
yes. But what's the good of it to me now ?
Osmund had better keep the estate."

Then had Francis replied that I would
never do that, being convinced beyond the
possibility of doubt that it was rightly hers.
"No act of renunciation on your part
would be accepted by him."

" Very well," she had replied listlessly ;
and so, for the present, the matter dropped.
My old tutor reported faithfully to me all
that ])assed, then and later, on the subject.
Humphrey's unqualified satisfaction found
expression in what he would himself have
styled a very " handsome " letter to me. It
really seemed as though the realization of
his cherished idea had gone far to console
him for John's death. I was thankful that
the old gentleman's acknowledgments were
made upon paper, and not in person.
From first to last, the subject was odious
to me : all reference to it hurt me like a
sharp ])liysical pain.

About ten days after my return to town,
Arthur appeared — more depressed than I
had seen him for months. lie had ])assed
a couple of nights at INIrs. Ilamleigh's cot-
tage, on his " way to London," he said ;
and I needed to be told no more. A week
later he announced to me that he had ar-
ransed to go to Italy with a friend, and
>liould not be back till the end of May or
June. There is no denying it, his absence
at this moment was a relief to me. Had
he been minded to unbosom himself with

138

PENRUDDOCKE.

rocjard to his love and rojoction, it would
have been inexpressibly painful. I must
have spoken; and my speakinjj just now
would liave been doubly diflieult. By the
time we met a<2;ain, I trusted that the edLje
of his disappointment might be blunted.
And yet (so little can we foresee what
■worke'th for our woe or weal) my faithful
friend's departure proved an unfortunate
cireuiustanee lor me. We should all of us
have been spared much misery, I believe,
had he remained near me just then.

But shall I call it " Fate," or shall I say
it was a curious coincidence, which caused
all those I knew best to be absent from
London at this moment ?

Madame d'Arnheim I have purposely
deferred naming until now, though I had
received two letters from her at Beauma-
noir, followed by several since I came to
London. Her position, poor woman, was
becoming almost iiitoleraijle, and she no
longer sought to hide it. D'Arnheim had
insisted on her moving to Brighton, where
Mrs. Hartman AVild was settled until Eas-
ter. He could hardly venture to reside
there, leaving his wile alone in London ;
and his duties at the embassy were so
slight, that, by running up two or three
times a week, he transacted all the busi-
ness that was required. Madame d'Arn-
heim, thrown into daily contact (as she
never need have been in London) with a
woman against whom she nourished such a
just resentment, could no longer contain
herself.

" My cup of bitterness is full," she wrote.
" It will not hold another drop. I feel so
utterly friendless here, and so worse than
useless to my husband, that I seriously
contemplate returning to Germany for
some months. The grand-duchess urges
me to ailopt this course. She even fimcies
that Carl will miss me when I am gone,
and wish me to come back to him. Alas !
I know better. The question then arises,
how long those whom God has joined
should remain with each other, when not
only is love dead, but repulsion and treach-
ery are inseparable from the continuance
of the hollow compact ? "

It was a point in ethics I was not pre-
pared to decide ; but that she should go to
her own country and people for a while,
as a tenative measure, did seem to me the
best course, perhaps, the outraged wife
could pursue. Keenly sensitive as' she
was, it was manifestly impossible that
things should go on as they had been doing
of late. His neglect she had been long
accustomed to ; his infidelities she must
long have suspected ; but since the disclo-
sure made that fatal morning, at Kendal
Castle, ia the billiard-room, D'Arnheim

had shown a shameless disregard of his
wile's i'eelings — nay, of common decency;
and I knew her too well to believe that she
would submit to such treatment very long.

I abstained, however, from signifying
my a])])roval of my poor friend's scheme,
for this reason : I was disgusted at what
seemed my own baseness in feeling relieved
by the prospect of h(!r departure at this
moment. It would cut the knot of a di-
lemma, the unloosing of which by my own
hand would cause me great pain. It is
true, Evelyn had not accepted my offered
promise of breaking with IMadame d'Arn-
heim : yet no one but a fool could doubt
that the- continuance of my intimate rela-
tions with her would give rise to a tissue
of calumnies which would be poured into
Evelyn's ear. How to act in this matter
had been a source of much trouble to me ;
and here was the solution of the difhculty.
Yet not the less did I feel angry with my-
self for the sense of relief — as though it
were disloyal to my friendship, which Avas
warm as ever. In writing to her, there-
fore, I passed as lightly as possible over
the subject of her leaving England for a
while.

Matters stood thus with me, when, to-
wards the end of March, I received a note
from Lady Castle. She had just arrived
in London.

" It is of the utmost importance," she
wrote, *' that I should see you without
delay. If you cannot call to-morrow at
dusk, name your own hour, but do manage
to come, somehow — there's a dear kind
creature."

I had been expecting this summons ;
and ray resolve, recorded some chapters
back, was unchanged. I Avould not fre-
quent her house ; I would give the world
no handle for coupling my name again
with her's ; but if I could help her, by coun-
sel or otherwise, I would do so. 1 would
not go back from my word.

At six o'clock the next evening I was in
Belgrave Square. I was shown at once
into Lady Castle's boudoir, — that third
apartment which opened from the two
drawing-rooms, and wdiich, in aspect and
temperature, was something between a
trinket-box and a forcing-bed. The air
was heavy with the scent of tea-roses and
lilies of the valley, with which the Sevres
jdrdbiieres were filled. Quilted satin walls
and curtains, white lace round the chairs
and table-covers, jewelled i-osaries, silver
filigree ornaments, miniatures of aristo-
cratic old dames in powder, and modern
photographs swinging from little gilt gib-
bets on the writing-table — how character-
istic every thing was of the graceful,
luxurious owner I The presence of all

PENRUDDOCKE,

139

tliat could captivate the senses ; the ab-
sence of all that could occupy and elevate
the miud ; for, except a novel of Faideau's
■which I took up while waiting for her,
there Avas not a book in the room.

She entered, dressed in a sort of loose
Cashmere robe ; and, even in the twili<iht,
I could see how ill she looked. The ser-
vants followed with tea ; and, as long as
they were in the room, she talked in an
iudifFerent strain.

" I am just come in from driving, and
was changing my gown. How cold it is
for the time of year ! You've heard of
Sarah Tenby's marriage, I suppose, to that
goose George Ashridge ? It began at
Kendal, you know. They start with only
nine hundred a year. Well, I hope they'll
be very fond of each other, — that's all I
can say " with a sii^h ; and here the door
being closed, she changed her tone. " It
is too good df you to come to me at once ;
but I knew you would. Oh, you can't
tell what I have gone through since I saw
you ! Things have been goino; on from
bad to worse, till I am at my wit's end.
God knows what is to become of me ! "
And she burst into tears.

" What has the brute been doing fresh ? "
I asked.

" Had the effrontery to appear at Cas-
tleton, and actually showed me my own let-
ters in an iron casket, swearing that he
would take them to my husband there and
then — that he had lost every shilling, and
was desperate — and that he would sacri-
fice reputation, every thing, sooner than
starve. I dare say it was an idle threat :
he would not kill his goose with the golden
eggs so quickly." And she laughed hy-
sterically. '-But I was paralyzed — liter-
ally paralyzed — with terror. I gave him
a diamond bracelet wortli three hundred
pounds ; and now, though that was not two
months ago, I am beset with applications
from him again. Life is really not worth
having, at this price. I can neither eat
nor sleep — this dreadful nightmare is per-
petually hanging over me."

" There is nothing for it, as I told you
before, but to send some man to deal with
him."

" Ah ! that is all very well ; but rolio ?
I have not a single man-relation ; and men
of the world are far too cautious to mix
themselves up in a disagreeable busi-
ness."

" Then I renew my ofler. I won't see
any woman — I ilon't care who ^he is —
bullied by a scoundrel, without del'ending
her."

" Oh, no, no I It would be unpardon-
able to drag a boy like you into this scrape
on my account. No, I will not do that."

" As you won't tell your husband," I
said bluntly, " what else can you do V "

She buried her face in the sofa-cushion,
and groaned.

" Look here," I said at last, " I am only
offering to do for you wdiat I shoulrl do for
any woman I saw being ill-treated in the
street. Every man would do the same.
This brute, like all bullies, is a coward ; and
I have very little doubt that he'll give in at
once, when he finds he has a man instead
of a woman to deal with. You Avant your
letters back ? Is that all ? "

" Yes," she murmured, without raising
her head from the cushion, "that is all."

" How many are there ? "

" Only four. In every thing else I ever
wrote to him I was most cautious : they
might be shown to the whole world."

" Are yau sure that these are contained
in the casket you saw V "

" I know he has always kept them there
hitherto."

" And have you any idea where he keeps
the casket itself? "

" In an old-fashioned escritoire in the
corner of the room, the key of which he
generally carries in his pocket."

" How does the casket (jpen ? It is as
well to know, in case of accidents. And
do you give me leave to look at the letters,
so far as to verify your writing V A rascal
like this may substitute blank paper."

" The casket opens by a spring on the
right-hand corner underneath. Yes, look
at the letters — but oh ! how can you ever
(ret hold of them ? He will never irive
them uji, I feel certain, without being paid
some immense sum."

" Leave that to me. I have got my idea.
Where does he live ? "

" Close to you, in Davis Street, No. — :
he has the drawing-room floor, but he is
out of town until Saturday. He writes to
me that he shall call here on Sunday —
and what on earth am I to do ? "

"Refuse to see him. I'll undertake that
you sha'n't be bothered by him again."

" Oh ! how can I ever thank you enough,
if you only get those letters back? And
yet — oh 1 I feel it is wrong to let you run
into danger on my account ! "

" Danger 1 — what danger do you ai)pr(>-
hend? I promise not to fight a duel wiili
such a blackguard, if that is what you
mean."

" You don't know what Cesare's passion
is when it is roused. Ah ! no, no : you
had better have nothing to do with him.
Leave me to my fate."

And once more Lady Castle buried her
face in her hands, and sobbed convulsively.
I rose.

"Impossible now! I knew the era-

140

PENRUDDOCKE.

biissy was delicate and difTicult, but you say
it is dangerou;^. You put uie ou my met-
tle. I eouldu't go back now, you see.
(Jood-by. I hope to bring you the casket,
with your letters, on Monday evening."

] have said enough of this scene. Over
its conclusion I will not linger. Her tears,
Ler terrors, her gratitude, her supplications
that I would avoid needlessly irritating the
Italian, — all this would be neilher jjleas-
ant nor profitable to detail in lull. It
was nearly eight o'clock before I left the
Louse.

Header, gentle or ungentle, one word at
the end of this chapter. You are probably
thinking what a vain young fool I was, —
that, while striving to emulate the virtues
of a paladin of old, I was, in truth, a quix-
otic youth, who had conceived altogether
a wrong-headed view of his duty to his
neighbor and his neighbor's wife. " Que,
diable, allait-il faire dans cette galere V "
I hear some one exclaim. Y'^ou are quite
right. I beg to assure you I do not regard
my own conduct as admirable ; anil, if I
rarely interrupt this narrative to deplore
past folly, it is because retribution is more
sharjjly pointed than any moral retro-
spect.

CHAPTER XL VIII.

I PONDERED a good deal, the day follow-
ing, over what my plan of action should be.
I believed, as I had told Lady Castle, that,
if taken unawares, the Italian could be
frightened into concession ; if not, all means
of obtakiing my end were fair. Scruples
in dealing with an unscrupulous scoundrel
would be certainly out of place.

I took Joe Carter in some measure into
my confidence. I made him understand
that I was engaged in a delicate matter,
which required that I should obtain certain
in!brmation touchin'j; a foreijrn count, resi-
dent hard by, in Davis Street.

" I want you to find out, first, when he is
expected back, — at what hour to-morrow ;
next, whether he receives many visitors,
and whether he has a man-servant, or any
friend lo Iging in the same house. Y'^ou must
learn all this, Joe, without appearing to
pump."

" Humph ! I don't see how that's to be
done."

" Well, you take a note, and wait for an
answer. Of course you don't know he is
out of town. You can't leave the note, and
begin by inquiring when he is sure to be
back. That is a good opening. You may
drop a hint that there is a lady iu the case,
which is true."

I said this, because, if the inquiries were
repeated to Benevento, it would throw him
off the scent. The jealousy and suspicions
of some iiiir one were roused ; his wretched
victim was the last who would send to learn
particulars of his mode of life.

" 1 knowed as a woman was at the bot-
tom of it," muttered Joe, as he left the
room.

My confidence in his ability for this sort
of embassy, however, was justified by the
information he brought me that evening.
The landlady, who had opened the door to
him, had rusponded to the pressure put on
her most satisfactorily. The count woidd
not be back till late that night ; he had his
latch-key, and would let liimself in. There
was one other lodger in the house, — an old
gentleman in the " parlor ; " she herself, a
widow with five children, occupied the bed-
room lloor, and garret. She kept two
maids, who did all her lodgers required.
The count had no man-servant, nor was
there any other man in the house.

I walked down Davis Street, and recon-
noitred the small shabby tenement. A
dirty green door, with a dirtier card in the
fan-light over it, whereon w^is written
" Lod2;in2:s for Sinirle Gentlemen ; " two
grimy "parlor" windows, chastely veiled
from within by horse-hair blinds ; three long
narrow drawing-room windows above, each
opening on to a separate little bow of bal-
cony, just large enough to hold a pot of
blackened cypresses.

That night I said to Joe, —

" This count whom I am going to call on
to-morrow is a rascal, Joe. Hanging is too
good for him. He has something in his
possession which I mean to make him give
up before I leave his room ; if not by fair
means, why, then, by force. I don't expect
much difliculty ; but there's no saying, and
I mustn't trust to chance. If he shows
fight, why, he is as strong, or stronger than
I am. There's no such thing as fair play
in dealing with a ruffian. I may want your
help, Joe. Do you understand ? "

'' Hm ! I'd better go in, instead o' you :
that's the shortest way."

" No, no — that would never do. Why,
it would look as if 1 was afraid ! I must
give the fellow a chance of yielding into
my own hands what I want to get from him.
If he resists, — well, I shall have to pro-
ceed to extremities. You will be posted
in the street, opposite the windows. If I
see that he is getting ' nasty,' I shall walk
to the window. You'll then come over,
ring the bell, and, without asking any ques-
tions, walk straight up into the drawing-
room."

" Shall I have at him at once ? " asks
Joe.

PENRUDDOCKE.

141

" No," I replied, smilinGj. " I dare say the
sight of you'll be enough."

" With a number of contingencies in
view (which I will not stop to enunierate),
I resolved to call on the Italian at a very
early hour. It was the 1st of April. How
well I remember, as I walked down IMoimt
Street, soon after ten o'clock, wondering
whether I should be made a " fool " of in
the interview I was about to seek ! It was
a lovely morning, — a foretaste of IMay —
and even the London streets were redolent
of spring. As I neared the house, I ob-
served that the centre window of the vhree
on the drawing-room floor stood wide open.
It was what is termed a French Avindow,
and, from the opposite pavement, I could
see the white cloth of a breakfast-table. I
crossed over, and rang the bell. Joe, fol-
lowing at a discreet distance, remained on
the other side of the way.

To the maid-of-all-work who opened the
door I said, —

" Count Benevento is at home, I know.
You need not announce me, — I can find
my own way."

She looked surprised, but offered no re-
sistance. I passed up stairs. For form's
sake, I knocked at the door. I did not
want to hear if there was a reply ; I enter-
ed, and found — no one. But a rich melo-
dious voice, singing with that peculiar
accent which is rarely counterfeited,
" Quando la sera e placida," from the ad-
joining room, the door into which was ajar,
told me that my bird was not far off. He
had done breakfast as the table showed,
and was, perhaps, finishing his toilet. I
gave a quick glance round. By Jove 1 —
what luck ! There in the corner, between
fireplace and window, stood the bureau,
open, and in one of its pigeon-holes, among
a mass of papers, I caught sight of a small
iron casket, which must be what I sought.
The desk of the bureau was covered : let-
ters, studs, loose gold, a couple of dice, an
open betting-book. A chair in front, and
the half-burnt, still smoking cigar on the
edge of the desk, showed how lately the
owner had been there. My eyes seized
these details in a few seconds. The noise
of the door shutting brought the Italian
i'rom his bedroom. He stood on the thresh-
old, glaring at me for a few moments in
dumb astonishment.

He wore loose silk dressing-trousers, and
a jacket. His shirt, not over-clean, was
open, which showed a hirsute chest. He
was as yet unshorn, and looked his charac-
ter, — a splendidly handsome little rudlun,
wlio would have been more in place upon
the Abbruzzi, with a carbine over his
shoulder, than in a London lodging. I be-
gan at once : —

" You wonder what brings me here,
Count Benevento ? The explanation of
my object will not detain you long."

He moved forward a few steps ; so did I,
but on the opposite side of the breakfast-
table, and conset|uently nearer to the bu-
reau. He pointed to a chair, — I remained
standing.

"Proceed, sir: I am all attention."

" You have been received in this country
as a gentleman. Count Benevento ; and,
whatever oj^inion some of us may have
formed of you, you have managed hitherto
to retain your position. In our encounter
last 3'ear you came off victorious, — you will
not do so next time. I know that of you
now which would kick you out of every
club, every drawing-room in London, if I
choose to publish it."

He raised his eye-brows, and just showed
his white teeth for an instant ; but his eye
betrayed nothing, — it never left my face.
I continued, —

" You have been guilty of the most das-
tardly act any man — I do not say gentle-
man, — can commit. You have for months
been intimidating an unhappy lady, whom
you have pretended to love, by threats of
betraying her to her own husband. There
isn't a sweep in the streets, I believe, who
would be guilty of such vileness ! "

" Oh 1 " he exclaimed, with a bitter sneer,
" you are sent by Lady Castle, of course.
You have taken my leavings, and I wish
you joy of them ; but if you think 1 am go-
ing, on that account, to let you interfere in
private arrangements between her and me,
you are mistaken. I will crush you, or any
man that meddles with me, as I would crusU
a fly ! " _

He raised his clinched hand for a mo-
ment, and brought it noiselessly down upon
the table. The last words were uttered in a
hissing whisper. I replied in a loud voice, —

" Bombast will avail you nothing. I
care for neither your threats nor your in-
sinuations. I am here to demand Lady
Castle's letters ; and, if I don't get them, yon
Avill be posted as a blackguard, with whom
no gentleman can associate, in every club
to which you have been admitted."

" At the expense of your mistress's rep-
utation," he said ; and a diabolical smile
crossed his face. " For her sake you will
hardly do that; and if you did, — well,
there would be an end of all compromise
between her and me. I should proceed to
extremities, that is all. She has made me
suH'cr horribly, — liumiliation, jealousy, — • .
what is there I have not endin-ed ? I sac-
rificed my career to her, and now she re-
fuses me the miserable means of existence.
I am not guided by your English ideas of
honor " —

142

PENEUDDOCKE.

" You need not tell me that."

" And as I mean to leave En'^-land at
once, your threat of c'xcommuuicat'u)!! is
worth so miK'h 1 " And he snapped liis
fingers. " Whereas the letters, — the let-
ters, you see, are worth something, — to
Lord Castle, at least."

" You are a devil ! " I cried, beside my-
self with passion ; '• but, by Heavens, you
shall not succeed ! " and I took one step
to the window.

lie divined the truth, or something like
it, for he walked swiftly to the door, locked
it, and put the key in his pocket. What I
had engaged to do, then, must be done
alone. Not an instant to lose. I saw my
momentary advantage, made a dash at the
open bureau, and seized the casket. To
fling it out of the window to Joe, — if I
could only accomplish this ! But already
Benevento had sprung upon me like a tiger,
— his right. arm round my neck, his left
round my body. He tried to twist his leg
in mine, and so bring me to the ground ;
but, though his strength was prodigious, I
was the better wi'estler. After a struggle
roimd the room, crash we both came among
the breakfast things ; and as we lay on Vhe
ground, by the upset table, the Italian was
under- me. The advantage was transient.
I saw him stretch out his right hand, and
seize a bread-knife. I grasjjed his wrist
with my left, and so held it back ; but, in
doing so, it came close to his mouth. He
fastened his teeth into my hand. The
other, which held the iron casket firmly
by the handle, I now drove full into his
face. The iron smashed his front teeth,
compelling him to leave go. A horrible
imprecation burst from him as the blood
poured from his mouth ; but still he held
tlie knife, and as we staggered to our feet,
I knew that unless I could reach the win-
dow before he succeeded in wounding me,
my object would, after all, probably be
frustrated.

I still grasped his wrist with my left
hand ; but, from pain and loss of blood, it
felt every moment weaker. I could scarcely
breathe : his left arm crushed my ribs like
a vice. J^.Iy height and my activity were
two great advantajres at this moment, to
counterbalance his superior strength. I
contrived to edge nearer and nearer to the
open window.

There was a battering at the door.

" Help, help ! " I cried. The ne.xt in-
stant my wrist gave way, and down came
the knife into my shoulder.

We had reached the very edge of the
window. With my left hand, now free, I
grasped his body, while I disengaged the
right, to fling out the casket. I heard the
door being burst in.

" Fool 1 " he cried, " if you will have it,
then, — go ! " and in his blind fury, he tried
to drive me against the frail iron balcony ;
but I caught his foot, just in time. He
stumbled, — fell against its first (happily
for me), and, — I remember no more. The
next instant we both pitched over into the
street below.

CHAPTER XLIX.

It will save trouble if I here briefly tell
what followeTl, as I afterwards learnt from
my faithful Joe.

He succeeded in breaking into the room
at the very moment of our fall. He looked
down ; a horrible sight met his eyes ; and
when he reached the street, he had not a
hope that I was alive. The Italian's skull
was fractured : he was quite dead, but he
lay under me, — my preservation was due
to this. I was insensible, however, and
bathed in blood ; to all appearance as life-
less as the corpse beside me. The crowd,
which by this time was dense, pronounced
unanimously both men to be dead. I was
placed on a stretcher, under the superin-
tendence of a doctor, who happened to be
passing, and stopped his brougham ; and,
conducted by Joe, some men carried me
home. The police made no objection to
this : they took down name and address,
that, in case life was not extinct, my depo-
sition might be made hereafter ; and they
found enough to do in keejiing back the
curious crowd, while the corpse was carried
into the house, and laid upon the bed from
which the Italian had so lately risen. The
dead man's hand still tightly grasped the
knife he had driven into my shoulder ; a
circumstance which proved of great service
to me at the coroner's inquest.

Joe's first thought was to despatch a mes-
senger for the regimental surgeon. Long
before his appearance, however, it was as-
certained that there was a compound frac-
ture of my left hip, and a severe concussion
of the brain. There might be other inter-
nal injuries ; but at all events the lamp of
life still flickered. They cut the clothes
oir me, they succeeded in restoring anima-
tion, thou'j;h not consciousness ; I muttered
incoherently : they staunched my wounds,
and put ice upon my head. There were
three surgeons now round me : they were
unanimous in deciding that the chances of
my i-ecovery were slight. But the difficult
operation of setting the fractured hip was
at last accomplished. Two of my brother-
officers were present. One of them under-
took to telegraph to my mother ; but owing
to a mistake in the address, as I afcer\t'ards

PENRUDDOCKE.

143

learnt, the telegram did not reach her for
several hours.

In the mean time a note (which I found
unopened, after many weeks, in a plate of
visiting-cards) had been brought by a for-
eiixn servant, who carried back to the
writer the information that I was dying.

The note ran thus : —

" I am in London for a few hours, on my
way to Germany. I should like to see vou.

" M. D'A."

An hour later, Madame d'Arnheim was
with me. She remained watching by my
bedside all that night, with the nurse and
the regimental surgeon. Upon her arrival,
my brother-officers retired. My life hung
u]ion a thread : I was delirious, and the
dilHculty of keeping my hands from tearing
oir bandages and splinters was great. " The
lady," as 'Joe called her, he confessed, had
exercised a soothing influence over me ;
and, indeed, but for her skill and intuitive
perception of the right thing to be done, he
thou'Tht I should not have survived the
niizht. This was strong testimony from Joe,
who was unwilling to admit that a woman
could excel in any thing. The surgeon
confiTmed the statement. From the mo-
ment she had appeared upon the scene, and
had appealed to be allowed to remain, rep-
resenting that she stood more in the light
of a relation to me than anyone in London,
(my Uncle Levison was absent), her help
had been invaluable.

Towards morning I fell asleep — the deep
sleep of exhaustion, which was hailed as a
hopeful sign. The surgeon proposed that
Madame d'Arnheim should go and lie down,
but she declined ; the nurse was nothing
loth to snatch a couple of hours' sleep ;
and the surgeon depai'ted to his hospital,
leaving me to the care of Madame d'Arn-
heim and of Joe until his return. I do not
know what o'clock it was when I woke, and
became gradually but distinctly conscious
of all that was going on around me. Was
this my room ? ^es ; no doubt of it. There,
on the wall opposite, hung my " Stag at
Bay," there my forage-cap and sword : the
door into my sitting-room was open ; I could
bear the kettle singing on the 6re, and Joe's
sternly anxious face was peering at me
from time to time through the doorway.
But who was this, sitting beside my bed,
her fVice shaded by her hand ? Was I
dreaming ? Could it be ? but no ; impossi-
ble ! IIow could she be here? My mind
must be wandering. I tried to raise my
hand to my aching head ; it fell powerless ;
I could not move in the bed. My leg felt
as if held in a vice. What did it all mean ?
AVhat hail happened ? I gave a feeble sigh,
and Madame d'Arnheim raised her head.

Then slowly, very slowly, the tide of rec-
ollection flowed. One by one, confused
memories of the past day returned. It was
like trying to make the pieces of a broken
mirror fit together ; here and there, an im-
age was entire ; oftener, the fragments
would not unite. I made an effort to speak ;
Madame d'Arnheim put her finger to her
lips. I took something she gave me ; and,
in spite of the effort to think, in a iavf min-
utes I had fallen asleep once more — but,
this time, not for long. I was awoke by —
I know not what ; certainly not by any
noise, for straw was laid in the street, and
singular care was taken to keep the house
quiet. But I woke, with the uneasy sense
of some irritation upon my nerves. Two
persons were speaking in the next room;
the door was a-jar; I recognized my moth-
er's voice. The first words I caught dis-
tinctly were, —

" It is unfortunate that the telegram
reached me too late last night to catch the
mail-train, but I am now here to take my
place by my son's bed."

There was something unusually chilling,
even for her, in her utterance of this speech ;
and I fancied that Madame d'Arnheim's
voice faltered a little as she said, —

" I am very glad you are come. Your
son had not a relation in London, I found ;
that is why I came to look after him. A
woman thinks of things in a sick-room no
man ever does."

" I understood from Carter just now that
there is a hired nurse ? " observed my
mother dryly.

" jSIo hired nurse. Lady Rachel, can re-
place the strong personal interest which
watches every change from half-hour to half-
hour. I would trust to no nurse, if I were
you."

" I shall not do so."

" He must be watched most carefully for
many nights. In his prostrate condition,
all depends on nourishment being admin-
istered, in small quantities, whenever he
can take it."

" Thank you — I shall follow the doc-
tor's directions implicitly. I am sorry you
have been troubled so much " —

" Ah 1 Lady Rachel, do not use that word.
How gladly would 1 remain here, and watch
with you, if you would allow me ! "

" That is wholly out of the question. I
regret, Madame d'Arnheim, that you have
thought fit to disregard conventionalities in
coming to my son's lodging. Allow me to
say that the sooner you leave it, the better
for your own reputation."

" Good Heavens 1 Is one to let a friend
die, because of what the wretched con-
temptible world may say 'i I know it too
well, and am very iadifierent, I assure you."

144

PENRUDDOCKE.

" So I foaretl," — my mother poised and
listeiu'd to her own words, as they dr()[)ped
from her, — " so I feared ; and no woman is
so with impunity."

" Lady Kaehel, yon know nothing of me
— susjjend your jnd;;;nient. I should be
sorry if the niotlier of the boy who lies there
thought harslily of me. I have the deep-
est and truest interest in him " —

" So I supposed."

" And perhaps, I miiht say. he is the
only person I leave behind me with regret,
in rpiitting England."

" Do you mean that you are leaving it —
for cjoGil ? " askeil my mother, with rather
more animation in her tone.

"lam."

" Your husband is appointed to another
legation ? "

*' He remains here."

" Oh 1 " How much meaning may be
conveyed in that interjection.

" My marri'id life is at an end. Lady
Rachel : I am going back to my friends ;
but my domestic concerns can have no in-
terest for you. Would you, however, do me
one great kindness ? "

'^ What is it ? "

" To let me hear how your son goes on.
I shall be very anxious."

JNIy mother was silent, for what seemed
to me the best part of a minute.

" He will, no doubt, write to you himself
when he gets' better, —

"I understand." She sighed deeply.
" Well, God grant that your confidence in
his recovery may be verified I I pray for it
from my heart. I will not resent your sus-
picions of me : a mother's jealousy is nat-
ural, I suppose. Good-by. You will not
refuse to shake hands with me, I hope V "

A minute or two later I heard the door
open ; and I knew that she was gone.
I was far too weak to feel much ; but I
recollect closing my eyes, as my mother
glided into the room, and approached my
bed. And in this passive condition, scarce-
ly uttering a sound, but conscious of all
that was going on around me, I lay for
many days.

I was to live ; the foculty pronounced
this oracularly ; and I knew nothing more.
There were frequent examinations and con-
sultations : fresh surgeons were called in,
and " sat upon " my case ; but of the re-
sults I was kept ignorant.

My mother was an admirable nurse, per-
haps the better for the possession of that ad-
amantine nature which I'endered her proof
against all tender anxiety and nervous-
ness, — all " giving way," as it is termed.
That which had to be done, she did, gliding
about calmly aud noiselessly. " No blind
hurry, no delay," attended her movements.

She followed with exactitude the doctor's
directions, and never seemed to suffer either
fatigue, impatience, or undue solicitude as
to the result.

I think it was on the fifth morning that
the doctor asked me if I felt equal to mak-
ing my deposition, for which the incjuest
had been adjourned. My brain was quite
clear, mv voice tolerably strong. I said I
was ready, and a magistrate was sent for.

Joe entered the room shortly after, and I
beckoned to him. He stooped, and I whis-
pered, —

" Did you see a small iron box in my
hand when " —

He pointed to a cupboard.

" There he is. When I picked you up,
guessing as it was that you'd come after,
and it might get ye into trouble, I whipped
him into my pocket."

" Y'^ou don't know what a service you did
me then, — did me, and some one else too."

The corners of his grim mouth twitched.

" I'm darned if I see what there is to
make such a fuss over. If the beaks asks
me a lot o' questions, what am I to tell
him ? "

'• The plain truth, only don't name the
box. Has Lady Castle sent any notes
since I've been lying here ? "

" No — sent to inquire every day —
sometimes twice."

" Y'ou'll have to go there this evening.
Fetch that box, and seal it up in paper be-
fore my eyes. If I were to die, after all, it
mustn't be found. You will swear never to
bi'eathe a woi-d about it, Joe ? "

He grumbled the required promise, ac-
companying it with a malediction upon that
troublesome sex which was at the bottom
of all mischief in this world. The casket
was sealed up with my signet, and delivered
by Joe into Lady Castle's own hand that
night.

In my deposition, I pursued the same
course I had enjoined upon Joe. I omitted
all mention of the letters, — every thing
which could direct suspicion to Lady Cas-
tle. I simply declined to name the cause of
the altercation which arose between the Ital-
ian and myself; and, in all other respects,
I told the plain unvarnished tale. 1 was
asked if there had been some quarrel be-
tween us at cards, the previous year, which
terminated in a fight ? I replied that I had
detected the deceased in cheating, and
that a scufiie had ensued ; but I had failed
to convict him. We had, of course, been
" cuts " ever since. How came it that I
called upon him then ? Because I had
other and distinct grounds of complaint.
Knowing, however, the enmity he bore me,
I had been prepared, in some measure, for
violence. It was on this account that I had

PENEUDDOCKE.

145

stationed mv servant in the street below.
But I was unharmed, and tar less powerful
than the deceased. He had tlyown him-
self upon me, had seized a knife, and driv-
en it into my shoulder ; and it was in the
filial elfort to throw me out of window that
he had lost his balance, and that we had
botli been brought to tlio ground together.

The knife found in liis hand, Joe's testi-
mony, the maid's, all corroborated my story.
Furthermore, there was evidence beyond a
doubt as to the man's character ; for some
loaded dice and a pack of marked cards
were discovered among his effects. The
verdict returned was one Avhich entirely
cleared me — as far as the law was con-
cerned.

Not so as regarded the opinion of a cer-
tain portion of the public. My door was
still daily besieged with inquiries ; nothing
could be kinder than my brother-officers
and other young fellows in offering to come
and sit with me ; my mother was over-
whelmed with notes. I was the small hero
of the hour, in whom curiosity and inter-
est centred; but, for all that, I was re-
garded as a very black sheep by some.

My uncle, who good-naturedly returned to
town as soon as the news reached him, think-
ing he might be of service to my mother, was
the first person who opened my eyes as to
the light in which what he was pleased to
term my " escapade " was commonly re-
garded.

" Well, old man," he said, the first time
he was admitted to my bedside, " this is a
bad business ; but I'm deuced glad to see
you alive, after the account I had. You'll
be all right soon, I hope, now. You don't
suffer much ? "

" Not as long as I am still. My back
hurts me if I try to turn."

" Ah I well, that'll come all right. Won-
derful escape ! Every one was saying last
night at White's — never heard of such an
escape ! Sad dog 1 " he continued, laugh-
ing. " That's what every one says ; for,
of course, the cause of this /rat-as is pretty
generally known I "

" What do you mean ? " I asked, feeling
the blood rush to my face.

"'Castle DangeroHs ! ' Ah! my dear
boy, if you had only listened to me I I
warned you long ago against a liaison of
this kind getting the upper hand of you.
Beyond a certain jiolnt it is the very
devil ! •'

I grew hot and cold by turns. Lady
Castle's name, then, as I might have fore-
seen, had not been kept out of the story.
But how wide of the truth was it, if my
uncle's version was to be accepted I

". I assure you, Uncle Levison, this is an
entire mistake. Lady Castle has no more
10

to do — I mean that I — that is to say,
if you fancy that jealousy of Benevento
brought about this quarrel, you are wrona^.
I wish you would give the story your un-
qualified contradiction."

lie raised his eyebrows, and smiled in-
credulously.

" I'll say any thing you like. It's all the
same to me ; but I tell you fairly, the world
won't believe me. AVhy, my dear boy, your
own mother wouldn't 1 She knows all about
it, bless you 1 and the other afTair too ;
and shakes her head over your delinciuen-
cies. She tells me she positively found the
other lady here ! — actually in your lodging I
I really couldn't help laughing ; she was so
awfully scandalized 1 "

I shut my eyes, and groaned inwardly. I
forgot uncle, mother, all the world save one,
at that moment. For the first time the
thought had been driven home to me, what
cruel agony my mother's version of the
catastrophe and its consequences would
cause my poor darling ! A sudden intui-
tion showed me how the truth could be
made to look in Evelyn's eyes. Doubly
perjured — fighting for one woman, living
with another, who had abandoned husband
and home for my sake — this, no doubt, waa
how I was represented I

I was too exhausted, too sick at heart, to
say another word to my uncle. Not till
some days later was the conversation re-*
newed between us.

CHAPTER L.

It was Passion Week. I had been car-
ried to my sofa in the sitting-room for the
first time. A batch of novels and weekly
papers lay on the table at my side. My
mother was at church. Joe was drilling
my boots, and deploying them into line
along the wall of my bedroom : I could
see him through the open door. I felt, as
one often does when approaching convales-
cence, unusually depressed. Though daily
stronger in other respects, the pain in my
back, whenever I moved, was as great as
ever. I took up " The Court Jester," and ran
my eye languidly down its vapid columns;
dinners, marriages, j)rivate theatricals, long '
lists of company, flat jests, and on-dils.
Among the latter, I came upon the follow-
ing, —

" We are happy to learn that hopes are
now entertained of Mr. Penrudilocke's par-
tial recovery. It is still feared however, that
he may never completely recover the use of
his limbs. It is apprehended that there is
injury of the spine. The death of INIr. Pen-
ruddocke's elder brother by a carriage acci-

146

PENRUDDOCKE.

dont, only three or four months ago will be
fresh in tliu memory ol" our readers. This
seeond terrible eatastrophe, whieh has
threatened to deprive Lady Raehel Pen-
ruddoeke of her sole surviving son, has
elicited universal sympatliy in fashionable
cireles."

The paper dropped from my powerless
hand. Was it, could it be, true that such
a fate Avas in store lor me ? Oh, my God !
let me die, — a thousand times rather, let
me die, — than drag on my weary days as a
cripple, a l)urden to myself and to every
one around me 1 Such an existence to me,
whose whole life had been one of bodily
activity, who had no sedentary pursuits,
was neither scholar nor artist, and excel-
led in nothing but j)hysical aceom])lish-
ments, — such an existence, I I'cpeat, seem-
ed absolutely intolerable. I was still too
weak to have much self-control ; and I am
not ashamed to own, that, as I thought of it,
the hot tears coursed down my cheeks. I
kept on saying to myself that it could not
be ; but the tide of conviction that rolled in
upon me was swelled by each circumstance
I called to mind. The result of every con-
sultation had been sedulously kept from me.
No one spoke of the I'uture. When I had
expressed a hope that I might soon be al-
lowed to go out, my mother had turned the
subject. Lastly, there was my inward con-
sciousness of inability to move without great
pain, — pain which I strove hard to hide,
and never openly admitted.

I lay there, with closed eyes, trying to
meet my sentence with fortitude, and feel-
ing, alas ! what a very coward I was when
the only true test was applied I After a
time I called out in what strove to be a
cheerful voice, —

" Joe, you've been a long time over those
boots ; and as to the ' tops,' I'm thinking you
might as well put-them away. 1 shall never
■wear them again, I suppose."

He eyed me for a moment severely.

" Who ever's been a-puttin' that idea-r
into your head ? "

" 1 don't know the fellow's name," I re-
plied, with a moony sort of snule, " but
it's in print ; theretbre, you know, it must
be true."

" The saw-bones may say what they
likes," he returned stoutly (by which re-
ference to the •' faculty," what they had
said, no less than Joe's cognizance of the
same, was made clear to me), "I don't be-
lieve a word of it. AVhy, it's not yet a
month, and look at the wound in your
shoulder ! " (these two words he pro-
nounced like "pound"), it's a'most
healed ; and, as to your leg, — why, it'll
be as 20od as new, come midsummer."

•'Will it? I doubt that. But it's not

my leg. You know well enough what it
is, Joe."

He made^as though he heard me not.

" I mind me of a chap as fell olf of a roof
Avhen we lay in Quebec. You could nt
hardly tell which was his head and which
was his feet wlien we lifted him. But,
bless you, he was about again in three
months, and none the wuss."

A charital>le iiction of Joe's, no doubt;
but it was useless, I saw, to press him lur-
ther : he would not admit the truth, or
what was generally believed to be the
truth, as to my condition. I resolved to
speak to my mother : she would not flinch
from telling me the real state of th« case.
We had had but little conversation hither-
to, for I had shrunk from it. While sensi-
ble of her untii'ing care, I still felt sore at
the treatment to which Madame d'Arnheira
had been subjected, and the interpretation
put upon her presence here. There are acts
which our hearts resent so keenly that no
amount of personal obligation can outbal-
ance them. This behavior of my mother's
was of such a nature. Did she, or did she
i)ot, in her secret soul, believa the scandal
of which Madame d'Arnheiiu's nursing me
served as a })lausible confirmation ? I was
unable to decide then, and am so still,
though her subse(|uent conduct will furnish
the reader with additional material forform-
inof an unbiassed iudtj-ment.

She came in, looking beautiful and calm
through all her troubles. The walk had
bioufrht a faint glow to her cheek, from
which the color had been absent during
these weeks of close confinement, indeed
ever since Ray's death. She undid her bon-
net-strings, pulled the black gloves from
her long white hands, and said, in her
measured way, —

" How do you feel now ? "

" If I tell you the truth, mother, will you
be e(jually candid ? " She inclined her
head, without moving a muscle of her face.
" Well, every time I move it is agony to
my back. Now, what do the doctors say ?
Is it hopeless V "

" No, not hopeless ; but very serious."

"There w a hope, then, — that's some-
thing ! Don't be afraid to tell me all.
Nothiiig can seem bad as long as there is a
hope."

" Yes ; but you will be on your back for
a lont!:, long time, I fear."

" AVhat do you mean ? — months or
years r

" No one can tell : it depends on how
nature responds to the medical treatment ;
but absolute rest is the first essential. As
soon as you can be moved, we must go to
purer air, Hampstead or Norwood ; and,. by
and by, you are to be sent to seme German

PENRUDDOCKE.

147

bath. Wonderful cures, they say, are ef-
ft'ctt'd hy tliose hot sprin;j;s."

I was silent for some minutes.

" They'll rf'we me a certain number of
months' sick-leave, — and after tliat. if I'm
not all riolit, adieu to all my dreams of am-
bition, I suppose. I must sell out."

" You know my views about your re-
miiinint;; in the army, — so I say nothiufr.
All this disastrous and disreputable busi-
ness would not have happened, bad you
sooner given up a career in which you
are exposed to temptations you have no
strength to resist."

•' You know but little of my temptations,

— perhaps even less than I do of yours,"

— I fixed my eyes on hers, — '• but, if it is
any comfort to you to hear me acknowledjj;e
that I have behaved like a voungr fool in
this affair, and richly deserve all I got,
well, you have that satisfaction. I claose
to mix myself up in what did not concern
me, and tor the sake of some one who cer-
tainly did not deserve it, and I've been
punished for my folly. I see that
now."

"lam thankful the terrible lesson has
not been lost upon you. And so will all
those be who have vour interest most
nearly at heart."

'• Mother, what have you told Evelyn
about my fall ? "

Nothing had been further from my
thoughts than to put this question to her;
but it rose to my lips suddenly, and I
yielded to the desire of hearing what my
mother would say.

She paused. Whenever the thing to be
said was disagreeable, she spoke with unu-
sual deliberation.

" I have hidden nothing from her. She
is deeply grieved ; but her eyes are opened.
She sees, with sorrow, af"ter all your pro-
testations, that you are ' unstable as water.'
And — I sjjcak openly, Osmund — she
will now, I think, be more amenable to her
mother's wishes."

"I ask again, what have you told her?
If you've given my uncle's version of this
aft'.iir, and said that jealousy of Lady Cas-
tle was the cause of it, — it is utterly false.
And if you've maligned my poor Iriend,
Madame d'Arnheiai, 1 tell you it is cruel,
mother, — cruel and unnatural. Your aim
seems to be to divide me from every one
who cares for me. If I am to be a wretched
crij)ple for life, God knows I wouldn't be so
seliish as to try to bind p]velyn's lot to
mine ; but she has said she will never be
another's, and no one can free her from
that protnise but myself. Misrepresenta-
tion can't do it. 1 feel certain that she
doi-sn't believe, and that she never will be-
lieve, me to be heartless and double-faced,

which you and the world in general wish
to make me out ! "

" Your violence is quite uncalled for,"
returned my mother, with aggravatiiifif gen-
tleness. '• I have no ' wish to make you
out' any thimr, Osmund. It is sad your
persisting in this sort of language. I wish
I could see you in a frame of mind more
becoming the season, and the gi'ave peril
from which Providence has preserved you.
Am I not devoting myself to you ? I make
no merit of this, for it is my simple duty ;
but as you will now be dependent on my
care for some time to come, I wish you
would try to believe that in all I do I am
guided solely by a desire for your welfare.
It would make my task much easier."

She had such a way of putting things,
that I should have felt ashamed of myself,
if I had not kept my ground of complaint
steadily in view.

'• I don't want to make it harder ; but if
you wi/l misinterpret every action of mine,
what am I to do V When I announced my
resolve to give up Beaumanoir, you know
the coloring you gave to it. \Vhen you
began to susjject that my attachment to
Evelyn was serious, you repeated eveiy
wretched piece of gossip about me, with
the view of separating us. According to
your view of things, you have my gooil at
heart, I dare say ; but I'll be hang-ed if I'
can feel grateful for all the misery you
have caused me."

" This is terrible ! " said my mother, with
a sigh of resignation. " I can only hope
that some day you will be more just. You
have only yourself to thank for your misery,
I am afraid. The ball was at your feet, if
you had chosen to pick it up ; but you cast
it from you. Did 1 oppose your marrying
Evelyn, when you came into the property ?
No ; though, of course, you might make a
far more advantageous marriage; but you
cannot deny that I furthered it. Your own
obstinacy it was that severed you. All I
have opposed, as much as Evelyn's mother,
is two paupers marrying."

" We won't talk about ray ' obstinacy,'
though it seems odd, doesn't it, that, if I
am obstinate, I should be ' unstable as wa-
ter ' ? But one thing I should like ex-
plained. If I am all that you ;nid Mrs.
Hamleigh say that I am, what dill'crence
does my fortune make ? I am as unworthy
to be Evelyn's husband with a thousand a
year as with fifteen."

" Cause and effect are closely blent,"
said my mother, more rapidly than usual,
and her eyes avoided mine, — she looked
straight before her out of the window.
" Had you possessed any sense of the dig-
nity of your position, as the head of an old
family, you would not have behaved as you

148

PENRUDDOCKE,

have (lone; but the hnhits yon have ac-
quired (lisiueline you lor tlie respousil)ili-
ties of your station. You were lawless and
wilful as a boy, and so you are still," she
continued, in a voire that shook with un-
wonted excitement. " You have done your
utmost to break my heart ; and, if Evelyn is
as mucli attached to you as you believe,
you will break hers. There is not another
man in England who would do what, you
mean to do 1 Ruin himself and his family,
lose his love, cast a stain upon his father's
and lirother's name, and all for an idea ! —
a sentimental whim ! "

'• One word, and let it be the last." I
raised myself with great pain from my pil-
low. "/ have not cast a stain upon mij
viother's name. Reniemljer that — and let
us both be silent."

She ijuried her face in her hands. She
murmured something — I know not what.
The only words I caught presently were,
" j\Iy j)oor Ray ! " Tbere was a long strug-
gle to conquer her emotion (of whatever
nature it may have been, it was almost the
only occasion in my life when I saw her
visibly moved), and then she rose. The
black veil from her bonnet had fallen over
her tace as she left the room.

We scarcely sj^oke to each other but in
monosyllables for many days afterwards.

CHAPTER LI.

The hunger for power, which was mv
mother's ruling passion, and before whi'rh,
as we have seen, even moral obstacles were
as naught, when occasion "justified "* it, in
her eyes (for she believed in herself more
thoroughly than any one I have ever
known), this hunger found something to
feed on in the subservience to her will, in
all material matters, which she found in me
from this time tbrwards. I let her order
what she liked, consult with the doctors,
and arrange as she pleased our plans for
the future. I rar(jly expressed an opinion
or a wish. I reserved the exercise of my
will for great occasions ; on all minor ones
my mother might rule supreme.

And I date a notable change in myself
from that hour. I felt no longer the same
man. The elasticity of spirit which, through
every vicissitude and anxiety, had never
deserted me, was suddenly gone. I became
more and more despondent about myself,
and, shrinking alike from the " chaff" and
the s3'mpathyofmy acquaintance, I declined
seeing nearly every one who called. Many
were the gratifying attentions I received,
if I had not felt apathetic to every thing ;
books, rare wine, rare fruit, delicate little

scented notes of inquiry. The world,
which cannot refrain frotn saying many
hard things, does manv kind ones, after
all.

Rut it was not in the power of man or
woman now tO lighten the weight that had
fallen upon me. A cripple, — a wretched
valetudinarian for life ! That was the
thought never absent f()r five minutes from
my mind. As I grew stronger in other
ways, as my wounds healed, and my broken
bones re-united, the incapacity of move-
ment grew more and more galling to me.
While I was so weak as to feel averse from
exertion, I had not realized what the thral-
dom was. Oh ! the hours of self-reproach,
of vain repining ! I could fill a chapter
with them ; biit they would be neither
anmsiiig nor profital)le reading. And this
was but the beginning of my punishment !
From the very first, I took a hopeless view
of my own case. I knew what doctors and
triends meant. It was all very well to buoy
me up with tales of the miraculous effects
of German baths, of warm climates, and —
of time. I was not to be deceived. The
conviction sank deeper and deeper into
my mind that I should never be as I had
once been. The shock to my system had
been such, I felt it, as must leave its last-
ing effects through life.

I longed to be in the country ; and at
last the doctors pronounced that I might
be moved to Hampstead, where my mother
had taken a house. The day before I was
to leave Mount Street, Joe put his head in
at the sitting-room door and growled, —

" Mr. Francis below. Wouldn't let him
up. See him ? "

" Why, of course. How could you,
Joe ? "

" You kep' that 'ere lord yesterday
a-waitin', and wouldn't see him ai'ter all —
/ didn't know," muttered my faithful Cer-
berus.

Francis's face was the pleasantest and
most cheering sight I had looked on all
these weeks. He took my hand with that
earnest cordiality which characterized him
so especially, and sat down beside my sofa.

" AVe came up from Torquay last night.
Mr. Humphrey has been ill, or we should
have returned sooner ; for Elizabeth and I
have both been sadly anxious about you,
my dear bo)', and wanted to be nearer to
you. Thank God, you are now out of
danger I "

" Of life, yes : vou wt mv scrawl ? "

" I did, and, since then, two or three
days ago, your mother wrote most kindly
and fully. Her first note, some weeks be-
fore, was necessarily brief, no doubt. This
one relieved our great anxiety about you.
And another thinir I know vou will be glad

PENRUDDOCKE.

149

to learn," — here he dropped his voice, —
" she sent a kind message to Elizabeth."

I confess I was too much astonished to
finil any thing to say. At last I miirniured
an inquiry as to how Elizabeth was
now.

" In health, really well, but her spirits
do not recover. She has grown years older
in these few months — iroui the undisci-
plined child into a thoughtful, almost stern
voung woman. The thing that has roused
her most since her father's death has been
her keen interest in your illness."

" I am glad it has had one good result.
Life-long expiation for an act of folly — it
■was no worse than egregious folly — seems
rather hard — don't }0U think so? "

" I think whatever God sends, and I say
it in sincerity, may prove a blessing, if we
receive it in the right spirit, Osmund. In
every misfortune, we may ' entertain an
angel unawares.' "

" The angel doesn't come to me, Mr.
Francis."

" Do you ask for him?" he said gently,
taking my hand in his — '• do you ask for
him with your whole heart, my boy ? "

" I ask ibr nothing, except for the power
to move about again. I lie here all day
louT, thinking how on earth I'm to support
lifelike this ! "

" Supposing this lot to be yours, which I
trust it will not be, how should a man, and
a Christian, meet it ? Not by bemoaning
his fate. Even the great heathens did not
do that ; and there is a courage far higher
than Stoic fortitude."

" I've never thought much about religion.
As you know, early impressions are not cal-
culated to make me a devout man."

" AVhy ? Because you have let some poor
erring creature like yourself stand between
you and the truth. You have noi sought out
the Great Light for yourself, putting aside
all human instruments, which are like clouds
between usand the sun. I belong to a church
which clings to tbrmula ; which finds in sym-
bol and ceremony, penance and confession,
so many helps to God's worship ; they do-
not obstruct my views of the Creator. They
are only the shell. But the heart of all true
faith is spiritual comumnion. AVithout it all
creeds are lifeless. Do not think about hu-
manity and its weakness ; look upwards, and
though the earth fail you, my boy, you will
assuredly find help and comtbrt."

But my mind could not be brought so
readily to relinquish the contemplation of
my nfis fortunes, ami to seek fbrhigl er sour-
ces of consolation than the objective side of
the case ailbrded.

" It is so awful to think of never being
able to get about again ! And there's some-
thing even worse than that. 1 suppose 1

nmst give up all my hopes now — you know
what I mean ? "

He tried to cheer me ; Lady Rachel had
written to him, what she had told me, that
the doctors were sanguine of my ultimate
re(;overy, though it might be long first.
But I only shook my head. The idea that
I should be a crij)ple for life had taken such
firm possession of my mind, that nothing
would remove it.

" It is a pity I wasn't killed outright. It
would have saved a deal of trouble," I said,
with a dreary attempt at a smile. " Eliza-
beth would have succeeded naturally then,
without all the bother of a transfer. AV^ho
are her solicitors ? In less than a month I
come of age now, and the thing must be
done as soon as possible ; for I won't go
abroad till I've signed my name to the
deeds. Will you see Little for me ? "

" Yes ; but you will not ask me to make
any arrangements ibr you ? I had rather
not give a color, even, to Lady Rachel's
suspicion that I had influenced you. Mr.
Little will go to Hampstead himself, no
doubt, whenever you are minded to see
him."

" Ask him to come on Saturdav, then.
I shall tell my mother "^-

The door opened, and she appeared, a
gracious smile breaking through her sor-
rowful aspect, like the sun from behind
clouds.

" I heai;d you were here. Mr. Francis,"
she began, extending her hand, with the
air of a beneficent queen ; " and, though I
have a world of business this morning, I
would not miss seeing you for five minutes.
How do you find him looking ? Better than
you expected, I h(jpe V "

" He is not looking ill, at least not worse
than one must expect after all he has gone
through," rejjlied the truthful man ; " but
he is low about himself, and will be all the
better for change of air and scene."

" And a little society," added my mother.
" He refuses to see most people who call ;
but I think the visits of one or two of his
intimate friends and relations at Hampstead
will do him good. We shall have two spare
rooms. There will always be one for you,
Mr. Francis, whenever you can stay."

I listened in surprise ; but it was nothing
to my astonishment at what followed.

".•How is Miss Penruddocke ? I hope you
conveyed my message to her ? "

" I did, and she was most .sensible of your
kindness. She is a great deal better. Still,
like Osmund here, her spirits want rousing."

" You had better bring her down to Hamp-
stead. Though we are almost strangers, she
knows Osnnnul well, and the two invalids
will entertain each other. You can tell Mr.
Humphrey 1 will lake great care of her."

150

PENRUDDOCKE.

I saw that even dear old Francis was
dunihloiinded.

'' Elizabeth and Mr. Hiinipliroy will, 1
am sm-e, both .... teel very niiuh ....
your .... oreat .... unexpected kind-
ness. Lady Rachel."

'• Oh ! Mr. Francis," she said, with a
sigh, and then a sweet smile that cliased
it away, " you ought to know me by this
time. I never continue a struggle, when I
am once convinced it is hopeless. I have
suiFered cruelly on account of all this, — it
would be folly to deny it. It' I Avere vindic-
tive, I should positively hate Miss Penruil-
docke. But I am not, thank God ! And
since I see it is inevitable, the wise thing is
to meet it graceiuUy."

And a very wise thing I thought it. My
mother's cordial attitude towards Elizabeth,
— the very last thing, certainly, I had dared
hope for — would obviate a number of un-
pleasant possibilities which I had foreseen.
But the fact of her suddenly enduing her-
self with this wisdom was to me inexplic-
able. Presently, in reply to a question i'rom
Francis toucliing the Hampstead house, she
said, —

'• I have taken it for a year. It will do
to move my things into from Beaumanoir,
for the time, while I look out for a new
home. After four and twenty years," she
continued q^iite calmly, " the uprooting is
no small matter. I must be there for a
fortni'j.'ht to pack up my goods and chat-
tels, I suppose, before we go abroail. Will
you come and take charge of Osmund dur-
ing ray absence V "

He promised to do so ; and soon after this
my mother lett us.

" Remember, I hope to see Miss Penrud-
docke," were her last words.
When we were alone, I said, —
" Impress upon Elizabeth one thing. She
is not to allude to Beaumanoir when we
meet — especially before my mother."

"I suspect that will be diflicult. It
weighs very much upon her mind, I feel
sure."

" Elizabeth hates speechifying, and so do
I. It would simply be odious for her to
talk to me of her gratitude and my gener-
osity. You, who know how misplaced such
terms would be, understand this. Make
her understand it, too."

" I will do my best," said Mr. Francis, as
he wished me good-by.

I bore the drive to Hampstead well, and
the aspect of the old red brick house pleased
me. Its slope of southward garden, where
fruit-trees and flower-knots were delight-
fully intermingled, dominated by a terrace
upon which the sitting-room windows
opened, was the very place for an invalid.
I was wheeled here every morning, and lay

for hours watching the dome and lesser
towers of the great city yonder, rising
from a sea of 1)1 ue or saffron-colored mist —
which evil-minded jjcrsons ]>ersisted in call-
ing the London fog. Here I received the
friends who occasionally rode out; but I
made it known that I did not wish for
'j;eneral visitors, though I could not Ije so
churlish as to deny myself to the few who
toiled up this suburban height to see me.
Among those who most fretjuently did so
was my uncle.

He brought me several messages from a
person concerning whom, as she will not
appear again in these pages, I will here say
a few words at parting.

Lady Castle had written several times,
while I was still in town, asking if she
might be admitted to see me. I declined'.
JNIy mother's presence would have sufficed
to lead me to this decision (after all she
had said) ; but I had, myself, a strong re-
pugnance to such an interview. My seeing
her could do Lady Castle no good. I had
already rendered her almost the greatest
service any human being can render an-
other, and I never desired to look upon her
again. Her image would always be associ-
ated in my mind with the darkest passage
in my life. I was not disposed to shift the
responsibility of what had come to pass on
other shoulders than my own. I knew that
my Quixotic vanity of redressing injustice,
uncurbed by a consideration of whether the
cause was, in truth, a worthy one. was
solely to blame ; but my feelings towards
the woman whose conduct had bi'ouglit
about all this evil had undergone a consid-
erable change, nevertheless. She was safe,
and my ])ity had vanished. My scorn for
her lite of double-dealing with passion and
principle had strengthened ibuifbld. I felt,
that, in my present mood, I could nut tol-
erate her gratitude : her smiles, her tears,
her blessings, would have been alike insup-
portable to me. I told my uncle to make
what excuses he liked.

" Say what is the truth, — that my nerves
are shattered, and I'm unfit for ladies' soci-
ety. After what you told me the other day
was the general belief about Lady Castle
and me, sh<i is the last person I ought to
see ; but I don't want to see any one. I'm
too down in the mouth."

" Oh ! that will never do. You mustn't
get hipped. You'll be all right again in a
short time. I met your chief this morning
in Rotten Row. He told me you had six
months' leave, and at the end of that time
it could be renewed, if you were not quite
fit to return to your duty . "

" I shall never be fit, — that is the fact.
I may as well send in my papers at once."

" Stuff and nonsense ! God bless my

PENRUDDOCKE.

151

soul I because a young fellow like you has
a fall and breaks a bone or two, lie is to
give up the service I Never heard such
rubbii^h ! "

But it was in vain that he always tried
thus to lau;i;h me out of my despondency.
I gained strenc^th and appetite, but I suf-
fered greatly from my back at times ; in
tliat respect I saw no improvement. The
doctors, however, declared themselves sat-
isfied with my general progress, and de-
cided that early in July I should go to
Wildbad or Gastein. It was now the end
of INlay.

On the Saturday before-named, Little
spent an hour with me, and received my
instructions as to the deed of gift to Eliza-
beth, -which I was to sign on the day I came
of age.

The Sunday brought with it Francis,
•who spent the afternoon with me, and was
the bearer of Elizabeth's reply to my moth-
er's invitation. She accepted it gladly ;
and as Mr. Humphrey did not object (that
old gentleman was now almost well, and
hated to be considered an invalid), it was
arranged she should come to Hampstead
the following week, for a few days. Fran-
cis would bring her, and return to Cheyne
Walk, so as not to leave Ilnraphrey quite
alone. Later, when Elizabeth was at home,
and my mother had to go to Beaumanoir,
Fi-ancis was to come and mount guard over
me.

CHAPTER LIL

I WAS lying on my chaise longue on the
terrace.

It was a real May morning ; that "bridal
of the earth and sky," which, like other es-
pousals, has a poetry in early life it can
never know in maturer days. These have
their ripe summer splendors, — it may
even be their sober autumn joys, but the
budding passions of spring, the pale swal-
low-flecked sky, the pleasant turmoil of the
birds, — these belong to the 'teens of the
year ; and the boy-and-girl marriage is one
of intoxicating delight.

To me, however, there was more of
sadness tlian of pleasure in the sense of
nature awakening everywhere refreshed and
strong ; the sap rising in each fibre of the
ivy on yonder wall, the sycamore leaves
bursting their ])ale sheaths, the under
boughs of laurel, intolerant of subservience,
vigorously thrusting upwards to tlie light
their first fruits of tender green.

I was in that morbid condition when
even outward objects, which at other times
it is a delight to'watcli, jar upon the over-

sensitive brain, as recalling, more or less
directly, what we have lost or suifered. It
was still the spring-lime of my life ; but the
sap was sharply checked, the fair promises
of summer suddenly cut off.

I lay there, doing nothing, a book upon
my knee unopened, when my mother
stej>ped out of the drawing-room window,
followed by Elizabeth. I had never seen
the latter look so well ; her deep mourning
became her ; her reddish hair, and slender
figure, which had now a sort of awkward
grace of its own, showed to great advan-
tage as she stood under a bow of hawthorn
blossoms that netted her in a trellis of
fiickering shadow. She appeared shy ; and
my mother, like a protecting divinity, drew
the girl's hand within her arm as they ap-
proached. A sight I had certainly little
expected to see.

But while yet some yards distant, moved
by a sudden impulse which broke down
the rare barrier of restraint which Lady
Rachel's presence exei'cised upon her, Eliz-
abeth quickly disengaged her arm, and,
running up to my chair, seized the hand I
held out. Her cheek flushed ; her features
were contracted by a sharp spasm, more
eloquent than words. It was my mother
who spoke, —

" I bring you a visitor I knew you would
be glad to see. I have been telling her
how welcome her visit is to us both, 0.s-
mund."

" You find me a poor broken-down chap,
Elizabeth. No ' setting-up ' drill, now ;
but, as Joe would say, ' It's a sight as is
good for sore eyes to see you.' Except
dear old Francis, there's no one else I have
been glad to see. You'll neither pity me
nor chaff me, which is what one's friends
generally do."

" I have not had much chaff in me late-
ly," said Elizabeth, and she looked away
over the lawn ; " and, as to pity, I hate it
myself too much to offer it to you."

" Besides," said my mother (and her ac-
cents were like honey dropped upon Eliza-
beth's roughness of speech) — "besides,
he is going on so very satisfactorily, there
will soon be no cause for pity. His escape
was really miraculous — was it notV "

" I don't know, I'm sure. Miracles are
special interventions of Providence, ain't
they?"

" Yes, and this was a special interven-
tion of Providence, I make no doubt of it,
as Mr. Putney said in his letter to me the
other day."

I fell a-musing ; and I suspect, from
those i'liwr blunt words of my eousin's, that
her thought (m some modified form jjcr-
haps) was of the same nature as mine.
^Vhy should I be especially protected, when

152

PENEUDDOCKE.

so many better men -were permitted to fall
victims to more ri;j,hteous causes ?

rresentiy my mother asked after Hum-
phrey. Eiizabetli replied that she really
did not, know how he was ; never knew,
indeed, uidess he was actually laid up ; for
he resented any in<iuiries, and never
■would ;idmit that any thing ailed him.

"I should have been glad to see him
here," was my mother's gracious commen-
tary ; " but his antagonism to our branch
of the family has, unfortunately, always
been so great that intercourse has been
impossible; but for this, my dear Eliza-
beth, you would have been our visitor at
Beaumauoir lon^r airo."
. " You never asked me."

" No, my dear, I never asked you, be-
cause you were in Humphrey's hands, and
I knew it would lie useless. It would be
so still, if Osmund had not taken an oppo-
site view of this legal question to his poor
brother. I think him wrong, — I say so
frankly ; but I also think it a great pity
that such differences, which ought to be
left to the lawyers, should divide families ;
and that is why I am so especialVy glad to
see you."

She took Elizabeth's hard hand, which
looked as though it had been rasped, and
enclosed it in her own white taper fingers.
The apparent candor of her utterance
vrould have carried conviction to most
minds ; but, somehow or other — I grieve
to say it — I found it difficult to believe in
this sudden conversion to a large-minded
view of the duties of kinship. " Methinks
the lady doth protest too much," occurred
to me. I could not obliterate from my
recollection the freezing tone in which my
mother had always mentioned " our en-
emies." With every desire to accept her
cordiality towards Elizabeth as genuine, it
■was dilhcult to reconcile this with what I
knew, by any theory founded upon a close
observation of my mother's character. I
must seek elsewhere than in that divine
forgiveness of those we have injured, which
is so much rarer than the forgiveness of
those who have injured us, for the solution
of this riddle.

Elizabeth remained silent, if I rightly re-
member, and the rest of that triangular con-
versation has left no impression upon me.
But, later in the afternoon, my mother hav-
ing gone in-doors, Elizabeth and I were
alone in the garden ; and yet (it seemed odd
to me at the time) for nearly half an hour
she did not come near me ! She had brought
out some bread in her hand from luncheon,
and stood meditatively before the small cir-
cular fish-pond, at the bottom of the lawn,
flingincT a morsel to its gold and silver den-
izerxs, now an'd again, and then lapsing into

a dreamy forgetfulness of all present things,
— at least, so it a])peared to me.

At length, with her characteristic abrupt-
ness, she turned, and walked rajjidly across
the lawn towards me. Standing a little be-
hind my chair, so that I could not see her
face, she said, —

" Uo you believe in miracles ? "

This was a field of theolonical contro-
versy upon which T had never then entered.
1 replied, casuistically enough, —

" 1 su]ipose I do — when they're in the
Bible. Not what my mother calls mir-
acles."

" AVould it be a miracle to receive a
message from the dead V "

" \\'ell, it depends," I answered. " Some
people of strong imagination believe they
see and hear all manner of thin'is : and
then there's that spirit-rapping bosh ! "

" I don't know any thing about that.
All I know is, that I've had a message, not
once or twice, but ever so many nights run-
ning, from my dad."

'' You've brooded too long upon your
father's death, my dear Elizabeth," I said,
after a minute's pause. " Your mind is a
little upset."

" No, it isn't. On the contrarv, it aets
more fixed every day. I won't take this
property, Osmund, — I hate it."

" Did Mr. Francis give you my message ?
You're to say nothing upon that subject, if
vou would oblifre me, while vou are here."

" I can't help it. I have been thinking
how I should get out what was on my mind,
and I must S])eak. Taking this fortune
from you, Osmund, will make me more iiiis-
erable than I already am. What do I care
for a big house and a lot of servants, and
ever so many thousands a year? The
money in itself would oppress me, but
knowing it was taken from you would be
intolerable. When Mr. Francis first told
us, Cousin Humphrey's glee, and the recol-
lection of all poor dad's anxieties to prove
his title to the estate, prevented my refus-
ing it ; but every week since then, I feel
more and more wretched about it, and in
my dreams now every night I see dear dad,
and he says to me, ' Don't take it, Liz.
Osmund is a son to me — don't take it ! ' "

'' Look here, Elizabeth. Supposing a
man loses a purse of gold which he has no
means of identit'ying, — legally identifying ;
and that the man who saw it drop from
him — (number one) — picks it up. AVIiat
should you say of number two if he kept it ?
' Number one, in a fit of generosity,' may
beg him to do so; but (if he's a gentleman,
not a poor man, of course) it is simply im-
possible. There are circumstances you
will never know, which make it doubly my
duty tj restore that which is rightfully

PENRUDDOCKE.

153

yours. "What if the purse was not dro|)]H'(l,
but niched from you? " I added, in a lower
vaice, — '-perhaps the analogy would be
more correct. No, Elizabeth, do what you
like with it, — give it all away in charity ;
only / can't take it back."

'•' Lady Rachel doesn't think as you do,"
she said, heaving a deep sigh.

" I know very little of my mother's
thoughts ; but you heard a very wise senti-
ment fall from her lips this morning, to the
eti'ect that business-matters should be left
to lawyers, and that the principals should
never "siieak of them. Act upon that, my
dear, or^ you'll destroy all my pleasure in
your visit."

She said no more. A few minutes later,
my uncle appeareil on the terrace. He had
ridden down, and brought with him all the
last gossip from White's. I saw him scru-
tinizing Elizabeth, as he talked ; and she,
on hei'side, eyeil him as she would have
done some curious animal of a genus and
habits heretofore unknown to her. What
with turf and drawing-rooni slang, covert
allusions, periphrases, and o'ther ibrms of
speech not " to be understanded of the peo-
ple," to say nothir.g of the subject-matter of
di>coursc, Elizabeth certainly did not com-
prehend above one word in ten of it.

By and by my mother joined us ; and
she and her brother walked up and down
one of the side-aTleys for twenty minutes,
or more, absorbed in conversation, which,
by the glances cast in our direction, re-
ferred, libit sure, to either Elizabeth or me.

By and by, he came up to me again ; and,
Elizabeth having gone into the house, we
bad a few minutes alone, before he took his
departure.

'■ You've heard about Hartman Wild ? "
he said. " Found no end of letters from
different fellows to his wife, in her desk.
Going to sue for a divorce. They say
there'are no less than four co-respondents."

" Is D'Arnheim one of them ? "

"Yes, and his wife has left him ; but that
you know," he added, with a laugh. '• I'm
glad to see, by the by, that your mother
has got over the shock to her propriety,
and Uikes a more lenient view of the ease,
— says now she is sure all these women
threw themselves at your head."

" I wish you would persuade her not to
talk such stiitf," said I testily.

'• She seems very nnich taken with this
Elizabeth," said he, eying me narrowly,
"and it is lucky. Certainly she is a
deuced fine girl."

"Do you think so?"

" Yes. I observed her walk just now, —
straight in the leg, — goes like an arrow, —
always JAidge how a woman is made by
that."

" As to her walk, I fake some credit to
myself for it. She walked like a cow two
years ago. I put her on her mettle, — you
can do any thing with her in that way."

" Ah ! I have no doubt if you took her in
hand she would turn out a very distiiHjuee-
looking woman. Very fetching hair,"

" I can't say I care about red hair my-
self."

" Well, it's all the rage now ; and it goes
with a good skin. Skin is a great thing.
Hate a pasty, unwholesome-looking girl."

" Her complexion is improved, — still
she is too red at times, — hands espe-
cially."

" Oh 1 that will all come round, — never
wore gloves in the backwoods, I dare say.
It's an immense pull, by the way, her hav-
ing neither father nor motiier. He was a
rough customer, I remember."

" I don't know what you mean by an im-
mense pull, — it is a teri'ible mislbrtune !
Think how desolate she'll be if old Hum-
phrey dies 1 "

" I mean that it is an innnense pull for
any man who may think of marrying her,
not to be saddled with that backwoodsman,
or some impossible mother."

" Let me tell you, she is not a girl who
will marry the first man who asks her."

" Oh ! I don't doubt it," laughed the col-
onel. " I'm told she shows capital taste;
but I can tell you what, Osmund, there will
be a great run after that girl, whom you
insist on making one of the biggest heir-
esses going, if you let her come into the
market."

Then were my eyes opened. I saw my
mother's little game, and how she had been
priming her brother.

" I have no power to let or prevent her,"
I said slowly. " She will do what she
chooses with herself and her property ; but
I doubt her ever ' going into the market,'
as you call it."

CHAPTER LIII.

I HAD now the clew to my mother's hith-
erto inexplicable conduct. Failing all
other meiuis, a marriage with Elizabeth
would prevent the alienation of Beauma-
noir. This was the sole motive for her
sudden change of tactics ; and the longer I
thought over it, the more patent it became.
I was amazed that it should not have struck
me sooner.

" A chill fell upon our intercourse from
that hour. On Elizal)eth's ])art this may
have been the result of the discussion de-
tailed in the foregoing chapter. By it she
found that the idea she had hugged in se-

154

PENRUDDOCKE.

cret, and had come resolved to cjirry into
execution, must tiill to the jxround. A cer-
tain cons^traint was inevitable, — she was
" shut up." On my part, the knowledjjje
that every look of interest, every word of
approval, ini^ht be misinterpreted by my
mother, made me churlishly taciturn. It
angered me to think, that, at the moment I
■was trying to repair the wron'g done to my
cousin, she should be brouiiht here with
such a design as this I A marriage was to
be cooked up, which should render my act
of renunciation virtually of none effect. I
chafed to think how astute old Humphrey,
if he divined the scheme, might even now
be chuckling over what he would consider
my false airs of magnanimity. I had felt
real pleasure in seeing Elizabeth again ;
and hoped that my mother was, from disin-
terested motives, in which I was fain to be-
lieve that a troubled conscience played
some part, kindly disposed toward my
cousin. There was an end to all that now.
I had credited Lady Rachel with feelings
foreign to her nature ; and each day of
Elizabeth's stay would add to my annoy-
ance and perplexity. I liked and respected
Ler too much to permit her feelings to be
played upon ; if indeed, as Mr. Francis be-
lieved, this were possible. How could I
tell what ideas my mother miglit not instil
into the girl's mind V We played at chess,
hour after hour, in silence, — she beat me
five games out of six, — and then I pleaded
fatigue, and lay back to brood over my
troubles ; while Elizabeth drew a chair
under the hawthorn, a little distance off',
opened a book upon her lap, planted her
elbows on her knees, and clutched her head
between her hands, as in a vice ; but the
leaves, I observed through my half-closed
eyes, were only turned by the wind.

There was yet another thought connected
with the matter which worried me. Was
it possible that Mr. Francis was a party to
this plot ? — for so I must consider it. I
could not forget his earnest desire for this
marriage, and my mother's unwonted cor-
diality towards the man whom, but three
months before, she had treated so rudely.
And yet, after Avhat I had told him, it
seemed incredible that he should lend him-
self to a scheme the results of which could
only be injurious to Elizabeth, and painful
to myself.

On the third day of her stay, be paid us
a visit ; and I found an opportunity of
speaking with him alone.

"■ Do you know what my mother's object
was in inviting Elizabeth here, Mr. Fran-
cis V"

" I can make a shrewd guess."

" She never told you, then ? I was
afraid she had. I am horribly annoyed.

God knows what she mayn't say to Eliza-
beth, though the idea of marriage con-
nected with me now is such a ghastly
joke, I should think no one but a manoeuv-
ring mother could entertain it."

'• On that point, your nnnd is in a morbid
state," returned Francis; "but, as re-
gards Elizabeth, I fully comprehend your
feelings, and I confess I hesitated some
time before countenancing her visit. I re-
llected, however, that, in the first place,
Lady Rachel might be a valuable friend to
her hereafter, and it was unwise to reject
the hand your mother held out. Secondly,
that it might arouse Elizabeth, and, as you
were so shortly going abroad, could do her
no harm. You understand me V "

" It does harm to ?ne. I should like to
be on the same terms with Elizabeth we
were six months ago ; but, with all this
confounded plotting, how can I ? By the
by, we had an animated discussion the day
she arrived. She was bent on giving up
the property."

" That does not surprise me. I felt sure
that nothing but the thought of her father
would have prevented her doing so at first.
What did you say? "

" I told her, as nearly as I could, why it
was impossible I could retain it; and I
think I convinced her that my resolve was
not to be shaken. Do you know if she has
spoken to Humphrey on the subject ? "

" No ; but he is too sharp not to guess
something of her feelings about it. He
said to me the other day suddenly, ' The
realization of our wishes, at the end of
years, seldom brings the satisfaction with
it we anticipate. My father was set upon
the restoration of Beaumanoir to its right-
ful heir, and I inherited the crotchet. Now
that it is come to pass, I perceive that this
thing will be a thorn in the flesh. Eliza-
beth will find no pleasure in her patrimony,
— she will hate it, because her cousin is
dispossessed ; and as to me, sir, if I have to
leave my old home, and live in that big
place with her, / shall hate it too.'"

" Does he suspect any thing about Eliz-
abeth's visit here ? "

" Yes ; but be at ease. Though be sees
some design on Lady Rachel's part (and
nothing would please him better than its
success), he has small hope of you. ' I wish
it could be,' he said ; ' but, unless I am mis-
taken, he is not a young man to be talked
into a marriage, — especially in a case like
this, where his worldly interests are so
much concerned.' You may rest assured,
therefore, that he holds you quite blameless
of any intention to recover Beaumanoir by
making Elizabeth your wife."

" The worst of it is, my mother's perti-
nacity. I heard her say yesterday to Eliza-

PENRUDDOCKE.

155

beth, ' How charming it wouM be if you
could come abroad with us ! Osmund will
be so dull alone with me!' Elizabeth
turned quickly round, and looked at me ;
but I pretended not to hear."

" Ah ! " said Mv. Francis, shaking his
head, " that would never do. I should be
alraid for my poor child : she must not go
abroad with you."

Neither of us spoke for some minutes.
At length 1 said, with a little hesitation, —

" I have been thinking that, if Elizabeth
knew the plain truth about me and Eve-
lyn, — I mean what my hopes once were
about her, and that my heart will never
change, — there would be an end to all this
rubbish of my mother's, which has had the
etlect of estranging us. AViU you tell her,
Mr. Francis?''

" You had better tell her yourself."
Then after a pause, he added, " I think it
not impossible that she already has a glim-
mering of it."

" Wha,t makes you think that ? "

" To explain, I must mention something
which I have not done yet, for I thought
it niicjht excite vou too nmch ; but if vou
name Miss Hamlei'j;h to Elizabeth, you
■would be sure to hear it from her. We
met her and her mother at Torquay."

'' At Torquay ? You saw her at Tor-
quay, — and you never told me ! What on
earth were they doing there V "

" They came on a visit to Mrs. Hawks-
ley, who has had a villa there ibr the win-
ter. Mrs. Hamleigh found us out at once,
and called, and was most gracious to Eliza-
beth."

" But about Evelyn — that is what I
■want to hear. What did she say ? Did
you talk to her about me V and how did she
look ? "

" Delicate, and very sad. I had one
long conversation with her, alone. But,
perhaps, it is as well that you should know
exactly what passed first between her
mother and me when j\Iiss Hamleigh was
by. She began by saying she had heard
from Lady Rachel that morning — that
she heard from her most days — and that
your mother was crushed by this last grief,
which was rendered so much worse by con-
firming all she had long feared of your
utter depravity. ' You are aware,' she
said, ' I suppose, that a Ladif was the cause
of this fatal quarrel V But perhaps you
have not lieard that his poor mother found
another y^er.sort established by her son's l)ed-
side when she arriveil. I should not allude
to such a subject before Evelyn, but that
she has a fixed hallucination abut Osmund
— that his dear mother and I have never
done himjustice. 1 have been reluctantly
compelled, therefore, to let her know the

truth.' I was sorely grieved, Osmund.
I could not discredit your mother's testimo-
ny ; all I could say was that, loving you as
I did, I would never accept the worst con-
struction of any fact that told against you,
till I had asked for your explanation of it."

" AVhat a brick you are, Mr. Francis i
I'll explain every thing to you — but tell
me first what Evy said."

" She did not open her lips. She was
deadly pale, until I spoke those few words.
Then she fiurshed up, and gave me a look
of gratitude. However, the day before we
left Torquay I was able to have some con-
versation with her alone."

" How glad I am ! Well, what passed ? "

" She and her mother called, and Mrs.
Hamleigh was engrossed with Elizabeth —
overwhelmed her with civility ; so I could
talk to Miss Hamleigh without interruption.
She said, ' Thank you, for speaking as you
did to mamma about poor Osmimd. It is
so dreadful to hear the same thing repeated
day after day ! I cannot believe it. After
all his protestations to me, it is impossible
he can be as bad as mamma thinks. He
has been very weak, I know, and has been
led astray ; but, oh 1 dear boy, how terribly
he has been punished 1 It makes me so
wretched to think of him ! ' "

"Did she say nothing about ■tvriting?
Dill she know it was a toss-up whether I
lived or died ? "

" I doubt if she has been told the whole
truth — probably from a fear of exciting
her sym])athy too keenly. She said her
mother had gone on her knees to implore
her not to write to you ; ' but I may send
him a message,' she added : ' I am sure it
cannot be wrong to do that. Tell hiin,
after our last interview, nothing but the
most positive' proof shall make me believe
him false at heart, as poor dear mamma is
persuaded he is. He has ijeen foolish, I,
dare say — I will not think him culjiable —
at least, to the extent they try to prove.
Mamma says that, to go on clinging to him,
after his conduct, is to lower myself. 1 sup-
pose I have no dignity — but I cannot help
it 1 ' I promised Miss Hamleii^h, that, if I
learnt any satisfactory explanation of the
circumstances, I would let her know."

AVhen I had told him as much of' the case
as I could tell any one — that is to say, of
the causes that led to my encounter with the
Italian — and when 1 came to speak of
Madame d'Arnheim, I asked, —

" Did Evelyn refer particularly to her?
Can you remember if she alluded to her in
any way ? "

" She said something of a friendship for
a lady which you assured her the world iiad
entirely misconstrued. ' I believed him
then,* she added, ' and I will not disbelieve

156

PENRUDDOCKE.

him now. IIo would have made a promise,
had I exacted it, iK-ver to yee this pL-rsoii
ii;4ain. But my oUl faith in him revived
alter nearly three years' separation. I liad
been told lie was quite elian<red ; 1 did not
find him so. lie may have many, many
faults, iJr. Franeis, but he does love me
still — I am sure of it. If I did not trust
him, in spite of all they tell me, I should
never trust any thinir a;j;ain in this world.'
Those, as nearly as 1 can remember them,
were her words, Osmund."

'• She is an angel ! And to think that I
may never see her again, perhaps ■ — never
be able to assure her of my eonstancy ! O
God ! it is hard."

" His eliastisements are not always sent
us in displeasure, my boy. Bear your trial
bravely, and it may turn into a blessing."

'■ A blessing to be a cripple for life ! "

" It is foolish to worry yourself about the
future, my poor boy. In God's hands are
the issues. The present ought to be
enough lor us all."

" More than enough for me. But tell
me what vou were going to say about Eliza-
beth?"

" I said that she had some inkling of the
truth. I never betrayed her contidence ;
but, after the Ilamleighs were gone that day,
she said, to me, ' You were talking to that
girl about Osmund — I heard his name
twice — what did she say V ' I told her
that Miss Hamleigh was much distressed at
all the reports current as to the cause of
your terrible catastrophe. She answered
characteristically, ' What does the cause
signify? He is lying dreadfully hurt, and
I can think of nothing but that. Yet this
gh'l is fond of him — I could tell that by
her face.' Elizabeth has returned to the
subject more than once. That is why I
think you will find her, in a measure, pre-
pared tor what you ted her."

'• Very well," I said, as I leant back with
a heavy sigh. '• She shall know what my
hopes were up to a few weeks ago, and that
I shall never care for any one but Evelyn
Hamleigh, though I should live on as a crip-
ple for the next llfty }'ears. It is no use, Mr.
Francis," I continued, as I saw his gentle,
reproving smile ; " neither the doctors nor
you can shake my own horrible conviction
that I shall never be better."

Then his smile faded away, and he looked
almost stern.

" So you fret and exhaust yourself by
dwelling upon that whicli, according to you,
is inevitable — is God's decree ? Osmund,
1 am ashamed of you ! This iifitation is
hurtful to you, both mentally and physically.
Y'^ou say you do not trust the doctors —
that they purposely mislead you. Ah ! my
son, would that I could induce you to turn

to that heavenly Physician, whose prom-
ises never deceive, and who would send
down to your heart a peace which is not of
this world 1 "

• • • ■ • ■ •

He talked to me lor nearly an hour long-
t'r. I do not repeat any portion of the
remainder of that conversation, for it
would be out of place here ; but every word
of it is engraved in my memory. It was the
beginning of a new jjhase in my inner life.
Followed up, as it was, by many similar
discussions, when Mr. Francis and I were
alone in the house together the following
week, it produced an im[)ression the results
of which will be apparent by and by.

CHAPTER LIV.

Elizabrth and I were alone ; the chess-
boaril stood between us; she had just
beaten me.

" You have a faculty I shall never pos-
sess, Elizabeth. I can make plans lor my-
self, down to the third and fourth genera-
tion, but I seldom detect my adversary's
game. Do you see ahead in this clear way
in real life?"

She looked up sharply into my face.

" I don't know what you mean. I've no
adversaries to detect."

' Ah I I am glad to hear it," I replied,
thinking how much I could enlighten her if
I chose. " But sometimes the designs of
those who act, as they consider, for our
benefit, we would bafHe, if we suspected
them."

Elizabeth said nothing. She began put-
ting the pieces away into their box.

" Shall I tell you something V " I con-
tinued. " My mother and I have been
playing such a game of chess for the last
year, and I never foresee her moves."

" So 1 should think," she said quietly.

" Her object in the game has been to
separate me from the person I love best
on earth, because that person is poor."

The girl's face grew deadly pale, but she
did not speak nor look up : she went on
mechanically placing the pawn in the box.

" Her first move was to prevent our cor-
responding. She and the mother of — this
person " —

" Miss Hamleiffh — go on."

" Y'es : Miss Ilandeigh's mother and
mine are most intimate ; and, as I was
poor, the views of the two mothers were
the same. Evelyn was forbidden to write
to me ; I was not allowed to see her ; and
my letters were intercepted. After this,
every sort of story that could be raked up

PENRUDDOCKE.

157

about me, to prove that I was? inconstant to
Lur, was repeated to Evelyn."

" That couldn't do much harm," said
Elizabeth quickly. " Who would believe
any thin'^ of a person she loved, that was
told behind his back V "

" Well, my cousin had not seen me for a
long time ; she was a child when we parted ;
there was every excuse for her believing
what both our mothers told lier. I had
always been spoken of as a scapegrace,
after I had run away from home ; and the
reports of my ' goings-on ' in Lomlon, and
of my liaving forgotten her, must liave
seemed half confirmed by my never re-
turning to Beaumanoir, whei'e tlie Ham-
leiglis constantly were. You must re-
member all this before you blame her."

" And why did you never return to Beau-
manoir V "

Elizabeth liere raised her eyes to mine.

" Tiiat I am not at liberty to tell you. It
has nothing to do with this. Nor can I en-
ter at length into all my mother's subse-
quent plots. I have never been sharp
enough to detect them until they have done
me miscliief, — that is, looking at tiie case
from my point of view : slie believes, no
doubt, that all she does is for my welfare.
Her last move lias been to let Evelyn know
the scandalous stories that are told about
this atfair. One would think it was enough
to be hali'killed,without being traduced ; but
no : we must be separated, at all hazards."

" But she can't be so — she doesn't be-
lieve them ? " asked Ehzabeth vehemently.

" She does not believe them. As regards
that, I know now that they might spare
themselves the trouble. She will never
give me up ; she will never marry another
man, until I myself release her. But fate,
you see, though it does not smile upon my
mother's I'-ame, seems bent on favoring Mrs.
Hamleigh."

" I don't understand you."
The board was cleared now, and her fingers
were knotting; themselves, with feverish rest-
lessness, in her lap.

'• I mean, that a poor maimed devil as 1
am, Elizabeth, has no right to think of
marriage. The hope of ever being better
grows lainter every day. You look liorri-
lied, my dear. Yes, I know they don't say
so : thi;y all tell me it is a morbid tivncy.
You will see if it turns out so."

" Of course s^ie will stick to you, whether
you are ill or well," said Elizabeth, in a
choky voice, with averted face.

" Ah I if I get no better, and see that I
ouglit to give her up — God knows what
the sacrifice will be to me 1 — but I will
not ruin her young life, — 1 shall tell her
she must marry. 1 won't be a dog in the
mauiier."

" Fancy giving any one up one loved, be-
cause lie was ill! I shouldn't think much
of her if she did so I " cried the girl scorn-
fully ; but I heard how dillicult it was to
steady her voice, as she went on : " Do
you think when a girl loves — 7'eallt/ loves,
— she can be shunted on to any other line,
just for the sake of being married ? Why
should she marry V Isn't it better to die an
old maid than marry without love ? It Miss
Hamleigh is — what you think she is, she'll
wait and wait, until you're both old ; and
then she'll come and nurse you — she will
never give you up."

" I shall never give her up, — in my heart,
I mean, — though I may renounce all claim
to her hand. As to living on like this till I
am old, I pray to God that I may die to-
morrow, sooner than that! "

" There are worse lots than dying youni-,"
said Elizabeth. " Living uncared lor is one.
I know I wish / were dead I "

'"Good gracious ! With health, strength,
every capacity for enjoyment, at the outset
of your life, how can you say that V — how
can you say you are uncared tor 'r' '"

" It all seems very cold to me after —
after dad's love."

" Wait. Depend on it, in time you will
find a love that is not cold. You will
marry, and be a very happy woman, I
predict."

" I shall never marry."

" Why do you say that so confidently ? "

" Because I have enough of the faculty
you spoke of just now to know that I shall
never be loved — as / understand love —
for myself."

" Nonsense I Y^ou'll see by and by how
mistaken you are."

'• No man loves the sort of half-boy girl I
am ; but as I'm to be rich, — you insist on
my having this oflious property, — Cousin
Humphrey is always telling me I shall have
no lack of suitors. He needn't be afraid. I
won't marry at all."

" And what shall you do, then ? " said I,
with a forced smile ; for I felt, in truth, very
sad for the jjoor child. " iieign at Beau-
manoir as a virgin queen, like your great
namesake, and take to hunting and shoot-
ing V "

She shook her head.

"I couldn't stand the monotony of such a
life for long — alone, linQun. When Hum-
phrey dies, perhaps — perhaps I shall go off
and wander."

'• You can't do that alone at your age."

" Why not V " she said simply. " I sup-
pose with money enough I can go where I
choose. However, I hope Mr. Fi'ancis will
always live with me."

" Well," I began, somewhat staggered ;
and then, refiecting that it was useless to

158

PENRUDDOCKE,

discuss conventional proj)rieties with her, I
added, " Siillieieut unto the day is the evil
thereof. Old lluuiplirey will outlive us all
yet."

" I hope so," she said, with a sigh. " lie
cares about life, — he has the funds to
wateh. It is better than nothing."

'• Nothing ! Why, you know how fond
he is of you. It is because all his Ibrtiuie
is for you that he watches the funds widi
such interest, I feel sure."

" Whi think so? You're wrong. Not
that he isn't fond of me, — I don't mean
that. I know what I mean. I understand
Huniphrev, and he understands me."

" I'll be hanged if / do, Elizabeth."

" No : I never thought you did."

" But we shall always remain fast friends,
■whether wo understand each other or not,
sha'ii't we ? " I said, after an awkward little
pause. " We may not meet, perhaps, for
ever so long, but that will make no dill'er-
ence, I hojie. You'll write to me, Eliza-
beth V "

" I can't write beautiful letters about
nothing. What is tliere I could write
about that you would care to hear ? "

" Every thing. All that concerns you
will interest me, depend on it. With two
such far wiser heads than mine near you,
it isn't likely you should want my advice.
Still, there are matters about the estate,
and so on, in which I might be of some
use. Promise to write to me constantly
while I am abroad V "

I had not heard my mother enter the
room through the folding-doors at my
back ; and it was not until I saw Elizabeth
look up, that I turned my head, and beheld
the beautiful face smiling benignly upon us
at my elbow.

" I am sure Elizabeth will not be so cruel
as to rei'use you, Osmund ; but what I am
hoping is that Humphrey will spare her to
go abroad witli us for a short time, or, if not
now, to join us in the autumn. It would
be so nice."

" I shouldn't like it at all," said Eliza-
beth, rising bruskly. " I'm very much
obliged to you, Lady Rachel," she added,
coloring to the roots of her hair, ami sensi-
ble that she should modity this rejection ;
" but I couldn't leave Cousin Humphrey,
even if he wished it."

My mother's inuuutability was for once
disturbed. Her face betrayed, to my eyes
at least, her vexation and her surprise.

Elizabeth returned to Cheyne Walk the
following day. My mother made an effort
to keep her longer ; but my cousin was res-
olute to go, although befure our last con-
versation she had certainly entertained the
idea of asking Humi)hrey to let her remain
with us another week. Francis, however,

wrote to say that the old gentleman was
by no means well, and she seized upon this
prete.vt for holding to the limit originally
fixed for her stay.

Olu' parting was common-place enough
to the outward observer. Elizabeth was
like a little rock. I was really sorry to say
good-by to her, and was, moreover, in that
condition of mind when partings are
fraught with forebodings of evil, — forebod-
ings which we snule or shudder over long
afterwards, according as they are realized
or not ; but my mother's presence checked
much demonstration of what I felt, though,
even thus, I was more visibly moved than
my cousin. Her face looked as it had done
during her father's last illness, rigid, and
aluiost green, — the effect produced upon
that sort of skin by sleepless nights, or any
strong and prolonged emotion. She came
into the room at the last moment, the car-
riage waiting at the door, and walked up
to my sola.

" God bless you, Elizabeth ! " I said,
holding out my hand. " Now mind you
write.''

She grasped my hand tightly for a mo-
ment ; then dropped it, without a word.

My mother came forward, and stooped
to kiss her.

'• I am very sorry — we are both truly
sorry to lose you, my dear. I hope, at no
distant time, this renewal of our family ties
may be " —

" I am much obliged to you for your
kindness," said Elizabeth ra[)idly. " Good-
by." And, without another word, — with-
out waiting tor my mother's I'cjoinder, —
she huriied from the room.

" Well, she certainly is an odd girl,"
murmured my mother, as the door closed ;
and a slight ilush of annoyance mounted to
her cheek. " DilKcult to make any impres-
sion upon."

The week following, my mother went to
Beaumanoir, and Mr. Francis came to stay
with me lor a fortnight. It was a delii-lit-
ful episode in that melancholy time. He
drew me upwards in conversation to higher
and worthier subjects of reflection than
those I was unhappily too jirone to indulge
in. I forgot, for the moment, my physical
ailments, in discussion upon some of those
deep mysteries of our being which every
thinking mind must, at times, crave to sat-
isfy. Up to this period of my life, when-
ever such dilliculties had crossed my
thoughts, I had put them away, as matters
beyond my ken, which it could profit me
nothing to in(juire too curiously into. My
religion was positively but little elevated
above that of Tennyson's " Northern Farm-
er ; " sleepy assent and indill'erence had

PENRUDDOCKE.

159

clinractcrlzcfl my tlicology from the days
(if Mr. Putney's teaching until now. Mr.
Francis, durin;^ all tlie years he had been
at Beauinanoir, had been careful never to
distui-b tills state of thin5;s. It had been
in the bond that all polemics were to be
riirorously avoiiled, and he was far too con-
scientious to infringe the rule ; but now
he was on another footing, and I, instead
of a boy, was a man, suffering in body, mis-
eralile in nund, of wavering, unhopeful
i'aith. I will not afSrm that he came re-
solved to convert me to his own church, if
possible j but, that he held himself more
than justified in arousing my interest in the
question, and leailing me to seek what lie
considered the truth, I believe ; and I
have nevei' ceased to feel grateful to him
for it. When he reads these lines, I hope
he will understand that I never, for an in-
stant, confounded a character I reverence
so deeply wit^h that of the insidious Jesuit
of fiction (or fact, may be, for aught I
know), who goeth about seeking whom he
may theologically devour. To whatever
doubt and distress my mind was subjected
after this time, it still was, at all events,
preferable, as I now think, to the passive
materialism from which Mr. Francis had
awakened me.

It was during those days that I attained
my majority, that the lawyers came down
to Hampstead, and that I duly signed the
deeds conveying away the whole of the
Beaumanolr property to Elizabeth Penrud-
docke. The small Lincolnshire estate,
added to what I already possessed, would
yield me an income of eleven hundred a
year.

IMy mother and I left England for AVies-
baden the beginning of July.

CHAPTER LV.

Of the six months following I have but
little to relate. Two letters of Mr. Fran-
cis's will show the condition of things as
regarded myself and others : I need trouljle
the reader with no more. I had heard con-
stantly from him, and twice from Elizabeth,
when I r(.'ceiv( d the following at Geneva,
in the last week of September : —

"BEAUMANOin.

"My dear Osmund, — Your letter fiom
Munich, received three days ago, has trou-
bled me much. I have thought of little
else ever since. First, as to your health :
it is a sore disappointment to find that
Wiesbaden has done, as yet, nothing for
you ; but I am told the benefit of such baths
only becomes apparent, very often, many

weeks after ' the course ' is ended, and I
trust the warm yet bracing air of Nice will
bring to maturity the good seed that Wies-
baden may have sown. At all events, let
me entreat you earnestly to allow neither
patience nor hope to abandon you. The
tone of your letter grieves me more than
all — it is so desponflini^ ; yet, here and
there, I think I see indications that your
soul, under its heavy trial, is beginnimj to
look beyond this world for comibrt. May
it indeed be so ! May your steps be
guided, if towards our holy Church, how
joyful I shall be I — if not — if towards
some other door of Cod's opening — I shall
know it is equally his doing. I am not
bigoted ; I would ap|)ly the Pagan's line
to this Christian need —

' Rem . . . quocunque modo rem.'

" You will expect to hear something about
us; but, in truth, I have little to tell. We
have now been here two months, and our
life continues to be very much what it was
after the first two days. Every neighbor
within fifteen miles has called, and not one
has been admitted. Whatever the weather
is, Elizabeth rides for some hours daily,
The farm, the stables, the dogs, are her
chief interests. She does not care much
about the garden, except that little grubby
corner that was called }'ours as a child, and
which she chooses that no one should work
in but herself. She promises to be a capital
woman of business, and has mastered all the
details of this estate in a manner which
has gratified j\Ir. Humphrey beyond meas-
ure. She is not satisfied with a superficial
knowledge of any thing ; she goes through
the bailill's accounts with Mr. Humphrey,
and asks cpiestions which he and I are
sometimes unable to answer. Altogether,
the removal here has had a healthy efiect
on her. I do not say that she is happy,
but she is roused. Her mind has active
emplo\ment for the present ; and those fits
of moodiness which threatened to become
chronic are now rare.

" I am not easy about Mr. Humphrey.
He is more tetchy than ever as to inquiries
touching his health, but I tear he is far
fi-om well. His feelings about Beaumanoir
are of a mixed nature; he derives a curious
satisfaction from the realization of the
idea which was paramount in his mind for
so many years ; but he hati's the country,
and pines for London, and all the busy
money-getting interests of his past life. He
does not know wheat from barley, or a
goose from a gander, to Elizalieth's infinite
amusement ; and were it not for the daily
papers, and for the accounts connected
with this property, which he audits, he

IGO

PENRUDDOCKE.

would be misornble. He objects to per-
sonal contact with visitors as much as VA'v/.-
abeth does, and yet I am sure be would
feel annoyed if they did not call. He
shrugs his shoulders wdien he see a carriage
drive up to leave cards, and says, ' Yes,
my good lady, you have a son looking out
for a girl witli money ; but you are not go-
ing to drop salt on Elizabeth's tail.' I ob-
serve, however, in spite of these sarcasms,
that he is very punctilious in the due
returning of cards, from which I gather
that he is not altogether so indifferent to
these acts of courtesy as he would have us
believe.

" Elizabeth is writing to Lady Rachel, in
reply to her second invitation to join your
mother and you. You know what the sul)-
stance of that reply will again be. To
frame it in suitable words is not an easy
task to Elizabeth. Clever as she is in
many ways, the facility of expressing her-
self on paper, has been denied to her. I
say this, as you complain of the ' two bald
and frigid epistles ' she has sent you."

I continued to hear from INIr. Francis
constantly that autumn, during which I
remained in the same state. The tedious
journey to Nice was accomplished, and we
were settled in the Villa Lyon. I lay
basking in the Southern sun for some hours
every day, and life looked to me like a
beautiful dream of cloudless sky and tide-
less sea ; but I grew no better. Weary —
weary of every thing. As Joe held the
glass for me to shave, and I looked at my
own face, I read the chanc!:e in myself
there ; and still they cried, '• Peace, peace,"
when tiiere was no peace.

In December I was shocked to hoar of
Mr. Humphrey's demise. He was found
dead in his bed one morning at Beauma-
noir. A week after the news reached me,
I received a second letter, from which the
following is an extract : —

"I have now to tell that which will
cause you some surprise. Immediately
after the funeral, the will was oj)ened and
read. By a codicil dated last June, the
substance of that will, which had devised
all Mr. Humphrey's jiroperty to Elizabeth,
is cancelled, and the main portion lell to
you. I quote the exact words : —

•' 'In consideration of the magnanimous
surrender of the great Penruddocke estates,
by Osmund Penruddocke, to his Cousin
Elizabeth (their rightful owner in the
sight of God), I hereby, and with the
knowledge and approval of the said Eliza-
beth, revoke the above provisions of my
will made in her favor, with the exception
of my plate, furniture, and books, which I

give to the said Elizabeth, as a memento;
and I bequeath all my property in the
funds, and of whatsoever other description,
to Osmund Penruddocke, son of the late
John Penruddocke of Beaumanoir.'

" He then leaves some legacies to his
servants and to me. On a rough calcula-
tion, the lawyer tells me the funded pro-
perty amounts to about twenty-three
thousand pounds. Elizabeth says you will
remember an observation about Mr. Hum-
phrey you made to her in June. She knew
at that time of his intention ; and, <as soon
as the title-deed transferring the Beauma-
noir estate to her was signed by you, he
wrote this codicil in her presence.

" She feels the old man's death very
min'h ; and the question which presses on
me, far more than on her, is. What is she
to do now ? She is so peculiar, that it will
not be easy to find a lady-companion to
suit her; without one, I cannot retnain
with her, as she wishes. This difficulty,
however, has been temporarily removed by
Mrs. Haudeigh's offering to come and stay
with Elizabeth, as soon as she heard of
Mr. Humphrey's death. Elizabeth was for
declining at once ; but I persuaded her at
last to yield, and Mrs. and Miss Hamleigh
arrived yesterday, just before the funeral.
(The second time within twelve months
that they have come to this house under
similar circumstances !) Mrs. Hamleigh
was not so much as named in her cousin's
will, a fact which, I fear, surprised her
more than it did me.

" I have had no opportunity for private
conversation with ]\Iis3 Hamleigh. She is
looking very beautiful, but sail, and is more
distant with Elizabeth than I could wish.
It would be a great advantage to the latter
if the cousins became friends ; but Eliza-
beth, who is shy with all strangers, seems
espec;ially ill at ease with Miss H. She
feels, moreover, that neither of these ladies
can enter into her heartfelt mourning for
her old guardian. For my part, I am
most grateful to Mrs. Hamleigh for coming.
It relieves me of an awkwanl responsibility;
and, before her departure, I trust that some
suitable lady may be found as E.'s compan-
ion. The bare suggestion of my leaving
her causes the poor child such dismay, that,
after much deliberation, I have resolved to
remain with her, in the curious position of
half tutor, half self-appointe(l ojuardian; for
I fiicl that I am of more real service now,
perhaps, than I was when I came to super-
intend her stuilies in her father's and Mr.
Humphrey's lifetime. She has no one to
look to but me. J] ndar olher circumstances,
it would be natural that she should accept
Lady Rachel's pressing invitation ; but you
will understand whv neither I nor Elizabeth

PENEUDDOCKE.

161

would entertain this idea. To her it would
be the re-openinsj ol'a wound wliich I trust
is healinj;, or will heal with time ; and I,
with my dear pupil's interests so deeply at
heart, coulil never countenance it. As to
her only other rehitions, the Hamleii^lis, I
have said enoup;h to show that Elizabeth
would never endure livinjj permanently
with them. I can see that Mrs. lIamleio;h's
smile, her trick of repeating your last word,
— every thinjij about her, irritates E. Mr.
Humphrey once called her ' the crocodile,'
and E. never speaks of her now but by
this name. She has twice asked how lonLi;
I think the H.'s will stay, and expresses a
desire t<5 leave Beaumanoir herseiti and
travel abroad. ' Not in the beaten track,
however,' she always adds. If this restless-
ness incre;ises, it may be best to yield to it.
God sees what is for the child's good, and
will guide us, I know.' "

The news of my unexpected inheritance
greatly elated my mother. She said very
little, it is true, and that little was cast in a
conventional mould ; but there was a flavor
of reticent, well-ordered satisfaction which
pervaded her whole being, when she ob-
served, that, for her part, she had always
maintained there was a fund of goodness
under jioor Humphrey's rough manner ; she
hoped, indeed she Iiad no doubt, that his
end was peace. She wished he had left
somethinq to dear Belinda ; but she was
thankful to learn that, unbiassed by petty
jealousy, or un-Christian-like resentment,
she was fulfilling the pious task of comfort-
ing poor Elizabeth. (I need not say that I
only culled the facts from, and did not read,
the text of Francis's letter.)

To me this accession of fortune, alas ! was
a matter of indifference. There was no
merit in this ; for, had I felt the very small-
est amendment in my condition, the remov-
al of one important obstacle to my union
with Evelyn would have driven me nearly
wild with joy. With twelve hundred a
year, in addition to what I already pos-
sessed, my mother could no longer persist
in speaking of me as " a pauper." Nine
months since I should have hailed this as
an unlooked-for windfall, as nothing short
of providential. But Providence had now
declared a'^ainst me. Day aiter day, which
saw no abatement of my sufferings, was
killing by inches the little hope that re-
mained in me, till at last I put a violent end
to it. And this was how it happened.

On the first of January, the German
doctor who had been attending me since
my arrival, found me alone. He had a
reputation for insight and skill, l)ut bis out-
spoken frankness was said to have militat-
ed against greater success in his career. A
u

soft answer turneth away, not only wrath,
but many a nervous disorder. Feeble and
weakly-minded patients were kept aloof
from Dr. Hensel by reason of his proverbial
fearlessness of utterance. As I had, almost
always seen him, hitherto, in my mother's
presence, and, on the rare occasions when
I had been alone with him, had felt too lan-
guid to do more than reply to his interrog-
atory, I was unable to sj)eak of this quality
of the doctor's from my own experience.
Chance willed it, however, that, on this
New Year's morning I was alone, and in a
trame of mind, after weeks of cruel struggle,
which made it of momentous importance that
I should have an honest scientific opinion
upon my case. Another year was opening
for me, and for her. Was it not my duty
to release my darling from her promise, if
in truth there was no reasonable prospect
of our being united V That miserable dia-
logue with conscience, which every one
knows at some time or other, kept me toss-
ing on my bed night after night ; the natu-
ral haven for comfort, a mother's arms, was
debarred me ; I had no friend to turn to in
my trouble ; and religion — ah ! that I
shall have to speak of presently ; but I may
here observe, that, though it was a subject
which engrossed much of my thoughts now,
it could hardly be said to have brought
me peace as yet. I resolved, on finding my
self tete-a-tete with Dr. Hensel, to leave the
issue of this conflict virtually in his hands.
I said, —

" Tell me the truth, without any pallia-
tions. Dr. Hensel. I can stand it. Shall I
ever be able to move without pain ? Shall
I ever walk about again ? "

He waited a full minute before replying.

" You cannot be well for a very long
time : it is possible that you never will be
quite well ; still, though I do not wish to
Ijuoy you up with a hope that miv;ht be fal-
lacious, I believe, that, in the course of
years " —

" Years I That is enough," and I turned
my face to the wall.

That same afternoon I received a letter
from Francis. The following passage in it
removed any doubt from my mind as to how
I ought to act : —

"I have had several conversations with
both Miss Ilamleigh and her mother. The
former shows a quiet lorce of character in re-
sisting the pressure to which she is subject-
ed, which I confess surprises me. Mrs.
Hamleigli never leaves her daughter a day's
peace about her ' foolish entanglement '
with you, as the expresses it ; and I can-
not help feeling sorry for the poor mother,
she is so unhappy al)out her child. 'Eve-
lyn's life is being sacrificed to an idea,' she
said to me. ' She has had two oiliivs of

162

PEXRUDDOCKE.

marriage, and but that she considers her-
self bound to her cousin, she would cer-
tainly accept one of" tliem, and my mind
would be at ease. As it is, if I die to mor-
row what is to become of lier ? She will
be alone in the world, like Elizabeth, and
without her wealth.' Miss Hamleigh, on
the other hand, says, that, though she will
never uiain-y against her mother's wishes,
neither will she be persuaded to break her
promise to you, wliile you desire this con-
ditional engagement between you to contin-
ue. I need not say how anxious she is
about you ; and the line Mrs. Hamleigh
sometimes takes, of exaggering your inju-
ries, and speaking of your condition as
though it were hopeless, is the very last to
attain her end ; as she would know, if she
were not a poor, stupid woman. Her daugli-
ter's tender sympathies are doubly excited
thereby : they would certainly be less keen
were slie to hear of you as robust and riot-
ous."

This it was which, after reading and re-
reading, finally clinched the resolve I had
taken, in the bitter solitude of sj)irit wherein
1 passed my days and nights. To renounce
every thing, to shut the door between me
and my darling with my own hand, — it was
agony to me ; but the longer I thought upon
her, the more imperative this sacrifice at my
hanils appeared.

After tearing up a dozen long letters, I
wrote to Evelyn, the next day, as follows : —

" This, my dearest, is the last letter, prob-
ably, you will ever get from me. Your
mother will not mind your having it, when
she knows its contents.

" I write to release you from your engage-
ment. It would be unprincipled and coward-
ly selfi>hness were I not do so ; for, alas ! I
have no ho[)e of ever being able to call you
mine. One doctor has at last had the cour-
age to tell me — what I had an inward con-
viction of eight months ago — that I shall be
upon my back for years. After this, I should
indeed merit your mother's reproaches, and
I could not stiile those of my own conscience,
if I held you bound by vows taken when I
had strength and hope in the future. I have
neither now, I look forward to the long life
that may be before me, — I am ashamed to
own with what dread ; but to chain your lot
to that of a wretched cripple on his sofa —
no, that I would never do. Your love has
brightened all my youth, which, God knows 1
would have been clouded enough without it.
— it is my abiding comfort still ; and the pre-
cious memory of it will cheer the years that
may yet be left to me, when you have formed
otliL-r ties, which I pray earnestly may be for
your happiness."

CHAPTER LVI.

Extract from a letter of Mr. Francis's,
dated Jan. 7 : —

" I gave your enclosure to Miss Hamleigh.
They were leaving Beaumanoir the same
day (as Mrs. Everett had arrived) ; but, be-
fore their departure that afternoon, I had a
few words alone with Miss H., the substance
of which it is right I should repeat to you.
She was terribly upset by your letter : first,
by the view you take of your case ; second-
ly, by your gicin;/ her up, as she expressed it.
This renders her position doubly difficult.
She would have waited patiently for years;
she is sanguine of your ultimate recovery,
but now, — what weapons have you not
placed in her mother's hands ! Of course,
as she never conceals any thing from Mrs.
Hamleigh, she told her at once of your let-
ter ; indeed, you evidently meant her to do
so, as you say you communicated the fact
yourself to Lady Rachel. It is clear tome
that the latter has written very openly to
Mrs. Hamleigh of her views and hopes as
regards you. Though no name was men-
tioned, I saw at once to whom Miss Ham-
leigh referred ; and I began to understand
the coldness of her manner to Elizabeth
when she said, 'Mamma has been telling
me, ever since last June, that Osmund
wishes to break off our engagement ; that
he has other views, and is prepared, when
he recovers, to make a marriage which will
be — advantageous to him in all ways. I
have never believed it, and I do not believe
it now ; but she says I am mad to doubt it ;
that I cannot persist in clinging to him if
he desires to be free ; that though he may be
fond of me, and to give me up may be a sac-
rifice, yet,'that during his long illness he
has been brought to see how foolish such a
marriage would be, — especially when he
might marry a person who — in short, a
person so much more suitable. I shall suf-
fer far more than before,' she added ; ' for I
feel as if the ground were taken from under
my feet. I took my stand upon my promise,
and now what can I say to mamma? O
Mr. Francis, you who know dear Osmund
better than any one, tell me the truth, —
tell me what I ought to do ! ' I replied, ' I
feel for you deeply, but this is a case in
which advice is impossible. You nmst be
guided by your own feelings, and your own
sense of what is right, as Osmund, I believe,
has been guided by his. One thing, how-
ever, I may with certainty affirm. In free-
ing you, he has been actuated by no ulterior
thought of another marriage.' I could say
no less than this, as Elizabeth's friend ; but
I could say no more. As to counsel, what
could I give ? You have released her word ;

PENRUDDOCKE.

163

you cannot release her affections. Time and
absence ni:iy effect this ; and her mother's
supplications may, in the end, prevail to
make her marry some one else — it is not
impossible. * Gutta cavet lapldern.' But it
will not be the work of a day .... Mrs.
Everett seems the person of all others likely
to suit Elizabeth. She is a little swarthy
•woman of forty, dressed in a jacket, with her
hair cut short ; but her gentle voice and
manner are agreeably at variance with this
man-like appearance. She has walked the
hospitals in America, and taken a medical
degree. The ililHculties she encountered in
pursuing her profession in this country in-
duced her to give it up when E.'s handsome
ofler was made her, through a friend of
mine. ■ She has travelled half over the
world ; she is energetic, intelligent, and,
judging by her face, good-tempered ; and
her knowledge of medicine may prove
valuable, if E.'s roving inclination leads us
into uncivilized regions."

I have added this last paragraph of the
letter, though it will readily be conceive
that Mrs. Everett and her jacket were mat-
ters of the purest indifference to me, be-
cause, as I shall not have occasion to refer
to Beaumanoir for some little time, it ex-
plains how matters stood with its inmates,
and 1 may therefore leave them for the
present.

The day following:, mv mother received
a longish letter from Mrs. Hamleigh, a pas-
sage in which she read to me. She was
inexpressibly rejoiced that I had " seen the
wisdom of taking the course " I had done.
She felt sure it was " for the happiness of
both concerned." She had given her dear-
est Evelyn permission to answer my letter ;
and ]Mrs. Hamleigh was sure my good
feeling would suggest that this communica-
tion should be final. She trusted that at
some future time Evelyn and I might meet
as affectionate cousins ; but at present it
was best that nothing more should pass be-
tween us.

Then Evelyn's note was handed to me,
sealed. She had certainly desired, — and
apparently her mother had conceded, —
that no eye should see those lines but
mine. It did not escape my attention,
however, that the seal loc^ked as if it had
been tampered with. It might have been
bruised in the post ; she might have re-
opened her letter; there were a hundred
ways of accounting for it ; and the fact
made so little impression, that it was only
long afterwards I recalled it.

"My dearest, dearest Osmund, —
God knows what is best lor you. I must
not think of myself. J pray everj' hour of
the day that he may guard and restore

you to health ; and I feel sure he will do
so.

" They tell me that the thought of our
engagement worries you, when you should
have perfect rest. If this be so, I have no
more to say. What are words ? What is
a promise ? My heart will not remain the
less true to you, until I know that your own
is changed. In that case — if you do not
release me from any false fueling of gener-
osity, but because you wish to be free, free
to form other ties hereal'ter, — send me
back that lock of my hair you wear in a
locket. You need not write, dear Osmund.
I shall know what it means. Until then,
" I am still your faithful

" Evelyn."

" Those few words, so simple, so reticent,
moved me deeply. Ah ! Mrs. Hamleigh, it
was clear, did not divine the terms in which
my darling had accepted my cancelling our
engagement, or she would never have per-
mitted those comforting words to reach
me.

I had done all that conscience demanded,
— more I would never do. No, that lock
of hair which I now always wore next my
heart should never leave me. We might
not meet again this side the grave ; but she
should have the assurance that I had re-
mained faithful unto the end.

I forgot that my mother possessed a long
brown curl, set behind a certain miniature
of Evelyn that was in her desk. And in
her eyes the end justified all means.

Months passed. There was no altera-
tion in my physical condition ; but the color
of my mind was undergoing a gradual
change. Day by day, morbidly brooding
over past folly and present retribution, to
which I saw no limit but with life, my
thoughts turned to religion, and sought com-
fort there, but as yet found none. " Help
thou mine unbelief," was the cry of my
profound dejection, as I lifted my eyes to
the contemplation of that better life, by a
firm belief in which good men " possessed
their souls with patience " under every" ca-
lamity. Mr. Francis had first awoke this
spiritual longing within me six months be-
fore : it was yet unsatisfied.

My urgent desire was to become a Roman
Catholic, — a member of that church which
could bear such fruits as were shown in
the character of Ambrose Francis; but I
could not bring my mind into the state of
subjection necessary to accept its doctrines.
My stubborn individuality rebelled against
the theory of personal irresponsibility con-
soiiuent upon absolution, the suspension of
private judgment, and blind obedience to
the Church. I struggled and prayed

164

PENRUDDOCKE.

against this obstinacy, which I believed
was of the Devil. Weary and heartsore, I
would fain have cast all ray burdens into
the arms of this niiuhty mother, claiming;
to be the representative of man's Creator
upon earth ; but I could not.

Here is a passage i'rom one of Francis's
letters that winter, which will show that he
was too wise, however earnestly he might
desire my conversion, to urge my taking a
step which he felt would be premature, —

" Do nothing rashly, my son. God. in
his own good time, will bring you to a
knowledge of himself, as he is revealed in
our holy Church. Of this I feel confident,
— the more you study its tenets, the more
you will perceive that it is the only one
which is indestructible and omnipotent
over the erring heart of man. Other creeds
tell men to seek God, — mine teaches that
God has found them. Your soul cleaveth
to the dust, as David's did, and now you
lift your eyes, and behold something that is
above and beyond this world ; but do not
mistake a transient state of feeling for a
permanant condition of faith. From the
conversions of sentimental impulse little
good can accrue."

That summer was passed in the Pyre-
nees. I have nothing to record of it. The
autumn saw us back again at Nice, in our
old apartments in the Villa Lyon. It was
towards the middle of November when the
following scene took place.

CHAPTER LVn.

" I HAVE heard from Belinda Hamleigh,"
said my mother slowly, as she stood beside
my sofa, with an open letter in her hand.
— " and her letter contains a piece of
news."

I looked up interrogatively. My heart
stood still ; Ijfelt what it was.

" I am glad to say Evelyn has at last
been brought to reason, and has accepted
Lord Tufton."

I said not a word. The room was dark-
ened by the closed persiennes ; my mother
could not see my face.

" After freeing her, as you most rightly
did," continued she, " you have too much
good sense not to be glad that " —

" Glad ? — say no more, mother ! Don't
I know all my poor darling has been made
to suffer before she could be brought to for-
swear herself; for she has forsworn herself.
The promise she made was none of my
seeking, — but she made it, all the same,
in her last note to me."

My mother folded and unfolded the let-
ter in her hand a little nervously.

" Belinda no doubt referred her to your
own letter in urging Evelyn to take this
step Remember what you said about the
hopelessness of your marrying. Though
you take too gloomy a view of your own
case, yet you could not expect a girl to go
on waiting for years " —

" Years I — why, it is just ten months."

" In those ten months," she continued,
adroitly shifting her ground, " Lord Tufton
has come forward twice, undaunted by his
previous rejection. Such constancy would
touch any girl ; and then such a charming
person as he is, — you yourself always say
so ! It is a great relief to her poor mother
that Evelyn will be so well settled, and I
think we ought all to feel very glad."

" I hope to heaven she may be happy ! "
I groaneil ; " only don't ask me to feel glad :
my heart is too sore for that."

" Men are certainly very selfish," said
my mother, shaking her head. " You give
up your cousin with a shoto of magnanimity ;
but immediately you hear that dear Evelyn
is trying to reconcile herself to her fate,
and has consented to marry a most de-
lightful person, you are indignant. It is
so unreasonable ! "

It was, perhaps ; at all events, I felt it
to be selfish, for I had no more prospect
of ever being able to claim her now than I
had a year ago. But the heart of man is
" deceitful upon the weights," and I was
utterly crushed. Her faithfulness had
been the one ray in my darkened lot ; and
now the night had indeed closed round
me.

The longer I thought over it, the more
inexplicable it seemed, with all I knew
myself, and all that Francis had written,
of my darling's steadfastness. My fiiith in
human nature was shattered. If she was
untrue, where, indeed, could I look for
truth ?

I drove during this month almost daily
to the Monastery of Cimies. Joe carried
me, like a child, from the carriage, and
laid me in the vine-trellissed garden, where,
far removed from the turmoils of the town,
I watched the good monks digging, or pa-
cing the terraces in meditation. I envied
their peaceful alternations of prayer and
toil, and remembered with a sigh the mer-
ciless condemnation I had passed upon such
lives in the insolent narrow-mindedness of
youth.

Ah ! how far away those days at Ghent,
only four years off, now seemed !

The thought of a monastic life occupied
me much. Of what use was I now to any
one ? Certainly of none to my mother,
who was still in the prime of life, and,

PENRUDDOCKK

165

■with her great beauty, would easily form
new and more serviceable ties, when ab-
solved from her " duty " to me. Surely to
one sick of the world, as I was, a life of
religious contemplation was eminently fit-
ted," if I could only bring my mind into
unison with the lofty organ-tones of Rom-
anism. The narrow, empty-hearted secta-
rianism in which I had been educated had,
unhappily, been further disfigured in my
eyes by the practices, so widely different
from the precepts, of some of its stanchest
upholders. I could not look for comfort
there. Should I find it in a Catholic mon-
astery ?'

Here again stepped in my fi-iend with
his true wisdom. " It is natural that you
should be struck with the beauty of a con-
ventual life at such a moment as this, but
those who have a real vocation for such an
existence are few. Within the walls of a
monastery there is no outlet for energies
such as yours once were, and will yet be
again some day."

Later on, in the same letter, he wrote, —

"I confess that the announcement of
Miss Hamleigh's engagement has surprised
me. When 1 handed to her the letter in
which you released her from her promise, I
did not antieii)ate that she would so soon
take advantage of it. I cannot reconcile
it with her own words to me. It falsifies
the estimate I formed of her. When I
contrast a love that can be so easily turned
aside with the tenacity of attachment my
poor Elizabeth manifests, whether it be to
her father's memory, or any other object, I
cannot but lament what I now know to be
unalterable. But in doing so, alas ! I feel
that I am a recusant to the faith that I
have ever professed — that whatever in is
for our ultimate good. Your soul is passing
through a grievous trial. I pray to God
that it may strengthen those higher aspira-
tions which your bodily sufferings origin-
ally kindled. But these must not lead to
narrow your sphere of action. Selt-imposed
restaint would never profit you, Osmund."

I here recall with a smile — which it hard-
ly awoke at the time, in so abnormal a con-
dition was I — the characteristic arguments
wherewith my faithful Joe opposed my
growing tendencies. At first his views
were not wholly adverse to a conventual
life : —

" They keeps the women out. H'm I it'd
save a deal of bother, if they was kep' out
of every thing."

But when his shrewdness detected the
peril to me, he changed his tone.

'•You're not a' goin' to shut yourself up
in one of them vaonA^larj places, I hope V "

'* Why not ? Better men, and worse,
too, have dune so, Joe, and have found conso-

lation in serving God, and repenting of their
sins."

" H'm ! I'd ha' done it when I was
a-gallivanting about London, if I was you.
'T'aint nuich good a-shuttin' of y'rself up
now, when you can't break out if you
wished it ever so — a-lyin' there on the
broad o' your back, as harmless as an in-
fant ! Why, it's like a widder of eighty as
prays that she may keep the seventh com-
mandment I "

My mother gradually became seriously
alarmed. It dawned upon her at last that
I was in imminent danger of becoming an
apostate, and not impossibly a monk. It
was not ibr this that she had labored.
She was still sanguine as to my ultimate
recovery, and unremitting in her care. No
effort was spared to divert my thoughts.
Ladies whom my mother's English-county
ideas of propriety would have excluded
under other circumstances she now admit-
ted, in the hope of inducing me to receive
a few amusing visitors daily ; but I refused.
I was sick of the world, and looked back
to my London life with acrimony. How
right poor Madame d'Arnheim had been !
How often I remembered her warnings !
But for the worthless people I had then
lived amongst, I should not be as I now
was. All which was brought forcibly to
my mind when my mother said one day,
on returning from her drive, —

"I met some friends of yours to-day,
who are just arrived from Cannes — quite
a large party. Lord and Lady Ancastar,
Mrs. Chaffinch, and some men. I went
into Lady Susan's, wh^re they were; and,
hearing my name announced. Lady Ancas-
tar begged to be introduced, and said they
would all come and see you to-morrow.
She was most kind in her manner. I was
quite agreeably surprised, after all I had
heard about her."

" It is more than I am. I don't want to
see any of them."

" Really, my dear Osmund, I think that
is hardly right. When old friends who
express themselves so very much interested
about you" —

" Friends 1 Do you call such people
'friends?'"

" You lived entirely in their set in Lon-
don, did you not ? "

" The people one sees most of in London
are often not one's fi-iends," I said. " At
all events, I have no more to do with the
things that interest them. I have dropped
out of their life, and should not appreciate
the last London scandal. They woiiUl find
me very slow, and I don't want their pity ;
so I decline seeing them."

It was thus I met every proposition made
with the view of changing, if possible, the

166

PEXRUDDOCKE.

current of my ideas. I had become ae-
quainteil with a priest, who visited me con-
stantly, and supplied nio with books, which,
I am bound to say, I but imperfectly com-

f)rehended. Still I strove diligently to be-
ieve the dogmas therein upheld : it was
no fault of mine if I failed. These visits
and these books were a source of <;rave and
increasing annoyance to my mother. So
were my drives to Cimies, and the hours
that I spent, during Lent, in one or other
of the cluu'ches ; but she was too wise to
expostulate, or enter upon religious discus-
sions. She placed evangelical diatribes
a'^ainst the Scarlet Woman upon my table,
and invited an English curate with a cough
to spend two or three evenings a week with
us. He was a good man, doing hard work
among the poor of his English parish, I am
sure, to which I sincerely trust he has been
Testorcd long since, renovated in health.
Persuasion, however, was not his Ibrte —
could not have been, under any circum-
stances ; and now his cough was a great
aggravation of his tedium. I positively
writhed under it, and often retired to my
room, pleading a headache.

My mother was at her wit's end. How
could she rouse me from the morbid de-
spondency which had taken this religious
form, and threatened to drive me into
Romanism ? It might even be to take
vows of celibacy, and immure myself with-
in convent walls !

Chance beti'iended her, and brought her
help in this strait, from a quarter where she
had little riijht to look for it.

CHAPTER LVm.

" Tiip:y tell me she's a grand-duchess,"
said Joe ; " but I don't think much of her
grandeur, as has only two flunkies, and no
guard of honor — not even a sentry put
over her door."

'• Why, the Prince of Wales hasn't that
when he is travelling, Joe : no royalties
have."

" Koyalties, indeed I They seem to be
thick as blackberries in these foreign parts,
and every bit as poor. They ain't the reel,
solid article, like our rovalties, I don't
make much account of them," he said, with
an air of profound contempt.

The dialogue referred to the grand-
duchess of Bodensee, who had arrived at
the villa that afternoon. We occupied the
ground-tloor ; the remainder, lately vacated
(it was now the end of March), the duchess
had sent her Kammerherr from Mentone to
engage for a few weeks. Her suite was

small, consisting of one lady, besides ser-
vants.

The grand-duchess recalled jMadame
d'Arnheira, whose intimate frii-nd I knew
she was ; but I was far from anticipating the
intelligence which Joe communicated to
me the next morning, — that he had seen
the duchess and her " Hoi'dame " go out
walking, and had recognized in the latter
" that foreign lady as come and nussed you
the fust night ; and a right good un she
was too."

At luncheon my mother said, looking
straight out of window as she spoke, —

' Who do you think is in this house?
Your friend, Madame d'Arnbeim."

" I know it, and am very sorry."

" Why ? You will not refuse to see her,
I suppose ? "

" She is not likely to ask to see me, or
put her foot inside our door, after the treat-
ment she received."

My mother said nothing, and the after-
noon passed. The following day I wit-
nessed a curious little scene from my win-
dow, which gave me food for some sarcastic
reflection. I caught sight of a figure be-
tween the orange and rose trees which was
very familiar to me. The tall, slight
woman in gray, under a Nice umbrella, was
walking leisurely towards the sea, when I
beheld my mother hurrying, almost run-
ning, — she who never hurried, — after her.
Madame d'Arnheim had reached the gate
before my mother had caught her up ; and
there they stood, full in my view. It was
too far off to distinguish the expression of
Madame d'Arnheim's face, as she turned
round ; but there was a certain drawing
back in the attitude which was not to be
mistaken. They were there for more than
ten minutes, my mother talking earnestly
all the time, as it seemed, while the other
scarcely spoke. Finally I saw my mother
put out her hand : Madame d'Arnheim took
it, and they separated.

I lay back on my sofa with a smile, part-
ly of satisfaction that my mother had seen
fit to apologize for her behavior (whatever
her words might be, the act amounted to
this), partly of amusement at the force of
circumstances, which had driven her to do
this thing.

It was a great relief to me. I had never
been able to think of my poor friend with-
out a blush of indignant shame. How
should we meet ? was the question I had
been asking myself ever since I learnt of
her being under f^he same roof; but she
had condoned my mother's offence. I was
prepared for the message sent me late that
afternoon, to ask if I would see the Coun-
tess d'Arnheim.

She was slightly flushed as she entered

PENRUDDOCKE.

167

the salon ; but her countenance bore the
traces of suirerinsr durino; the ei'jhteen
months since we had met.

" I scarcely thougjht you would come,"
said I, holding out my hand.

" I should not have done so, had not your
mother herjcjed me," was the reply. Then
she drew a chair to the side of my sofa.
" Poor boy ! how much you have gone
through ! Ah ! the last time I saw you I
littie thought you would be alive now.
Every hour of that night I expected would
be your last. I grieve to hear from your
mother that you suffer a great deal at
times ; but you looh by no means so ill."

" Ah ! well, let us talk of something else.
Why did yOu never answer one of my let-
ters?"- -

'• Because — I thought it best not. It is
an odd accident that throws us together
now, when I had made up my mind that we
should never meet again."

" You did not know of my being here,
then?"

" I only learnt it last night, after we had
arrived. Otherwise, to be frank, I think I
should have urged the duchess to take an-
other a2:)artment."

" I can well understand that," I sighed.

" But Lady Rachel has said all and
more than I could expect, to counteract the
effect of her jealousy when she found me
nursing you : and that is forgotten now ;
I think no more of it."

" It is like you to say that. Now tell me
about yourself. I thought you were living
at Dresden ? "

" I Avas until December. Then, as all
chance of my returning to my husband was
at an end, the grand-duchess proposed
that I should take the post left vacant by
one other ladies. I was glad of any thiug
which gave me certain duties to perform.
I was of no use to any of my relations, — I
could be of use to my old friend ; so I
came."

" And about D'Arnheim ? Tell me why
you say all chance of returning is at an
end ? "

"Because he is so infatuated with that
woman, that he wants me to consent to a
divorce, that he may marry her. In Ger-
many, as you know, it is a very easy mat-
ter ; but his family, as well as my own, im-
plore me not to yiclil, and I have not yet
done so."

" I suppose his people hope, that, after
a while, he will return to his allegiance to
you ? "

" I shall never return to him," she said
slowly, " unless he is dying. I know Carl's
character too well now to believe that any
reform wftulil be jxTuianent; but it is not
that. A wife may tolerate all that I have

done, and more perhaps, if there are occa-
sions, ever so rare, when she feels that she
has a good influence over her husband.
Mine, unhappily, after the first year of our
marriage, has been the reverse."

" How so ? You do not mean that liter-
ally ?;'

" Yes, I do. INIy remonstrances aggra-
vated him, and yet gave a kind of zest to
pursuits of which perhaps he might other-
wise have tired. Our characters are an-
tagonistic. I am disposed to think he
might have been a better man if he had
married another sort of woman."

" And this is why you have left liim ? "

" I could be of no comlort, — I did him
more harm than good. I often wonder if
Lady Byron, when she left her husband,
asked herself this, — not what were his of-
fences, but whether she could recall any
transient moment when his heart had been
really softened towards her ? If she could
recall any one such, then to abandon the
slender chance of reclaiming him was un-
justifiable. I have not this to reproach
myself with," she added, with a slight in-
flection of bitterness. " Nothing could
ever touch him, — / never did, at least."

" No wife was ever more patient and
long-sufTering," I said.

" One less so would have suited him bet-
ter. Human nature is so strange. In this,
Lady Byron's case and mine are alike.
Every thing about me irritated Carl. Un-
like Byron, sometimes he paid ' the homage
that vice ])ays to virtue,' and concealed his
conduct ; but often, and latterly especially,
he seemed to find a pleasure in openly in-
sulting me. It is better for us both this
should be no longer in his power."

" But your family does not think so,
since they object to the divorce?"

" They think it looks ill for a married
woman to return to her maiden name.
There is alwa}'s a certain number of peo-
ple who will believe that there was some-
thing against her. On the other hand, his
family are anxious to prevent his marrying
Mrs. Wild. Of all her admirers, Carl
seems to be the only one who has remained
constant since her divorce."

" Do you really believe that a man of
the world, as he is, would injure his pros-
pects by such a marriage, if lie were free
to-morrow ? "

" Yes. He is a man of the world, it is
true ; but he is a slave to his passions be-
fore every thing. He lias never known
what it was to deny himself a pleasure.
That horrible woman has got an ascen-
dency over him for the time, — he would
sacrifice every thing to her; and yet he
is no fool : but one sees these contradic-
tions every day. And now," she said, after

168

PENRUDDOCKE.

a momont's pause, " tell me something of
your own hopes."

I shook my head, and returned quickly, —

" I have none."

" You say that because you arc de-
pressed about your health ; but, — the lit-
tle cousin ? She remains true to you '? "

I yhook my head asjain.

" I releaseil her. I have no right to com-
plain."

" Do you mean that she is going to marry
some one else ? " she asked, in a tone v.'hich
indicated far more than the mere words.

" Yes, — Arthur Tufton. Poor child !
You mustn't blame her. Think what her
life would be, bound to me, — a wretched
cripple ! "

'' To lighten the lot of a man who has
loved faithfully, and suffered as you have,
would sweeten lift to some women," she
observed.

" I should be a selfish brute if I wished
for such a sacrifice ! No : it is better for
Tier, as it is. She marries as fine a fellow
as ever stepped, and I hope to Heaven she
may be happy."

" Did Lord Tufton know of your attach-
ment ? " she asked after a pause.

" No ; though we were so intimate, I
never spoke to him of Evelyn." I then ex-
plained to her, as I have already done in
these pages, how it came to pass that I had
never confided the story of my early love
to my friend. " Not till he had been bowled
over by the very same ball," I added, " did
I feel how much better it would have been
to have told him all. And then it was too
late ! "

'• Ah ! Is it ever too late to be open ?
Y''our friend would have fled the tempta-
tion, had he known the state of the case."

" I ought not to wish it, Madame d'Arn-
heim. She would have been made to
marry some one, sooner or later. I am the
only sufferer ; and for what remains of my
lite now, I only desire to be as little burden
to any one as I can."

(Tradually, in subsequent conversations,
my Iriend learnt the troubled state of my
mind upon the subject of religion, and how
the idea of monastic life, if 1 ever regained
sufficient bodily strength to embrace it,
commended itself to me.

" Of what good shall I ever be in the
world ? Military ambition is at an end.
I must send in my papers immediately, for
there is no hope of my being able to serve
again. I take no interest in any thing. I
feel bruised, morally and j)hysically, all
over. I fancy that in a life of religious ex-
ercise I shouM find peace."

" Do not think it. Human passions are
the same on either side a monastery wall."

" Then it would free my mother, to whom

this wandering about the Continent is very

irksome."

" She would prefer any thing to your en-
tering a monastery, — you may be sure of
that. The idea is too horrible I it is pre-
posterous ! "

" ^Vlly is it horrible ? Do you think
that lives of prayer and meditation cannot
be acceptable to God ? That is the narrow
Protestant view."

" I do not say ' cannot ; ' 1 doubt wiiether
they generally are. There may be cases
where a man, from temperament or circum-
stances, is fit for no active work in this
world. Such is not your case. If you re-
mained on your sofa for years, your mind
would work. It is doing so now, in an un-
healthy way, upon this subject of religion.
That will riirht itself in time. Shut vour-
self up in a convent, and you will be wretch-
ed and self-condemned for the remainder of
your days ! "

She grew quite eloquent upon this theme.
Then, as regarded a change of faith, she
said, in forcible terms, not wholly free from
sarcasm, that, in order to be converted, it
was well to understand clearly what one
was to be converted from, as well as what
one proposed being converted to. Was I
quite sure that I understood the great work
of the Reformation, and the principles then
established ? I had been dabbling in the
fathers, and floundering through controver-
sial works by eminent Romanists, placed in
my hand by my prit'stly friend. But what
had I read upon the other side ? Only a
few evangelical tracts !

The result of this and of other subsequent
conversations was to make me feel ashamed
of the precipitancy with which I had well-
nigh abjured the religion of my fathers,
because I virtually knew nothing of it.
Madame d'Arnheim had read a great deal,
and to some purpose. She could give a rea-
son for the faith that was in her ; and though,
as with many of her countrymen, the limits
of that faith were difficult to define, its basis
was firmly rooted. I have heard her views
called '• rationalistic," " pantheistic," and a
number of other hard names. I only know
they were free from intolerance, which is
not always a characteristic of liberal tenets ;
and the exposition of them, thou'j;h too va-
gue to satisfy the requirements of any rigid
theologian, was more beneficial to me at this
juncture than closer reasoning, which did
not admit of a divergence of opinions, woidd
have proved. ^Madame d'Aruheitn's was
essentially the subjective German tone of
mind : its enthusiasm was not to be kin-
dled by outward a[)peals to the senses.
Yearning after the infinite, the sense of
spiritual needs, not to be satisfieil by " au-
thoritv," have been tartrets for reprobation

PENRUDDOCKE,

169

or ridicule for well-ni2;h a century past;
bat none the less, they indicate a deeper
thoughtedness than is shown by the jris-
sionate credulity which bows, unquestion-
ing, to any new dogma imposed by one
man upon others. She could have become
any thing, or nothing, sooner than Ru-
mau Catholic ; but her sympathies were too
wide not to embrace every form of earnest
human aspiration : and therefore I could
talk to her more openly than would have
been possible with any one dilferently coh-
stituted.

From that day forwai'ds tliere was a
great change in my life. By some means
or other, it was contrived that Madame
d'Arnheim should be my almost constant
companion. That this was by my mother's
express wish and contrivance there could
be no doubt. She had been presented to
the royal lady up stairs, who was charmed
with her beauty and distinction, and read-
ily accepted her as a substitute for Her
Ilighness's ordinary companion in her daily
drives, when the nature of the case was
explained to her by IMadame d'Arnheim.
ThenJ after a while, I was ]iersuaded to ac-
cept the duchess's kind invitatiou to mo to
pass the evenings in her salon ; and was
carried up-stairs in an Algerine horse-rug,
swung like a hammock between Joe and
our Niceois service. The duchess, a small,
vivacious woman, dressed with a simplicity
bordering on shabbiness, would come to the
door herself to greet me, and punch the
pillow of the sofa where I was to lie, and
draw a chair near to it, and, affluent of im-
perfect English, inundate me with cordial
inquiries after my health.

She was a warm-hearted, self-willed little
lady ; resolute to carry out, no matter at
what cost, that which she had set her mind
to accomplish ; liking every one to be
happy about her, but happy in her way.
Given certain seeds, such a character was
the inevitable outgrowth of royal nature.
She was an enthusiast about talent and
beauty, and only cared to be surrounded
by what was attractive to the mind or to
the eye. Every evening, she and my
mother, and the select few who were admit-
ted to tliese informal receptions, drew round
the fire, and the ladies knitted and the
men talked, while I lay on the sofa in the
corner, close to the table where Madame
d'Arnheim made tea.

I needed such a friend more than any
thing, at once to sooth and to rouse me.
Hopeless brooding over my temporal mis-
fortunes, restless introspection, and doubt
as to my theological wants, — between
these, my mind had been shut up, breath-
ing the same air, and feeding upon itself
foi^ months. Its mouldy chambers were

now ventilated by the sunshine of sym-
pathy, and the {'vaQ wind of discussion. I
shrank still from all " society ; " I took no
part in the general conversation that went
on in the duchess's drawing-room ; but I
grew more and more dependent on Ma-
dame d'Arnhcim's companionship. — more
and more to look for her coming, to miss
her when absent, and to regard with dread
the prospect of our approaching separation.
For here is the beginning of May, and, in
ten days' time the duchess is going to fly
from the coming heat into Switzerland :
and we are to return to England, — prob-
ably by sea, from Marseilles.

CHAPTER LIX.

TfiE idea of returning to England was
most distasteful to me. The only faces by a
sight of which I should have been gladdened
would have left its shores before I reached
them. Francis wrote that he and Elizabeth,
with Mrs. Everett:,were leaving Enudand, on
a lengthened cruise in a large schooner my
cousin had bought, with the hope of sailing
round the world ! For the summer months,,
however, their wanderings were to be con-
fined to the shores of the Mediterranean.

The Hamleighs' name was seldom or
never mentioned between my mother and
me. I heard that they were in London,
and that the marriage was to take place in
June ; and I heard no more.

" The duchess suggests our going to Paris,
and your consulting Nelaton," said my
mother, one morning.

" Is site going there ? " I asked quickly.

" No : she goes to Switzerland direct ;
but, if Nelaton approves, we may follow
her there later. The first thing is to have
his opinion on your case."

" 1 don't much care — any thing you
like. He won't do me any good, and I'd
rather by half go to Switzerland at once ;
but if you wish it " —

" I think it the right thing to do," said
my mother quietly. " You have had no first-
rate opinion for months ; and therefore, as
you do not object, I will write to-day for
rooms at Meurice's."

Madame d'Arnheim and I jiarted,
buoyed up (I speak for myself) by the hope
of meeting again before long. The duchess
talkedof passing most of the summer in the
Engadine, and I told my friend that I was
resolved we shoukl follow her there. What,
or at least how nmch she felt, it was diffi-
cult to say. She took my hand in silence,
and then said, after a pause, —

" Whether we uaeet again or not, you

170

PENRUDDOCKE.

know that my first prayer, nitilit and morn-
ing, will be for your recovery."

It was the middle of July. I had been
six .weeks at AVildbad, where the French
SU1 "icons had sent me, and was now at St.
JNloritz; but I was no lon<j::cr the same
man. I liad given but little heed to Nela-
ton's opinion that these mineral baths
would prove very beneficial. Even when
my mother and Joe declared that the im-
provement was daily visible, I refused to
credit it myseltl When the day came, how-
ever, that I raised myself from my couch
without pain, and crawled round the room
supported by Joe, I shall never forget my
sensations. I had fallen back into the
slough of despond as soon as Madame
d'Arnheim's presence had passed away, and
I was left alone with ni)' mother. The
prosjiect of restoration to health came like
a rush of waters on a thirsty land. In re-
gaining the partial use of my limbs, I felt
that I regained something of the courage
wliich had so miserably failed me of late.

In the middle of July, the doctor's com-
mending the plan (which I had resolved,
whether they approved or not, to carry out),
we rejomed the duchess and Madame
d'Arnheim at St. Moritz. After the absti-
nence from all sympathetic society, the
sight of my friend did me as much good as
the bracing air of that salubrious valley.
Her face beamed with silent joy when she
saw the wonderful improvement that a few
weeks had wrought in me.

Our life was conducted on this wise : my
mother left me more than ever novf, to the
companionship of Madame d'Arnheim. She
and I sat out on the terrace, overlooking
the lake, which led from our suite of rooms
at the Kulm Hotel (and was upon the roof
of those occupied by the duchess), a great
part of the day. Sometimes we made ex-
cursions in " Einspanners," when — each
crazy little vehicle containing only two per-
sons — Madame d'Arnheim always accom-
panied me, while my mother went with the
duchess. The ardent friendship of the
latter for her new English acquaintance in-
creased daily. My mother was one of
those women who inspire more enthusiastic
admiration in their own sex than among
men. The royal lady was an impassioned
partisan. She had proved so when she
espoused Madame d'Arnheim's cause so
warmly, as she now did my mother's. The
latter was a saint, — a creature perfect as
she was beautiful, who had suffered most
cruelly. The feeling of a son for such a
mother should be one of adoration. This
she was never weary of repeating.

Her circle was exclusive, but she re-
ceived every evening tjje visits of the lew

persons of distinction who were at St.
Moritz. Her most frequent visitor was a
semi-royal Wallachian ]M-ince, named Orso-
va, a puissantly rich widower, who had ab-
dicated certain territorial rights in favor of
his son, but retained liis enormous funded
property, and spent his winters in Paris,
his summers in travel. He was somewhat
under sixty, and was an imposing-looking
personage, though too much " made up,"
and somewhat too rigid in carriage and
manner to satisfy an Englishman's ideal of
nobility. But he was said to be agreeable
— that is, the duchess and my mother said
so ; for I saw too little of him, either then
or afterwards, to be able to judge. He
passed most evenings in the duchess's xalon ;
I seldom went there, unless driven in from
the terrace by the cold. We had a spell
of glorious weather just then. The blue
and golden days deepened into fiery sunsets,
and then suddenly melted away into the
clear dai'k of starlight, and I lay upon the
terrace, watching the purple shadows steal
up the pine-clad hills, drink in the molten
glory on the rocks, the rosy flush upon the
snow. Then the reflections died out in the
blue-green mirror below me, and lights be-
gan to twinkle from the Kurhaus in the
valley, a mile and a half away.

It was on such an afternoon and evening
as this, about three weeks after our arrival,
that the conversation I recall with distinct-
ness took place. All through the hotel
was the distant bustle of parties returning
from the day's expeditions to the Bernina, or
Mortratsch Glacier. I could hear them dis-
cussing their prowess in climbing, or their
various adventures, on the loggia or terrace
below me. There was the roystering Ital-
ian, who drove his four horses, and banged
away so lustily at the piano every evening ;
and that untiring English family, with
green tin cases strapped round them, like so
many Cupids with quivers, climbing every
accessible height after the Flora of the
Engadlne, with an energy that Love him-
self might have envied ; these, and the
spectacled Professor's family from Berlin,
and the five Dutch girls, — I knew them
all by sight ; and I heard them discoursing
in tkeir divers tongues.

" Listen to those people," I said. " I
wonder if I should make such a row as that
if I ever got to the top of Pitz Languard —
which I never shall ? "

" ^Vhy should you not ? " Madame d'Arn-
heim looked up from her knitting with a
smile of encouragement. " You impi-ove
now every day. You scarcely leant at all,
to-day in walking up and down."

" I couldn't do without your arm," I said,
shaking my head. " Did I repeat Joe's
flattering witticism, that you were the only

PENRUDDOCKE.

171

woman as ever he knew'd that could be de-
pended on ? " And I added gloomily
" Perhaps he is right."

She was silent for a moment ; then she
said, with a heavy sigh, —

" One of the kvr real pleasures in life is
to feel that one is of use. It is the only one
I have left."

" Nobody knows what it is to me now
to have a friend to whom I can open my
whole heart. Between my mother and me
there never was, there never can be, any
confidence ; and when I think, that, for all
the remainder of my life " — Here I broke
off. -

" I can guess what you leave unsaid."'
Madame d'Arnheim bent her head a little
lower • over her knitting. " Has it ever
occurred to you that Lady Rachel might
marry again V "

" Never as a serious probability. What
do you mean ? You don't mean that —
that vou thii>k there is a chance of such a
thing?"

" It would not surprise me — that is all,"
she replied carelessly. " By the by, I sus-
pect she has had news from England to-day
which annoyed her. Has she told you of
it?"

" She rarely tells me any thing of her
letters. "What makes you think this ? "

" She talks to the duchess more or less
unreservedly, I believe, and she was speak-
ing to-day with an open letter in her hand,
when I entered the room. She stopped
short, but not before I had heard her say,
' It is too provoking, when I had hoped ' —
what, I know not. It occurred to me that
Miss Penruddocke might be going to be
married, as you told me what your mother's
wishes had been in that quarter."

" I should hope they were at an end. I
can scarcely think my mother's words had
reference to Elizabeth, for she is abroad ;
but she is always' hatching some scheme in
her head."

Madame d'Arnheim laid down her knit-
ting, and looked across the lake into the
bosom of the blue-green hills and fissured
rocks opposite, as though she sought there
the solution of some difficult problem. Her
lips were pressed tight ; her pale eyes
never moved ; the breeze stirred the fluffy
hair upon her brow ; I watched her with
curiosity for some minutes ; she was abso-
lutely motionless. At last she said, speak-
ing rn a low, distinct voice, —

" And why should this scheme not be
hatched ? Now that your hopes in another
direction are at an end, do you never think
of ElizabeUi ? It would be what is called
a ' suitable ' marriage."

" In'o, — she is a grand creature, but we
are not suited, and we should neiiher of us

be happy. Elizalieth has not the sympa-
thy and repose which are what I should
seek tor now in a wife ; and she \rould not
be satisfied with the only kind of love I
could give her."

" Your feelings are much changed, even
within a few weeks," said Madame d'Arn-
heim in a low voice. " They may change
yet more. As you regain strength and en-
ergy, repose may not seem to you the one
thing needful."

" INIy nature is not changed. I feel
about marriage, as I have done ever since
I thought about it at all. Few men, I be-
lieve, marry their first loves, — the only
deep and passionate attachment of their
lives ; and I am no exception to the rule :
but the marriage of expediency is utterly
abhorrent to me. Two sorts of union are
possible in my eyes, and only two. If a
man's wife cannot be the mistress of his
imagination, at least she must be the friend
and confidant of his thoughts. That is
what, for want of a better word, I call ' re-
pose.' "

CHAPTER LX.

OxE afternoon the duchess made a party
to drink tea and whipped cream at Siltz
Maria, — some Italians, Prince Orsova, and
ourselves. They spread a plaid for me on
the grass, under a tree, at the outskirt of
the village, where I could see the matchless
view, while they all, with the exception of
Madame d'Arnheim, wandered up the hill
to the chapel, before assembling at the vil-
lage inn for tea. JNIadarae d'Arnheim took
up her position near me with a book, while
I made a lame effort to sketch the moun-
tains opposite me. I was roused by seeing
my companion fling down her book with an
indignant gesture on the ground.

" What are you reading that makes you
so angry ? " I asked with a smile.

" Well, yes, — I am angry. It is a
French book, and by a woman ! — a woman
of genius too, — George Sand. It makes
me mad I "

"What is it about?"

" A woman, who is held up to one's ad-
miration, — the cleverest and most charm-
ing of our sex. Her grandeur of character
is shown by simulating a passion for a man
she cares nothing about, and becoming his
mistress, in order to disenchant the man
she really loves, and who loves her ! "

" But why ? AVhy, if they are both of
one mind should they not marry ? "

" Because she is many years older, and
she believes it is only a Ijoy's fiincy, on his
part. So far she is right. He very soon

172

PENRUDDOCKE.

falls in love with another woman. She
might have left the distriet. where her joimif
lover is bound to remain ; hut this would nut
have involved a gross outrage of all moral
sense (I might say all truth and purity), so
dear to Freneh iaiaginatiou I "

'• Perhaps she would have done better to
have married him ? " said I, looking fur-
tively into her face. " Was she quite sure
that it was tor his good ? "

'■ The event jiroved her right," she re-
plied (luiekly. Then, gazing up to the sky.
her eyes filled with tears, she added, '• God
knows, I can understand sacrifice, — the
sacrifice of every hojie tor the sake of an-
other's ultimate happiness, — but not thus.
3t is monstrous ! "

" And yet, putting the morality, —
that is, one sort of morality, — aside, is it
wo'.'se than what is done daily," I said
gloomily, — "a girl sacrificing herself at
the altar, for money and position, without
the generous excuse of Madame Sand's
heroine? "

" It is immeasurably worse. You know
I feel strongly as to the folly and weakness
of such a marriage as you speak of," ?he
returned pointedly ; '• but God forbid that
I should class it for a moment with a hor-
ror like this ! A girl may go to the altar
under the mistaken notion that it is her
duty, jiromising to ])rove a true wife to the
man she does not love d'amour, and keep
that vow ; but what good can come of such
double-distilled evil as this? Here comes
your mother."

" And Orsova. What a handsome man
he is for his age ! She says he is very
agreeable. Do you like him V "

" I know but little of him," she replied,
looking away. " lie never honors me with
his conversation. The duchess says he is
clever."

" Do you know," said I presently, as I
watched the two descend the hillside, my
mother leaning the tips of her beautiful fin-
gers on the prince's arm, and smiling
calmly from time to time at his conversa-
tion, which seemed to flow on uninterrupt-
edly, — " do you know, if the idea were not
absurd, connected with my lady, I should
say there was a little, just a very little, flir-
tation going on there." .

" Should you V " said my friend calmly.
She looked at me for a moment, and seemed
about to add something, but changed her
mind.

" I take it he is not a man of much
energy and action," I observed. " Other-
wise, at his age, he would not give up his
estates to his son."

" He is not a man of decmon, at all
events," she said, witli just the shadow of a
smile (and at the time I did not know what

she meant); "but that sort of character
suits some women better than a stronger
will."

" You know him very little, you say, and
yet vou think you read his character. How
Is tint V"

" I flatter myself I have some observa-
tion ; or peraaps I should call it a wo-
man's gift, — intuition."

" And what does your intuition tell you
about this AVallachian ? "

" Oh I my intuition is like the antennas
of an insect, — of no use to any one but
myself."

" But one insect probes the way for oth-
ers," I replied, laughing. " If this fellow is
such a fiiend of my mamma's, I may as
well have the benefit of your lights upon
him.''

" He is quite harmless ; don't be afraid.
He has no heart, but plenty of amiability,
which is more available coin, you Icnow,
for general circulation. His vanity is inor-
dinate ; and yet he has no reliance on his
own judgment. Self is the central planet
in his system, but that does not prevent a
number of good little stars in their way
from revolving round it, — liberality, easy
temper, and so on. A clever talker, I dare
say ; but shallow, that I am sure. A man
who lives tor the amusement of the hour,
now that ho is sixty, as he did forty years
ago ; who hates all trouble or responsibility.
There, that is what my antennae tell me."

" Perhaps they tell you something of the
same sort of me V " said I, with a sigh. " I
am weak, and selfish too, I am afraid ; and
I, too, have given up my inheritance, which
must look to you like a shrinking from
responsibility ? "

'• No, I quite understand it. You have
been weak, but then you showed strength
and moral courage. It was weak to be
carried away by a current which I warned,
vou was dangerous ; and just as weak to
want to bury yourself in a monastery, be-
cause you were hurt in body and mind ;
but you are still almost a boy," she added,
with a smile : '• and have all life before
you."

I shook my head.

"If left to myself, I may sink into the
same morbid state again."

"Nonsense!" she said, turning away;
and her voice shook as she spoke. " You
know I cannot always be near you. We
shall soon have to part now."

The prince and my mother here joined
us, and our conversation was not renewed ;
but from that day I date the birth of the
idea which grew up — in spite of discour-
agement — within me: the idea that I
would ask Marie d'Arnheim to divorce her
husband, and become my wife. She knew

PENEUDDOCKE.

173

me better than anv one in tlie world, and
in her sympathy alone did I find any con-
solation now. If she consented to be mine,
it would be with full knowledge of the
fact that the love of ray young heart was
buried forever, that I valued her beyond
every other woman now, and that her com-
panionship might save me from despond-
ency, or worse ; this, she could not fail to
believe. Was I justified in asking her to
relinquish a worthless husband, who desired
nothing so much as to be free, and to be-
come mine, under these circumstances V
Thence arose my doubt and discourage-
ment. Did the demon of selfishness
prompt me to demand a sacrifice, when I
had so little to give in return ? And yet,
I could not remain blind to the flict which
each day made more apparent, that I was
the first object of Marie d'Arnheim's
thoughts and solicitude. She had a volu-
minous correspondence during those weeks
— important looking documents arrived
daily (upon family business, she said), de-
manding well-digested replies ; but she
wrote them all upon the terrace, sitting be-
side my sofa. The letters must suffer,
rather than I. My mother was more charm-
ing than ever in her manner to her ; no
. one could have believed that the woman
on whom she lavished every outward tes-
timony of regard and gratitude, was the
same one touching whose character Lady
Rachel had entertained such injurious
doubts a year before. She now evinced
the most perfect confidence in Madame
d'Arnheim, and constantly averred that
the removal of that terrible cloud which
had so long hung over my spirits, and my
beina saved from Romanism, were due
solely to her.

But this state of things could not go on
forever. The w^eks fiew by. The duch-
ess's departure to Germany began to be
talked of. What did separation mean to
each of us ? To myself, I knew but too
■well what it meant, and I could not doubt
that to her it was the deprivation of the
chief interest in a desolated life. She had
said so ; and I felt that what she had said
was the truth. If we could mutually con-
sole each other — if such measure of loyal
aiFection as mine could satisfy her in the
long years to come, why should I hesitate V

CHAPTER LXI.

It was a glorious day towards the end
of August. Marie and I had driven in an
" liinspanner " to the INIaloja Pass. We
lay upon a slope of fine, short turf, a shep-
herd's broad-caved hut of pine-wood upon
one side, the tumbling waters of the inn

upon the other ; before us, rising up into
the clear expanse of blue, the jagged sum-
mits of gold-gray rock, with every fissure
traced in violet shadow, and the silver
thread of a cascade gleaming down their
face ; and tar, far below, the winding road
into Italy, flung like a ribbon through the
mountain defile that guards the entrance
to that land of promise.

On such a day the air in these regions,
though permeated with sunlight, retains
that thin edge which has been sharpened
in jjassing over the neighboring snow.
Everv distant bleat and goat-bell is heard
with curious distinctness. To-day there
arose a conl'used murmur of many things :
the river rushing over stones, the wrangling
of drivers round the inn-door, a cow-herd
singing in some high-up pasture, the tin-
kling bells of many beasts, as yet unseen,
descendino; to their vallevs for the nisht.
There was just enough of life to enhance
the sense of enjoyment, and of peace, as we
sat there, in perfect silence, for more than
half an hour. It was she who broke it at
last, with a sigh, —

" In another week you will be down
there, among the vineyards, and we shall
be speeding northwards to our cold father-
land. Ach ! how quickly the weeks have
sped ! "

" Marie," I said after a pause — it was
the first time I had ever called her by her
name — "it is for you to decide whether
we shall part or not."

" What do you mean ? " she asked, with
a startled look.

'■ I mean that the life you and I have
been leading is a nearer approach to hap-
piness than I believed to be possible for me
a few months back. You know what I was,
and what I never can be again. You are
the only woman in the world now I could
ever ask to be my wife. Can you consent
to come and inhabit a battered ruin,
Marie V "

She buried her face in her hands, and
was silent ; but her whole frame quivered.
I continued, after a pause, —

" You have not yielded hitherto to D'Arn-
heim's wish for a divorce, I know, but
every moral tie between you is snapped ;
and )ou can be legally fi-eed to-morrow."

She raised her head quickly, and seemed
about to reply, but hesitated. Alter a few
minutes' pause, she said in a low voice, —

" Are you quite sure you are not deceiv-
ing yourself — and me ? You have a warm,
generous heart. You pity my cruel posi-
non, and you are grateful for the deej) in-
terest I take in you ; but your wife — ach !
I shall be an old woman while you are
still a young man. It would be sacrificing

you ; no — no, it must not be."

174

PENRUDDOCKE.

" I am old before my time ; the sacrifice
is on your side ; you become a garde-malade,
I am afraid. If von love me well enouLib
not to slirink from sucli a prospect" —

"I love you better tban any tliinif in tbe
rvorld," sbe interrupted; and tbe quick
passion of her utterance contrasted strange-
ly with her habitual manner. " It is be-
cause I love you so much that I shrink
from doino; you an injury."

" Does that mean that you think T shall
change? You know me very little. I
have weighed this step as regards us both.
The love of my youth is dead ; and you
have come to me as an angel of consola-
tion. Life, hitherto, has been a sad expe-
rience to bolh of us. Can't we help to
lighten the burden of what is left of it, for
each other ? "

" Have you thought of what your mother,
and all the world, will say, — that I have
inveigled you into this? " she asked, with
a bitter smile.

" I hope, for your peace of mind's sake,
you care as little as I do for what all the
world says."

"I don't know, — I think not, when it
affects one I love. ' A divorced woman '
is a term of great reproach, remember."

" Does that signiiy to us V We shall not
live in ihe world. We have both of us had
enough of it. Let it talk as it will. You,
yourself, have no repugnance to a divorce,
for_ I have heard you say, that, when the
life of man or wife is one continued act of
perjury, the tie is far better severed."

" No, — I have no repugnance to it," she
replied slowly, and her cheek was suffused
as she spoke.

" Why, then, do you hesitate ? D'Arn-
heira is bound, body and soul, to another
woman, and is doing all he can to be free."

" I did not say that I hesitated. It was
your marrying a divorced woman which I
spoke of as disadvantageous to you. As to
myself" — here she paused, and seemed
uncertain whether to pursue the subject
further.

" Well, Marie ? Speak quite openly, will
you not, as to your best friend ? "

She plucked at the short warm grass on
which we lay, with nervous twitching
fingers, before she looked up into my face,
and said, " You must know, then, that I
am free, or shall be so in a few weeks.
When we left Nice, feeling for the first
time what my love for you really was, I
believed that I ought no longer to remain
the wife of another man. The only argu-
ment in favor of my not relinquishing my
husband was taken from me, when I knew
that I never could or ought to return to
him. I instituted the necessary proceed-
ings, but without naming it to the duchess,

or to any one whom it was not incumbent
on me to take into my confidence. 1 knew
what a storm of ojiposition it would arouse.
It has already begun, — I receive vehement
letters from mi/ family and his daily, now
that the afi'air has got wind. I must tell
the duchess, — there is no longer any use
in concealment — or perhaps I should not
have told you."

I took the hand that lay beside me.

" Make one avowal of it, INIarie, and say
that you are to be my wife. I believe that
I can make you happy. If I did not be-
lieve this, I would never ask you to be
mine."

" Do you remember George Sand's
heroine, whom I told you about the other
day ? " she said mournfully. " She was
wise in her resolution — yes, though her
conduct was horrible — indefensible."

" Never mind precedent ; think of our-
selves. Ours is an exceptional case."

" If you were, as you were a few months
ago, — believing yourself a hopeless crip-
ple, — then, indeed, I might be your nurse
through life : there would be no selfish-
ness in that. But, in a year or so, you will
be your old self again — and then ? "

" Then I shall want you more than ever,
to stir me 'up to work. I feel as if some-
thing was dead within me, which it is im-
possible to rekindle myself; and when I
think of a life spent alone with my mother,
I shudder ! Marie, if you really care for
me, as I know you do, don't desert me ! "

Her tears fell fast, as I drew her towards
me, and extracted the consent from her lips ;
but it was agreed that, for the present, un-
til the divorce was declared, our engagement
had best be kept secret.

CHAPTER LXIL

The next morning Marie's face was
slightly flushed when she came upon the
terrace.

" What do you think ? We are going
with you to Venice — the duchess d^'cided
it last night. I could scarcely believe her,
for joy, when she told me."

" Hurrah ! What has caused this sudden
change of plan ? "

" Can you not be satisfied with the fact,
without asking for the motive ? " she said,
with a smile, and a little hesitation of man-
ner.

" Not now, that you excite my curiosity."

" I think I know the motive. I am afraid
it will not please you."

" So that you do not go back from your
word, INIarie, what can any thing else signify
to me V "

PENEUDDOCKE.

175

" Should yoa dislike your raotlier's marry-
in<T Prince Orsova ? That is what the duch-
ess is bent on efTecting, I feel sure. She will
induce the prince to accompany us to Ven-
ice, and thinks she can brini^ him to the
stickiu'T-point. You know liow entette she
is when she takes up an idea."

I shrugged my shoulders.

" It is a matter of indifierence to me. If
my mother likes it, by all means. But I
can scarcely bring myself to believe that
she would marry a foreigner, and a ' papist,'
as she calls it. With lier Low-church ideas,
— inij)ossible I "

" I do not think so ; but you ought to
know best. She has lost Beaumanoir ; she
knows how slight her hold over you is. She
craves tor a posuion where she will be again
supreriie ; and this is what the prince lias to
offer — position, and great wealth. The
question to me is, will he offer it ? "

'• Strange ! " said I, musing. " Well,
perhaps you are right. But I should like
to see the faces of some of her own set, in
England, if the thing ever takes place. As
to myself, upod reflection, I shall be rather
gla.i."

" I never saw the duchess so keen about
any thing. The ascendency your mother
has gained over her is extraordinary. I,
who have known her for years, have never
obtained the power she has, — not that I
am the least jealous," she added, smiling.

" Well, when we marry," I said, taking
her hand in mine, " my mother can supply
your place with the duchess, if Orsova is
too wary a bird to be caught."

" I have broken the fact of my divorce to
the duchess. She was very angry, and
scolded me roundly. Her support and
countenance, she said, were given to an ill-
used wife, — not to a divorced woman. I
told her I was aware of that, and was fully
prepared to return to my family, as soon as
we reached Germany."

'• And how did she take that ? "

"I think she was a little ashamed of her
vehement outburst ; but she is so little
accustomed to opposition, that she cannot
understand it. Otherwise she is too kind
to wound me, — not that any thing can
wound me much to-dav," and her eves
beamed through her tears.

" Does my mother know of the impend-
ing divorce yet V "

" No, — and mark my words, immedi-
ately she learns it, as she wiM, of course,
from the duchess, you will see a change in
her manners towards me."

And so it was ; scarcely perceptible, per-
haps, to any one who dicl not know my
mother as 1 did ; but I detected the thin
coat of ice that checked the flow of cordi-
ality, the glance of suspicion shot from time

to time in Marie's direction. There was
no longer overt encouragement to our long
tete-a-tetes ; but these had become so much
a matter of course that the sanction they
at first needed was superfluous.

The duchess and we left St. Moritz the'
following week; and, after spending a few
days on the lake at Como, reached Venice
the second week In September. Orsova,
who was to have accompanied the party,
was taken ill the night before our depart-
ure, and, to the duchess's chagrin, wrote to
say it was impossible he could leave his
bed, but that, as soon as he was able to
travel, he would join us. Was it a ruse to
emancipate himself from a fascination he
felt growing to be dangerous? Or would
the trial of absence only " make the heart
grow fonder," and would he appear at
Venice more completely subjugated by my
mother's charms than he had hitherto
proved himself to be ? These were prob-
lems which I have now no doubt exercised
my mother much, though to the outward
eye she was imperturbable ; and, at the
time, I thought ]\Iarie d'Arnheim was mis-
taken in suspecting my mother of any seri-
ous intention to cap^n-e the Wallachian by
a coup de main ; but the duchess's demon-
strative nature was incapable of conceal-
ment ; she was " out of sorts " for some
days.

The evening of our arrival at Danielli's
Hotel, we were sitting after dinner, — I
have the room before me now, with its
painted ceiling, and row of windows open-
ing on a balcony where, shall I confess it ?
the duchess was smoking a cigarette with
me, — when it occurred to my mother to
ask for the " Strangei-'s Book," which was
brought to her at the window, close to
which we were. Marie's back was towards
us. She leant over the balcony, watching
the lemon-colored sky, across which bars of
violet were being rapidly drawn and fast-
ened together. The short-lived twilight
had beiTun, — in a few minutes more it
would be night. My mother opened the
book upon her knee, and uttered an excla-
mation, which caused me to turn my head.

" What a charming surprise 1 Here are
names, Osmund, you will be as glad to see
as I am."

Sh(! handed the book ; and there I read
that Miss Penruddocke, with Mrs. Everett,
and Mr. Francis, had arrived at the hotel
the j»'cvious day. The idea of our meeting
here had never occurred to me, curious to
say, though nothing was more likely, as
they had been in the Mediterranean ibr the
last three months ; and Francis's last letter,
some weeks since, had been written from
Naples. I was genuinely glad ; few things
could give me such unalloyed delight at

176

PENRUDDOCKE.

that moment as tbe prospect of seeing my
dcarly-lm'ed I'rieiid. And Elizabeth, too,
lor whom I always felt the interest and
allection of a brother, it would be a great
pleasnri' to see again ; and I ex])ressed
■this, in tlu; first heat of surprise, with my
wonted lark of reticence.

The outburst of my joy roused Marie from
her dream in the twilight. She turned and
asked the cause.

'•The arrival of his cousin, Elizabeth
Penruddocke," replied my mother.

" Ha ! the young person who has the es-
tate," said the duchess. " Brava ! " And
I saw her and my mother exchange glances.

'• I shall be very glad to see my cousin,"
I said resolutely ; " but I shall be still more
glad to see the man who is with her, — the
best man who ever stepped this earth."

The courier entered at that moment,
bringing in letters for all three ladies Irom
the " Posta Restante," — none for me. I
had leisure to watch what etfect their cor-
res])ondence ])roduced on the faces of my
companions, while I sent to inquire whether
the party occupying Number 25 salon were
at home.

My mother did not move a muscle of her
face, but I knew her letter was not satis-
factory, for all that ; though how such
knowl(;dge came to me, I should have found
it difficult to say. IShe had not read to the
end, however, when the duchess handed
the missive she had impatiently torn open
to her friend, exclaiming, —

" I know not what to make of it, — read,
ma chere, read, — is it the truth, eh ? "

And my mother read the proffered let-
ter, elevated her eyebrows, and returned
it, with a little shake of the head.

Marie, meantime, looked up at me from
a mass of papers she was perusing. An
expression of ineffable relief was soon upon
her face, and she gave me a scarcely-per-
ceptible nod and smile. I knew what it
meant. She was free.

The family of Number 25 were gone to
the Piazza San Marco, to hear the band ;
but late at night Francis came to my bed-
room, and I grasped once more that strong,
cordial hand in mine.

" This is jolly ! How glad I am to see
you, dear old friend."

'• But to me, my dear boy, to see you on
your legs again, almost like your old self, I
cannot express what delight this is to me !
And one we so little looked for. Why did
you not i)re[)ar(i me for your meeting ? "

'• I had no idea of it myself. You never
mentioned that Elizabeth was coming to
Venice ; and our couung here was a sudden
idea of my mother's. How is Lizzie V "

" Well in health; but our foreign travels
have not worked the good hitherto that 1

had hoped. The scenery and the people
we have been amongst are too tame to in-
terest her deeply. She has no feeling for
art, as you know. I hope the savagery of
the desert may rouse her more. She is
bent upon penetrating as far as possible
with safety."

" She knows we are here? "

" She learnt it when I did, — on our re-
turn to the hotel this evening."

" And what did she say ? After my
mother's absurd scheming, I sliould not
feel surprised if Elizabeth disliked meeting
us."

" She would not have sought the meet-
ing herself, certainly ; that you can under-
stand ; but since it has come about acci-
dentally, I feel sure it will be a pleasure to
her, it it is oidy to see you lookin^i; as )ou do,
so dilferent trom when we parted two years
ago."

" Yes," I said, with a sigh, " I am won-
derfully better ; but there's something gone
out of me that can never come back. I
shall never be the same man again."

" Perhaps that is all the better," replied
ray friend, witii a smile ; then he continued
gravely, " The mental and bodily suH'er-
ing you have experienced has wrought its
effect ; it was meant it should do so. But
I know by your letters that you have
passed through the utterly despondent
stage, and liave seized your staff again
(actually as well as metaphorically) with
courage."

" h' I have done so, Mr. Francis, it has
been the work of a good angel at my side."

He scanned my face with his keen black
eyes, and passed his hand over his blue,
close-shorn chin, an action which always
with him indicated perplexity. Strange to
say, I liilt more difficulty in makinjz; the
avowal of my engagement to him than I
should have done to any one else in the
world.

" Have you heard any thing of her —
Lady Tufton, I suppose I must call her ? "
I asked, after a pause.

'• Not a word. I wrote when we left
England, and gave her ' Naples ' as a safe
address, in case she wished to write to me ;
but evidently she did not. I have not seen
the marriage in the paper, but I suppose it
took place in July, as it was announced it
would."

" Of course ; and what could she write ?
She has learnt now that writing is best left
alone," I said, with a touch of bitterness.
" That is the only thing I find it hard to
e.xcuse, — her writing, after I had released
her, to say she should never give me up
until I returned the lock of her hair I
always wear Acre."

"Inexplicable!" ejaculated Francis.

PENEUDDOCKE.

177

" You Ccannot tell how strange it is," I
continued, " when some one has been abso-
lutely a part of one's being, as she was of
mine, to feel severed forever — never even
to hear her name ; for my mother talces
care never to mention her. Oh ! my friend,
what a fool I was to set her free ! For she
did care for me — I know it ! But she could
not withstand her mother, poor child ! "

He laid his hand on my shoulder.

" Yes, natures ai-e diflferentlj' endowed.
I was sorry you wrote, for it was playing
into Mrs. Hamleigh's hand. But her
daughter has disappointed me ; and this
wound will be healed in time, Osmund, I
feel sure, though it may be long first."

" It will never be healed — never ! " said
I ; then, after a pause, looking up into his
face, " and yet, what will you say when
I tell you I am going to be married? "

He looked me through and through be-
fore he spoke.

" I say," he returned at last, slowly and
sternly, " that if you marry, retaining in
your heart this passionate attachment to
another, you do wrong, — very wrong.
How is this ? "

I told him every thing. I showed him
how the woman who had been my best
friend for four years, whose interest in me
had never wearied through all my follies,
and to whose counsel, had I listened, I
should not be in the plight I now was — I
showed him how this woman was now deso-
late in the world, like myself; how Provi-
dence had thrown us again together, and how
her companionship and unselfish devotion
had been the saving help to my bruised spirit.

" Do not imagine that she is deceived,"
I ended by saying. " She was my confi-
dant from the first. She knows that no one
can ever replace Evelyn in my heart, and
she is satisfied. We have both suffered ;
we have, neither of us, any illusions ; but
the future may be made more tolerable to
us both by sharing each other's burdens."

" God grant it may be so ! " sighed Fran-
cis, after a long pause. " But I wish time
had tested your feelings before you entered
upon engagements so solemn and life-bind-
ing. What does your mother say to it ? "

" She does not yet know it. The fact is,
Madame d'Arnheim lias only lately consent-
ed to divorce her worthless husband
and " —

" Dicorce ! " almost shouted Francis.
" Do you mean that you are going to
marry a divorced woman ?"

" r forgot that your church does not rec-
ognize the loosening of the marriage tie,"
said I, coloring.

" It is not my church, boy, it is the
voice of Christ himself that has pronounced
against it," he returned with solemnity.
12

" Protestants do not interpret the words
as you do."

"Interpret! There is no question of in-
terpretation ' Whosoever shall marry her
that is divorced committeth adultery.' How
can you twist those words into any other
meaning than that which they bear upon
their iace ? "

" I can only repeat that our church per-
mits such marriages ; and when two people
want to be married, I think the removal of
the restraint more moral than its retention."

" Strange, strange, — the perversity of
the human heart ! " he murmured present-
ly, shaking his head. " To reject a pure
young heart that offers itself, with every
earthly advantage to boot, and to rush
headlong into a sinful marriage with one
you acknowledge you do not love ! It is
past all belief I I would have cut off my
right hand, Osmund, sooner than that you
should have done this thing 1 "

I was greatly pained. Though I had felt
awkward at speaking to my friend on this
subject, I was far from anticipating that he
would receive my communication thus.

" If you knew the peace that her pres-
ence brought me, after many miserable
months," I said at last, " you would not
wonder that I have wished this angel of
consolation to remain with me. As to
Elizabeth, my friend, you know, as well as I
do, that if I had married her upon any feel-
ing short of a lover's, she would have been
miserable, and certainly have proved no
angel of consolation."

" I know you are about to do that which
is good in the sight of neither God nor
man,'" he returned severely. " Your mother
and I will be one upon this suliject. I implore
vou, Osmund, to reconsider this, — to retreat
from this false position, before it is too late."

" I would give any thing that you did
not regard it in this light ; but pray under-
stand that I would not retract my word,
even if I could in honor do so. 1 am too
grateful to Madame d'Arnheim for con-
senting to share my lot. Whether this
step will be pleasing in the sight of man is
a matter of profound indifference to us
both ; that it will not be displeasing in
God's sight I honestly believe. Nine
months ago, perhaps, I should not have
thought so ; but my views have undergone
a great change on many points since then."

Wo talked for another hoin-, but to no
good result. He left me standing at the
open window, looking down into the still
lagune at my feet, the black shadow of a
gondola shooting, now and again, like a
dark thought across the silent water : and
my heart was luiavy to think, that, for the
first time, a cloud had arisun between me
and my faithful friend.

ITS

PENRUDDOCKE.

CHAPTER LXIII.

AIy niotlior paid an early visit to Eliza-
boili. \\'liat passed on that occasion I know
not. Later, I limped down to Number
25, and (bund my cousin and Mrs. Everett
alone. Tlie former looked thin ; but the
chan;j:e of the pirl into the woman was
niaiked. Au'l the manner, too, denoted
habits of authority and decision which had
frrown in the interval since we hiul parted.
Her countenance was calm, resolute, and
joyless. The li^ht which had been wont
to kindle in the eyes, the break of merry
laughter, were gone. Even after her
father's death, the fire of the face, leaping
up in Hashes of passionate expression, was
not extinct, as it now seemed to rae to be.
She was too unconventional to deliver any
little set speech about the pleasure of meet-
ing ; and whetht'r she experienced any real
pleasure it was diiHcult to say, for her man-
ner was constrained, and her talk, chiefly
of the places they had visited, indicated
that apathy which Francis had deplored.

" What a wonderfully picturesque place
this is ! " I remarked, with a triteness
■which I can only excuse by the difficulty
of arousing Eliz.vbeth's interest.

" Yes, it is like a picture, because it is
so dead. I like what is active and stir-
ring."

" But you hate large towns, and the bus-
tle of sight-seeing, you tell ni3 ? Here
you need see nothing but sky and water,
if you like it, and hear nothing but the
plash of oars, as you float in a gondola
from morning till night."

" Not my idea of supreme happiness ;
but tastes differ."

" Yes ; and Venice is particularly suited
to mine just now. Without legs, I am as
cood as another man in a "ondola."

A look of pain shot across her face.

" I forgot. Of course ; but you are so
much better ; to look at you, one wouldn't
think you were still an invalid."

'• I try not to think myself one. Still I
can only crawl about, you see, with two
sticks. If I am a ' devil ' on them, it is a
very poor one." I laughed at my own sorry
jest, out she looked grave.

" Do vou return to Ensjland this win-
ter ? " she asked.

" Not unless my lady wishes it ; and I
feel pretty sure she will not."

" You do not wish it, then ? "

" I don't care if I never see it again ! "

" Then you have given up soldiering for-
ever V " she pursued, in a tone of pity and
disajipointment.

" I can't go on having e.xtensions of sick
leave ; and my regiment goes out to Can-

ada in the spring. There is no choice in
the matter. I must sell out."

'•I wouldn't — I would stick on to the
very last."

" Ah ! so should I, two years ago. Now
— one alters, you see, Elizabeth."

" You were ambitious. Is that all gone ? "

She looked at me with curiosity.

"Yes, — or at least, changed. When I
was a boy, a woman who felt my head told
me that nothing would save my being as
obstinate as a pig, except that I was very
impressionable. I am afraid that combina-
tion," I added, laughing, " is what is called
' a weak character. ' "

"You are not weak," said Elizabeth —
" at least, you are only a mixture, like
every one I have ever known, except Lady
Rachel and Mr. Francis. Dear dad was
like that. I could twist him round my fin-
jrers generally, but he wouldn't give way
if he thou.;;ht any thing was for my good.
Cousin Humphrey, too, was two-thirds
tough, and one-third soft. Only certain
people, I think, would ever influence you.
Otherwise" —

She stopped short, and I waited.

" Well ? "

" Otherwise, you wouldn't have insisted
on ixivinGj me up the property.*'

Iler bluntness confused me for a moment ;
but I replied, laughing, that this was my
pig-headed obstinacy. She continued,
with that cool perspicacity which, through
every digression, keeps in sight the point
originally under discussion, —

" You were saying your ambition had
changed, and added that you were impres-
sionable. What did you mean V "

" Did Mr. Francis tell you that last win-
ter, when I was in the lowest depths, I
nearly became a Catholic and a monk ? "

" Yes ; but I didn't believe it. I remem-
bered what you had said at Ghent, that
for a man to fly from trials and burdens,
and shut himself up in a cell, was cow-
ardly."

"When a fellow is down as I was, his
hopes wrecked, he does become a moral
coward ; but that wretched phase passed
away at last, thanks to the influence of one
of the best women that ever lived."

She sent a swift shaft of curiosity straight
into mv eves.

"What did she do?"

" She taught me, by her own unselfish
life, that, whatever trials man or woman
has to bear, the noblest use to which he
can apply himself is to help others. That
is the way in which I hope to serve God
when I am strong."

Elizabeth was silent for a minute.

" If, by help, you mean money, I'm ready
to give it all up ; but I can't visit cottages,

PENRUDDOCKE.

179

and attend ladies' meetings, and all that.
I did tiy it ; but I was no <iood : perhaps I
might be, if I lived in St. Giles's. Once I
thought there was no place like the coun-
try ; now I want activity, exeitement, —
that's why I travel."

" And quite right too. You are very
young — see all you can. But you must
make my friend's acquaintance, and have
some little talks with her. She is here now
— in this hotel."

" Oh ! the person Lady Rachel named ?
She is a court lady. My uncouth ways
would horrify her ! "

" Did my mother say any thing to her
prejudice ? " I asked quickly.

" No I she said she was a clever, middle-
aged person, who had helped to nurse you,
and amuse you at St. Moritz — that was
all."

I could not help smiling.

" Well, this clever, middle-aged person
is a woman of the noblest type. If I live
for a thousand years, I can never repay
her all I owe her. You will learn to know
her worth, Elizabeth."

I said no more, for Francis entered at
that moment. I had bound Inm to secrecy
as to my engagement, until it was disclosed
to my mother ; and the subject was so
painful to him, that I felt sure he would
never willingly broach it.
. " The gondola is below," he said.

She turned a little shyly to me.

" Will you come with us ? "

" Not to-day, thank you. I didn't sleep
last night, and feel seedy. I shall lie down
for an hour or two."

We parted on the stairs. I had, in
truth, a splitting headache, and limped off"
to my own room. To reach it, I had to
pass through an ante-chamber, which led
also to my mother's room. The door of
this was not quite closed. As I passed it,
I was arrested by hearing Madame d'Arn-
hehn's voice raised to an unwonted pitch ;
and then I heard my own name. What
did it mean ? AVhat could she be doing
in my mother's room? The temptation to
have these questions answered was ii-resist-
ible. I stood still.

" Holding your son in thraldom ! What
do you mean, Lady Rachel ? "

These were the first words I heard, ut-
tered in tones sharp and tremulous with
indignation.

" I mean," responded the mellifluous voice
I had known since a child — '"I mean, that
as you are very clever, very fascinating, so
long as you choose to exercise your sway
over Osmund, he is like a bird in a net —
he has not a chance of escape ; although
he is attached to his cousin, and might, I
believe, easily be br»ught to think of her

as a wife, now that that other foolish affair
is quite at an end. You must have observed
how delighted he was last night when he
heard of her arrival. Now, I put it to you
frankljf, is it not the kindest tiling, if you
are truly his fi-iend, to relax the hold you
possess over him, and further a marriage
which would be so very advantageous iu all
ways ? "

" And what if I am something more than
his fi-iend ? "

Madame d'Arnheim spoke slowly, and
paused before she continued, —

" W^ho came to me at Nice, and imyilored
me to forget his mother's insults, and res-
cue her son fr®m the morbid insanity that
threatened to drive him into a monastery ?
Who fostered our intimacy, and was so prod-
igal of flattery and gratitude to me, at St.
Moritz, careless of appearances, — or conse-
quences, to me, — so long as I was a mar-
ried ivoman f But now I am divorced, — I
am free ; and you cry out, ' Release my
son ! ' It is too late. Lady Rachel. You
have pushed me to the edge of the preci-
pice, and now you would drag me back. It
is too late. I have taken the leap."

" What do you mean ? "

My mother strove to speak oalmly, but
her voice quavered.

" I have too high an opinion of you to
think that you would permit a boy like Os-
mund to sacrifice himself by marrying a
woman of your age, even if — if — you
must forgive me, Madame d'Arnheim, —
even if there were no other sad drawbacks
to such a marriage, — no moral considera-
tions " —

"Moral considerations! Pray, did you
shut your eyes to them when you threw us
daily together ? Or did it seem of no im-
portance if I became — well, no matter
what, so long as I saved your son, and that
he stopped short of marriage ? Ach ! Du
lieber Gott!" she cried bitterly, — "and
this woman is called virtuous and religious
by the world ! "

" Your vehemence carries you away,
madame. Because I asked you to try to
divert my son's thoughts, and expressed my
gratitude at your success, you make an in-
sinuation, which, in your calmi^r moments,
you would shrink I'rom. It is too shocking
for me to reply to. I trusted you, for I be-
lieved you to be highly principled. I will
not abandon that belief. 1 will not think it
possible that you would entraj) a boy, who
has scarcely been iu the full possession of
his fiiculties all this time, into a marriage
which can entail nothing but misery and
disgrace on him — and you too."

" I was prepared for this, — at least, I
thought so," was Marie's passionate reply ;
but her voice steadied as she continued :

180

PENEUDDOCKE.

" Such language may make me wince at
first, but 1 shall soon become accustomed
to it. Hard Avords never made me turn
aside from any course I had well con-
siilcred : and I have had enou<Th of them
in mv life ! Is it worth trvin'f to iustifv
myself? I am goinj^ to marry your son.
Yes, Lady Rachel, I am going to marry
him ; not because he is in love with me ;
on the contrary, if he said he was, I sliould
have refused liiin. His fancy for a woman
so much older would pass away, and leave
behind it remorse to me, and misery to him.
But I know that it is the truth when he says
that I can sooth his wounded spirit, and
stimulate him to hope and to exertion as
no one else can ; that I can be of use that
will remain to him when wrinkles and gray
hairs appear. I have lain awake thinking
of this for weeks, and if I did not feel sure
of it, if I did not feel sure that Osmund will
never love again as he loved Evelyn Ham-
leigh, I swear to you, Lady Rachel, I would
not consent to marry him, though he waited
for years. But you never understood your
son. His heart is crushed ; if I leave him,
he Avill again become misanthropic — his
mind, his very health will suffer. This is
my true beliet; and in that lies my justifica-
tion."

" You take the maundering of a love-sick
boy for a broken heart." "W^ith the nearest
approach to a sneer I had ever heard from
her lips, my mother uttered these words,
" I do not believe in such things myself.
In this case, the assumption is preposterous.
He is but two and twenty, coiifmed to his
sofa, debarred from all amusement and
exercise ; and, because his spirits are low,
you say his heart is broken."

" I say he is in that condition in which
he needs a woman's sympathy hbove every
thing."

" Elizabeth is ready enough to offer hers.
If you are really disinterested, why not let
him accept it ? "

" I have urged him to do so, — though
you look incredulous. Lady Rachel. But
he has told me repeatedly that she was the
last person he should ever think of marry-
ing. The fact is, I have a conviction, and
this is not vanity, — it is an inward con-
viction, independent of his own assevera-
tions, that no other woman noio will ever
have the beneficial influence over him that
I possess."

" If you feel so confident of this, why not
test him V " said my mother slowly. She
had kept her trump-card till the last.
" Two or three years' absence will prove
if you are right, and obviate the fatal
consequences of a hasty engagement, which
all his friends will deplore."

" Two — or three years ? " repeated

Marie, as if bewildered. The blow had
struck home. The suggestion was new,
and seemed unanswerable. If I allowed
my mother to follow it up, it might be im-
possible to undo the mischief. I pushed
the door open.

" \Vherever Marie d'Arnheim goes now,
I follow. Understand that, mother. It is
out of your power to separate us, — you
need not try. Your interview with her has
forestalled the announcement I meant to
make to you to-day ; but you have only
heard her. It is as well that you should
hear me too. Your object for years has
been to prevent my marrying Evelyn.
You have succeeded — rest satisfied with
that. I have found consolation here. If
you attempt to rob me of that, I tell you
fairly we must separate."

" I have long been used to your undntiful
language. I was foolish to expect that suf-
fering had wrought a change in you," re-
sponded my mother, with saint-like resigna-
tion, after a pause. " What I did was for
your good ; but I wash my hands of all
responsibility, — henceforward you must
go your own way."

" That is all I ask — to be allowed to go
my own way."

" The broad way that leadeth to destruc-
tion, I fear. You have never caused me
any thing but anxiety, sorrow, and mortifica-
tion from your earliest years ; and now you
are bent on completing your own ruin ! It
is too terrible ! But do not be afraid, — I
shall trouble you no more. I have nursed
you for two years and a half, and have the
satisfaction of knowing I have done my
duty. You no longer need me ; and as I
certainly cannot countenance such a mar-
rian^e, a marriage with a divorced woman,
years older than yourself, I shall leave you
at once."

My mother delivered herself of this
speech with all her wonted composure,
resting her long taper fingers upon the ta-
ble before her, and never taking her cold
blue eyes from my face. No trace of the
ao-itation into which she had been betraved
a few minutes before was visible ; it was
poor Marie who looked confused and dis-
tressed. She had sunk into a chair on
my entrance, her head buried in her
hands.

" If you entertain this view of my mar-
riage, I cannot urge your remaining, moth-
er," I replied hotly. " I do not forget the
sacrifices you have made. I am prepared
to do any thing I can for your comfort ; but
I fear, that, after this, it would conduce nei-
ther to yours nor to mine that we should
continue to be together."

And, with a flushed face, I turned and
left the room.

PENRUDDOCKE.

181

CHAPTER LXIV.

In the ante-cliambei', a lioht hand was
laid oa iny shoulder ; and I met Marie's
white iace, as I turned nay head. She
Sjioke low, and her voice shook ; but the
words came ra[)idly.

*' This must not be, dear Osmund. I
fed there is truth in what she says, — we
ou;4ht to separate for a time, at least, — and
you must take her back to England, — it is
your duty. You cannot let her travel back
alone."

" Why not ? But I am too angry to argue
or to' know what is right, — I only know
what is ivrotifj. To insult you like that,
alter all her llattery, all her line speeches
of gratitude I It makes my blood boil, —
it does ! "

" Do not think about it. What does it
signily? When you reflect, you will see
she is right in this, — some time ought to
elapse. You can rejoin me in Germany
by and by."

Whatever it niaj' have cost her to say
this, she said ir bravely.

'' One thing at all events shall be done
at once, to obviate any further machina-
tions on my mother's ])art. Our engage-
ment must be announced. Tell the duch-
ess, and I will write to Elizabeth. By and
by I will take you to call on her."

Seeing that I was resolute, she offered
no objection to this.

It was a pleasurable surprise to me, and,
at first, wholly unaccountable, that Eliza-
beth, who had been unable (so I under-
stood) to conceal her jealousy of Evelyn,
showed none of my afhanced wife. They
became friends from the first hour they
met. Each recognized valuable qualities
in the other, and they were qualities that
did not jar, as such possessions generally
do. Evelyn's unmurmuring patience, her
subserviency to her foolish mother, the.
absence of all demonstration, aggravated
her impetuous cousin. INIarie's trenchant
intellect, her unconventional habits of
thought, her courage to face difficulties of
whatsoever kind that she encountered,
commended her especially to Elizabeth.

Francis acknowledged that he had never
seen her take a fancy to any woman, as she
had done to Madame d'Arnheim. And
this, in the face of his own marked avoid-
ance of the latter, and — as I could not
doubt — openly pronoLuiced reprobation of
my marriage.

Shall 1 say what I think ? The human
heart is such a complicated piece of ma-
cliinery that it is often diffit-ull to detect
the secret workinii of our own thoughts and

inclinations, — how much more so that of
others! But this I feel pretty sure of:
that just as my devotion to Evelyn, whom
she considered an unworthy rival, was the
primary cause of Elizabeth's unsympathy
with her cousin, so the knowledge that,
while I owed every thing to Marie, I was
not in love with her, rather^reilisposed her
in favor of the woman whom she consid-
ered I was marrying out nf (jraliiud<2. That
this was not the truth, the reader knows ;
but. in such a case, our fi-iends often think
that they strike at the root of an action of
which we present to them the mere fruit
and foliage.

Her Serene Highness was mightily dis-
pleased with her friend's engagement, as
(considering my mother's influence in that
quarter) Marie and I both anticipated.
Little used to opposition, the duchess alter-
nately threatened, cajoled, implored her
" Hoi-dame " to relinquish an idea which,
she assured her, would cover her with ob-
loquy, by lending an apparent confirmation
to the scandal which had coupled her name
with mine two years ago. Marie stood
firm. There should be no undue haste, —
she would return to Germany, — I would
take my mother to England. Let us be
separated for a time ; she acknowledged
the wisdom of this, if I could be brought to
consent to it ; but give me up, — no, that
she would never do ; all the duchess's ar-
guments were as waves dashed against a
rock.

Thus matters remained for some days.
The intercourse between my mother and
me, never at any time genial, was now so
constrained that, by mutual consent, we
never met but in the duchess's or Eliza-
beth's sitting-room.

One thing jiuzzled me. I had formally
announced to my mother my readiness to
return with her to England ; but it was
clear she had no intention of returning ; nor
did she desire me to return. " What was
the use of my going back ? " she said. Had
not the doctors advised my wintering again
in a warm climate ? As for herself, she
should probably join the duchess in Ger-
many ; but she required no escort, — she
preferred travelling alone, now that she
had no ties, no duties that bound her to
one place more than to another.

I had anticipated that she would snatch
at my proposal, that she would have hur-
ried me away, eager to set land and sea
between Marie and me, without loss of
time ; and trusting to the effect of absence
(and possibly furthur scheming) to unknit
the bond that now united us. Not at all.
As though she had renounced all hope of
this, she passed the greater part of the day
alone with the duch«ss, and did not talk of

182

PENRUDDOCKE.

departure. I was the more surprised, as
Marie had discovered that all chance of
Orsova's joining the party was at an end.
The letter the duchess had received the
evenin"' ol" our arrival, and which she had
passed on to my mother, announced tliat
the prince's physician forbade his ])rojected
visit to Venice, and that he had turned his
steps northwards. Thus (assuming Marie's
hvpothesis to have any tbundation) even
this motive was wanting to account for my
mother's reluctance to return to England.
The Wallachian was too wary, and iled
i'roui temptation.

The pressure brought to bear upon us
during these days, therefore, came solely
from the duchess, who, not satisfied with
attackinijc Marie, thou'ht meet to make an
onslaught upon me, for what she was
pleased to term my " ingratitude to ray an-
gelic parent," who had left her home and
all her I'riends in England to devote her-
self to me. I could not resist maliciously
pointing out that my mother showed no im-
patience to return to her home and friends ;
and I then cut the serene lady very short
by acknowledging that Lady llachel's care
of me had been unremitting, which was the
more admirable inasmuch as it was insti-
gated solely by a sense of duty, and not by
atfection ; that I would gladly make any
sacrifice, in return, to minister to her per-
sonal comfort. "But," I concluded, "I do
not admit the right of a mother, nor of an?/
one else, to interfere in a man's marriage ;
and permit me to add, madame, that I con-
sider whoever does so is very ill-advised."

After that, it was no wonder that the
duchess was unmeasured in her language,
when speaking to Marie, of her dear Lady
Kachel's graceless son. She told her friend
she was throwing herself away on a worth-
less boy ; and, in the same breath, upbraided
her with causing disunion between this poor
persecuted saint and her sole-surviving
child. To all this there could be but one
end. We haii foreseen it for some days.
Marie, harassed by daily altercations, re-
quested permission to leave her royal mis-
tress upon their return to Germany, and
live in retirement with her own family
during the winter. The duchess received
her " Hof-dame's " resignation in angry si-
lence. The next day she announced her
intention of quitting Venice the beginning
of the following week for Baden-Baden.

That same day (it was a Thursday) oc-
curred something which impressed me very
little at the time, but of which I perceived
the siiinificance later. Between me and
mv first and dearest friend, whom 1 should
always revere beyond any man on earth,
had arisen a cloud which nothing could dis-
perse. It was not that our love for each

other was less, but rather, that, because of
that love, such absolute division on a point
of vital importance rendered intercourse
])ainful to us both. I confess I avoided
him ; and he certainly never sought me.
Jf he came into Elizabeth's salon when
Marie and I were there, he invariably re-
tired, after a few minutes, on some pretext
or other. He passed the days, ostensibly,
among the churches and pictures, where he
occasionally succeeded in dragging Eliza-
beth, occasionally escorted Mrs. Everett, but
still more frequently went alone. Whether
this self-imposed routine was followed
merely for the gratification of his highly-
cultivated tastes, or arose from his repug-
nance to give the sanction of his presence
to a state of things he reprobated so strongly,
I cannot tell. That he spoke his mind
very openly and decidedly to Elizabeth, as
to the unadvisability of her increasing in-
timacy with Marie, I feel sure ; but, though
usually tractable with him, this was a point
upon which she chose to have her own way.

On this same Thursday, then, I remem-
ber being surprised, and a little uncomfort-
able, when Francis entered my room, and
asked whether I would go to the Lido with
him, — his gondola was below. I would
have refused, but had no excuse ready. He
was strangely silent all the way, with the
air of a man who has something which
weighs him down at heart, and of which he
would fain unburden himself. I felt what
it must be, and in my nervous desire to
stave oflT discussion which could serve no
good end, I talked incessantly, with an as-
sumption of gayety which I knew did not
impose upon my clear-sighted companion ;
but it rendered nearly impossible that last
solemn appeal from him which I felt to
be imminent. He sat grave and abstracted,
looking out upon the tremulous green and
gold of the sun-lit lagunes, rarely replying
to my chatter, except by a dry monosyllable
now and again. We returned to the hotel
at the end of two hom-s, without his having
'uttered a word of that which was upon his
mind.

The following morning, when I went to
Elizabeth's rooms, I was surjirised to hear
I'rom Mrs. Everett that my cousin and Ma-
rie were already gone out together. This
was contrary to all precedent : they had
invariably given me notice of their move-
ments ; and, as this was the last day but
two of Marie's stay in Venice, I felt a little
ao-n-rieved that she should absent herself,
even for a few hours. I accounted for it
by supposing that the necessity which
drives women " to shop " in a country town,
the day after they have left London, had
suddenly possessed both ladies ; such pos-
session, however, being quite foreign to

PENRUDDOCKE.

183

Elizabeth's natiiw. The passing irritation
melti'd into solicitude, when, on their return,
I learnt that Marie was seriously indisposeil.

I did not see her all day; but I did
see Elizabeth, and her manner, always
abrupt, struck me as being unusually
strange. It was almost with savage fero-
city, that, when I expressed my hope that
Marie was not suffering, she replied, —

'• Suffering ! — I should think she is.
How could it be otherwise ?"'' then suddenly
tuint'd and left the room. Marie had been
subjected to some fresh attack from the
duchess or my mother — that was clear.
I need not say I avoided Her Serene High-
ness's- salon that evening. Elizabeth was
by Marie's bedside. Francis was out. I
spent the evening alone.

The next morning — Saturday — Joe
said, when I was dressing, —

" Yo'.i've heard, I s'pose, as my lady's
goin' to Bad uu o' Monday, with the grand-
duchesss V "

" Nonsense ! Who told you so ?"

" Her maid, just now. Madame, being
ill, is no use to the duchess, she says; so
my lady decided last night to go too."

" Have you heard how Madame d'Arn-
heim is this morning ? " I asked anxiously.

" I see her maid. She says her missis
is no wuss — doesn't complain o' nothin' —
only lies stoopid-like, and won't eat."

" Have they sent for a doctor V "

"Bless you! A doctor ain't no good.
Women is like that. A man, he takes to
the bottle when he's out o' sorts ; but a wo-
man, she takes to her bed."

Joe, who, of course, knew the state of af-
fliirs, divined, quite as well as I did, the
cause of Marie's indisposition.

I did not see her all that day. She sent
me a message by Elizabeth, begging me not
to be uneasy about her ; she was overdone,
and still telt unequal to any exertion; but
rest was all she needed; she would be bet-
ter to-morrow ; and, whether or not, she
would certainly see me.

My mother tbrmally announced her de-
parture to me thus : —

" The duchess has proposed that I should
accompany her to Baden, and thus supple-
ment Madame d'Arnheim, whose iiidis])osi-
tion, I fear, will render her of little service
as a dame de compagnie. As I am of no
further use to you, and 1 can be of some use
to the duchess, I have accepted her pro-
posal."

I felt bitterly all that my poor Marie
would be sulijected to on that journey ; and
though I knew the utter futility of remon-
strance in such a case, I could not help say-
ing, —

i^ " Whatever may have caused Marie d'-
Arnheim's illness, I hope you and the duch-

ess, between you will not aggravate it by
bullying her. It will be very ciuel, and lost
time besides. She has given me her word,
and she will not go back from it. I have
given her mine, and you know me well
enough to be sure that / shall stick to
it."

" I will promise you," said my mother
blandly, " not so much as to name the sub-
ject of your engagement to Madame
d'Arnheim : I am sure I may promise as
much for the duchess." Then, after a
momentary hesitation, she added, —

" Some day or .other you will do my mo-
tives more justice than you can now, Os-
mund. It is as well for tie present that we
should be separated."

It was, indeed as well. O wise moth-
er I had you remained but a few hours
longer near me, God knows into what un-
seemly ebullition of violence I mi<'ht liave
been betrayed !

I saw Marie on Sunday afternoon, and
was shocked with the alteration in her ap-
pearance, tShe looked literally years old-
er — wan and worn; but the spirit which
had struggled through much suflering to the
light shone out of those deep, true eyes,
that never faltered, as their gaze met mine.
She was calm, and led the conversation
away from herself to discuss my plans tor
the winter. She dared say I should winter
in England, after all. I was gaining in
strength so visibly every day, that climate
could now be of no importance to me. I
repeated what I so often told her before,
that I had no wish whatever to return to my
own country. I then asked how long she
proposed to remain with the duchess. She
replied that her plans were unsettled, but
she would write very soon ; I miiiht depend
o.n that. She then made me the most sol-
emn promise, that nothing which the duch-
ess or my mother could say would influence
her in the slightest degree. " The time is
past, when sarcasm or reproach could hurt
me," she said, with a dreary little smile. I
told her that I should tly northwards, with
the first swallow, to claim her, wherever
she might be ; in the mean time, I proposed
remaining at Venice, which had a charm
for me just now, still crippled as 1 was, no
other city could possess ; " besides," I add-
ed, '■ it is the last place in which we shall
be together, which naturally endears me to
it."

She said nothing; but, by the whiteness of
her lips, I feared she was faint. I poured
some eau-de-cologne on my handkerchief,
and gave it to her. Pi-esently, she held out
her hand.

" You shall not stay any longer now ; I
have writing I must do before I go to bed,
and I have need of all my strength for to-

184

PENRUDDOCKE,

morrow. I shall keep this handkerchief —
may I V "

Fearing to agitate her more, I silently
pressed her hand to my lips, and left the
room.

But her face haunted me all night long.

CHAPTER LXV.

They arc off. The gondolas that bear
them to the railway-station are out of sight.
I liave sei'n Marie for only a few minutes
this morning, and that in the presence of
others. She appeared in the salon, just
before it was time to start, in her dust-col-
oured travelling-suit, with an ashen face,
but in all the quietude of strong resolve. I
am the more visibly moved of the two.
We are parting, I and this woman, whom I
look to now as my only consolation in the
otherwise dreary future — we are parting
for a, while, and she will be exposed to in-
sidious, as well as open, attacks, which I am
powerless to ward off. I see how they have
made her suffer already — will it not be a
thousand fold worse when we are sepa-
rated ? But 1, too, can express nothing of
this, and very little of what I feel ; for the
eyes of all are upon us, — the duchess's, my
mother's, and those of the viiiilant running;
chorus of couriers and ladies'-maids.

" God bless and keep you 1 " is all she
murmurs.

j\Iy mother touches my forehead with her
beautiful lips, and says she hopes soon to
hear I am quite well. That is all. Then
Her Serene Highness, brisk and shabby,
trips down the stairs through an avenue of
landlord, waiters, and couriers, followed by
my regal-looking parent, who also bows
blandly to right and left ; and my pale
jNlarie, too absorbed to notice any thing, her
eyes fixed*" steadily before her, glides after
them. They step into the gondola — they
are gone !

I stand gazing after them ; then, almost
unconsciously, my e3es turn to Elizabeth's
window. There she is, leaning out, and
waving a handkerchief; and I can see that
ever her small stern face has come a veil of
tears.
, By and by there is a knock at my door.

SI litt my face from my hands, where it has
lain ibr the last half-hour, and in answer to
my " Come in," Francis stands before me.

" I have a letter for j'ou, my boy ; but be-
fore you read it, I have a good deal to tell
you," and he draws a chair to the opposite
side of the narrow table at which I am
seated. I am struck with the animation of
his voice and manner. On Thursday

last I received a letter from Miss Ham-
leigh."

1 started.

" From il/ws Hamleigli ! — Lady Tufton,
you mean."

'' From ^liss Hamleigh," he repeated.
" It is an answer to mine, written before I
left England, and v^s forwarded »o me
from Naples. Here it is : read it."

" I think I had rather not," said I quick-
Iv, i)uttim>- it awav with tremblins; fingers.
" It only opens an old wound, which —
which is not yet healed. I had better never
hear of her again," I added with a groan.

" My boy," said Francis gently, " you
must read it ; you will thank me when you
have done so, and it is essential for your
right understanding of what follows."

What did he mean ? What did it signi-
fy to me now what she .wrote ? I opened
the envelope with a throb of pain and curi-
osity mingled. This is what I read : —

" The Cottage, Aug. 30.

" My dear Mr. Fraxcis, — I should
have answered your kind letter long before
this, but I have been very ill. When it
came, I was in bed with brain-fever, where
I i-emained many weeks. My illness, I
think, had been coming on for months. I
want you to know every thing ; for you are
the only person to wUom I can open my
heart, and I cannot bear that you should
misjudge me. When we met at Beauma-
noir last January, I was very sad ; but oh 1
it was nothing to my wretchedness a few
weeks later, when Osmund sent me back
the lock of my hair, which I had told him I
should accept as a sign that he loished to he
free"

AVhen I had read thus far, the letter
dropped from my hand. My eyes were
suddenly opened : I understood it all. ]\Iy
mother had read Evelyn's note to me, and
I now remembered her miniature. I am
atraid that an oath broke from my lips as
the conviction that she had done this shame-
ful thing flashed upon me.

" I felt," continued the latter, " that
every thing was really at an end between
us, and I was utterly crushed. I had looked
forward to years of waiting ; but, if he had
only remained true to me, I knew that my
courage would not fail. Now, however,
what had I to sustain me ? Poor mamma
was overjoyed to think I was free. Ah! even
she has now been brought to see things in
a ditierent light. Lord Tufton came down
shortly after this, but only staid a few
hoiu's. I refused to see him, knowing his
objwt. Six months later, he returned, at
mamma's invitation. She had not relaxed
her efforts tor a day, in the interval. Yoij
know all that she would say — I need not

PENRUDDOCKE.

185

repeat her arguments ; tJiei/ did not weigh
with me ; but my love for her, and my de-
sire to ease her anxiety on my behaU", pre-
vailed in the end. Worn out in mind and
body, I accepted Lord Tufton, but not un-
til I had told him all. Wlien I named Os-
mund, he was startled and evidently deeply
pained ; he had never suspected tlie truth,
and had he known his friend's hopes eigh-
teen months before, he said he would never
have interfered with them. Since Osmund
had freed liimself, and ??ie, the case was
different. Nothing could be more kind,
more considerate, than Lord Tufton's con-
duct; but from that hour my wretchedness
increased fourfold. He made no demand
on my tenderness ; he was content to leave
time to work a change in my feelings, he
said ; but 1 knew I ougJd to love the man I
had promised to marry, and I could not ! I
told him he must not hurry on the marriage
— that it could not take place until the
summer (it was then November) ; and in
the mean time, mamma and I went on a long
visit to the North.

" In May we moved to London, and
preparations were begun for the marriage ;
but I was utterly unfit for it, and grew
weaker every day. Mamma at length be-
came alarmed. The doctors whom I saw
did me no good, — how should they ? I be-
lieve tliey thought my brain was affected :
I thought so myself, the confusion of ideas,
and the pain I suffered in m}^ head, was so
great. ' If I go mad, or become imbecile.
Lord Tufton will hold himself bound to me
all the same,' I said to myself. ' I must
break off our engagement before it is too
late.' I spoke to Iiim at last openly. It was
the middle of June. I said I had done
very wrong to accept him ; lor my heai-t
was still another's, and that, in the struggle
to do ray duty by my husband, either my
reason or my life would be sacrificed. He
behaved nobly — not a word of reproach —
not a selfish consideration ; he blamed him-
self for having urged me to marry him after
he knew the real state of my lieart ; all his
tliought was to spare me. We had been
engaged more than seven months ! He saw
mamma, and told her that all was at an
end. She bore it better tlian I expected,
for she began to understand that my illness
was of the heart and brain, rather than the
body. The doctor had roused her to a
sense of my danger; and, indeed, the very
next day I was stricken low by fever, and
lay between life and death for some weeks.

" Poor mannna was worn to a shadow.
My illness has wrought a great change in
her ideas about me. She reproaches her-
self for tiie past, poor dear 1 though of
course nothing that has happened has been
her fault. But all her ambitious views for

me have died away. She understands now
that I should be miserable if I married
any one, — no matter whom, — and is con-
tent to let me remain as I am. Some
strong natures recover more easily from
such shocks ; mine has no power of re-
bound, I fear. I try to turn my thoughts
to other subjects, but what little energy I
had is gone. My mind constantly reverts
to Osmund. We hear that he is 'entirely
engrossed now with the same lady who
exercised such influence upon him in Lon-
don. Ah, how easily we deceive ourselves !
— how easily we believe what we wish to
believe ! He assured me he only cared for
her as a sister and friend ; and after that,
though I heard that Lady Rachel had
found her nursing him, I refused to listen
to any thing against her, I believed him so
imjtlicitly ! But, alas 1 dear Mr. Francis,
how can I doubt any longer that she, a
married woman, has come between Os-
mund and me, and caused him to break of!"
our enfratrement ?

" Lady Rachel's conduct, I confess, is to
me inexplicable : even mamma cannot
defend it. To encourage such an intimacy,
because Osmund had taken up despondent
religious views, — I could not beUeve it
possible. Did she not herself speak of it as
•a sad expediency'? The ground seems
slipping from my feet on every side. Even
Lady Rachel, who has always been to me
the model of all that was pure and high-
minded — she, too, has fallen away !

" I have written a volume, which I fear
it will weary you to read ; but I could not
say less. I so earnestly wished you to
know the truth about me. I will now stop.
We are going to Hastings, — the air is re-
commended for me, — and we shall probably
be there until after Christmas.

" W^rite to me sometimes, will you not ?
— and tell me whatever you can about
him.

" Ever sincerely and gratefully yours,

" Evelyn Hamleigh."

My hand shook so that I could scarcely
read this letter to the end. When I had
done, the pent-up misery of my heart broke
forth in a great ci'y.

" Too late, my ])oor darling ! O God !
too late 1 " And I laid my head in my
hands and sobbed.

" Now, listen," said Francis, " before you
read another letter, the seal of whi(;h is un-
broken. When I received Miss ILun-
leigh's, my mind was much trouljled what
to do. I had now an additional motive tor
desiring to annul your engagement to Ma-
dame d'Arnheim, and, at the same time, a
weapon which, if rightly used, might prove
effectual to this end. In your hands this

186

PENRUDDOCKE.

weapon, I was aware, would be powerless.
You would never break your prouiise to
the woman you were pledjjed to uiarrj' ;
theretbre, while sorely tempted to show you
the letter on Thur:;day last, I retrained. I
showed it, instead, to Elizabeth."

I raised my head, and tried to read in
his face what was eomin^r ; but it was in-
scrutable, or I was too dazed to penetrate
the mystery.

'• Go on," I murmured.

" The task was a delicate one, for I knew
Elizabeth's jealousy, and — shall I say it ?
— a certain contempt of Evelyn's too

rliant character, as she considers it. But
also knew her true nobility of soul. ' A
wrong has to be righted, and you are the
only person who can do it,' I said. ' Ma-
dame d'Arnheim knows that I am ve-
hemently opposed to her marriage ; she
would naturally mistrust me. She entirely
trusts you. You must tell her the sub-
stance of this letter, and appeal to her
better nature to relinquish her claim upon
Osmund.' As I anticipated, she angrily
refused, at first, to interfere. Why should
she ? What business was it of hers ? Eve-
lyn had played fast and loose with Lord
Tul'ton, — she had no stability. Marie
d'Arnheim was worth fifty such girls, and
Elizabeth had far rather see her your wife.
But her sense of right in the end prevailed,
as I knew it would. She sought her friend
with % heavy heart, and read part of this
letter to her ; of course what referred to
Madame d'Arnheim herself it would have
been needless cruelty to show her. Eliza-
beth described that interview to me. It
has awakened a respect and admiration for
this unhappy lady I never could feel before.
The result of that morning's work, Osmund,
is contained in this packet."

He laid a sealed letter on the table, rose,
and, first touching my shoulder with his
kindly hand, as he passed, left me to digest
this second missive, and the feelings it
might awaken, in solitude.

" These are the last words, my beloved,
that I shall ever write to you, and when we
bid each other good-by to-morrow, it will
be forever, on this side the grave 1 Yes,
though I have the courage to write this, we
must not meet again. In your presence,
when I feel your eyes bent on me, my be-
loved, as they Avere to-night, my strength
almost fails me. It is on this account I
have shunned you. If I am only supported
throu'^rb to-morrow, but for a few minutes,
it will be the last time this strength is
needed. God help me ! I have passed
three sleepless nights crying aloud to Him
for this help, but it has not come yet.

" Had it pleased God that you had

needed me through the long years to come,
you would have found me 'faithful unto
death.' As it is, your hope and courage
will no longer need sustenance now. I
know I laave been of some use in your life,
at a time when all around seemed dark ;
that will l)e my solace in the future. The
' little cousin ' is free, and is still constant
to you ; only by base deception did she
ever appear otherwise, I am told. For
your sake, I thank God that it is^so. Be-
lieve me, much as I must suffer, I would
not have it otherwise. Do I not know that
your heart has never swerved from its al-
legiance to your early love ? There is no
heroism in giving you up, since I have
learnt that you and Evelyn may yet be
happy. I should be a monster of selfishness
if 1 did not resolutely snap the chain which,
for a short time, has bound you and me
together. Your chivalrous nature would
have refused to sunder it, and thereby have
done me a great wrong. Would my life
have been endurable, think you, if I had
discovered too late that you had married me
from a false principle of ' honor ' ? No ! a
thousand times rather would I suffer, as
am now doing ; for, at least, I suffer alone.

" I have told the duchess and your
mother. I thought it well to do so, before
we started on our journey together ; it
might spare me from attacks now rendered
needless. Lady Rachel's satisfaction was
cloudeil, I saw, when she learnt that the
rupture of our engagement was due to a
letter of Miss Hamleigh's ; but she said
nothing. I doubt whether she will inter-
fere further with your future ; but be wise,
— go to England at once, and explain all
to Evelyn and her mother.

" And now, before I say farewell, thank
you from my heart, beloved, for all the
good and joy you have brought into my sad
life. The briditest passage in it has been
that now suddenly closed, in which 1 have
been daily so near to you that I fancy I
have read every thought of your heart. It
has made me think better of men. Ever
since I first met you as a boy on the steam-
er, I have seen, through all your faults and
follies, a true, noble nature. I had almost
lost my belief in such. And the closer I
have been drawn to your inward soul, wit-
nessing its struggles and dithculties, the
more has my heart expanded towards poor
sorrowful humanity. My own crriefs had
tended to make me bitter and distrustful.
I shall never be so much so again. I am
going into outer darkness, — • it must needs
be so ; but I carry with me the light of a
pure and bright memory, that will not fail
me as long as life shall last. Am I not the
riclu^r for it V

" Perhaps, years hence, when I am an old

PENRUDDOCKE.

187

woman, we may meet ; but not until this
present time shall seem like a tale that is
told. You will answer this letter, I know ;
but do not ask nie to write again. It is
better that I should drop utterly out* of your
life ; I feel that sAe would wish it to be so.

" And now, my beloved, who have been
so much more than any thing else in the
world to me, for the last time, farewell !
May God bless and j^reserve you, prays

" Makie."

Twelve hours later Elizabeth's yacht was
under way, and she sailed for Corfu, while
I was speeding on my road to England.
No woa'd as io my future prospects passed
between my cousin and me. Strange girl !
She had Ijeen the direct. ajrent in brin"ino-
about- th.e great joy that filled my whole
being, and made of me a different man
from the one. I have been for the past eigii-
teen months, — yet now her manner was
hard, almost repellant. I had seen her
moved at Marie d'Arnheim's departure, but
now no tear dimmed her eye, as she placed
her hand in mine and turned bruskly away.
Poor child ! And this was to be our last
parting ! It is only now, when the proud,
sensitive heart has long been at rest, that I
think I begin to understand her.

CHAPTER LXVI.

It was on^ of those soft, pearl-gray days
which belong peculiarly to England, when
I reached Hastings. My coming was un-
announced ; for fear that Lady Rachel
mi'iht still exercise enough influence over
]\Irs. Hamleigh to lead the latter to misin-
terpret any letter of naine, I had abstained
from writing. I drove to the address given
me in Robertson Terrace, and was told that
the ladies were' sitting on the beach. I
alighted, and hobbled down the steps from
the terrace to the shore. There, under the
lea of a battered old fishing-boat, whose
tawny sail formed a serviceable protection
alike from westerly sun and wind, — wind
just enough to ripple the gray sea, and fret
the wave that washed the yellow shingle, sat
the slight figure I should have known among
a thousand, albeit wrapped in a plaid, with
a broad-leaved hat overshadowing her f'ac(!.
The hair under it had been cut short, and,
owing to this, perhaps, the face looked wan,
and the eyes twice their natural size.
Those eyes were fixed dreamily upon the
shinmiering waters at her feet, her thin lit-
tle hands were knotted together about her
knees, books and work lay beside her, but
she was absolutely idle ; her thoughts, it
was clear, were very far away.

Good Heavens ! how she was changed !
Now that I was close to her, only the
length of the old boat dividing us, and
could trace the ravages of illness and sor-
row upon that sweet young face, I dreaded
the effect my sudden appearance might
have upon my dai-ling in her shattered
state. Mi-s. Hamleigh was pacing the
beach a few yards olf, looking for pebbles.
Some strange intuition — the maternal in-
stinct perhaps — made her raise her head
at this moment, and look in my direction.
I lifted my hat that she might make sure
of my identity, and, pointing to Evelyn, —
too absorbed to see what was passing a
stone's throw from her, — I put my finger
to my lips, and beckoned her mother to-
wards me. I shall never forget the gleam
that irradiated that worn face : it swept the
last doubt away as to any opposition I
might meet. The poor woman dropped all
the treasures she had been collecting for
the last half-hour, and with the old galvan-
ized smile I knew so well, came running
towards me, holding out her hands.

" Oh, where do you come from ! Oh, if
you only knew how glad I am to see you,
my dear, dear Osmund 1 Only think ! It
isn't true, then, about your marriage ?
Well, really, — well, this is delightful. So
unexpected. My poor, dear child, she will
be " — here she burst into tears.

A few minutes later, the ground had
been broken by her mother to ray darling,
and I was upon my knees beside her.

I doubt if the lives that have run
smoothly on the well-oiled wheels of pros-
perity ever know the keen delight of those
who have passed through a great tribula-
tion, and see the clouds parting, and the
sun shining on them at last. What were
all our past sufferings when weighed in the
balance with the joy of that hour ! When
I took the ribbon from my neck, and
showed her the lock of hair that had never
left it, even the shock of finding how Lady
Rachel had deceived both her mother and
herself, could only cloud my darling's hap-
piness for a few moments. I was her own
again, — her own, as of old ; before all the
troubles of these last years had come upon
us ; and moreover, the fear which had al-
ways overshadowed her was now with-
drawn ; for lo ! there sat her mother, smil-
ing through her tears upon us both.

Poor Mrs. Hamleigh ! She had passed
through a season of the severest trial to
which any parent can be subjected. The
child lor whom she would have laid down
her life had been brought to the brink of
the grave ; and the mother could not but
feel that this was, in a measure, her work.
She had refused to believe in the strength
of Evelyn's attachment un-Ul too late. I

188

PENRUDDOCKE.

had proved faithless ; but though she be-
Hevod tliis, she must have doubted whether
Lady Rachel's uiauhiuations, of which Mrs.
Haudeigh had beeu iu some cases the pas-
sive iastruuient, had not tended to goad me
to evil courses, — to sever me from Evelyn.
, Her jud'Tment and her conduct in this mat-
ter had been as dough in Lady Rachel's
hands ; and those hands, as she recognized
now, were of iron. Not until several
months' absence had rela.xed this inrtexil)le
grasp, did the weak but well-meaning
woman's mind regain some capacity ot
forming an unbiassed opinion. It was no
wonder that she clung to the idea of
Evelyn's marrying Tufton up to the very
last ; but when this hope, to realize which
had seemed to her the summit of earthly-
happiness, was all but accomplisheil, it sud-
denly crumbled into dust. Evelyn was
fading visibly away ; the " faculty " could
give her mother no comfort ; they could not
" minister to a mind diseased ; " and when
Tufton announced Evelyn's withdrawal
from their engagement, it came almost as
a relief from dire responsibility upon the
poor distracted woman. Then followed
months of anxious watching, of alternating
hope and tear, during which her mind was
brought into a fitting condition to hail my
coming as the one means of restoring the
shattered health and spirits of her child.

During the weeks that followed, when
unbroken rest by night, and the tonic of
perfect happiness by day, were restoring
the roses to my darling's cheeks, the elas-
ticity to her step, as of old, I told her of
every thing that concerned myself, as I
have told them in these pages. I showed
her Marie's letter, and made her fully com-
prehend, for the Jfirst time, the rare beauty
and unselfishness of my poor friend's charac-
ter. What wonder that the common judg-
ment misapprehended her, when even a
man like Arthur Tufton did so ? Opin-
ions, tied up in bundles, and docketed by
the world, are distributed according to
general rough classifications. The " Ger-
man sentimentality," the femme incomprise
of whom Marie was sneeriugly said to be a
type, no more described her than to talk
of " ivy " is to distinguish the serrated out-
line and delicate articulations of one par-
ticular leaf from the thousand coarser varia-
tions of the same species. Under all na-
ture's generalities, the careful observer de-
tects individuality ; and if in the grass of
the field, how much more so among the
sons of men ? But the docketing system
is easier ; and therefore Marie d'Arnheim,
except by a very few, is relegated to swell
the ranks of mystic, lachrymose women,
who are always pining for what they have
not, are addicted to a perilous Platonism, I

and whose aggravating airs of superiority

form the best justification of a husband's
ill-conduct.

How superficial such a view of her
character was, I have attempted to show !
That I shall succeed in enlisting the sym-
pathies of all other women I cannot hope;
nay, there are good men who will shake
their heads dubiously, and speak of her
example as " dangerous." But, touching
this question of example, I would say one
word. If we are to be taught any thing by
learning all we can of another human
being, it must surely be by the tendency
of the whole life, not by any particular ac-
tion in it. I cannot discuss my friend's
conduct; it is manifestly impossible for me
to do so. I know that I owe her a great
debt of gratitude, and that, though we
have never met since the morning we
parted at Venice, now ten years ago, my
reverence and regard have suffered no
diminution. And I also feel very sure
that, whatever the world's verdict may be,
hereafter, when all hearts are laid bare, it
will be well for many of us if the account
we have to render up shows so large a bal-
ance to the good as hers.

Mrs. Hamleigh wrote at once to my
mother ; but the reply she received proved
that " the little rift within the lute " was
ma<le, which has since widened until it
silenced all love and correspondence be-
tween the two ladies. Lady Rachel, who
could never brook opposition from any
one, found her whilom devoted worshipper
assuming a tone of independence, and de-
fending the altered view she had adopted
of our marriage, with a freedom of expres-
sion which could not but displease her
whose word had hitherto been as a law
unto her friend. The lock of hair was
never so much as alluded to between them,
and nothing; showed the estranirement and
distrust on both sides so much as this reti-
cence. Formerly " dear Belinda " would
have written gushingly to ask for an ex-
planation of what seemed unjustifiable,
sure beforehand that her dearest Lady
Rachel would clear it all up, and ready to
swallow any sophistry whereby crooked
ways should be made to appear straight.

I will not affirm, that, had my mother re-
turned to England at this jiuicture, she
might not have regained some portion of
her old ascendency over Mrs. Hamleigh.
But she did not return ; and when she
visited England once, some years after-
wards, the two friends actually did not
meet. I received a letter from her about a
month after my arrival in England, an-
nouncinn; her encrasement to Prince Or-
sova. All that astute man's efforts to
escape had availed him nothing. He had

PENRUDDOCKE.

189

been run to earth at Baden, where the
duchess had of course traced liim ; and,
after a feeble struggle, had accepted his
destinv with a good o-race. And he has
never had cause to rei^ent. She is the
very woman for such a position, when
there is no demand upon the heart, and
plenty upon the intelligence. She man-
ages his atfairs, she settles differences be-
tween him and his son ; she rules him, as
she has done nearly every creature with
whom she has come into contact through
life, with a sceptre so lightly held that no
one could tell it was of iron.

The ease-loving prince is no doubt more
comfortably in his advancing years than
had he remained a widower. All his wants
are ministered to ; and his vanity is flat-
tered by the homage paid to the beauty and
eminent virtues of the princess. They re-
side a part of each year upon their estates
in Wallachia, where the princess has estab-
lished industrial schools, and done much
good in various ways, I am told. They go
to Carlsbad every summer ; sometimes they
travel as far as Paris — never, but once,
have they been to England. The prin-
cess's ties to that country are severed almost
as completely as those of the renowned peer-
ess who espoused an Arab Sheik. My
Uncle Levison went once to visit his sister,
shot wolves in the Wallachian forests,
and brought home a glowing account of
the magnificence of the prince's estate ;
but Col. Rich has been dead now some
years, and the princess has never expressed
a desire to see any other member of her
family in her far-off home. As regards
myself, I neither wonder at nor regret this
— the reader of these pages will not require
to be told why. If she had not every thing
this world can give — if I could be of com-
fort or service to my mother in any way,
I should go to her at once ; but such is not
the case. There is that in the past which
renders the recollection of me annoying and
hurtful to her ; my presence would be dis-
tressingly irksome.*

I was married in the spring. J had thrown
away my stick before this, and had rejoined
my i-egiment at Windsor; and, in the alter-
nations of this quarter with London and
Dublin, I looked forward now to passing
some years, at least. But Providence liad
ordained otherwise. I received a letter
from Francis at Jerusalem in the middle
of June, which I can honestly affirm caused
me unmixed sorrow. It anncninccjd Eliza-
beth's death of lever, caught by reckless
exposure to heat and over-fatigue in the
desert. Francis wrote with all the ten-

* The princess Orsova died in Novembor, 1872.
She liiul not Hfcu her sou lor five yeai"s before
her death. — Ed.

derness of a father who has lost his own
child. "She is taken from me," — thus
ran a passage in his letter, — " and it is
not for me to repine, since the gain is hers,
and she felt it to be so. Her mind, which
had wandered much during her illness, was
clear at tlie end ; and lier last thought was
of you. 'Tell him,' said she, 'that I am
very, very glad to go. Life has been up-
hill work with me these last two years;
now I am going to join my dad, and we
shall be happy again, as we were long ago,
and Osmund will have his own home once
more. lie would never have taken it
back if I had lived. I am glad to go, if it
was only for that. Tell him that, though I
parted so coldly from him, I ' — here she
waited a minute, and then added — ' I loved
him better than any one on earth. Yes,
you can say that when I am dead : I shall
not mind. I have been so wretched here,
and I shall be so happy very soon — so
happy ? ' I think those were her last
words. A smile stole over her face. Mrs.
Everett, who has been her constant nurse,
stooped down and laid her hand on Eliza-
beth's heart, — it had ceased to beat. We
have dug her a grave under the shadow of
that mount where He whose words are our
best comfort at such moments as these, sai'd,
'Blessed are the pure in heart; for they
shall see God.' Yes, even so, Osmund.
This is my abiding trust. Though God
had not seen fit to bring this nol)le, crystal-
clear young spirit into the fold of his true
Church, she was ' pure in heart,' steadf ist
and unselfish in her devotion, without guile
or shadow of deceit ; therefore, I know she
has been permitted to pass through the
golden gate into the kingdom of her Father
which is in heaven."

Elizabeth left no will. She knew that all
would come to me as heir-at-law, and tliat
she could trust me not to forget the com-
panions of her last journey, more especially
him to whom we both owed so much. That
dear and wise friend has his home now at
Bcaumanoir, and will lead my little boy, I
trust, to be a better scholar and a better
man than his father.

I left the Guards with regret; but duty
clearly pointed out another path in life, and
I did not hesitate to exchange, like Cincin-
natus, my sword for the ploughshare. To
raise the moral, as well as temporal, condi-
tion of my poorer neighbors, to add my
unit to the sum of help whereby the distance
between Christian gentlemen and those
who are born to labor by the sweat of
their brow may be lessened, without our all
tumbling into the gulf of socialism which
yawns between us, — tliis has been my chief
study since I inheriteil the j)roperty of my
fathers. That my mind was ever turned

190

PENRUDDOCKE.

to such considerations — that I have not
passed these years solely in huntiii^jr, shoot-
inir, and fishiu<i; — is (hie, first, to the lon;^
illness wliicli, thoii'j,h I looked upon it then
as a i)unisliinent, 1 now regard as a hless-
ing ; secondly, to the elevating influence of
that woman's character witli whom my own
came into contact at a critical period of
my life.

As time rolls on, I thank God that I can
say it confirms tlie love of my childhood,
Avliich we may botli of us now regard as
among tlie few things in this world that are

immutable. No shadow of jealousy has
ever crossed our path since tliat day when
we looked into each other's eyes upon Has-
ting's Beach. Arthur Tufton, who has
never married, comes to stay with us once
or twice a year ; and when Eyelyn's Con-
servatism (which she clings to as a reli-
gii)n)takes friiiht at some Liberal sentiment
of mine, and I threaten to pay a visit to
Dresden, where Madame d'Ainheim will
feel more sympathy with my views, my
wife smiles in her sweet, calm way, and
asks when she shall pack my portmanteau.

THE END.

JUST PUBLISHED.

A TRIBUTE TO THE CEXTEXARY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

SIR V/ ALTER SCOTT:

The Story of his Life.

By R. SHELTON MACKENZIE. With Portraits and Illustrations. 1 vol. 12mo. $2.00.

TKE distinsrnished Uiferateur, Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie of Philadelphia, has been for somo time
engaged upon a life of Sir "Walter Scott; and the centenary of the author of the Waverley Novels,
celebrated on the 15th of August, appropriately suggested the publication of the volume in connection with
that notable event.

The lapse of nearly fifty years that has passed since Scott penned his last work has not wasted the
freshness and interest of his writings, nor lessened the faBCination of their nobility of thought, artistic pic-
turesqueness, and truthfulness.

The author has, as an appropriate and lasting tribute to the memory of his di.stinguishcd fellow-coun-
tryman, prepared thi.s biography of Scott, which is designed to fill a place from which the magnitude and
expense of more voluminous biographies exclude them. It is that of

A Popular Life of " The Ariosto of the North,"

containing, in a convenient and accessible form, minute details of his varied and eventful experiences, the
fruits of Dr. Mackenzie's profound study and enthusiastic admiration of his subject. Headers of Scott's
works will find in this work something more than a mere biography, and welcome the volume as an agree-
able and valuable companion to his writings.

Dr. Mackenzie is well known as an enthusiastic admirer and profound student of Scott; and we can
well imagine that his transcript of the incidents, sayings, and life-work of his illustrious fellow-countryman
has been a labor of love to this eminent scholar and accomplished writer.

*** For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of price by the Publishers,

JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston.

L.A.TE TiCKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OsGOOD, & CO.

JUST PUBLISHED.

Charles Reade's Last Great Novel,
A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION.

Complete in 1 vol. Fully Illustrated. Paper, 30 cents ; Cloth, $1.00.

By special arrangement ■witli the author of this Story, which has excited a profound
sensation in all portions of the world where the English language is read, the Publish-
ers are enabled to give the only authorized edition of the Story, with the Author's latest
revisions and corrections, accompanied by the original illustrations, complete in book
form, simultaneously with its aiipearance in England, and in advance of its issue by any
other publishers in this country.

" Messrs. James R. Osgood .t Co. have just published Charles Reade's story, 'A Terrible Temptation,'
complete ,in book form. This will be the earliest publication of the whole story in this country, and simul-
taneous with its publication in England. Those who have read the chapters published from weeli to week
for some months past in Every Saturday, know well enough how extremely interestitig it is ; and, for the
benefit of those who have not yet seen any part of it, it may be said, that it will rank with the most i)owcr-
fiil and fascinating works of its author. This is only another way of saying that in the qualities of plot and
dramatic incident, and intensity of passion and force of narration, it is as great a story as any man now
living has written." — Boston haily Adcertiser.

'• It opens in all the freshness and abounding sparkle of his style, and the daring freedom and original-
ity in which this author is consi)icuous. All who enjoy a good healthy and delightful story of modern times
should not fail to secure ' A Terrible Temptation.'" — N.Y. Globe.

" It is such a novel as only Charles Rcade could have written, in its fertility of invention, wealth of in-
cident, originality, dramatic power, intense characterization, and startling innovations upon the literature
of fiction. This'jjrompt issue is the ' author's edition,' sent out simultaneously with the aiipearance of the
work in P^nelanrl. It is sure of a nuiltitnde of readers, and equally sure of any amount of criticism. Heade'8
genius is undeTiiable, however l)old and unconventional the manner in which he has chosen to exercise it in
the present instance." — Boston Transcript,

*** For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of price by the Publishers,

JAMES K. OSGOOD & CO., Boston.

Late Ticknou & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co.

CHARLES READE'S NOVELS.

HOUSEHOLD EDITION COMPLETE.

UNIFORM, COMPACT, LEGIBLE, HANDSOME, CHEAP.

\ m*m i

The popular Household Edition of IMr. Reade's Complete Novels is comprised in

Ten Volumes, as follows : —

Foul Play 1 vol.

Hard Cash. ... 1 vol.

White Lies. . . .1 vol.

Griffith Gaunt. . . 1 vol.

Love me Little, Love me
Long. .... 1 vol.

Never too Late to Mend. 1 vol.

The Cloister and the Hearth. 1 vol.

Peg Woffington, Christie

Johnstone, and Other Stories. 1 vol.

Put Yourself in His Place.

A Terrible Temptation. .

Illustrated.

1 vol.
1 vol.

Price, $ 1.00 a volume. The Set in a neat box, $ 10.00 ; Half Calf, $ 22.50.

" This edition of Charles Reade's novels is somewhat similar in style to the well-known ' Charles
Dickens ' series, issued by the same firm. The volumes are all neatly bound, well printed, and com-
pact, with the fac-simile signature of Charles Eeade prominently displayed on the outside. We are
glad to welcome such an acceptable addition to the American library of modem English literature.
After Dickens, no English author of the day appeals so directly to all branches of the English-speaking
race as Charles Reade. Although most of his works are intensely English in local coloring, his hatred
of class injustice, of petty social spites and prejudices, of official wrongs and abuses, and his warm
sympathy with all the fresh and true impulses and instincts of humanity, secure for his works appre-
ciative readers wherever the English language is spoken. Charles Reade's works all deserve the widest
circle of readers, within whose reach they can be brought, and we are glad to find that the task of
placing them before the American public in a tasteful and convenient library form has been undertaken,
and so well executed, by those so thoroughly qualified for carrying it out as the publishers of the
present series." — New York Times.

" A very pretty edition of Charles Reade's novels, just such a one as has long been desired by his nu-
merous admirers in this country. It can hardly help meeting the success it deserves, from its taste and
elegance, no less than from the conspicuous merits of its author." — Liberal Christian.

" The volumes are neatly printed and of convenient size. Jlr. Reade is one of the most vigorous of
modern writers of fiction. And in all his works he has a high moral aim, as the exposure of some evil
that demands correction." — New York Observer.

" The new, uniform, elegant, and cheap edition of Charles Reade is just in time to take the tide of the
story-teller's great and deserved popularity." — The Western Bookseller ( Chicago).

V For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers,

JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston,

Late Ticknok & Fields, akd Fields, Osgood, & Co.

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY
Los Angeles

This book is DUE on the last date stamped below.

Form L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444

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REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY

AA 000 369 295 i