m '■■■':'■■'■ 
 
 MISTRESS 
 
 QUEST 
 
 ADELINE 
 SERGEAN 
 
GIFT OF 
 
 
THE 
 
 MISTRESS OF QUEST 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 ADELINE SERGEANT 
 
 AUTHOR OF THE SURRENDER OF MARGARET BELLARMINE, 
 THE STORY OF A PENITENT SOUL, UNDER FALSE PRETENCES, ETC. 
 
 
 ' 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 1895 
 
Copyright, 1895, 
 By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 
 
P ¥\ 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I.— Quest 1 
 
 II. — Baby Lisbeth's protector 9 
 
 III. — The scene changes 17 
 
 IV. — The dead past 25 
 
 V. — Alone in the world 33 
 
 VI. — Mr. Creighton's advertisement .... 41 
 
 VII. — By the quarry 49 
 
 VIII. — An unwelcome guest 57 
 
 IX. — Conditions 65 
 
 X. — In the moonlight ....... 73 
 
 XI. — The new life 81 
 
 XH. — The die is cast ....... 89 
 
 XI1L— By Crosthwaite Tarn 98 
 
 XIV. — " Look before you leap ! " 106 
 
 XV. — Julian's wish 115 
 
 XVI.— Love or life? .123 
 
 XVII. — "I will remember" 132 
 
 XVIII.— By the tarn 141 
 
 XIX. — Seeking and finding 149 
 
 XX.— " Murder ! " 158 
 
 XXI. — Sinned against or sinning? 167 
 
 XXII.— Forgiveness 175 
 
 XXIII.— " Come ! " 184 
 
 XXIV.— The trial 192 
 
 XXV.— His wife 201 
 
 XXVI. — ' ; Good-bye, sweetheart " 209 
 
 XXVII. — Mrs. Creighton's youngest daughter . . . 219 
 
 XXVIIL— Julian's friend 227 
 
 284303 
 
i v CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXIX. — In which Edmund is diplomatic . . . 236 
 
 XXX. — A marriage day 245 
 
 XXXI. — A MISSING VOLUME 253 
 
 XXXII.— After two years . 2G1 
 
 XXXI1L— Mrs. Creighton's suggestions . . . .269 
 
 XXXIV.— Retribution 278 
 
 XXXV.— In the dusk 287 
 
 XXXVI.— A STRONG APPEAL 295 
 
 XXXVII.— In hospital 303 
 
 XXXVIII. — Edmund makes amends 312 
 
 XXXIX.— Too late 320 
 
 XL.— Farewell to Quest 329 
 
THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 QUEST. 
 
 Hill and valley lay silent in the baking heat of a sultry 
 summer afternoon. There was no breeze, not even on the 
 fell, where usually a light wind was wafted in the hottest 
 days of July. Bat on this day the branches of the larches 
 and rowan trees drooped motionless over the waters of the 
 Force, and they themselves seemed to trickle languidly, as 
 if their life were half extinguished by the summer drought. 
 The sky was cloudless, and the rugged sides of the moun- 
 tains seemed actually to quiver in the sunlight. Every 
 fragment of flint on the roadside glittered like a diamond; 
 the black and purple tints of the moorland were transfig- 
 ured in a golden haze. 
 
 It was a day such as comes only now and then to the 
 wild Cumberland fell-sides, and it touched even the sullen 
 tarns among the mountain fastnesses and the bare stretches 
 of upland, scanty in pasture, yellowed by the heat, to a new 
 beauty and a splendour of colour such as no artist would 
 fail to recognise. 
 
 High up among the hills, just between two great ascend- 
 ing spurs, with a background of receding mountains, and a 
 sloping space before it, stood a grey stone house, with a low 
 roof and quaint little dormer windows. A mountain stream 
 dashed past it, with many a little natural fall and break, on 
 its way from the tarns among the hills, to join the river in 
 the valley far below. This stream was edged with low- 
 
 1 
 
2 THE MlST.ftESS OF QUEST. 
 
 growing frees, wdIow,; mountain ash, and elder tree; but 
 there were no " forest kings" in the vicinity, and the house 
 stood bare and square without shadowing verdure of any 
 kind. But for at least part of the day it lay in the shadow 
 of the great hill on one of its sides, and was preserved there- 
 fore from the glare ; and the garden that stretched in front 
 of it was a glow of bloom. 
 
 Hardy annuals grew there freely, and at present the 
 glory of the farmhouse garden was a mass of phlox, in dif- 
 ferent shades of crimson, pink, and white — a mass of colour 
 which almost filled the beds, and left little room for any 
 other plant to display itself. But there were other flowers, 
 less pretentious, but sweet and homely, in the corners of the 
 garden and under the grey stone walls. Mignonette grew 
 lavishly, and honeysuckle climbed about the stones; tiger- 
 lilies in a stately row were not yet over, and sunflowers and 
 hollyhocks scarcely in blossom gave ample promise of glo- 
 ries yet to come. Near the porch and over it, a great bush 
 of traveller's joy had spread, and twined, and twisted from 
 time immemorial; strangers stopped to look at it as they 
 went past, for it was rumoured to be as old as the house 
 itself, and the house had been built in its original form some 
 three hundred years ago. 
 
 Quest, the place was called, and few knew how or why. 
 An antiquarian was reported to have said that it had once 
 been called Quest Royal, and had been built as a sort of 
 keeper's lodge in days when mighty hunters came that way. 
 Who the royal personages might be who looked for sport in 
 the wilds of Cumberland in its confessedly savage times he 
 could not undertake to say. Its owner, Farmer Verrall, set- 
 tled the matter as far as he was concerned by declaring with 
 a great laugh that neither kings nor princes had ever come 
 his way, and that as the house had been called in his great- 
 grandfather's day, so it should be called in his. please God. 
 And he did not see why people should hunt about for rea- 
 sons of things that had always been, and always would be. 
 Whence it may be seen that Farmer Verrall was a man of 
 what is sometimes termed '* the old school." 
 
QUEST. 3 
 
 Verrall was in reality deeply attached to his old house. 
 He loved every stick and stone of it — from the queer old 
 weathercock on the gable, and the carved date and initials 
 on the stone above the doorway, to the crumbling wainscot 
 panelling in the more ancient rooms, and the stone work 
 about the narrow latticed windows. The house had been 
 enlarged more than once, and stood much in the shape of 
 the letter L : the shorter end forming the old and foremost 
 portion of the building, the long line of the letter being 
 made by a newer wing. It was a roomier old place than it 
 at first appeared ; and it had the advantage — not much ap- 
 preciated by its occupants — of possessing a magnificent view 
 of the valley below. The panorama on a clear bright day 
 of sloping moorland, of rich pasture, through which ran the 
 silver river on whose banks a grey little town with its spires 
 and towers was picturesquely placed, was exceedingly beau- 
 tiful, and formed a great contrast to the beetle-browed crags 
 at the foot of which, or amongst which, rather, stood the old 
 farmhouse of Quest. 
 
 The farm buildings were further back, not readily to be 
 distinguished at a little distance from the purple-grey slates 
 of the hill against which they were set. Usually there was 
 a great appearance of life about the place; birds and beasts 
 made a pleasant clatter ; men and maids came and went; 
 the doors stood hospitably open, and there was a ready wel- 
 come for any toiling passer-by who liked to ask for a drink 
 of milk and a crust of bread. But on this afternoon there 
 was not a sound stirring. Perhaps the heat had silenced 
 the cheerful voices, and stayed the too eager steps. If the 
 observer had looked a little more closely, however, he might 
 have divined that sickness or sorrow had given rise to this 
 unusual stiliness, rather than the heat of the day. In one 
 room the blind was down, the sash of the window raised, 
 the white curtains seen to be flapping a little as a faint 
 breeze got up. The faces of the servants, occasionally ap- 
 pearing at door or window, were still and silent : the farm 
 labourers avoided the house as much as possible. Some- 
 thing at Quest was very much amiss. 
 
4 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 Once a little boy of six or seven years old ran out into 
 the yard with a toy in his hand, and stood bareheaded in 
 the sunshine. He was a lean, lank little fellow, with plenty 
 of muscle for his age, and a shock of fair hair above his 
 deep-set eyes;— not a very prepossessing child, but curiously 
 different from the average farmer's offspring in that district. 
 Yet it was Farmer Verrall's only son, and he was not unlike 
 his father. He stood there for some time, pouting and 
 frowning, as if vexed at something which had just occurred ; 
 and even the advent of an old labourer in a smock-frock, 
 with a pitchfork over his shoulder, did not disturb him. 
 
 A buxom servant girl appeared at the kitchen door at 
 that moment, and to her the labourer addressed himself in 
 a subdued tone. 
 
 " How goes it, Kezia ? " 
 
 Kezia shook her head. " Ah reckon hoo'll last till sun- 
 down," she replied. 
 
 u Hech!" The old man made a guttural click in his 
 throat, to express regret. 
 
 " Hoo was a gradely lass," he murmured, as he turned 
 away. 
 
 "Zadock," said Kezia, sharply, but still in a subdued 
 voice, " what art a-doin' oot i' this fell heat ? Coom thy 
 way in." 
 
 Zadock turned his sullen grey eyes upon her, but did not 
 move. 
 
 " Coom in, luve, an' ah'll gie thee a caake," said Kezia, try- 
 ing the coaxing vein. 
 
 Still Zadock did not budge. 
 
 "Ah marvel at thee being a bad boy — trouble in the 
 hoose an' all. Tha sister'll be dead afore night, an 1 mebbe 
 thou' 11 be sorry." 
 
 For all answer to this, the boy ran straight from her into 
 the deep cool recesses of the barn, where he knew that he 
 was safe from Kezia even if she followed him ; for she could 
 not track him through certain intricacies of a way which 
 he had made for himself into a loft, and there he hid him- 
 self completely. 
 
QUEST. 5 
 
 " Such a limb o' Satan ah never saw," said Kezia, return- 
 ing to her kitchen, and detailing her experiences. 
 
 Meanwhile Zadock waited until her steps had died away 
 upon the flagstones before proceeding to bury his face in the 
 hay and cry outright. Kezia had never seen him cry in that 
 way since he was born — not even when his father had taken 
 the big cart- whip to him for telling a lie. Old Verrall was 
 a Puritan in grain, rigid and inflexible to the core, and 
 Zadock resembled him, point by point, in temperament and 
 characteristics. The boy was scarcely ever known to shed a 
 tear. 
 
 But now he wept vigorously, with short, hardly sup- 
 pressed cries, and choking sobs, and contortions of his limbs 
 — only as a child weeps in some great agony. There was 
 little noise about his grief; the heaving sighs, the bitter 
 tears, were almost silent, even if vehement. It was long 
 before he grew calm, and then he lay for some time face 
 downward in the hay, without answering one or two muffled 
 calls that came to him from the yard. 
 
 By this time the sun was declining, and its rays lay long 
 and level along the hillsides, emphasising every blazing 
 stone, every scorched tuft of grass, and every low wall, with 
 black lines of shadow, which gradually grew softer and less 
 distinct. A golden beam found its way through an aperture 
 in the wooden wall of the place where Zadock had found 
 refuge. He lifted his head and stared at it. He knew what 
 it meant. The sun was going down. And Kezia had said 
 that his sister, whom he called Lizzy, and whom her hus- 
 band with his new-fangled ways always addressed as Lisa, 
 would die at sundown. He accepted Kezia's verdict as in- 
 fallible. Of course Lizzy would die — his beloved Lizzy, who 
 was always sweet and beautiful and good, she would die and 
 go to heaven ; and he, being a bad, wicked boy, as everybody 
 told him in his little world, would go to hell. He should 
 never see her any more. 
 
 The desolation of his soul was so great at this thought 
 that he would have cried again had not his mind received a 
 new impression. He heard swift wheels approaching the 
 
6 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 farmhouse. They came from the valley — they belonged 
 then to the doctor's dogcart. Perhaps the doctor could do 
 Lizzy some good. Perhaps he would say she was not going 
 to die. He scrambled out of his nest among the hay, and, 
 still unconsciously clasping his toy cart under his arm, he 
 scrambled along the beams, dropped on the wooden partition, 
 and, after hanging for a moment by both hands to the top, 
 let himself down to the ground. 
 
 As he ran out the doctor was entering at the gate. He 
 was a kindly-looking, weather-beaten man, with grey hair 
 and whiskers, rather ponderous in his movements, but con- 
 veying in some mysterious way a conviction that he was a 
 man whom you could trust. Zadock Verrall knew this quite 
 well, although he was not eight years old. He ran up to 
 Dr. Spencer, tugged at his coat-tails, and breathlessly asked 
 his question— 
 
 " My Lizzy ! Be she going to die ? " 
 
 Kezia would have rebuked him for hard-heartedness ; 
 the doctor knew better. He looked at the sturdy little figure 
 in its blue blouse and hob-nailed boots, with the toy cart 
 crushed under its arm ; at the tousled mop of hair, in which 
 dust and hay-seed and straw were conspicuous ; at the 
 swollen eyelids and rosy face, all disfigured by much crying, 
 and he answered with a touch of tenderness which he had 
 never thought to show the boy who was the veriest imp of 
 mischief in the country side. 
 
 u God's going to take her home, my lad," he said, serious- 
 ly, and not without some moisture in his eye. 
 
 " She've got a whoame here wi' us," said the boy, paus- 
 ing. 
 
 " Ah, well," said Dr. Spencer, more to himself than to 
 Zadock, " we think little enough of that other one, without 
 a doubt. Here, my boy, do you want to see Lizzy again ? " 
 
 Zadock nodded: his throat was too full for speech. 
 
 " Come up with me, then— very softly, mind ; if you make 
 a noise you'll be put out." 
 
 " I wean't make noa noise," said Zadock, gruffly. At last 
 he remembered his toy, threw it down on the ground, and 
 
QUEST. 7 
 
 followed the doctor. When, at the bedroom door, Dr. 
 Spencer looked round he saw the childish face set into so 
 exact an image of his father's grim features that he lifted 
 his eyebrows in amaze, and spoke no further warning word. 
 " One can trust a lad who looks like that," was the thought 
 that glimmered through the doctor's mind. 
 
 Elizabeth Lorimer, the farmer's married daughter, lay- 
 dying. She was only nineteen years of age, and she had 
 scarcely been married a full year. Her short life had been 
 a very happy one, and she seemed as full of vigour as of 
 beauty. She was certainly a very beautiful woman ; but the 
 vigour had perhaps been more apparent than real, for she 
 was sinking into her grave from sheer exhaustion after the 
 birth of her little girl. Zadock, who had not seen her for 
 many days, hardly knew her now that she was so white, so 
 wan, with such blue tints about the pinched mouth and nose, 
 such violet shadows on the half-closed eyelids. If he had 
 not given his promise to be quiet, he would have called out 
 — "That is not my Lizzy; not my Lizzy at all. Where have 
 you taken sister Liz ? " 
 
 The dying woman's husband was kneeling beside her, 
 with his head buried in the bedclothes. It was not neces- 
 sary for him to lift his face to betray the fact that he was 
 " a gentleman " : no common yeoman of the wolds and fells. 
 The way he wore his rough clothes, the way his hair was 
 cut, the whiteness of his hands, his very posture, in spite of 
 his want of self-restraint, betrayed him. He was sobbing 
 now — sobbing aloud, and murmuring incoherent curses or 
 prayers: nobody could quite tell what; and his wife's pale 
 hand rested softly on his black curly hair. James Lorimer 
 was an artist by profession, and he had the artistic tempera- 
 ment : that is to say, he was easily swayed by gusts of pas- 
 sion, and by fitful storms of love or hate. He had been des- 
 perately in love with the farmer's daughter, whom he had 
 wooed and won ; and had been quite content, after a winter 
 abroad, to spend spring and summer at her father's house. 
 But now she was dying, after this one short year of happi- 
 ness : no power on earth could save her; and Lorimer 
 
8 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. _ 
 
 sounded a gulf of despair which hitherto he had never 
 known. 
 
 " Jim ! " the feeble voice sounded at last ; and he checked 
 his sobs to listen. " Jim ! " 
 
 " Yes, my own darling. " 
 
 " I'm going, Jim. . . . You won't forget me ? " 
 
 " Never — never — never ! " 
 
 " We've been very happy, Jim. Tell father so. Father 
 . . . you don't know how happy I've been. It seems — 
 rather hard — to go." 
 
 There was a moment's silence in the room. The cry of a 
 baby's voice was suddenly heard, and Lisa opened her eyes 
 widely and looked from face to face. 
 
 " Bring me my baby," she said almost imperiously. " I 
 want to see her again. Please bring her, nurse." 
 
 The tiny red-faced creature was laid beside her, and she 
 looked at it with a wistful little smile. 
 
 " Do you think she will be — like me — when she grows 
 up ? " she asked. " What is her name to be, Jim ? " 
 
 " We call it after you, Lisa. It was christened Eliza- 
 beth." 
 
 " You will remember me— by her," she said faintly, and 
 closed her eyes again. When she opened them, they fell 
 full upon her half-brother, Zadock, who was standing at the 
 foot of the bed, regarding her pallid face with awe. A look 
 of comprehension came into the dying woman's eyes. Next 
 to Jim, it was Zadock who wanted comfort most. 
 
 "Let Zadock come here — close to me," she whispered. 
 " Zadock, do you see— the baby— my little baby ? " 
 
 Zadock nodded assent. 
 
 " You love me, don't you, Zadock ? I want you to love 
 baby, too. You'll be good to baby, will you not ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Zadock, with a gulp. He had always 
 hated babies before, but he would love this one for Lizzy's 
 sake. 
 
 " Kiss me," said the dying girl, with a happy smile; and 
 then she let them take the babe away from her, and turned 
 her face once more to her husband's longing eyes. But the 
 
BABY LISBETH'S PROTECTOR. 9 
 
 change had come: her last request was spoken, her farewell 
 kiss bestowed. Zadock had had both, and he never lost the 
 memory of either. She died at sundown, with her husband's 
 hand in hers. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 BABY LISBETH'S PROTECTOR. 
 
 The Gap, as the spot where Quest stood was called, had 
 attained a certain amount of celebrity among landscape 
 painters, on account of the exquisite views of hill and vale 
 which could be obtained in its vicinity. The reputation of 
 the place had brought James Lorimer, a young and rising 
 artist, to spend a summer among the Cumberland fells ; and 
 it was here that he met Lizzy Verrall, the daughter of 
 Farmer Verrall of Quest. From the first moment he fell 
 wildly in love with her, and lost no time in apprising her of 
 his love. Lizzy was very simple, very loving, very dutiful : 
 she would not for the world have married James Lorimer 
 if her father had disapproved ; but she had not to meet with 
 the opposition that she feared. 
 
 John Verrall, shrewd in his way, was not very worldly- 
 wise ; and it seemed to him that he was rather condescend- 
 ing to James Lorimer by giving him his daughter, than 
 advancing her interests in any respect. He liked the young 
 man in a friendly, patronising sort of way : Lorimer seemed 
 to have no vices ; he neither smoked, swore, drank, or 
 flirted : he was absorbed in his art and in his love for Lizzy. 
 He had one hundred and fifty pounds a year of his own, and 
 he could sometimes— as he modestly said— manage to sell a 
 picture. He promised to bring Lizzy back to her father's 
 house every year, for three months if not for six ; and after 
 some very little hesitation the farmer yielded to his daugh- 
 ter's solicitations, and the marriage took place. 
 
 It was by no means an unsuccessful marriage. There 
 was love on both sides. And Lizzy— or Lisa, as James Lori- 
 
10 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 mer always called her — was of a very receptive nature, easily 
 moulded into the semblance of culture and social usage. 
 Refinement she possessed by nature to an uncommon de- 
 gree ; and it speaks well for her tact that never once did 
 James Lorimer find himself incommoded by mistakes, by 
 misapprehension, by jealousy or ill temper on his wife's part. 
 Indeed, she had a really fine nature of peculiar calmness 
 and discrimination ; but her husband, lost in admiration of 
 her hair and eyes and complexion, valued her moral and 
 mental character much less than her beauty, and even when 
 he sorrowed for her most, never realised the full extent of 
 his loss. 
 
 After the winter abroad, Lorimer had brought his wife 
 to Quest, as he had promised the farmer he would do. She 
 had particularly wanted her baby to be born at Quest. And 
 Lorimer liked the place : he made plenty of his light, bright, 
 amateurish sketches of fell side scenery while he was in the 
 neighbourhood, and he amused himself by occasional excur- 
 sions to the bigger towns of the county. Lisa was calmly 
 happy in her old home. 
 
 When her husband was absent, she made a companion 
 of her half-brother, Zadock, and won his heart to a more 
 passionate devotion to her than to any other person in the 
 world — not excepting his own mother. The second Mrs. 
 Verrall was a placid, comfortable, characterless person, who 
 w T as not likely to impress her individuality very strongly on 
 anybody. Zadock, hitherto unruly and unmanageable, was 
 completely under Lisa's control ; and her death was as great 
 a grief and loss to him as any child of his age could be called 
 on to undergo. 
 
 Dreary beyond description were the days that intervened 
 between the death and the funeral of poor Elizabeth Lori- 
 mer. The old farmer was as broken-hearted as the husband. 
 The very servants went about with tears in their eyes and 
 solemn looks upon their faces. Quest would never be the 
 same place again, they opined, u after this." And certainly 
 to James Lorimer it could never be the same. 
 
 He said as much to John Verrall, when the funeral was 
 
BABY LISBETH'S PROTECTOR. 11 
 
 over, and the two men sat together late at night in the great 
 kitchen or u houseplace," where the huge rafters and beams 
 of the roof, the heavy wooden furniture, the shining tins 
 and crockery, the red-flagged floor, and yellow- washed walls 
 were in turn illuminated by a flash of flame that crept up 
 between the red-hot smouldering peat with which the grate 
 was half -filled. 
 
 The farmer always smoked his pipe by this fire before 
 going to bed ; sometimes, indeed, he sat there half the even- 
 ing, but James Lorimer seldom joined him. The little par- 
 lour was intolerable to him ; but Lisa, with a keen appre- 
 ciation of her husband's temperament, and her husband's 
 needs, had turned one of the upper rooms into a studio for 
 him— a really charming studio— rough, indeed, but pictur- 
 esque, with a good light and plenty of space for movement ; 
 and here in the evenings Lorimer usually sat with her and 
 smoked a cigarette. It was the remembrance of these even- 
 ings that made even the studio unbearable to him now. He 
 preferred the kitchen, and the old man's pipe. Something 
 also of the community of sorrow drew the hearts of the two 
 men together. 
 
 "Ay," said the farmer, with a long-drawn breath, "Quest 
 '11 be a changed place now, it will." 
 
 His accent was provincial, but not utterly rustic, like 
 that of the men on the farm. Lorimer used to think it vil- 
 lainous, but he stopped to notice that it did not grate upon 
 him now. 
 
 " I can't bear to stay here," said the young man, his head 
 resting on his hands. "I feel as if I should go mad— to 
 stay— where she lived and died— and is buried— God in 
 Heaven! don't you all look upon me as a murderer? I 
 wonder you didn't cast me into the grave along with her— I 
 wish you had ! " 
 
 "It is the Lord that gave, and the Lord that taketh 
 away," said the farmer, solemnly; "blessed be the name of 
 the Lord. Young man, it would be better for thee to go 
 away for a time— to travel in strange lands, and leave us 
 here with our dead. I should have borne thee a grudge, lad, 
 
12 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 if thou hadst laid our girl far away from us. We fell-folk 
 like to keep together, in life or death." 
 
 " There is no place I care to go to," said Lorimer, lifting 
 his head a little, and staring sullenly into the fire. He had 
 not heard half that Farmer Verrall bad said. 
 
 " I heard talk of Algery, or some such outlandish place," 
 said the farmer, after a pause. 
 
 " Yes— with her — with her. Don't you see that it makes 
 all the difference ? How can I bear to go alone ? It is noth- 
 ing to me without her — without my Lisa." 
 
 The farmer was silent. Lorimer's passionate, uncon- 
 trolled grief was mysterious to him. He himself could 
 hardly say a w 7 ord about his own, and yet his heart was 
 heavy with the sense of loss. " Thee'd best go, lad," he said, 
 with rough kindness. " Lizzy'd think none the more o' thee 
 for making thyself miserable. Go and travel about a bit, 
 and paint thy pictures, if thee will. If th' hast no money, 
 take mine. My purse is open to thee, for Lizzy's sake." 
 
 "You were always kind, Mr. Verrall," said Lorimer, 
 vehemently. " Kinder than I deserve. I thank you from 
 the bottom of my heart. But I've got as much money as I 
 want— for the present. It's the child I've been thinking of; 
 what am I to do with the child ? " 
 
 The farmer pondered. " Thee's got no kith or kin— sis- 
 ters, aunts, and so on— as would like to rear it for thee ? " 
 
 " Not one. Not one I can ask, at any rate," said Lorimer, 
 hastily. 
 
 " It beats me, then," said Verrall, slowly, "to know why 
 thee dostn't leave it here. Mother 'ud be fain to see after 
 it." 
 
 " Leave it here ? " said Jim Lorimer. " Leave it here ? " 
 
 He had not thought of that. He had already been vague- 
 ly impatient of the vista of possibilities opening out before 
 him — the prospect of a nursery establishment, of a nurse, of 
 a baby's requirements. What was he to do— a man to whom 
 marriage even had brought no peculiarly sobering domestic 
 influence— as a young widower with a motherless infant ? 
 The situation might have its pathos; but for Jim Lorimer 
 
BABY LISBETH'S PROTECTOR. 13 
 
 there was something in it of the ridiculous, too. Domesticity 
 had never been his line. 
 
 To leave the child here, at the farmhouse, where she 
 would probably be the centre of love and care such as could 
 not be bought, such as could not possibly be procured for 
 her elsewhere : was not this the best solution of the difficulty? 
 True, there was the roughness of the life, the want of refine- 
 ment, to be faced; but if this had not hurt Lisa, why should 
 it hurt Lisa's child ? Besides, Lorimer reflected, when the 
 little girl was three or four years old, he could take her away 
 from Quest and send her to board elsewhere, until she was 
 old enough to go to a first-rate London school. 
 
 He closed gratefully, therefore, with Farmer Verrall's 
 offer. He would leave Baby Elizabeth with Mrs. Verrall for 
 a few months, at least, while he went abroad. He remarked, 
 dismally enough, that life had lost its savour to him, and 
 that he might behold all the kingdoms of the world and the 
 glory of them without any appreciable result; but the 
 farmer, being a shrewd man, shook his head a little over 
 this sentiment, and without opposing it in words, said to 
 himself that the day would come when Jim Lorimer would 
 think differently. For, after all, he was but twenty-three, 
 and he had been Lisa's husband something less than one 
 short year. 
 
 So, in a few days, Lorimer departed, after a passion of 
 grief over his baby's cradle, which won him the heart of 
 every woman at Quest. Curiously enough, it did not win 
 him the heart of one of Lisa's sincerest mourners, the small 
 Zadock, who was discovered by Kezia in the act of aiming a 
 stone at Lorimer's horse as he rode away. 
 
 " What's that for, tha bad boy ? " 
 
 u Cause I hates him," said Zadock. 
 
 " Thee ought to love him; tha sister loved him." 
 
 Whereupon Zadock scandalised the women-folk by 
 shouting loudly " 
 
 " Ay, but he don't love her." 
 
 4k Aw, then, harken to th' bad boy ! " 
 
 "He didn't love her," said Zadock, obstinately, u an' 
 2 
 
14 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 he doan't love baby, neither ; an' he'll forget 'em to- 
 morrer." 
 
 Mrs. Verrall was so much shocked, when these observa- 
 tions were repeated to her, that, mild woman as she usually 
 was, she formally requested her husband to give Zadock 
 " the stick," and was a little aggrieved when the farmer, for 
 once in a way, declined. 
 
 " Zadock's got more sense sometimes than those that be 
 older," he remarked sententiously. And Mrs. Verrall was 
 obliged to hold her peace. 
 
 For one thing, she said, she could not be too thankful — 
 that Zadock had taken such a fancy to the baby. If he 
 had been its enemy, Mrs. Verrall knew well that the house- 
 hold would have no peace. Zadock was as mischievous as 
 he was strong and clever ; and not without fits of malice 
 and naughtiness in which he was the despair of his friends. 
 But, as it happened, the baby was received into his especial 
 favour, and he considered himself her particular friend and 
 defender. Before the child was two years old she had 
 come to know that Zadock was not only her friend and 
 protector but her slave. And for her sake it also became 
 evident that Zadock would exert himself to be "good." 
 What neither parent nor schoolmaster could effect in sub- 
 duing a particularly rebellious disposition, was managed 
 without the slightest difficulty by a baby girl. 
 
 There was a great storm when Jim Lorimer visited 
 Quest again, because Kezia had declared that " Baby 'Lis- 
 beth " would have to go away with him. Zadock raged 
 and sulked alternately for hours, until it was discovered, to 
 the relief of every one concerned, that Mr. Lorimer did not 
 want his baby daughter in the very least, nor was he anx- 
 ious to remove her from the Verralls' care. "Whereupon, 
 the cloud was lifted from Zadock's brow, and all the house- 
 hold breathed again. 
 
 This was when " Lisbeth," as they called her, was three 
 years old, and it was the first visit that Lorimer had paid 
 to the Verralls since his wife's death. He gave no expla- 
 nation and vouchsafed no excuses for his long absence and 
 
BABY LISBETH'S PROTECTOR. 15 
 
 silence ; but when Mrs. Verrall inquired anxiously whether 
 he wished to take the child away with him he started, 
 flushed deeply, and asked if she were tired of her charge. 
 
 " Not a bit," said Mrs. Verrall, rather indignantly, " but 
 I thought ye'd be wanting your own child ! " 
 
 " It's not always so easy for a man to arrange," Jim be- 
 gan ; and the good woman took up the sentence with a 
 touch of self-reproach in her tone. 
 
 " No, it's not ; special-like for a widow-man." And she 
 wondered why he blushed again so deeply and made a 
 sudden movement of impatience. " We'll keep her, an' wel- 
 come, Mr. Lorimer "—Mrs. Verrall had never ventured to 
 call him Jim— 1 ' and hopes you think she does us credit." 
 
 " Certainly she does," said Lorimer, not unkindly. But 
 his tone was devoid of tenderness. He was a much harder- 
 looking man now than when he wept over his baby's 
 cradle three years before. 
 
 The child was certainly beautiful — well -featured, clear- 
 complexioned, with magnificent eyes and curly rings of 
 dark hair : fat, clean, rosy, evidently of splendid physique 
 in every way ; but, to Jim's thinking, absolutely unlike her 
 dead mother. And this was — to Jim Lorimer — half a dis- 
 appointment, half a relief. 
 
 He had idealised Lisa, without knowing it, during the 
 last three years. She had come to mean something be- 
 tween an angel and a heroine of romance to him. He 
 forgot that she had ever had red hands or spoken bad 
 grammar. She was grace, beauty, perfection incarnate ; 
 and her daughter ought to be just like her too. 
 
 Jim found Lisbeth quite an ordinary child. 
 
 She had a deplorable accent, and a ragged frock, and 
 her hair w r as all over her eyes. She was not like his Lisa 
 at all ; she was rough, common, coarse. And, on the 
 whole, he had come to the conclusion that he liked a fair 
 style rather than a dark style of beauty ; not that there was 
 any beauty in Lisbeth to admire. 
 
 He insisted on paying certain sums of money for her 
 maintenance, and went away, promising to return very 
 
IQ THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 shortly. But a somewhat untoward accident which hap- 
 pened at this juncture perhaps helped to make him more 
 and more unwilling to return to Quest. 
 
 As he was leaving the house, Zadock stood in waiting at 
 the gate. He did not try this time to throw a stone at 
 Lorimer's horse ; he was older now, and did what was 
 worse instead — threw a jeering word. 
 
 " I alius said you didn't care for our Lizzy," he called 
 out, defiantly, although Baby Lisbeth was clinging to his 
 hand, and Mrs. Yerrall was looking over the garden wall. 
 
 Jim Lorimer turned white with wrath. It was possibly 
 not to be wondered at that he lifted his riding-whip and 
 struck the boy : he was not a man of any self-restraint, and 
 the lad's words had an unfortunate sting in them. But he 
 struck carelessly, and more heavily than he knew. When 
 he rode off, Zadock was lying in the road, with the blood 
 flowing from a cut in the head. But Mrs. Verrall had 
 rushed out to her boy's assistance, and Lorimer had waited 
 to make a slight apology, and to see him return to con- 
 sciousness. He had fallen on a flint and cut himself — it 
 was not Lorimer's blow that had done mischief, and neither 
 Farmer Verrall nor his wife ever thought of blaming Jim 
 Lorimer in the affair. 
 
 But the unfortunate thing was that Zadock was never 
 quite the same after that accident as he had been before. A 
 sort of cloud seemed to settle down upon him : a dulness and 
 depression which could not be defined. The simple folk at 
 Quest did not recognise it as illness: they did not connect it 
 particularly with Zadock's fall and Jim Lorimer's blow; but 
 they spoke of it as occurring after Lorimer's last visit, with- 
 out following out any sequence of cause or effect. Zadock 
 was a good lad in these dull days — a far better-behaved lad 
 than he would have been without Jim Lorimer's blow, but 
 he had not the same force and fire, the same brightness and 
 activity of mind. 
 
 Lorimer came again when Lisbeth was eight years old; 
 found her a sunburnt, rampant, hoyden of a girl, with plenty 
 of muscular development, and no education at all, retired in 
 
THE SCENE CHANGES. tf 
 
 disgust, and never returned. Farmer Verrall lost, or mis- 
 took his address, and finally gave up all hope or desire of 
 hearing from him. Lisbeth was " his girl, not Lorimer's," 
 he declared ; and not all the fathers in the world should step 
 in now to take the girl away from Quest. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 THE SCENE CHANGES. 
 
 It was a London drawing-room in a West-End square. 
 Not the most fashionable of squares, but a respectable square: 
 one which seemed intended to represent the quintessence of 
 conventional prosperity and propriety. The houses were 
 mostly of stone, with black doors ornamented by polished 
 brass handles and knockers, and furnished with enormous 
 lamps over the doorway. In summer, when the balconies 
 were filled with flowers, and the enclosure inside the square 
 was green with foliage, the houses looked cheerful enough ; 
 but in a November fog few places can pretend to cheerful- 
 ness, and Croyland Square was no exception to this rule. 
 The air was dark and heavy: the leafless boughs of the trees 
 had a melancholy air, and the want of colour and life which 
 characterised the appearance of most of the houses was de- 
 cidedly depressing. 
 
 Once inside the black doors, in many cases, the scene was 
 absolutely changed. Brightness, warmth, comfort, were all 
 to be found inside the grey stone walls, with their sombre 
 narrow windows outlined in black, and their dripping, 
 dreary porticoes. Enter the door of number twenty-one, 
 for instance, and you passed at once from London in No- 
 vember to a veritable fairy-land. 
 
 All had been done that could be done by way of exclud- 
 ing fog, regulating temperature, emulating sunshine. The 
 electric lights were softened by shades of amber and rose- 
 colour: the numerous gauze-like hangings in palest rose and 
 
18 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 silver tints were renewed so frequently that they had no 
 time to be spoiled by London smuts. There was a perfume 
 of flowers up and down the softly-carpeted stairs: the tinkle 
 of water sounded from a fountain in the conservatory, and 
 a twitter of birds' voices showed the existence of an aviary. 
 From some unseen corner came the long-continued cooing 
 of turtle doves. Nothing met eye or ear but what was pleas- 
 ant, soothing, and harmonious. The decorations of the 
 house had been chosen with exquisite skill, and one of its 
 best-known decorations consisted in the pictures which hung 
 upon the walls. They were of some value, but had been 
 chosen with less regard to their money worth than to some 
 quality of taste, colour, light, or shade which had made them 
 exactly the right thing to be hung in the artistically-fur- 
 nished house of the well-known landscape painter, James 
 Lorimer, A. R. A. 
 
 On this dull afternoon in November the house was very 
 full of light and warmth. The master had given orders that 
 daylight should be excluded as soon as possible, coloured 
 lamps lighted, a fountain set spraying scented water among 
 the flowers. His tastes were sensuous: he hated everything 
 that reminded him of coldness, bleakness, barrenness; and 
 yet, he disliked all that seemed to be glaring or unsubdued. 
 The people who did his bidding always felt that they walked 
 upon egg-shells. With a man whose tastes were so essen- 
 tially delicate and refined, yet, in a sense, so florid, it was 
 almost impossible sometimes to find the exact medium be- 
 tween garish splendour and barren plainness. 
 
 In the little ante-room which lay between the dining- 
 room and the conservatory, on the ground floor, Alys Lori- 
 mer stood and considered the question of her father's tastes. 
 They had never come very prominently before her until 
 within the last few months. She had been at school, or 
 with friends in foreign places. It was only since her 
 eighteenth birthday that she had been told that her father 
 wanted her at home. She was not yet nineteen, and she 
 was wondering whether she liked her present life or not. 
 
 A footstep on the stair that led from the drawing-room 
 
THE SCENE CHANGES. 19 
 
 floor to the conservatory— a contrivance of Mr. Lorimer's 
 own — caused her to look up, and then to change colour. 
 Between the tall palms and orange plants that fringed the 
 steps she saw the alert figure and brown head of a man who 
 had been visiting her father, but who, in spite of that formal 
 visit to Mr. Lorimer, was, as Alys put it to herself, " her own 
 particular friend." She did not move, but a slight smile 
 played about the corners of her lips for a moment, although, 
 by the time that Edmund Creighton reached her side, it 
 had faded away, and left her fair face rather unusually 
 grave. 
 
 "I was hoping that I should find you here," said the 
 young man. He was the junior partner in a firm of solicit- 
 ors, who had long had the management of Mr. Lorimer's 
 business. It was a very good position for a man of seven or 
 eight and twenty; but one, the world agreed to add, of 
 which Edmund Creighton was fully worthy. He was hon- 
 est and he was clever— two valuable qualifications for a 
 lawyer. He was also good-looking, he had charming man- 
 ners, and he was a favourite with men as well as women. 
 Perhaps, we should rather say. with men more than with 
 women, as a general rule, for women were apt to distinguish 
 a flavour of self-esteem and self-seeking in Mr. Creighton's 
 character, too subtle to be discovered by the less analytic 
 male. 
 
 He was a little below rather than above the usual height, 
 with a smooth, cropped, brown head, a keen, handsome face, 
 without moustache or beard, but with an indication of the 
 professional-looking half-inch of whiskers, which he after- 
 wards cultivated assiduously; remarkably well-kept hands, 
 and scrupulously neat and careful dress. His eye was cool 
 and grey, his mouth somewhat thin, but his smile pleasant; 
 and he had the advantage of a very sweet and well-trained 
 voice. As he looked at Alys, it was easy to see that the 
 gentler side of him was touched at the sight of her. ' 
 
 She was a pleasant sight, as she stood in her white dress 
 with her back to a great velvet curtain which was drawn 
 over the window at that end of the room. She looked al- 
 
20 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 most like a very delicately-tinted statue, thrown into strong 
 relief by the background of rich drapery against which she 
 stood. She was of middle height— for a woman : nearly as 
 tall in reality as Edmund Creighton ; and graceful of out- 
 line. She had very little colour, and her hair was of the 
 rare pale golden that looks like living sunbeams. Her eyes 
 were also of an unusual tint: the deep blue-grey which is 
 sometimes called violet, with lashes much darker than her 
 hair. The fine sensitive features had a very sweet expres- 
 sion, and a look of perfect finish and completeness pervaded 
 her whole being, from the topmost wave of her golden hair 
 to the tip of her slender shoe. It was only when she moved 
 that her one physical defect became apparent. Alys Lori- 
 mer was slightly lame. 
 
 It was a very slight lameness — not congenital, but the re- 
 sult of an accident in babyhood. Her nurse had let her fall 
 out of her arms, and had not confessed the fact until the 
 child's failing health proved that something had gone amiss. 
 The mischief was palliated, but not cured; Alys remained 
 very slightly lame, and would remain so until her dying 
 day. It had never seemed a trouble to her until lately. 
 Her very incapacity had all her life been made an excuse 
 for showering caresses upon her. She had been petted, in- 
 dulged, flattered, all her life. Only of late — as she came to 
 womanhood— did it seem to dawn on her that there could 
 be any real drawback in being a little lame. 
 
 "I was hoping that I should find you here," said Mr. 
 Creighton. 
 
 " Does papa want me ? " she asked, looking up. 
 
 u Mr. Lorimer did not ask for you. On the contrary, I 
 believe he said that you would be so kind as to give me a 
 cup of tea." 
 
 " Oh, certainly. I had told them to bring tea here, where 
 we can see the flowers. It is quite warm now that the big 
 furnace is lighted, is it not ? " 
 
 " Mr. Lorimer knows how to make a house very comfort- 
 able," said Edmund Creighton, glancing around him with 
 a wistful expression. It seemed a pity at that moment that 
 
THE SCENE CHANGES. 21 
 
 he knew — what he had just heard from Mr. Lorimer's own 
 lips. 
 
 Alys moved a step or two towards a lounging-chair and 
 sat down, her slender hands crossed before her in her lap. 
 There was a yellow ribbon round her slim waist, and some 
 loose silver bangles slipped over her wrists. She looked so 
 delicate, so lovely, so unlike other women, Edmund thought, 
 that a strange new flood of love and pity took possession of 
 him and laid its weight upon his tongue. He could but look 
 and long: he could not speak. 
 
 Such silence was unusual in Edmund Oeighton, and 
 Alys was vaguely surprised by it; but she did not know how 
 he had been shocked and amazed that night. 
 
 Tea came in presently, and with the tea came Mr. Lori- 
 mer's favourite Angora cat, with topaz eyes, and Alys's snow- 
 white Eskimo dog. Mr. Lorimer's fastidiousness was visible 
 even in his choice of pets ; they had all to be well bred and 
 beautiful before they were allowed in his house. He knew 
 of but one principle in life — to make things pleasant to ear 
 and eye, body and mind ; and that, in his opinion, was the 
 whole duty of man. 
 
 " Do you think papa better, Mr. Creighton ? " Alys asked 
 earnestly, as she poured out the tea. 
 
 U A good deal better. Perhaps — a little trifle nervous 
 about himself, don't you think ? " Edmund insinuated, as he 
 took his cup from her hand. 
 
 Alys looked indignant. " Oh, Mr. Creighton ! But you 
 don't understand. You see papa is so very sensitive." 
 
 "I suppose so," said Edmund, meekly. 
 
 " And he feels pain so much more than other people do. 
 His organisation is so delicate. He is a great sufferer." 
 
 She sat beside the tea-table, looking at him with a glance 
 of such honest reproach and surprise in her great blue eyes 
 that Edmund Creighton felt extremely uncomfortable. He 
 was out of charity with James Lorimer just then. James 
 Lorimer had told him a fact which was causing him to think 
 of that gentleman as " a selfish brute." 
 
 "Quite so. I am very sorry. I did not mean that he 
 
22 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 was not a sufferer," said young Mr. Creighton, abjectly. " I 
 hope you don't think I would speak disrespectfully of — of 
 any one whom you care for, Miss Lorimer." 
 
 " Oh, no, of course not," said Alys, smoothing her ruffled 
 plumes. "I am sure you would not. Oh, don't give Fluffy 
 cake, please: it offends him so ! Give him muffins." 
 
 " Pampered animal ! " 
 
 " All our pets are pampered a little, I fancy," said Alys, 
 with a sweet girlish laugh. " But it's papa's fault, not mine. 
 He cannot bear to see anybody or anything about him un- 
 comfortable." 
 
 ''Anybody— about him!" Edmund repeated to himself, 
 somewhat bitterly. " Yes— so long as the person was in his 
 sight. But 'out of sight, out of mind,' is a proverb very 
 particularly true with Mr. James Lorimer, I think." 
 
 But it would not have been safe to show a glimmer of 
 this feeling to James Lorimer 's daughter. He went on 
 stroking the cat, and he said in an amiable manner— u Poor 
 pussy,'' but his mind was in a tumult of anger and disap- 
 pointment nevertheless. 
 
 Would he have been human had he felt otherwise ? He 
 loved and admired Alys, but he had not been unmindful of 
 the fact that she was supposed to be an heiress. He had 
 been brought up to consider the importance of a point of 
 that kind; and he had always meant to take the northern 
 farmer's somewhat crude advice, and even if he did not 
 marry for money, to go where money was. Within the 
 last hour he had found out his mistake. Alys would scarce- 
 ly have a penny, roughly speaking, when her father died. 
 And James Lorimer was ill of a mortal disease. 
 
 Alys found him unusually silent. She had known him 
 for a good many years: they had only just left off calling 
 each other by their Christian names (propriety in the shape 
 of a maiden aunt had demanded this sacrifice), and she was 
 in the habit of hearing news and gossip of all sorts from 
 him. To break the silence, she asked after his sister. Ed- 
 mund sat up, and his face broke into a smile. 
 
 "Marcia has got her way," he said. ''She has gone to 
 
THE SCENE CHANGES. 23 
 
 Girton at last. I hope she will be happy there; but I am 
 afraid she is not the girl to profit by that kind of life." 
 
 " What sort of girl," asked Alys, with interest, " would 
 profit by it? Should I?" 
 
 '"Not at all," said Edmund, promptly. 
 
 " You think me so frivolous," said Alys, with a touch of 
 colour coming to her fair cheeks, and a slight pout to the 
 rose-tinted lips. 
 
 " Not in the least ; but — may I say what I think without 
 offending you ? " 
 
 " Of course you may. I do not know why we should be 
 so stiff with one another," said Alys, innocently, " when we 
 have been friends for years and years and years." 
 
 Edmund's eyes glowed. He wanted to press his lips to 
 her slim white hand in gratitude for that simple, over-gra- 
 cious speech ; but he dared not do it yet. All that he dared 
 do he did. 
 
 ''Thank you — thank you: that is really a friendly 
 speech," he said, warmly; "and may I say, 'Thank you, 
 Alys,' just for once ? " 
 
 She smiled ; and he knew that, so far at least, he had not 
 offended her. He plunged recklessly into speech. 
 
 "I am old-fashioned in some of my ideas about women. 
 I like to think that those I care for are safe at home, not 
 needing to work for themselves, lapped in comfort, sheltered 
 and protected. I do not like them to have to push their 
 way alone through a bustling, noisy world. I like them to 
 have a nest of their own, and to stay in it. Such women as 
 you, Alys, are not fitted to cope with the world outside. 
 Neither, I think, is Marcia, who has always been a pet and 
 plaything. You are home- birds, both of you." 
 
 "That is a very nice theory," said Alys, "for the girls 
 who have homes, like Marcia and me; but — suppose we 
 hadn't— suppose we were quite poor " 
 
 "You must never be poor," said Edmund, with what 
 seemed to her quite unnecessary violence. 
 
 U I hope I never shall be," said Alys, with a soft little 
 laugh. " I should not like to be poor." 
 
24: THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 Edmund felt a burning sense of indignation with the 
 man upstairs. If that man died while Alys was unmarried, 
 the girl would be poor — very poor: there was no doubt of 
 that. Of course there was the alternative that James Lori- 
 mer might live for years and years . . . and Alys might 
 marry \erj soon. She was nineteen; and he could not 
 fancy that a man would look at her and not love her. The 
 little imperfection in her gait, even, had a charm for him. 
 When she moved, he always wanted to gather her up in his 
 arms and carry her over rough places. 
 
 The great Angora had jumped up to Alys's knee, and sat 
 there purring softly, while Alys offered it cream out of a 
 dainty saucer in her hand. Edmund stirred and looked at 
 her undecidedly. Should he speak now ? should he not 
 speak ? Did he love her well enough to risk and overbear 
 the opposition that would probably be made by his family 
 to his marriage with a penniless girl ? The world at present 
 thought her rich ; but the secret would have to be disclosed 
 when it came to a question of settlements. 
 
 " Marrying a lame girl without a penny ! " that was how 
 Edmund's family would express the facts. 
 
 He looked sideways at her, and thought how graceful, 
 how charming she was. The murmur of the fountain 
 seemed to make it more difficult to speak. The attention 
 that she gave to the Angora was making it more difficult 
 still. He did not realise that the true difficulty lay in his 
 own will— that he had not yet perhaps quite made up his 
 mind. 
 
 But he hated hesitation. He put out his hand a little 
 way and touched hers : she took the touch for an attempt to 
 caress the purring beast upon her knee. Once he murmured 
 " Alys ! " but she didn't hear. 
 
 Suddenly a bell rang, and Alys jumped up with a rather 
 frightened and guilty face. " It's papa's bell," she said, "and 
 I have forgotten to take him his tea. I am so sorry, Edmund, 
 but I must go. Good-bye. You'll come some other day, 
 will you not ? " 
 
 Edmund was obliged, somewhat unwillingly, to accept 
 
THE DEAD PAST. 25 
 
 his dismissal ; but he was a little consoled by hearing her 
 call him — inadvertently, even — by his Christian name. At 
 the same time he was haunted all the evening afterwards by 
 a couplet which he thought singularly inappropriate — 
 
 He that will not when he may, 
 When he will, he shall have nay. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE DEAD PAST. 
 
 Alys flew up to her father's room. Something in the 
 sharpness of his ring told her that he was annoyed: he was 
 not a man who liked to be neglected, and she was distinctly 
 conscious of having neglected him. It was with some 
 timidity that she knocked and entered at his door. 
 
 As might have been expected, Mr. Lorimer's room was 
 the best room in the house. He did not profess to entertain, 
 and, until lately, there had been no lady of the house to be 
 consulted ; so that he was free to appropriate to his own use 
 the big front drawing-room, with its three long windows 
 looking out upon the square, and the adjoining apartment 
 as a dressing-room. A much smaller room on the ground 
 floor served Alys as a place in wdiich to receive her visitors; 
 Mr. Lorimer's friends were content with the dining and 
 smoking-room s. 
 
 Alys was well accustomed to the kind of luxuries with 
 which her father liked to surround himself ; but with some 
 of his tastes she herself did not sympathise. His love of 
 strong, sweet odours was an offence to her. When she came 
 into his room she almost recoiled — so overpowering were 
 the mingled perfumes w T hich met her nostrils. Oriental in- 
 cense, sandal-wood, a scented cigarette, bouquets of hothouse 
 flowers, some growing hyacinths in pots — all these contrib- 
 uted their odours with a curiously stifling effect. 
 
 The girl did not know, what many of her father's friends 
 
26 TIIE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 suspected, that these perfumes were designed to cover the 
 odour of drugs — and especially of one or two narcotics of 
 Eastern origin, with a peculiarly penetrating odour, to the 
 use of which James Lorimer was given. He had begun to 
 take these in order to alleviate pain : he continued the use 
 of them as a habit because he liked it. But Alys knew 
 nothing of all this. 
 
 " Where have you been ? " said her father, with unusual 
 sharpness. " You generally come to me at four; I have had 
 to wait." 
 
 He laid an emphasis of injured majesty upon the last 
 word of his speech. 
 
 "I am very sorry, papa," said Alys, meekly. "Mr. 
 Oeighton stayed a little while, and I was giving him tea." 
 
 " Young Edmund Creighton, you mean— not Mr. Oeigh- 
 ton," said her father, testily. " Do give people their proper 
 names. Well, I don't object to your being civil to young 
 Creighton: he is useful, and he hasn't bad manners." 
 
 " I think he is very kind and nice," said Alys, flushing a 
 little. 
 
 Her father looked at her in silence for a moment, as if 
 struck by her tone. 
 
 " You like him, do you ? Ah ! " 
 
 Alys did not know in the least what he meant, and did 
 not trouble to inquire. Mr. Lorimer seldom made a secret 
 of what was passing through his mind, and his daughter did 
 not always like what he revealed to her. Not that there was 
 anything actively bad or harmful in the things he said ; but 
 they were sometimes more cynical or more ill-natured than 
 she cared to hear. 
 
 "It would not be a bad thing," the father went on, with 
 a slight smile nickering over his pale face. " You might do 
 worse, child. I am half sorry I told him what I did: I may 
 have spoiled your market— which is the last thing I wished 
 to do." 
 
 " Papa, I don't know what you mean," said Alys, with 
 glowing cheeks. 
 
 He laughed. " Don't you, my dear ? Think over it, and 
 
THE DEAD PAST. 27 
 
 you will see the sense of what I say. And now you can read 
 to me : there is a new book of Pater's just come from the 
 library which we shall both enjoy. ". 
 
 Alys did not enjoy her reading so much as Mr. Lorimer 
 had expected. She had been trained to take an interest in 
 the books — chiefly on art and literature — that her father 
 liked ; but his words about Edmund Creighton disturbed her 
 attention. Did he mean — was it possible — that Edmund had 
 shown any special feeling about her ? Now she thought of 
 it, she remembered certain words and looks which had been 
 inexplicable to her at the time; they had meant, perhaps, 
 more than she knew. But why, then — the thought would 
 recur again and again — why, then, had he not said a little 
 more ? Why had he not made it a little plainer — even that 
 very afternoon ? 
 
 She read on, more monotonously than usual, while her 
 father listened and watched her, and thought his own cyn- 
 ical thoughts. 
 
 He was not yet fifty, and he was a very distinguished- 
 looking man. Years of delicate health, and perhaps of un- 
 wholesome modes of life, had sharpened his features and 
 whitened his skin, giving to his face the opaque tints of old 
 ivory, against which the colour of his dark hair and fine 
 eyes seemed almost unnaturally pronounced. He wore a 
 dressing-gown, for he was only just recovering from one of 
 his " attacks " — mysterious attacks of illness for which Alys 
 knew no name — nevertheless, he managed to preserve an air 
 of fastidious neatness and refinement which a man does not 
 always put on with a peignoir. His left hand, long, white, 
 and fine', was adorned with a heavy and valuable signet- 
 ring. 
 
 " Put down the book, Alys, 1 ' he said at last, in a some- 
 what harsh and grating voice. " I want to speak to you." 
 
 Alys laid the volume on the table beside her, and glanced 
 up in surprise. She was used to her father's caprices ; but 
 conversation with herself was not one of them. He was 
 fond of her ; but he treated her like a little girl. 
 
 " How old are you ? " he proceeded. 
 
28 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 "Nineteen, papa." 
 
 " Quite a woman," said Mr. Lorimer, with his flickering 
 smile, " and ready, no doubt, to think yourself wiser than 
 your elders " 
 
 " Oh, no, papa! " ejaculated the girl. 
 
 " You need not interrupt me : I know what girls are like. 
 I have been thinking for some time that I would talk to you 
 a little about your future, Alys— and perhaps about my 
 past " 
 
 He paused a little doubtfully. Alys raised her head with 
 an eager look. 
 
 "Papa, I have so often wanted to ask you about my 
 mother. I can just remember her." 
 
 "Then," said Mr. Lorimer, with a shadow suddenly 
 falling across his face, u you remember a very beautiful 
 woman." 
 
 " Yes, I know she was beautiful. I wish I had some like- 
 ness—some portrait— of her, papa. I have sometimes thought 
 that perhaps you had one yourself " 
 
 " I used to sketch in the days when she was living," said 
 her father, in a dreamy tone. " Yes, I used to paint then— 
 at first. Afterwards I gave it up— or Art gave me up— I 
 don't quite know which. I have not painted anything for 
 fifteen years." 
 
 "I suppose you did not care to paint after mamma's 
 death," said Alys, drawing a little nearer to him. She was 
 glad to think that he had loved her mother so well. 
 
 James Lorimer uttered a low, sardonic laugh. "I'm 
 afraid that's not quite the right explanation," he answered. 
 " I left off painting as soon as I could afford to do without 
 it — as soon, in fact, as your mother's money was at my dis- 
 posal." 
 
 Alys shrank back. His words sounded heartless : she 
 did not know what to say. 
 
 " You are aware, I suppose," said her father, leaning back 
 in the corner of his luxurious chair, and watching her trou- 
 bled face, " that all the money I possess— the money that 
 furnished this house, that enables us to live in comparative 
 
THE DEAD PAST. 29 
 
 comfort — that provides us with our bread and butter — came 
 to me from your mother ? " 
 
 " I knew nothing about it." 
 
 "It did. Your mother was something of an heiress — 
 in a small way : oh, only in a small way, my dear. All 
 that I had when I married her was a hundred and fifty 
 a year, which has generally been devoted to your main- 
 tenance and education. The rest was left to me — uncon- 
 ditionally — by my wife. I was to do what I pleased with 
 it — especially in regard to my impaired health. You under- 
 stand, Alys ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, papa. But " — she lifted a lovely, puzzled face 
 to his — " there is no reason why you should tell me all this. 
 I do not need to know." 
 
 "That is true," said Mr. Lorimer, rather unexpectedly 
 acquiescing. " There is no particular reason why you should 
 know — just yet. Of course, you will have to hear about my 
 affairs, when" — he shrugged his shoulders — " when I come 
 to die." 
 
 " Please, please, papa, do not talk in that way. There 
 will be many, many years before we need think or 
 
 " Will there ? How are we to know that ? Pooh! You 
 are a baby, Alys, in spite of your nineteen years. Be sen- 
 sible, and look the matter in the face." 
 
 "I would rather not, papa, dear." 
 
 Mr. Lorimer laughed. This affectionate dislike to the 
 thought of his death pleased him: he read in it the devo- 
 tion which the mother of Alys had borne to him, which 
 Alys herself would always bear. He was used to the 
 devotion of women ; he thought it a beautiful and touch- 
 ing thing. 
 
 " We need not dwell on the painful part of the topic," he 
 said, lightly. " But, you know, my dear Alys, that I am in- 
 valid — that life is uncertain — that it is always well to look 
 forward a little and forecast difficulties. If anything hap- 
 pened to me — curious phrase, is it not ? — you would be in a 
 singularly lonely position, because of your dearth of rela- 
 3 
 
30 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 tives — female relatives especially. I should be extremely 
 pleased, Alys, if I thought I should see you settled in life — 
 married, I mean, of course— before I had to go." 
 
 There was so much more gravity than usual in his tones 
 that Alys was impressed, and did not smile at the desire so 
 plainly and simply made known to her. She felt that her 
 father was in earnest, was really and truly anxious for her 
 future, and she did not this time try to silence him. She 
 put her hand on the arm of her father's chair, and was 
 gratified when he patted it. 
 
 "I will not mention any names," said Mr. Lorimer. 
 " That might be premature. All that I want you to do is to 
 remember that I should be glad to see you well married, 
 Alys ; and if an opportunity of any such marriage should 
 occur — well, you had better think of it." 
 
 Alys murmured an assent, and drew a sigh meanwhile. 
 She had her girlish dreams of a lover that should come some 
 day; and she thought that her father's way of regarding 
 marriage as a provision for the future was very prosaic. 
 She was relieved when he changed the subject. 
 
 u I think I wanted to speak about the past rather than 
 the future," he said, with an odd little grimace. " You asked 
 if I had a picture of your mother. I can show you a sketch 
 of her if you give me the old black portfolio that stands in 
 the corner over there." 
 
 Alys fetched the portfolio— an exceedingly old and 
 shabby one, she noticed— and placed it on a small table 
 before him. He opened it in a musing, lingering way, and 
 began to turn over the sketches which it contained, one by 
 one. 
 
 "I did not often do figures," he said at last, in a low 
 tone, " but I could not resist this attempt at your mother's 
 face. It is a mere sketch, but I think it was like her at the 
 time." 
 
 Alys took the sheet of paper he held out to her, and 
 looked at it in reverent silence. It was, as he had said, a 
 mere water-colour sketch, representing a young and beauti- 
 ful woman, with a sweet fair face and golden hair, very like 
 
THE DEAD PAST. 31 
 
 her daughter's. Mr. Lorimer looked from the picture to the 
 living girl, and smiled almost wistfully. 
 
 u I did not know you were so like her " was what he 
 
 said. 
 
 Then he went on turning over the other sketches, with a 
 rather unsteady hand. 
 
 Suddenly he stopped, hesitated, then pushed another pic- 
 ture towards his daughter. 
 
 " What do you think of that ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, what a lovely creature ! " Alys cried. 
 
 It represented a girl of eighteen, with a peach-like bloom, 
 great liquid dark eyes full of fire and pathos, waving dusky 
 hair, and features of exquisite refinement and delicacy. " Is 
 it a portrait ? " she said. 
 
 " It is a portrait. I wanted you to see it. That was my 
 first wife, Alys. I was married before I met your mother. 
 You have never known that fact before." 
 
 He spoke in a studiously matter-of-fact tone, and avoided 
 her startled gaze. The girl gave a sort of gasp before she 
 spoke again. 
 
 " Oh, papa ! " she cried. 
 
 u There is nothing to be so very much surprised at, is 
 there ? " he said, drily. " Many men have been married 
 twice. Now, Alys, have the goodness not to cry, for I wish 
 to give you another piece of information, and you had bet- 
 ter reserve your tears for that." 
 
 " What is it, papa ? " said Alys, faintly. The tears had 
 come from a sudden sense of his want of confidence in her, 
 but she winked them hurriedly away. Mr. Lorimer looked 
 at her with something very like malicious pleasure in her 
 distress. 
 
 " How would you like an elder sister, my dear ? Yes, 
 there was a child — a girl ; the mother died when she was 
 born." A twitch passed over his pale, impassive face. 
 " The mother died — the child lived: my Lisa's life was sac- 
 rificed for that baby's sake. You can't wonder if I never 
 cared to see much of the child again." 
 
 " Do you mean to say," said Alys, turning pale with ex- 
 
32 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 citement, " that the little girl lived— is living still ? Where 
 is she ? Oh, papa, and you have never let me know her all 
 these years." 
 
 " It would have been no pleasure to you to know her," 
 said Mr. Lorimer, sharply. " When I last saw her, I was 
 utterly horrified. Coarse, common, provincial to the last 
 degree. Not a sister to be proud of, my dear child." 
 
 " But whose fault is it that she is common and coarse ? " 
 said Alys, turning her clear eyes upon him. "Where has 
 she been brought up ? " 
 
 "In the country — with her mother's relatives. I have 
 not seen her since she was nine years old." 
 
 " And now — she is " 
 
 " About three-and- twenty. You need not concern your- 
 self, my dear. She has been brought up as her mother was 
 brought up, and is, no doubt, perfectly happy." 
 
 " But you mean now to have her here ? — you mean to be 
 kind and good to her now at least, papa ? " There was an 
 unconscious reproach in the girl's eager voice. 
 
 Mr. Lorimer smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "I 
 don't know that there is anything I can do for her," he 
 said. U I have not told you with any idea of bringing 
 her out of her sphere, or altering matters in any way, 
 Alys. I simply thought it might be well for you to know 
 the facts." 
 
 " I wish I had known them years ago," said Alys, in a 
 low, shaken voice. 
 
 " Women are queer creatures," said Mr. Lorimer, whim- 
 sically. "I expected you to fly into a rage, and to cry your 
 eyes out with jealousy." 
 
 " Papa, you don't mean it, surely ! Think what a pleas- 
 ure it would have been to me to have a sister all this time 1 
 You will let me know her now ? What is her name ? " 
 "Elizabeth." 
 
 "And I may write to her ? You will give me her ad- 
 dress ? " 
 
 Mr. Lorimer mused. "To-morrow, perhaps," he said. 
 " Put the portfolio away, Alys. Do you know— for the first 
 
ALONE IN THE WORLD. 33 
 
 time — you make me think that my plan — the plan of all 
 these years— has been a little bit of a mistake ? " 
 
 " You will undo the mistake ? You will give me a 
 sister ? " Alys pleaded, laying her hand softly on his 
 arm. 
 
 "To-morrow, child, to-morrow." 
 
 But that morrow never came. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ALONE IN THE WORLD. 
 
 "If you please, sir, would you go round to Croyland 
 Square as soon as possible ? There is a messenger from 
 Miss Lorimer, and something seems to have happened — Mr. 
 Lorimer's either died sudden or took very ill, I can't tell 
 which." 
 
 The speaker was an old and privileged servant of the 
 Creighton family : once a nurse, and now a sort of house- 
 keeper. She did not usually intrude upon the family at 
 meal time ; but breakfast was practically over, although Mr. 
 Creighton still sat over his newspaper, and his wife and 
 children had not left the room. The man who waited at 
 table was new to his place, and had hesitated to bring the 
 message; so Mrs. Moss, who knew all about the Lorimers, 
 took it upon herself to trot in and deliver it. 
 
 Mr. Creighton, a tall spare man, with a shrewd face, 
 keen eyes, dark hair and whiskers, and a peculiarly alert 
 manner, threw down his newspaper, and looked round. 
 
 " What's that, Moss ? Come in ; what does the messenger 
 say?" 
 
 Mrs. Moss, a round little dumpling of a woman, with a 
 rosy face and grey curls, advanced a couple of paces into the 
 room. 
 
 " The girl's crying, so that I couldn't get much out of 
 her," she said, confidentially. " Perhaps if you would see 
 
34: THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 her yourself, sir, you'd make her speak up. But I'm afraid 
 the poor gentleman's gone." 
 
 Edmund Creighton and his father looked at one another. 
 The younger man had turned rather pale, and his lips were 
 tightly compressed. Mr. Creighton the elder lifted his eye- 
 brows, and also seemed disturbed. 
 
 "I hope not— I hope not, I'm sure," he said, with some 
 warmth of manner. " Let me see the girl." 
 
 He went out into the hall and interviewed the weeping 
 maid-servant; then returned to the dining-room to gulp 
 down his last half cup of coffee, and give information to his 
 family. 
 
 u It's quite true," he said. " Mr. Lorimer was found dead 
 in his bed this morning, when the servant went in with his 
 chocolate. Heart disease, I suppose." 
 
 " Or an overdose of chloral," thought Edmund to him- 
 self. But he did not put his suspicion into words. 
 
 " That poor girl of his ! " exclaimed Mrs. Creighton, a 
 large, fashionably-dressed lady, with a pleasant voice and 
 superficially good-humoured smile. " What will she do ? 
 You had better find out, John, whether we can do anything 
 for her." 
 
 "There will be plenty of things you can do for her, 
 no doubt," said Mr. Creighton, a little drily. "I will tell 
 her you will look in during the day — or one of the 
 girls." 
 
 " Had we not better fetch her here ? " said Lydia, who 
 was the eldest daughter, a keen-faced girl, more like her 
 brother than any other member of the family. She looked 
 at Edmund as she spoke. 
 
 " It would be a very g-ood thing, I think," said Edmund, 
 speaking for the first time, with his eyes on the table-cloth. 
 His father glanced at him, nodded, and went out. 
 
 To Lydia it seemed as if there were symptoms of some 
 secret understanding between father and son. "Did you 
 expect this ? " she asked her brother, suddenly. 
 
 "Expect Mr. Lorimer's death ? Certainly not." 
 
 " He was very wealthy, was he not ? " remarked Mrs. 
 
ALONE IN THE WORLD. 35 
 
 Creighton, meditatively. "I suppose the girl will have 
 everything." 
 
 Edmund moved restlessly in his chair. "Like all the 
 rest of the world, we shall know in time," he said. 
 
 " He lived in very good style," persisted Mrs. Creighton, 
 " although he was too much of an invalid to entertain. He 
 must have had a good income." 
 
 " Yes, I believe he had a good income," said Edmund, in 
 a perfectly non committal tone. He got up from the table 
 then, and went away. 
 
 " Mamma," said Lydia, quietly, " there is something wrong 
 about the Lorimers and their money." 
 
 " What do you mean, child ? Who said so ? " 
 
 " No one has said so ; but I can see it by the way Edmund 
 and papa behave. It would not surprise me at all to find 
 that Alys Lorimer has nothing— absolutely nothing." 
 
 "Nonsense, Lydia ! A fortune cannot dissolve into thin 
 air. Edmund said Mr. Lorimer had a good income : where 
 will that income go if not to his only daughter ? " 
 
 "Perhaps it was a pension or something," said Lydia, 
 vaguely. 
 
 " Don't be so absurd," said Mrs. Creighton, in rather a 
 sharper tone than would have been expected from a woman 
 who looked so good-tempered; " how could any pension in 
 the world keep up that house in the way Mr. Lorimer kept 
 it up ? He must have spent a fortune on plants and flowers 
 alone. Perhaps he has left large sums to charities, and Alys 
 will not get it at all. I shall be sorry for that, for it would 
 be greatly to Edmund's advantage if he married a rich wife." 
 
 " That is always the way people talk," said a new voice 
 from behind a window-curtain, where the youngest of the 
 family had ensconced herself during the conversation, with- 
 out hitherto proffering a word. She put out a curly, dark 
 head now, and showed a round, piquante, mocking little face. 
 " As if riches were everything ! As if it were the highest 
 ideal in the world to be wealthy ! As if Edmund would be 
 committing a crime if he married a girl who was poor." 
 " You talk nonsense, Julian, and impertinent nonsense 
 
36 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 too," said Mrs. Creighton, severely. " Why are you here at 
 all ? It is time for you to go to the schoolroom." 
 
 Juliana — more usually known as Julian — came out of 
 her nook behind the window-curtain, and shook her curly 
 mane of dark chestnut-coloured hair. She had hazel eyes, 
 which could glow like flame when she was angry or ex- 
 cited ; pretty features, rather too pale ; and a trim little 
 figure which looked childish in its short serge frock and 
 school apron. 
 
 " Miss Smith isn't coming to-day : I have a holiday," she 
 said. " Can I go and tell Moss that Alys Lorimer is coming, 
 and help her to get the room ready ? " 
 
 " We do not know that Miss Lorimer is coming yet," said 
 Mrs. Creighton, who was displeased. 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! As long as you thought her rich, you 
 were ready enough for her to come ! Now, w^hen it is sug- 
 gested she may he poor " 
 
 " That has nothing whatever to do with it. Really, Ju- 
 lian, you are insufferable. Go away and practise, or employ 
 yourself in some suitable way, and do not listen to the con- 
 versation of your elders. It is evident that little girls can- 
 not understand it." 
 
 Julian retreated, controlling her unruly tongue with dif- 
 ficulty. She was something of an enfant terrible, this curly- 
 haired girl of sixteen ; for she was possessed with a hatred 
 of conventionalities which she did not know how to sup- 
 press; and, good-natured on the whole as Mrs. Creighton 
 was, she was tied and bound by the laws and customs which 
 Julian abhorred, so that mother and daughter were apt some- 
 times to come into collision. 
 
 The Creightons were not a very united family. Mrs. 
 Creighton and Lydia held together a good deal, went out, 
 paid calls, sat and sewed in each other's society. Mr. 
 Creighton was too busy to see much of his wife and daugh- 
 ters; but he had some intercourse with his son. The second 
 girl, Marcia, had broken loose from the home moorings and 
 gone to Girton ; but this was rather a fashionable thing to 
 do, and her mother did not mind it. Juliana was the trial 
 
ALONE IN THE WORLD. 37 
 
 of the family. She was always in the way. She was 
 brusque and impertinent: she was not a beauty, although 
 fairly good-looking ; she was not even to be called intellect- 
 ual, although clever in her way. She was always, as she 
 expressed it, odd man out. She got on with Edmund better 
 than with any one else, for he was inclined to make a pet of 
 her; but even with him she had occasional disputes, and he 
 would sometimes remark that he thought she ought to be 
 sent to school. 
 
 Her speech on behalf of poverty had so much ruffled 
 Mrs. Creighton that at first she resolved not to ask Alys 
 Lorimer to her house at all; but the conventional good-na- 
 ture of the woman won the day over her annoyance, and 
 she gave orders to Mrs. Moss to prepare a room. " Though 
 it will be very awkward," she said privately to Lydia, a if 
 anything has gone wrong about the money, for, of course, 
 we cannot have our spare rooms taken up for ever by a pen- 
 niless girl." 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Creighton had proceeded to the house 
 in Croyland Square, lately inhabited by Mr. Lorimer. The 
 story that he had heard was quite true. After his conversa- 
 tion with Alys on the previous evening, Mr. Lorimer had 
 dined in his room and retired to his bed at an early hour. 
 The valet said that his master had seemed tired and de- 
 pressed, but not ill. Nothing more had been seen or heard 
 of him until morning, when he was found lying quietly, as 
 if asleep upon his pillows, but cold in the sleep of death. 
 He must have been dead some hours when he was found. 
 
 The doctor had been and gone. He had told Alys gently 
 and kindly, what most of her friends already knew, that Mr. 
 Lorimer had for years suffered from an incurable form of 
 heart disease, and that a sudden death of this kind w r as not 
 wholly unexpected. " There will have to be an inquest, but 
 merely a formal one," he said. " There is no doubt about 
 the cause of death." 
 
 Mr. Creighton had been Mr. Lorimer's man of business, 
 as well as an old friend ; and it was natural, therefore, that 
 Alys should send for him. He was very kind to her, very 
 
38 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 soothing in manner— perhaps a little too pitying in tone; 
 but Alys was used to him, and did not mind being pitied. 
 She was utterly overpowered by the shock of her father's 
 death, and yet she did not wish to accept Mr. Creighton's in- 
 vitation to stay at his house. 
 
 " I should not like to go away : I should feel as if I were 
 deserting him" she said. 
 
 " But, my dear young lady, you would not think of stay- 
 ing here, with nobody but the servants in the house. It 
 would be most unbecoming— most improper." 
 
 " Could not Julian come and stay with me ? " said Alys, 
 and cried a little when she was told that Julian was much 
 too young to be allowed to stay with her in the house of the 
 dead. But she would not yield. 
 
 u I do not see why I should go away," she said. " There 
 are a great many things to look after. Poor papa would 
 not have liked me to leave everything to the servants. 
 There are his birds— and the animals, you know, Mr. Creigh- 
 ton. I could not bear them to be neglected now." 
 
 " They would not be neglected. They are too valuable 
 for that. We shall have no difficulty in finding homes for 
 them," said the solicitor, incautiously. He was sorry he 
 had said it next moment, for a cry of indignation broke from 
 the girl's quivering lips. 
 
 " We shall not want to find homes for them. They will 
 stay here with me, of course. Do you think I shall want to 
 part with any of them ? " said Alys, turning her amazed, in- 
 dignant eyes upon him. "I shall keep them always — all 
 their lives— if only for his sake." 
 
 " Yes, yes, of course — as long as it is convenient, of 
 course," murmured Mr. Creighton, hardly knowing what he 
 said. He could not enter upon business matters on the very 
 day of her father's death. He took his leave as kindly as 
 possible, but he was glad to get away; and for some reason 
 or other, Alys was glad to get rid of him. 
 
 Later in the day Mrs. Creighton and Lyclia swooped down 
 upon her, and did their best to convince her that she had 
 better spend the next few days with them. But Alys would 
 
ALONE IN THE WORLD. 39 
 
 not be persuaded, and Mrs. Creighton bore a slight grudge 
 against her in consequence. 
 
 " She seems to have been very devoted to her father," 
 said that lady, in a tone of pique to her husband. 
 
 " Well, I dare say. He was a pleasant sort of man, and 
 he certainly surrounded her with every luxury, poor girl. 1 ' 
 
 " Why do you say ' poor ' ? " 
 
 " She is not so well off as she thinks she is. I cannot 
 say more at present, Louisa. But you might give her a 
 hint not to be too extravagant— about her mourning and 
 all those things." 
 
 " I don't see how I can say anything if you tell me no 
 more." 
 
 u I must speak to her before I speak to any one else," 
 said Mr. Creighton, stolidly, u and I shall not speak until 
 after the funeral." 
 
 His refusal to give exact information offended Mrs. 
 Creighton a little, and she declined, therefore, to offer Alys 
 a hint of any kind about her expenditure. Fortunately, the 
 girl was not naturally extravagant, and her orders were all 
 moderate, as Mr. Creighton found when he came to look 
 over the bills. 
 
 The funeral was a simple one, according to James Lori- 
 mer's own instructions found in his desk. And when it 
 was over. Mr. Creighton came back to the house in Croy- 
 land Square, and asked to be allowed the pleasure of a little 
 conversation with her. 
 
 He was glad to see that, although pale, she was very 
 composed. Her father's death had been a great shock to 
 her, but it was not what the death of a more deeply loving 
 parent might have been. She was quite able to hear what 
 he had to say. '* And I have something to say too," she 
 told him, as they seated themselves in the dining-room. 
 
 u My business had, perhaps, better come first," said Mr. 
 Creighton, pleasantly. " It is possible, of course, that you 
 may know what I am going to say. Did your father ever 
 speak to you about his pecuniary affairs ? " 
 "Never." 
 
40 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " I am sorry for that. You will be unprepared, I fear, 
 for the nature of my communication. You have thought, I 
 dare say, my dear Miss Lorimer, that your father was a 
 wealthy man, and that you would inherit his wealth ? " 
 
 "Ye-es," said Alys, hesitatingly; "but from something 
 he said to me on the night before — before he died, I can 
 guess that there is a — a sort of complication." 
 
 "Complication! No; there is nothing of that kind," 
 said Mr. Creighton, staring at her. " It is all very simple, 
 unfortunately." 
 
 "I meant," said Alys, quietly, "that there is another 
 daughter, you know. Papa's elder daughter by his first 
 marriage— Elizabeth Lorimer. Will not everything have 
 to be divided with her ? " 
 
 " Good heaven ! " cried the solicitor. " Do you mean to 
 say, Miss Lorimer, that there is a — a — another daughter 
 whom nobody has ever heard of ? He never mentioned a 
 second marriage to me." Mr. Creighton positively gasped 
 with dismay. 
 
 " It was the first marriage," said Alys, trying to speak 
 clearly. " He was married, and his wife died before he met 
 my mother. His daughter is about twenty-three years old 
 by this time." 
 
 " And where is she ? Where does she live ? " 
 
 Alys looked blank. " I do not know. I have been ex- 
 pecting her to appear all this while. I took it for granted 
 
 that she would hear of papa's I see now that it was 
 
 very silly of me. I ought to have mentioned it before." 
 
 "You ought indeed," said Mr. Creighton. "We must 
 look over your father's papers, and see what instructions he 
 has left, my dear ; or we may find letters. Dear me ! it is a 
 curious thing that I never knew. You — you have always 
 known, I suppose ? " 
 
 " I knew nothing until the night — the night before my 
 father died," said Alys, turning her head away. 
 
 Mr. Creighton made a sound of inarticulate reply, mut- 
 tered something to himself, and shook his head. 
 
 " I had better come to my business with you before I go 
 
MR. CREIGHTON'S ADVERTISEMENT. 41 
 
 into the other matter," he said, after a little pause. And 
 then he launched into details which were at first somewhat 
 confusing to Alys, because she did not know whither they 
 were tending. The sum and substance of Mr. Creighton's 
 communication was this: James Lorimer had chosen to 
 sink all the capital of his wife's fortune in an annuity for 
 his own life. It was the supremely selfish act of a selfish 
 man. He secured for himself a remarkably good income, 
 out of which he saved nothing, denying himself no in- 
 dulgence of his luxurious tastes. Probably he cheated him- 
 self into believing that Alys would marry before his death, 
 and that his elder daughter would be looked after by 
 the Verralls, his first wife's relatives. He did not trouble 
 himself about any adequate provision for either of them. 
 His own little income of one hundred and fifty per annum 
 remained untouched, and would descend to his daughters ; 
 the furniture of the house, the pictures, bric-a-brac, ex- 
 pensive toys and pets would have to be sold in order to 
 cover outstanding bills. Instead of being an heiress, Alys 
 Lorimer would have a mere pittance of an income and be 
 without a home. 
 
 " I shall have gained a sister," said the girl, " and perhaps 
 that will make up for all." 
 
 Mr. Creighton thought it unlikely. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MR. CREIGHTON'S ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE world might change, but changes did not come to 
 Quest. 
 
 The lonely farmhouse, set in the gap between two blocks 
 of mountain ranges, stood grey and solid in the sunshine, 
 much as it had stood on the summer day when James Lori- 
 mer sobbed his heart out at the bedside of his wife Elizabeth. 
 Only it was spring-time now, and the shrubs were but faint- 
 
42 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 ly green, and there was no glory of summer flowers in the 
 garden, but only a tangle of violet and ranunculus, primrose 
 and budding wallflower, and daffodils nodding beneath the 
 rough-cast wall. 
 
 The mistress of the house was busy, flitting hither and 
 thither, ordering her men and maidens, and keeping a 
 watchful eye over half-a-dozen matters at a time ; for there 
 was no cleverer housewife in all the country-side than Lis- 
 beth Verrall, mistress of Quest. She was three-and-twenty, 
 and had had the management of the farm for the last eight- 
 een months. All the world had prophesied disaster when 
 Farmer Verrall died, leaving all that he possessed to his 
 granddaughter's management; but when it was found that 
 everything went on much as it had done before, and that 
 the farm appeared to flourish in Lisbeth's hands, the world 
 saw fit to change its tune. " Best thing old Farmer Verrall 
 could have done," they said, "considering how little his son 
 Zadock was fit for. Lisbeth was a rare fine lass, and he 
 would be very lucky as got her. And a rich woman too, if 
 every tale be true." 
 
 Yes ; as Cumberland counted riches, Lisbeth was a woman 
 of wealth. More than that, she was a woman of importance. 
 She had a good head for business, a strong will, and— occa- 
 sionally— a sharp tongue. She was liked, she was respected, 
 and she was sometimes feared. 
 
 But she did not look like a person to be feared, as she 
 paused for an instant at the farmhouse door, and looked for 
 a moment at the wide expanse of valley below the house, 
 lighted up by the fitful sunbeams of an April afternoon. 
 She came to the side door for this passing glance of hers— 
 the door that opened into the garden. It was characteristic 
 of Lisbeth that she would use this door— would set it open, 
 and go in and out of it, in spite of all remonstrances from 
 her relations. They had never used that side door: the 
 kitchen door had served them all their lives: why should 
 Lisbeth u set herself up" to be better than they ? Lisbeth 
 made no answer to these plaints, chiefly uttered by old Mrs. 
 Verrall, her grandfather's second wife; she simply went on 
 
MR. CREIGHTON'S ADVERTISEMENT. 43 
 
 her own way, and paid no attention. Every now and then 
 somebody was in the habit of grumbling at her for "fine- 
 lady ways " — that is, for touches of refinement and fastidious 
 tastes to which small farmers 1 wives and daughters in the 
 neighbourhood were not accustomed; but Lisbeth held 
 calmly on her way. This power of disregarding opinion 
 stood her in good stead; but there were moments when it 
 led her into difficulty and danger, and had the look not of a 
 virtue but of a vice. 
 
 She was simply dressed in a gown befitting her daily 
 work — a plain cotton, originally buff-coloured, now faded 
 by repeated washings to a pale primrose. The dress was, 
 however, half concealed by a large white apron with a bib. 
 The mixture of white and yellow suited her dark beauty ; 
 and the plainness of her gown displayed the fine proportions 
 of her stately figure to perfection. Lisbeth was a very hand- 
 some woman, who stepped like a queen ; but she got little 
 praise for beauty from the countrymen and countrywomen 
 who surrounded her. They said she was u a fine strapping 
 lass," and that was all. Possibly the unusual dignity of her 
 demeanour, which came partly by nature and partly from 
 her position, had something to do with the want of admira- 
 tion she received. The yokels of the neighbourhood liked a 
 girl to kiss and romp with, a girl who boxed their ears, a 
 girl with whom they could "keep company." Nobody had 
 ever talked of u keeping company " with Lisbeth Verrall. 
 And yet there was some one for whom she watched beneath 
 her hand, as she shaded her eyes from the sunlight, and 
 looked down the winding road. 
 
 One man's eyes, perhaps, had seen the beauty of her liquid 
 dark eyes, of her dusky hair, springing from her low broad 
 forehead, in thick lovely waves ; of her warm complexion, 
 cream colour melting into peach-like bloom on the oval 
 cheek; of the grave beautiful mouth, and the delicious 
 curves of the throat and chin ; but this man, who had eyes 
 to see, was no country yokel, and bore in his county an hon- 
 oured name. Was this man a mate for Lisbeth Verrall, the 
 mistress of Quest ? 
 
44 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 She stood looking, with a faint smile lurking at the cor- 
 ners of her mouth. She had seen something — some one— in 
 the distance, and the sight seemed to please her. By and by 
 the sound of a horse's hoofs could be heard on the high road. 
 She instantly lowered her shading hand and stepped down 
 into the garden, as if she had lost interest in the person who 
 approached. But as she bent over some young springing 
 plants, and seemed for the moment absorbed in tending 
 them, she was quite conscious of the fact that the sound was 
 drawing nearer, that finally it stopped, and that the rider 
 had dismounted at the farmhouse gate. 
 
 " Good afternoon, Lisbeth." 
 
 She turned at once and smiled, frankly enough. She did 
 not blush— she was too strong and healthy often to change 
 colour— but her eyes shone. She was glad to see her visitor, 
 and, to judge by his face, he was glad to see her too. 
 
 u Good afternoon, Mr. Moor." 
 
 The young man's face fell. It was not naturally a very 
 joyous face, but it had been bright with expectation before 
 she spoke. 
 
 " Mr. Moor ? " he repeated, in a reproachful tone. " Lis- 
 beth, you promised to be kind. " 
 
 " I don't see that I am unkind," said Lisbeth, still smiling. 
 "I speak as becomes my station — that is all." 
 
 Her accent was not untouched by northern influences, 
 but it was wonderfully refined considering the few oppor- 
 tunities she could have had of hearing speech differing from 
 that of the Verralls. Francis Moor, the Squire of Moor End, 
 never heard it without marvelling at its superiority to the 
 accent of the people around her. But when she talked of 
 her " station," he took offence. 
 
 " If you call me Mr. Moor," he said, " I must call you Miss 
 Verrall." 
 
 "Well, indeed," said Lisbeth, "I sometimes think that 
 would be best." 
 
 She was not very amiable towards him, he thought; and 
 yet there was no harshness or anger on her open brow. She 
 had walked slowly along the flagged path until she stood 
 
MR. CREIGHTON'S ADVERTISEMENT. 45 
 
 close to the gate, outside which Mr. Francis Moor waited 
 humbly. She now unlatched the gate and opened it. " Won't 
 you come in, Mr. Moor ? " she asked, demurely. 
 
 To say that Lisbeth coquetted would not be true; she was 
 above every form of coquetry, and quite too clear of mind 
 and firm of purpose to employ it; but sometimes, when she 
 was in a very gracious mood, she would play at teasing Mr. 
 Moor a little, just for the fun of the thing, and because he 
 knew she did not mean it. They had been friends since 
 they were children, and.' it was only lately, and intermit- 
 tently, that she had taken sometimes to calling him " Mr. 
 Moor." 
 
 " Say, ' Come in, Frank,' and I will come," said the young 
 man. 
 
 " How foolish you are ! " she answered, in an admonitory 
 voice. " What will the girls think if they see me standing 
 here holding the gate open for you ? Well, come in, Frank, 
 if you mean to come in at all." 
 
 "That's right: I have conquered." 
 
 " You think yourself very clever," said Lisbeth, with a 
 touch of tender scorn. " I am not so easily conquered as all 
 that." 
 
 u I know: you need not remind me. You are as obsti- 
 nate as a mule," said Frank, with the freedom engendered 
 of old acquaintanceship; ''but I like you the better for it, 
 you know, Lisbeth," he added, in a lower voice, as they 
 walked up the garden path together. 
 
 " I suppose you have come about the red heifer ? " she 
 said, steadfastly ignoring the touch of sentiment that had 
 crept into his musical young voice ; " but Zadock's not at 
 home just now. If you will come in and wait for him, I 
 will make you a cup of tea." 
 
 " I will wait for the cup of tea with pleasure," said Frank; 
 " but, as it happens, Lisbeth, I have not come to see Zadock 
 or the red heifer, but yourself. " 
 
 Lisbeth lowered her eyes for a moment, then raised them, 
 clear and fearless, to his face. 
 
 4 ' To see me ? " she said. " It's rather the wrong time of 
 4 
 
46 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 day to see me, especially if we are to go into that matter of 
 the eggs we sent to your housekeeper. I shall have to get 
 out the books, and " 
 
 " Nonsense, Lisbeth. As if I were going into housekeep- 
 er's squabbles. Tell Mrs. Crowe to go to Jericho, and be 
 hanged to her. We could make her sing very small, couldn't 
 we, dear, if we chose ? *' 
 
 For once Lisbeth flushed — rather angrily. 
 
 kk I don't know what you mean, Mr. Moor." 
 
 "Ah, yes, Lisbeth, you do, although you always pretend 
 to have forgotten now-a-days. You remember the evening 
 up by the barn— where the sunset was so beautiful— and you 
 promised never to forget me. What else did you promise, 
 Lisbeth ? I have not forgotten." 
 
 Lisbeth had grown paler than usual, and answered with 
 a certain kind of constraint: 
 
 "We were only boy and girl then," she said, "and did 
 not know what we were talking about. I think it is a pity 
 to bring up things that are dead and gone." 
 
 " But are they dead and gone, Lisbeth ? " he asked, put- 
 ting his hand upon her wrist. She drew it away and hid it 
 underneath her apron. " No, you shall not give me your 
 answer now. I am not asking for an answer, you most cau- 
 tious and cold of women. I only want you to know that I 
 remember . . . and do not intend you to forget. No, I did 
 not come for that. I came for something quite different — 
 for a good, solid, business-like reason, which I have in my 
 pocket-book. " 
 
 " What is it ? " she said, recovering her usual manner 
 as soon as he quitted that very delicate subject of their 
 relationship to one another in the future. "What can it 
 be ? " 
 
 Frank had produced his pocket-book, and now took from 
 it a cutting from a newspaper. " Does not that advertise- 
 ment apply to you ? " he said. 
 
 Lisbeth took it and read— 
 
 " If Elizabeth Lorimer, daughter of the late James Lori- 
 mer and Lisa Lorimer, his wife, will apply to Messrs. Jerrold 
 
MR. CREIGHTON'S ADVERTISEMENT. 47 
 
 & Creighton " — here followed a lengthy London address — 
 "she will hear of something to her advantage." 
 
 Lisbeth's black brows contracted. " I have nothing to do 
 with the name of Lorimer," she said. "I have been called 
 Verrall as long as I can remember, and I'm too old to begin 
 with anything else." 
 
 " You need not. You can still call yourself Verrall — or 
 any other name; but — that advertisement does apply to you, 
 does it not ? I was puzzled at first by the name Lisa." 
 
 " Oh, that is easily explained," said Elizabeth Verrall, 
 almost roughly. " He called her Lisa; Lizzy was not grand 
 enough for him, granny used to tell me. Yes, I suppose the 
 advertisement is for me. " 
 
 " Evidently your father is dead," said the young man. 
 
 u So I suppose." 
 
 Lisbeth stood straight and square in the doorway: her 
 brows still contracted, her lips compressed. The mention of 
 this dead father made her angry. But there were things 
 Frank Moor wanted to know, and he did not mind Lisbeth's 
 anger very much. 
 
 "You have not known for some time whether he was 
 alive or dead, have you ?" be asked. 
 
 "We did not want to know." 
 
 "But when was he here last ?" 
 
 " Fifteen years ago. Up to that time he had occasion- 
 ally written a letter to my grandfather, and sent him 
 money for my keep; after that he never wrote or sent any- 
 thing again. I might have gone to the workhouse for all 
 he cared. I think him a bad, selfish man," said Lisbeth, 
 with flashing eyes, " and I am not sorry to hear that he is 
 dead." 
 
 " Perhaps he died when you were a child," said Frank, 
 reflectively, " and could not do anything for you." 
 
 " Then, why do people seek me out now ? " 
 
 " His heirs— if be had any — have only just learnt of your 
 existence, perhaps. Come, Lisbeth, you must not be hard 
 and unjust. You must find out what this advertisement is 
 about. " 
 
48 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 She was silent for a moment, and then said, determinedly, 
 ' k I don't want to know." 
 
 u Your friends will want to know for you." 
 
 " Ay ! " said Lisbeth, with a world of bitter meaning in 
 her tone. "To know whether he has left me a fortune; 
 after despising me and doing his worst for me all my life- 
 time! Do you think that makes amends? It isn't that I 
 blame him for leaving me here with my grandfather: he 
 couldn't have done better for me than that, and nobody 
 honours my grandfather more than I do; but it is just that 
 he took no notice, he did not care, he did not love me as a 
 father should have done. I can't forgive him for that, 
 Frank, and I never shall." 
 
 " But, perhaps, it was accidental ? perhaps he did care for 
 you in his heart ? " said Frank, who had been in the habit 
 for many years of trying to soften Lisbeth in a hundred hard 
 or angry moods. 
 
 " I know better than that," said Lisbeth, abruptly. " He 
 came here when I was eight years old, and I was called in 
 from the fields to come and speak to him. They say he was 
 fond of my mother — I do not know: I think if he had loved 
 her he would not have looked at me and spoken to me as he 
 did. 'Faugh!' he said, 'she reeks of clay. Stand where 
 you are: don't come nearer me. Is she always as grimy as 
 she is now, Mrs. Verrall ? ' These were his words: you may 
 laugh at them if you please, but I shall never forget the tone 
 —the look— the accent— Oh, he hated me, and I hated him : 
 I shall never think of him with any love or pleasure; and it 
 is no use trying to make me change my mind." 
 
 As she spoke she tore the paper across, and let the frag- 
 ments float away upon the breeze. 
 
 " That's all very well," said Frank, discontentedly ; " but, 
 Lisbeth— think— it may not be for your own good only: 
 there may be relations of his, even if he is not living, whom 
 you might help " 
 
 He knew that the thought of help rendered to another 
 would stir her more than any hope of benefit for herself. 
 
 k ' Ah, well!" she said, with a sigh, "if there had been 
 
BY THE QUARRY. 49 
 
 anybody ! But he is dead ; and I know nothing of his rela- 
 tions. The advertisement speaks only of ' something to my 
 advantage': why should I seek my advantage through 
 him ? " 
 
 She was not to be persuaded, and Francis Moor finally 
 held his tongue. " I shall be going to London myself next 
 week," he thought, u and I might seek out these precious 
 lawyers — I suppose they are lawyers — for myself. I know 
 the address. There can be no harm in ascertaining the 
 truth, at any rate. 1 ' 
 
 Aloud he only said, " You always have your own way, 
 Lisbeth. You must have it in this case, I'm afraid. But I 
 think you are wrong." 
 
 Lisbeth smiled. It was delightful to her to be told that 
 she was " wrong " by Francis Moor. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 BY THE QUARRY. 
 
 When the month of May was well-nigh over, Francis 
 Moor rode up again to the gate of Quest. There was a look 
 of triumph on his brow. 
 
 Mr. Francis Moor was in a somewhat peculiar position. 
 He was the owner of one of the most picturesque and cele- 
 brated old houses — half of it in ruins — in the county: he 
 was the possessor of an estate which brought him in almost 
 nothing a year; and he was even more unlucky in the pos- 
 session of a talent which had not been sufficiently cultivated 
 to be turned to use, and which unfitted him for other things. 
 He had a passion for music, and played the violin with ex- 
 quisite pathos ; but he just wanted the power, the technique, 
 which would have made his talent marketable. Besides, his 
 mother would have broken her heart (she said) if he had 
 become a professional musician ; and he was very fond of 
 his mother. He had been brought up to think a good deal 
 
50 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 of himself — of his family, his ancestors, his grand old house: 
 his name ranked higher than that of many nobles, simple 
 though it was, and he had that curious touch of pride which 
 makes a man associate freely with persons connected with 
 the land — gamekeepers, shepherds, yeomen, for instance — 
 while he hates and detests anything connected with the very 
 name of trade. Thus to Francis Moor the Verralls were far 
 more to his mind and of " his sort " than the retired grocers 
 who had just built a brand new red-brick castle down in the 
 valley, and were reputed to be millionaires. And his mother, 
 Lady Adela, would have agreed with him. 
 
 But these ideas — confessedly behind the age — were the 
 bane of his life. What was there that he could do without 
 soiling his fingers ? He could not go into " business " ; he 
 had not money enough for a profession. Even the army 
 was closed to him because of his want of ready cash. He 
 had not been sent to the University : he had idled about at 
 home, vaguely waiting for the a appointment" which some 
 noble relative had promised, and which never came. He 
 read classics with a clergyman, looked after his poor little 
 estate, played the fiddle, and made love to Elizabeth Ver- 
 rall — or, to give her for once her right name, Elizabeth 
 Lorimer. 
 
 It was not a healthful nor an elevating existence. To 
 Frank Moor's credit be it spoken, he did not fall into any 
 very bad habits: partly because of a certain innate refine- 
 ment of mind, partly because of Lisbeth's influence. He 
 had an idealistic nature : he liked to dream, to scribble verses, 
 to read old books : and, as old Farmer Verrall used to ob- 
 serve, "there was no harm in him." Nevertheless, he was 
 not a milksop : he was expert in athletics, a good runner and 
 wrestler, and the best rider in the country side— a distinction 
 which his mother prized far above any that he could have 
 w r on in the musical profession. 
 
 Of course, Lady Adela knew that her son went very often 
 to Quest. He was much too candid to conceal the fact; and 
 he did not hide his admiration for Lisbeth. But his mother 
 never seemed alarmed. 
 
BY THE QUARRY. 51 
 
 " You must have great confidence in your son," a friend 
 once remarked to her, after a heated discussion of Frank's 
 "little ways.'' 
 
 " 1 have, at any rate, great confidence in Miss Verrall," 
 Lady Adela replied, with a smile ; and the friend could say 
 no more. 
 
 11 Lisbeth, where are you ? " said the young man, pene- 
 trating joyously into the dairy, where he had no business to 
 be. " How cool and sweet it is here, after London ! Lis- 
 beth, I want you to come out and talk to me on most impor- 
 tant business. Come, there's a dear." 
 
 Lisbeth looked at him reproachfully, for one of the maids 
 was within hearing, and grinning from ear to ear ; but 
 Mr. Moor took no notice. " Come for a walk with me," he 
 said, coaxingly, when he had almost dragged her into the 
 garden. " It is a lovely morning, and I want to talk to 
 you." 
 
 " You are very unreasonable, Mr. Moor. How can I 
 leave my work ? I am so busy now that I don't know how 
 to get done, and I certainly cannot waste the morning in 
 idle chatter." 
 
 " Lisbeth, don't be severe." 
 
 " Besides," said Lisbeth, straightening herself, " it is not 
 right for the servants to see me gadding about with you of a 
 morning. Patty was laughing in the rudest w T ay. I will 
 not have it. You might at least call me Miss Verrall when 
 my servants are there to hear." 
 
 " Lisbeth, forgive me, dear ; I am very sorry," said 
 Frank, putting on an aspect of penitence. She looked at 
 him sternly, really thinking in her own mind how much 
 handsomer he was than other men. His finely-chiselled 
 features, pale complexion, soft brown eyes, and small pointed 
 beard were just what she had seen in the pictures that hung 
 in the gallery at Moor End. Francis Moor was like the an- 
 cestors who had worn ruffs and doublets in Tudor times, or 
 in later days the love-locks of the cavalier. She felt that he 
 was not a modern man, and knew next to nothing of the 
 realities of life. 
 
52 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 Gradually her features relaxed a little— for how could 
 she long be angry with him, when she loved him so well ?— 
 and she actually smiled. 
 
 " You ought to know better than to come in the morn- 
 ing," she said. " But I'll tell you what I'll do. If you wait 
 for 'half-an-hour, I'll put on my hat and go up to the Quarry, 
 and you can walk with me. I did not mean to go until 
 afternoon; but I'll try to manage it in the morning. Now 
 I must go back to the dairy. I'm making up the butter for 
 market." 
 
 4i Can't I come with you? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Where's Zadock, then? I haven't seen him for an age." 
 
 Lisbeth's dark eyes softened. He could see that he had 
 pleased her by the inquiry. She was devotedly attached to 
 Zadock Verrall— poor Zadock, whose mind was hopelessly 
 clouded, whose great physical strength indeed remained, 
 and could be utilised by others, but whose intellect was that 
 of the child whom James Lorimer had felled to the ground 
 in passionate anger at the taunt hurled at him by the baby 
 lips. Lisbeth was friend, sister, mother almost, to Zadock, 
 whose own mother, a querulous invalid, usually to be found 
 in the great cushioned armchair in the chimney-corner of 
 the kitchen at Quest, was neither help nor comfort to any 
 one; and he rewarded her for her affection by the dumb 
 dog-like devotion of a creature who is too simple for any- 
 thing but love. 
 
 She directed Frank to the place where Zadock might be 
 found, and the young man went off cheerily to seek him out. 
 To people who were used to his infirmity, there was a good 
 deal to like in Zadock. He was " simple," as the country- 
 folk said; but he was harmless and kindly. Wild creatures 
 loved him, and let him explore their haunts without fear. 
 There was no better guide than Zadock to the uplying lands, 
 the hillsides, and the fells ; and no country lad of the neigh- 
 bourhood but felt honoured when he was allowed to follow 
 the brawny simpleton to some far-off resort of moorland 
 birds and' beasts. Nervous mothers grumbled now and then, 
 
BY THE QUARRY. 53 
 
 saying that the poor fool was a dangerous character, and led 
 their boys into peril from which he could easily extricate him- 
 self, but had not the wit to help others. Also, it was noticed 
 that he had occasional fits of unreasonable anger, during 
 which his great strength made him somewhat to be feared, 
 as he could not be easily restrained by force, nor made to 
 understand remonstrance. But a word from Lisbeth quieted 
 him ; and in fact these passions of anger were rarely roused, 
 and only when he fancied, in his poor fool's brain, that she 
 was hurt, insulted, or injured in any way. 
 
 "Well, Zadock, how goes it ?" said Frank, who found 
 him in the byre with a pitchfork in his hand. 
 
 Zadock's face brightened. He gave an awkward nod 
 and a queer short laugh, which showed that he was pleased. 
 His figure was of herculean proportions, but spoiled by a 
 slouching gait ; his blue-grey eyes were clouded, and the 
 sunburnt face, meant by Nature, alas ! to be intelligent, was 
 stolidly vacuous. He stood leaning on his pitchfork, and 
 smiling: it was his form of sociability. 
 
 " Good growing weather, eh, Zadock?" 
 
 Zadock nodded. 
 
 " Got anything new to show me ? " 
 
 The simpleton's face beamed with delight. He put his 
 hand in his pocket, and drew out a long variegated snake, 
 which twined itself round his arm in a most familiar man- 
 ner. Frank laughed, and put out his hand to take it. 
 
 "Nay," said Zadock, in a thick guttural voice; "she'll 
 bite thee. See here ! " 
 
 He forced open the snake's slit of a mouth, and exhib- 
 ited the fangs. 
 
 "She's a bad 'un," he said. 
 
 "But what is it? — an adder ? " Frank asked. 
 
 "Eh, I doan't know. Striped lady, I call her. She's 
 none from these parts." 
 
 " Strayed from a menagerie, I believe," muttered Frank. 
 " Look here, Zadock, you must be careful of that brute. It 
 might hurt you." 
 
 " She won't hurt Zadock; she knows me." And as if to 
 
51 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 prove the truth of his remark, the young man unwound the 
 creature and thrust it carelessly back into his pocket, the 
 snake seeming" quite heedless of the handling it received 
 from its master. 
 
 Frank strolled about the farmyard for a little while, 
 until he saw Lisbeth approaching him with a basket on her 
 arm. She had changed her dress in honour of his com- 
 panionship, and wore a close-fitting tweed and felt hat— a 
 workmanlike, well-made dress, which might have been 
 worn by the greatest lady in the land. A cock's feather in 
 her hat gave the touch of smartness which Miss Verrall was 
 sometimes inclined to despise. 
 
 "How nice you look, Lisbeth!" said Mr. Moor. He 
 spoke out his thoughts to her as frankly as a boy. "I've 
 seen nobody, even in London, who could compare with you ; 
 or, at least — not many." 
 
 He paused suddenly, as if confused by a darting memory; 
 and Lisbeth laughed. She was in good spirits, and meant 
 to enjoy her walk. For the purposes of enjoyment it was 
 better that Frank should not be too sentimental. 
 
 " I'm glad you put in that last phrase," she said. " It 
 sounds more truthful than the first one." 
 
 " Let me carry your basket." 
 
 " No, thank you ; Zadock will do that. You know he is 
 hurt if anybody else carries it for me," she added, in a lower 
 tone, as Zadock shambled up. He took the basket, and fell 
 behind them, like a servant — it was Zadock's way. Lisbeth 
 and Francis Moor took no further notice of him; it was 
 enough for him that he was in their company, and of use to 
 his beloved Lisbeth. 
 
 " Why are you going to the Quarry ? " 
 
 " One of the ploughman's children is ill. I promised to 
 take her some beef tea and eggs." 
 
 "You are always so good, Lisbeth— especially to those 
 who are in trouble." 
 
 Lisbeth divined some special meaning in this address. 
 She looked at him quickly. " I know you are going to ask 
 me to do something for somebody, Mr. Moor." 
 
BY THE QUARRY. 55 
 
 " I can't deny it, Lisbeth. But why on that account " 
 
 u Frank, then,' 1 she said, not waiting for the end of his 
 remonstrance. " But what is it ? You look rather serious 
 — is it something more important than usual ? " 
 
 " Yes, you witch-woman, it is. Lisbeth, I am a little bit 
 afraid of what you will say to me. I have done something 
 which I am afraid you may not like." 
 
 u Tell me, Frank." 
 
 " You know that I have been to London ? It seemed to 
 me, Lisbeth, that you were making a mistake in not answer- 
 ing that advertisement. So I went myself to the address, 
 saw the lawyer, and obtained the necessary particulars. 
 There is no fortune for you to inherit, you may be glad to 
 hear." 
 
 " I am very glad of it. But you had no business to go 
 without my consent." 
 
 "I know I had not. But for once, Lisbeth, I did not 
 think you were doing your duty. And I'm quite sure of it 
 now." 
 
 He was speaking with more caution and reserve than 
 usual, for he knew the strength of that resolution which 
 was to be read so plainly upon Lisbeth's face. 
 
 "I am sure you ought to know," he went on, earnestly. 
 " Did you ever hear that your father married again ? " 
 
 11 1 am not surprised." 
 
 " His wife died, leaving him money. He had one daugh- 
 ter, whom he brought up in comfort and luxury. She is 
 nineteen now; lame, and — rather delicate in health." 
 
 " She has no doubt plenty of friends," said Lisbeth, drily. 
 
 "Wait a moment. James Lorimer spent his wife's 
 money in providing himself with an annuity, terminable 
 with his life. He has left his daughter about seventy 
 pounds a year, and a little ready money from the sale of 
 his furniture. The girl has not been used to do anything 
 for herself: she does not know how to manage things: she 
 is quite alone in the world." 
 
 " You have seen her '? " 
 
 "For five minutes or so. She did not know that I knew 
 
56 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 you. She had heard of you only the night before her father 
 died. She is staying— on sufferance, I gather— at the law- 
 yer's house — a Mr. Creighton, whom I happened to know 
 something of. I saw her there for a few minutes." 
 
 There was a silence. Then Lisbeth spoke. " You want 
 me to do something, Frank," she said. u What is it ? Speak 
 out: there is no need for you to be timid with me." 
 
 "I am not timid," said Frank, a little hurt by her tone; 
 "only— I wanted you to propose it yourself." 
 
 tk Propose what ? " 
 
 " I want you to be a friend to that poor child, Lisbeth — 
 she is alone." 
 
 " And how can I be a friend to her ? What can I do for 
 her ? She is used to grander people than poor farmer-folk. 
 She would laugh at the idea of calling me her friend." 
 
 " I don't think so. She had a forlorn kind of look. I 
 want you to write to her, Lisheth, and ask her to come here." 
 
 " To come here ! " There was a note of derision in Lis- 
 beth's voice. 
 
 " Yes, to come here. You are her sister— her elder sister; 
 and you should look after her. " 
 
 All this time they had been breasting a steep hill; and 
 now they stood on a ridge beside which the remains of a 
 deep quarry could be seen. Two or three stone cottages 
 were grouped together in the hollow. 
 
 " I am going in," said Lisbeth, abruptly. " Wait for me 
 here." 
 
 Frank flung himself down upon the crisp short turf, and 
 waited, keenly enjoying the fresh invigorating breezes of 
 the heights, the fine view of the valley, the blue sky with its 
 puffs of white cloud overhead. It was some time before 
 Lisbeth returned. Her face was very serious as she stood 
 beside him. 
 
 " Frank," she said, " I have been thinking it over. There 
 is a little child dying inside that house. The mother is cry- 
 ing at its bedside. I thought when I saw them — of her 
 mother — and of mine. ... I can't make it quite clear even 
 to myself; but I mean that if there is anything I can do — if 
 
AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 57 
 
 I can prevent some other woman's child from being as 
 lonely as — as I — have sometimes been; then I'll do it, if 
 I can." 
 
 Frank had half drawn himself up, but had halted upon 
 one knee at Lisbeth's side. Now he drew her hand towards 
 his lips and kissed it before she knew what he was think- 
 ing of. 
 
 "You are the noblest of women, Lisbeth." he said; "and 
 if you had seen that sweet delicate girl, pining under her 
 weight of sorrow and loneliness, you would want to help 
 her as much as I did." 
 
 " Tell me what I shall do," said Lisbeth simply ; but, in 
 spite of her generous magnanimity, a strange new pang 
 suddenly pierced her womanly heart. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 
 
 Alys Lorimer had been nearly six months with the 
 Creighton s. They had all been kind to her— especially at 
 first ; and she was so bewildered with the shock of her grief 
 and her new circumstances that she did not for some time 
 realise that she might be an unwelcome guest. Some few 
 words about the inconvenience of the loss of a spare room, 
 overheard accidentally (as she believed) by her, opened her 
 eyes. She had overstayed her welcome. Mrs. Creighton 
 wanted her gone ; Lydia was tired of her ; she had been in 
 Mrs. Creighton 's way. She must go — but whither ? 
 
 Other members of the family showed no signs of dislike 
 or weariness. Edmund was always assiduously kind; Mar- 
 cia, from G-irton, was pleased to have a new hearer for her 
 adventures; Julian devoted herself with ardour to Alys's 
 entertainment. Still it was different from her old life : she 
 missed the little luxuries to which she had been accustomed ; 
 she shrank into herself at tiny slights, w r hich she had never 
 
58 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 before encountered. For the first week or two she was 
 treated as an honoured visitor; then, as Mrs. Creighton dis- 
 covered how narrow her income was likely to be, she gradu- 
 ally dropped the little attentions which she had showered 
 on her guest. The fire in the bedroom was discontinued ; 
 then the cup of tea before dressing; the delicate refection at 
 eleven; the daily drive— all these things became non-exist- 
 ent; and Alys found herself by degrees reduced to a state 
 of discomfort which she had not even experienced in her 
 schooldays. Of course, she had no maid ; and her lameness 
 made her rather slow and unhandy in doing things for her- 
 self. But it was not kind of Mrs. Creighton to sneer at her 
 for her helplessness; and tears of shame and anger rose very 
 often to poor Alys's eyes when she realised the position in 
 which she was placed. 
 
 Neither Mr. Creighton nor Edmund had any notion of 
 this state of things. Men do not easily fathom the ways in 
 which a woman's spite can vent itself. When the two men 
 came home in the evening they found every one smiling 
 and radiant ; and if Alys, in her plain black dress, looked 
 pale and spiritless, they put it down to grief for her bereave- 
 ment, and thought no more about it. Edmund was usually 
 keen-eyed ; but his affection for his mother and sisters blinded 
 him a little to their faults, and they took care to conceal from 
 him any evidences of coldness or unkindness. They knew 
 very well that Alys would not tell. It was reserved for 
 Julian to open Edmund's eyes. 
 
 She lay in wait for him one afternoon when he came 
 home about six o'clock, and drew him into a little book-room 
 or library near the hall door. u Edmund," she began, " I 
 want to speak to you about Alys. She is so miserable." 
 
 " Miserable ? " said Edmund. " Why ? " 
 
 He himself did not look very happy. He was very weary 
 in his mind. 
 
 " Because mamma and Lydia are so unkind to her. They 
 are, indeed. They do everything they can to make her un- 
 comfortable, because they want that spare room ; and they 
 don't like having her here, now that she isn't rich. Oh, 
 
AN UNWELCOiME GUEST. 59 
 
 Edmund, indeed it is true. I am not a silly, spiteful child; 
 I have eyes, and I can see." 
 
 11 But, surely, Julian — you don't know what you are say- 
 ing ! Mother would never be unkind to a friendless girl " 
 
 '* Oh, wouldn't she ? You don't know her. You don't 
 know how she used to behave to the governesses. Well, I'll 
 give you a proof. Alys is to turn out of the spare room, be- 
 cause it is wanted for Arabella Brownson; and she is to 
 have the little attic-room ; and mamma suggested yesterday 
 that she ought to make herself useful, and that she might 
 mend the house-linen " 
 
 "Julian!" 
 
 " It is quite true, Edmund. I'm glad you are indignant. 
 Alys was as sweet as possible, and said she ought to have 
 thought of it herself, and she has been working all day at 
 these wretched sheets and tablecloths and things, until she 
 is quite worn out ; but she won't leave off, although she is 
 as hot and nervous and overdone as she can be, because she 
 says she wants to show that she is grateful. Grateful, Ed- 
 mund ! isn't it hateful of mamma to have put such ideas in 
 her head ? " 
 
 Edmund stood frowning and indignant. u Where is 
 she ? " he asked, after a moment's pause. 
 
 " She is in the old schoolroom, sewing for dear life," said 
 Julian, with a short little laugh. " Come and see her: make 
 her put it away. She will kill herself if she goes on like 
 this. Come upstairs: you needn't be afraid: mamma and 
 Lydia are out." 
 
 Edmund followed silently. He was dismayed. And he 
 was in this difficulty — that his father had all but forbidden 
 him to make love to Alys Lorimer. " If you do, you'll de- 
 prive her of a home," Mr. Creighton had said. " I shall not 
 keep her under my roof if there is going to be any nonsense 
 of that kind." 
 
 So Edmund had held aloof, meaning, however, to take 
 matters into his own hands when six months had elapsed. 
 But Julian had forced his hand by her disclosures. 
 
 He wished vainly that he had made his decision and 
 
60 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 spoken of his love to Alys on that day when they sat to- 
 gether and looked at the flowers in the conservatory. He 
 had been held back then, partly because he was shocked by 
 the facts concerning the annuity which Mr. Lorimer had 
 that afternoon divulged to him : partly because he thought 
 he did not know his own mind. He knew it now. He knew 
 that he loved Alys truly and sincerely, and that he did not 
 care a jot for her want of wealth. But could he make her 
 understand w T hy he had never spoken before ? 
 
 The old schoolroom was a small apartment near the top 
 of the house, little used now because it was dark and incon- 
 venient. Here sat Alys Lorimer. and a glance at her showed 
 Edmund that Julian's account had not been overdrawn. 
 Alys was hot and tired and nervous : her cheek — much thin- 
 ner than it used to be — burned with a hectic flush, and her 
 eyes were heavy and swollen: her hands trembled, and her 
 posture, as she bent over her sewing, showed fatigue and 
 dejection. She blushed violently when Edmund entered, 
 and turned a reproachful eye on Julian, but she could not 
 speak. 
 
 Edmund simply went up to her and took the work out of 
 her hands. " Take this away, Julian," he said, sweeping an 
 armful of white stuff from the table. u Take it all down to 
 the servants. Miss Lorimer is never to touch it again : do 
 you hear ? It is much too tiring for her." 
 
 Julian gathered up the work gleefully, and disappeared 
 with a snowy pile under her arm. Alys protested feebly, 
 tried to laugh, and ended by a burst of almost hysterical 
 tears. 
 
 "You are much too tired," said Edmund, tenderly. 
 11 Mind, this is never to happen again. I shall speak to my 
 mother." 
 
 " No, no: don't do that. Indeed — indeed, I don't want to 
 be ungrateful " 
 
 Sobs choked her utterance, and Edmund ground his teeth. 
 
 " There is no need for gratitude. She knows — or ought 
 to know — what I feel for you, Alys. I expected her to treat 
 you as a daughter." 
 
AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 01 
 
 Alys gave a little start, and drew herself away from him. 
 
 " Yes — a daughter. Let me speak, dearest. I have long 
 loved you, and have wanted to tell you of my love. My 
 father bade me wait a little while; but he has known for 
 months what my feelings were. I must speak now ; and I 
 must make others understand. You shall never be teased 
 and trampled on again, — Alys, my sweet, delicate darling — 
 my white flower ! " 
 
 He was going on in the full confidence of possession 
 when a little cry from her interrupted him. 
 
 " I am very sorry," she murmured ; " but, no, no, Edmund, 
 it can never be." 
 
 " Can it not ? " he answered, almost smiling at what he 
 took to be her timidity. " Indeed, my darling, it can. You 
 must not be misled by a little sharpness of tongue on my 
 mother's part. Perhaps you mistook — or perhaps she 
 thought that you were a little unkind to me. You have 
 been very cold of late, you know. But, dear Alys " 
 
 " You must not go on," said Alys, shrinking from him. 
 " I could not; it is no use." 
 
 " What is no use ? " he said, brought at last to see that 
 her words had a definite meaning. 
 
 " I could not— marry you. I do not care for you enough. 
 Oh, indeed, I like you very much as a friend," she said, 
 warned by the gathering gloom on Edmund's face that she 
 had given pain, and perhaps offence ; " but not — not as any- 
 thing else. You must not think of such a thing." 
 
 " But, Alys, you are imagining that my people would ob- 
 ject, and I can assure you that I have influence enough " 
 
 " No, it is not that," said Alys. Then, with gathered firm- 
 ness, she went on, " I should not mind any opposition, if 
 only I loved a man well enough." 
 
 " But could you not go through it for my sake ? " 
 
 " No," said Alys, trembling from head to foot, but reso- 
 lute. And yet she was sorry to bring such a shadow to his 
 face. 
 
 He let her go, and she sank into her chair again, while 
 he stood by her silently wrestling with a hundred shapes of 
 
62 TIIE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 anger, sorrow, resentment, and bewilderment. He had been 
 almost sure that she cared for him not very long ago. 
 
 " I am sorry," he brought himself to say at last, in a very 
 gentle tone, " that you cannot care for me, Alys. I thought 
 I could have made you happier. I should have taken you 
 out of this house, and given you a house of your own. But 
 as you say you cannot " 
 
 "I cannot; indeed, I cannot," she cried, desperately. 
 " Edmund, don't ask me again." 
 
 He looked at her intently for a few seconds before he 
 spoke. " I am not sure, Alys," he said at last, " that you 
 don't care for me a little — more than you know. Don't be 
 angry with me for saying so. Forget it, and let me be your 
 friend still. You have not so many friends that you can af- 
 ford to throw one away." 
 
 " That is true," she said, sorrowfully. " Yes, I shall be 
 glad of your friendship; but please — please do not talk to me 
 of anything else." 
 
 " Not unless you give me leave." 
 
 She passed over this remark as if it were not worth no- 
 tice. 
 
 " And will you help me to get away from here ? I don't 
 mind where I go. I believe I could live somewhere for a 
 pound a week, could I not ? I have more than that; and I 
 should not want very much. I only want a little quiet place 
 — to myself — where I could be happy " 
 
 And then she broke down again, and cried unrestrained- 
 ly. Edmund laid his hand on her shoulder, and stood by 
 her with an aching heart. What could he do to help her ? 
 Oh, why had he said nothing to her on that November after- 
 noon in Croyland Square ? 
 
 He consoled her at last by promising to do his best to 
 find her a new home, to speak to his father — everything pos- 
 sible and impossible that occurred to him by way of com- 
 fort, and then he advised her to go to bed, as she was quite 
 worn out; and Alys obeyed, being only too glad to escape 
 the ordeal of dinner downstairs and the drawing-room after- 
 wards. 
 
AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 03 
 
 She had a bad headache next day, and could not lift her 
 head from her pillow; but Julian waited on her assiduously, 
 and Alys conjectured that Edmund had interposed on her 
 behalf, for Mrs. Creighton would not otherwise have allowed 
 Julian to remain beside her. In the evening she felt well 
 enough to dress and descend to the schoolroom ; and when 
 she was comfortably settled there, to her infinite astonish- 
 ment Mr. Creighton was announced. 
 
 He was very kind in manner, commented on her pale 
 looks, and told her she must take care of herself. Atys ex- 
 pected him to speak of Edmund, and waited with red cheeks 
 for the moment when she must tell him that she had refused 
 his son ; but the lawyer had other business on hand. Ed- 
 mund was almost independent of him, and he was not going 
 to meddle with other people's love affairs. So, after a little 
 preparatory humming and hawing, he began — 
 
 " I have some notion, my dear, that you are not quite so 
 comfortable with us as you were at first. Edmund said 
 something about your wishing to find another place of resi- 
 dence." 
 
 " You have been very kind in keeping me so long, 1 ' said 
 Alys, resolutely, " and I am very much obliged to Mrs. 
 Creighton and yourself ; but I think it would be better if I 
 had some little independent p] ace of my own." 
 
 " Seventy or eighty pounds a year will not get you much 
 of a home," said Mr. Creighton. " But another home might 
 be open to you. You will remember that I have been mak- 
 ing inquiries about your relations — your step relations, that 
 is to say : your father's daughter, who is entitled to an equal 
 portion with yourself." 
 
 " Have you found her ? " said Alys, eagerly. 
 
 " I think, my dear, I have. But you must not expect too 
 much. She has not, perhaps, had the advantages you have 
 had. Not the education, you know." And Mr. Creighton 
 nodded significantly. 
 
 " I know — I understand," said Alys. " But tell me about 
 her. Have you heard from her ? " 
 
 " My first intimation from her," said the lawyer, slowly, 
 
(54 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " came through a Mr. Moor, a gentleman of good family in 
 the north of England, who is acquainted with Miss — Miss 
 Lorimer, and who called here to make inquiries. I think 
 you saw him : he was in the drawing-room for a few minutes. 
 I brought him home with me from the office." 
 
 "I remember," said Alys, looking down. She remem- 
 bered, because the man with the soft eyes and the peaked 
 beard had looked at her so persistently that she had thought 
 him rude. His stare was now explained. 
 
 " Through Mr. Moor I have been put into communication 
 with Miss Lorimer ; and I have to-day received a letter from 
 her which I am requested to put into your hands. You will 
 note, my dear," said Mr. Creighton, kindly, " that there may 
 be little imperfections of expression and diction which must 
 not be reckoned against her too heavily: she has not been 
 brought up like you. Her grandfather was a yeoman farm- 
 er; and I believe she herself now manages the farm. As 
 you will see, she has taken her grandfather's name." 
 
 Alys slowly opened the letter that he had placed in her 
 hands. She could not help seeing that the paper and the 
 envelope were poor and mean-looking; and that the hand- 
 writing, though clear, was not what we call an " educated " 
 hand. She read the letter, therefore, with some misgivings. 
 
 It was very short. 
 
 " Quest, 15th May, 188— 
 
 " My dear Sister,— We do not know each other ; but I 
 think it is time we became better acquainted. Will you 
 come down to Quest for a few weeks or months, as suits you 
 best ? We have plenty of room, and I shall be ready for 
 you, and pleased to see you any time. 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 "LlSBETH VERRALL." 
 
 " Yes," said Alys, rising from her seat, with flushed cheeks 
 and sparkling eyes. "Yes, I will go, Mr. Creighton; will 
 you thank Mrs. Creighton for all her kindness to me, and 
 tell her that I am going to my sister ? To my sister — at 
 
 Quest." 
 
CONDITIONS. 65 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CONDITIONS. 
 
 " So she is coming,'' Frank said, slowly. 
 
 "Have you anything against it ?" Lisbeth asked, with a 
 flash of her dark, large-pupilled eyes. 
 
 She had been walking to the village of Crosthwaite, which 
 stood in the valley beside the river, and looked like a dream 
 of beauty when seen from Quest ; and Mr. Francis Moor had 
 joined her on her homeward way. She had tried to get rid 
 of him, for she had a conscientious objection to doing the 
 thing of which she knew that Lady Adela would disapprove, 
 but he could not be shaken off. He beguiled her from that 
 subject at length by speaking of the newly-found half-sister, 
 with whom Lisbeth had put herself into communication. 
 
 " I have nothing against it— why should I have ? I am 
 the guilty party, since I insisted on interviewing Mr. 
 Creighton ; but I did not fancy that you would be so anxious 
 to see her immediately, or perhaps " 
 
 He hesitated, and Lisbeth took up the word. 
 
 " Or that she would be so ready to come ? " 
 
 Frank laughed. " You are abnormally clever, Lisbeth. 
 Well, yes, I thought that London would be more attractive 
 than our Cumberland hills to a young lady of Miss Lorimer's 
 type." 
 
 " She must be a poor creature if she does not find this 
 better than London ! " said Lisbeth, with a superb wave of 
 her hand towards hill and vale, which were bathed in the 
 glorious sunlight of a brilliant June evening. She stopped 
 short to look at the play of light and shade on a distant hill- 
 side, and the flashing of a stream on its way to join the 
 river, and it seemed to Frank— who looked at her face rather 
 than at the landscape— as if sun and shadow were reflected 
 in her eyes and on her noble brow. He was for a moment 
 surprised : Lisbeth did not often put her emotions into 
 words. 
 
66 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " I scarcely knew you cared so much for poor old Cros- 
 thwaite," he said lightly. 
 
 She turned from him and continued her walk up the 
 rocky uphill road. " There's no place like home," she said 
 softly. 
 
 " Is it Quest you love, then ? " 
 
 " Quest — and all that's round it. The hills, the rivers, 
 the look of the place," said Lisbeth, briefly. " No other spot 
 would be the same to me." 
 
 " Couldn't you care for Moor End a little ? " said Francis 
 Moor, in a lower voice. He came closer to her as he spoke ; 
 but Lisbeth only quickened her pace a little, and went on 
 her way unmoved, holding her head high. 
 
 " I like Moor End very well. It's a fine place, and 
 always will be, so long as one stone holds to another. I 
 don't wonder your mother's fond of it. 11 
 
 The reference to his mother threw Frank out a little. 
 He believed that she had made it purposely. 
 
 "You know what I mean, Lisbeth " 
 
 " If I do, Mr. Frank, you ought to see that I don't want 
 to hear any more about it," said Lisbeth, sharply. 
 
 " But that's not fair," Frank rejoined. " You might hear 
 a fellow out, Lisbeth, whatever kind of answer you mean to 
 make him. You know well enough the feeling that I have 
 for you, and that it is a serious one. I demand a hearing as 
 a right — if you won't give it me as a favour." His voice 
 dropped during the last few words. 
 
 Lisbeth compressed her lips, and to the keen-eyed ob- 
 server at her side it seemed as though she turned a shade 
 paler. But she did not relax her rapid pace, nor lower her 
 haughty head. 
 
 u I've told you before," she said resolutely, " that I didn't 
 want to hear talk of that kind. It's not fit, between you 
 and me. Your mother would have good cause of complaint 
 against me if I gave heed to it, and I don't mean her to have 
 that." 
 
 "Has she spoken to you ?" said Frank, in sudden alarm. 
 
 "No — not direct," said Lisbeth, with reluctant honesty; 
 
CONDITIONS. 67 
 
 " but I know what she means as well as most folk. ' I want 
 my son to marry some one who will love Moor End as 1 do, 
 and help to restore it,' she said to me once. Doesn't that 
 show what she feels about your marriage ? " 
 
 " But, Lisbeth, you would love Moor End ! " 
 
 " I might love it, but I could not build it up again." 
 
 u And is this," said Frank, impetuously, "your only rea- 
 son for refusing to listen to me ? — that you cannot rebuild a 
 ruin, or bring money to the man whom you would honour 
 with your hand ? Is that all ? " 
 
 u No, that is not all/' 
 
 Lisbeth's eyes wandered to the distant horizon ; she seemed 
 to be looking for a country that he could not see— for some 
 unknown future which she was quicker to read than was 
 Francis Moor. 
 
 " There is this also," she said, resolutely ; " there is the 
 unfitness of birth, of education " 
 
 " Not of birth, Lisbeth. Your father was a gentleman." 
 
 "A pretty gentleman, from all I know of him!" cried 
 Lisbeth, with sudden scorn. Then her voice softened re- 
 pentantly. kw I ought not to speak against him; I did not 
 mean it — but you know yourself, Frank, that I never gained 
 much from him. What good did he ever do me ? Well, he 
 was a gentleman, in your sense of the word ; but he did not 
 think fit to teach me anything, he left my upbringing to 
 simple folk, he let me grow up like a weed — and a girl brought 
 up in that way is not fit to live amongst gentry, nor to be 
 treated by one of them as if " 
 
 Frank interrupted her most angrily. u Lisbeth, you shall 
 not say these things. I won't say that I see in you merely 
 my equal, but you are my superior; you know you are. I 
 always feel that I can learn from you — that I could depend 
 on you — if you were my wife you could do anything with 
 me." 
 
 "And is that how a husband should regard his wife?" 
 Lisbeth said, hotly. "I should like a husband that I could 
 depend on and learn from, not one that wanted petting and 
 coaxing like a child by its mother." 
 
68 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " Is that what you think of me ? Then, indeed, I can 
 have no hope." 
 
 The pain in his voice touched Lisbeth more than she 
 would acknowledge. She went on rapidly, with a hot flush 
 on her dark face — 
 
 " I do not say that I think that of you. But you put 
 yourself into that position by the words you use. You talk 
 of depending on me. Dont you think you have depended 
 on other people too long already ? Why don't you go out 
 into the world and work for yourself ? Why are you always 
 idling away your time, doing nothing but playing with your 
 fiddle and writing verses and making pretty pictures ? Do 
 you call that work fit for a man ? " 
 
 Frank stopped short in the road. He had turned rather 
 white about the lips. 
 
 " You have said things to me like this before," he said, 
 u but never quite so plainly. I see you despise me. . . . 
 Good-bye, Lisbeth : we cannot even be friends if you think 
 so badly of me." 
 
 Lisbeth was obliged, in common courtesy, to halt in her 
 stately march along the road. Perhaps she would have 
 held her position better if she could have gone on. But she 
 turned and looked at him, and in spite of her resolution 
 there was a quiver of her lip. 
 
 " You are wrong— I don't think badly of you," she said. 
 u I only want you to see what you might do — and what you 
 don't." 
 
 " Then you take an interest in me after all ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Lisbeth, with a curious difficulty of speech 
 — a nervous contraction of her throat, that made her 
 voice low and thick, " yes— I take— an interest in you — Mr. 
 Moor." 
 
 " Then — if T were to do what you wish— work and prove 
 myself a man — you would perhaps " 
 
 His eyes were shining, tbe colour had come back to his 
 face with a rush : he held out his hand towards her. But 
 Lisbeth drew back. 
 
 "No— no," she said abruptly; " I did not mean that." 
 
CONDITIONS. 09 
 
 The young man looked at her keenly ; he bad wit enough 
 to note that there was more softness in her eyes than her 
 words justified. He drew nearer, and spoke in a different 
 tone. 
 
 "Lisbeth, you are always true and faithful," he said. 
 "Be true to yourself and me. Isn't it possible that you 
 might some day care for me ? " 
 
 He was very near the truth. But Lisbeth made a violent 
 effort to retain her self-command. 
 
 " Not in that way," she said, stiffly and drily. 
 
 " Not as a lover— a husband ? " 
 
 She wanted to say " No." But for a woman of three-and- 
 twenty, who has never told a lie in all her life, to begin with 
 an absolute falsehood is too great a plunge. Lisbeth opened 
 her lips, shut them again, and temporised. 
 
 u I would rather think of you as a friend," she said. 
 
 Frank sighed and drew back. " You are a cold-hearted 
 woman, Lisbeth. You do not mind how much you hurt 
 me. You take from me my only motive for ambition." 
 
 " And for work ? " said Lisbeth, with sudden impatience, 
 which came chiefly from the sting of her own pain. " Have 
 you not your mother to think of — and Moor End ? " 
 
 She turned from him with a swing of her handsome 
 shoulders, a haughty uplifting of her handsome chin. As 
 she walked along the road her lips were set closely together, 
 her eyebrows levelled in a dark frown. She did not look 
 like a very amiable woman — like a woman born submissive 
 and gentle, as women are supposed to be. She had never 
 been given much opportunity of learning these humbler 
 virtues: from her birth she bad been queen of those around 
 her — from her veriest infancy mistress of Quest. 
 
 So she strode on proudly ; and Francis Moor, angry, 
 wounded, more sorely hurt than he had ever been in his 
 life before, stood in the road where she had left him, scarce- 
 ly knowing whether to advance or to retreat. Pride and 
 wounded feeling won the day. He turned at last, and de- 
 liberately retraced his steps to Crosthwaite. It was not for 
 his manhood, he thought, to humiliate himself further in 
 
70 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 Lisbeth 's eyes. It was plain that she wished to dismiss him, 
 and he would not trouble her again. 
 
 He might have thought differently if he had seen Lis- 
 beth's face ten minutes after she had left him. At first the 
 frown seemed stamped upon it ; gradually the frown passed 
 into an expression of deep pain, and finally the tears filled 
 her eyes, overflowed, and trickled down her cheeks. She 
 was forced, then, to pause for a minute or two. Frank was 
 well out of sight, and she was drawing near to Quest: it 
 would never do to be seen by her man servants and maid 
 servants with tears upon her face. There was a bank on one 
 side of the road:, she sat down, in the shadow of a great haw- 
 thorn bush, and wiped the tears away, but in a furtive man- 
 ner, as if even there she feared that she should be observed. 
 She had a strangely weak feeling, as if she had in some way 
 done a thing that was a little beyond her strength, and over- 
 strained herself. 
 
 She had some reason for thinking that she was observed. 
 She knew Zadock's habits well. He had a trick of haunting 
 her footsteps, of following her at a little distance like a 
 watch-dog; and during her walk from Crosthwaite he had 
 been tracking her on the green hill side, never once proceed- 
 ing by the road, but keeping alongside, at about fifty yards 
 distance from her, so that in case of necessity he might be 
 at hand. Not that there ever was any necessity for his 
 presence: Lisbeth was as strong as he, and quite capable of 
 defending herself against any assault of tramp or highway- 
 man ; but she had grown used to Zadock's silent and stealthy 
 companionship, and counted upon it unconsciously. Even 
 as she dried her tears, she looked round for him — with a 
 little trouble and apprehension, to be sure — and there he was 
 already at her side. 
 
 " What's wrong ? " he asked, in the thick guttural tones 
 which were almost unintelligible to any one save Lisbeth 
 herself. 
 
 "Nothing, Zadock." 
 
 " Thee be cryin'. 'Tis that theer squoire, it be. Zadock'll 
 larn 'im." 
 
CONDITIONS. 71 
 
 " Rubbish ! " said Lisbeth, with great sharpness. u 'Tis 
 no such thing, Zadock, an' thee'll be pleased to hold tha 
 tongue." 
 
 She always relapsed into dialect when she talked to 
 Zadock: it did not seem as if he could understand her when 
 she used the finer accent which she had partly learned at 
 school and partly copied from Francis Moor. 
 
 The young man was silent. He stood on the shelving 
 bank beside her, leaning upon a great oaken staff which he 
 had planted firmly in the short thick turf. His broad shoul- 
 ders, his shaggy head, his rough garments, gave him an 
 oddly wild and almost savage appearance, not lessened by 
 the ferocious gleam that showed itself for a moment in his 
 blue eyes as he growled out a sullen threat. 
 
 "If squoire hurts tha, Zadock'll kill'n dead." 
 
 u Squire won't hurt me," said Lisbeth, bursting into a 
 sudden laugh ; " and Zadock needn't be such a fool." 
 
 But she held out her hand to him as she rose from her 
 lowly seat and touched his arm lovingly. 
 
 "Poor old Zadock! Be good to Lisbeth, Zadock." It was 
 the one admonition that had any effect upon the darkened 
 mind of the poor faithful fool. 
 
 He received the caress with evident pleasure, smiling 
 broadly from ear to ear, and the sullen darkness passed from 
 his face like a cloud. Lisbeth also smoothed her brows, and 
 prepared to walk homeward with her usual composure of 
 manner. 
 
 She was a little abstracted, however, and did not notice 
 that Zadock kept turning his head uneasily in one direction, 
 as if he heard something that disturbed him. Not till Lis- 
 beth stopped at her own gate did she also remark the sound. 
 " There's a carriage on the road," she said. " Coming up 
 here, too ! It's late for people from Crosthwaite to be taking 
 a drive." 
 
 The highway, on which she could see the vehicle, formed 
 part of a favourite drive usually taken by the few tourists 
 who came that way. The road or lane that led to Quest 
 diverged at right angles from the highway, and was narrow 
 
72 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 and grass-grown between low stone walls. Lisbeth, watch- 
 ing from the doorway, expected the carriage to pass this 
 turning ; but to her great surprise it turned into the lane. 
 
 " It's coming here. Who can it be ? " she said to herself. 
 
 Then her face flushed. "It must be— it must be," she 
 muttered. " I've mistaken the day, like the great dolt that 
 I am. It's the girl, as sure as I live. And not half the 
 things ready, nor the parlour cleaned up or anything. If 
 it had only been to-morrow — what will she think of us 
 
 all?" 
 
 There was not the slightest occasion for Lisbeth to dis- 
 tress herself either about the cleaning of the parlour or any 
 other household detail ; but it was part of her tradition that 
 every nook and corner, how clean soever it might already 
 be, should be scrubbed and rubbed, and polished and brushed 
 in preparation for any honoured guest. And although Alys 
 Lorimer was expected later in the week, Lisbeth considered 
 that the place was by no means fit for her as yet. 
 
 But it was too late to do anything except stand helplessly 
 at the door and wait for the arrival of the station fly, with 
 its load of boxes on the roof. It halted at the gate in order 
 to allow its occupant to get out; and Lisbeth saw a slim 
 figure in black, with a slightly limping gait, approach her. 
 She waited a moment for the stranger to speak first. 
 
 u Are you my sister Elizabeth?" Alys Lorimer asked, 
 putting out two trembling hands. 
 
 Lisbeth took her into her arms, and kissed her before she 
 replied. And with that fond embrace she also took her for 
 ever into the depths of her capacious heart. The word " sis- 
 ter " took her by storm. 
 
IN THE MOONLIGHT. 73 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 IN THE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 The oak parlour was Lady Adela Moor's favourite sit- 
 ting-room at Moor End. It was a sombre-looking apart- 
 ment, for the wood with which it was panelled had turned 
 almost black with time, and a brilliant light would have 
 been needed before the eye could appreciate the marvels of 
 carving which adorned the high mantelpiece and various 
 articles of furniture about the room. This brilliant light 
 was, however, seldom to be procured. The windows faced 
 southeast, and at mid-day, no doubt, sunshine might stream 
 into the room; but the windows themselves were narrow 
 and deeply set in the massive thickness of the outer wall, 
 and the panes were small and of ancient greenish glass, with 
 a patch of colour here and there. Only when, in the height 
 of summer, they were flung wide open, could air and sun- 
 shine penetrate the dim recesses of Lady Adela's sanctum ; 
 and, even then, the pushing sprays of rose and jessamine, 
 with which that side of the house was overgrown, veiled the 
 light of heaven with a hase of greenery. 
 
 Yet Lady Adela loved the room. She was conservative 
 at heart, and loved old ways, old habits, old memories ; and 
 the ladies of Moor End who had lived there before her had 
 all made the oak room their favourite resting-place. There 
 were miniatures upon the walls, mostly the wives and 
 daughters of the former masters of Moor End ; and Lady 
 Adela liked to sit among them and dream at times of the 
 daughters that Frank would give her, and the new minia- 
 ture which would then be placed upon the wall. Her own 
 hung there already, in white satin, as a bride. 
 
 The June evening was so warm, the moonlight so clear 
 and steady, that she had not lighted the wax candles in their 
 silver sconces, nor even the pretty lamp in modern brass 
 and copper work which Frank had bought for her in Lon- 
 don, and which she secretly and silently despised for its 
 
7J: THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 newness. She liked the moonlight, and it was an economy 
 not to burn candles. So she sat quietly, looking out at the 
 fantastic shadows on the pathway, and trying to disguise 
 from herself the fact that she was anxious because her son 
 Francis had not come home to dinner. 
 
 She seldom called him Frank, — only in moments of ex- 
 pansion, and when mother and son were quite alone to- 
 gether. Francis had been a favourite name among the 
 Moors, and she loved it for the sake of his ancestors. She 
 had come of a noble race, but she seemed to have identified 
 herself thoroughly with the family — ruined and impover- 
 ished as it was — into which she had married ; and — although. 
 Frank was not man of the world enough to notice it — she 
 never in her life made an open comparison between the 
 glories of her own old home and the meagre ness and the 
 poverty of Moor End. She had given up the Willoughbys: 
 she was a Moor, like her husband and her son. 
 
 Francis was not often absent at the dinner hour without 
 sending her an explanatory message. He was very fond of 
 his mother, and considerate of her comfort. But on this occa- 
 sion he had gone out without saying whither he was bound, 
 or when he meant to return ; and Lady Adela, calm as she 
 looked, was very anxious in her mind. 
 
 She had been a lovely woman : she was a graceful woman 
 still. Her fine white skin was almost unwrinkled, her 
 bronze hair almost untouched by time ; her quiet brown eyes, 
 with the drooping eyelids, which gave a slight haughtiness 
 to her expression, were still soft and bright. But she had 
 never altered her widow's garb; and the long floating cap- 
 strings, as well as the sombre hue of her dress, gave her a 
 peculiar dignity of bearing, quite irrespective of her age. 
 
 At last the well-known step was heard. She thought it 
 was heavier and slower than usual, and she turned her face 
 anxiously to the door. It opened to admit her son ; and he 
 spoke at once in his accustomed tones— perhaps, even, with 
 a sort of gaiety which struck her as a little forced. 
 
 " Why, mother ! All in the dark ! I never saw any one 
 with such a taste for midnight gloom! " 
 
IN THE MOONLIGHT. 75 
 
 " Do you call it gloom when this lovely moon is shining? " 
 she asked, as he came to her side and kissed her on the 
 cheek. Was it only the moonlight that made him look so 
 pale? 
 
 u Ah!— the moon! Well, it is glorious, I acknowledge. 
 I've had a long walk — over the hills: I hope you did * not 
 wait dinuer for me, mother; I must beg your pardon for 
 running away." 
 
 " I did not wait, dear : I knew you would be here as soon 
 as you could. But have you had no dinner ? " 
 
 Frank laughed — a little harshly, she thought. " I had 
 aU I wanted : my appetite was quite satisfied, thank you. 
 Yes, really " — as she murmured a suggestion about the din- 
 ing-room — "I had some ale at the Three Kings, an old-fash- 
 ioned little place at Cardew ; ale and bread and cheese, and 
 I want nothing more." 
 
 " Nothing ? You are quite sure — after that long walk, 
 Francis ? " 
 
 " Nothing at all, thank you. I'm a little tired — I think I 
 shall go to bed soon." 
 
 He was standing beside her, with his hand on the arm of 
 her chair. She laid her own upon it in a mute caress. Per- 
 haps it touched him, for after a moment's hesitation he drew 
 another chair forward and seated himself at her side, oppo- 
 site the window, so that the moonlight fell full upon his 
 face. Probably he was not aware of this fact; but Lady 
 Adela was glad of it : she had a watchful eye for the changes 
 of his countenance. 
 
 " Would you like the candles lighted, dear ? " 
 
 " No, thanks : the moonlight is very jolly. I like it al- 
 most as well as you do, I think." 
 
 "It is a magnificent night." 
 
 There was a little silence again. The mother was vaguely 
 conscious that something strange and novel was in the air: 
 that her son was inwardly disturbed for reasons which she 
 could not fathom. Was he going to tell her his trouble, or 
 was he not ? 
 
 kk Mother," he said at length, his voice breaking abruptly 
 
76 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 upon the luminous silence of the night, "I have something 
 to say." 
 
 " Yes, Francis ? " 
 
 " We have talked from time to time of my going away. 
 Of getting an appointment, and all that sort of thing." He 
 stopped short, suddenly, as if he did not know how to con- 
 tinue. 
 
 " Of course, dear boy. Whenever anything suitable is 
 found for you I must let you go," said Lady Adela, ten- 
 derly. 
 
 kt Mother, I think I can't wait for the suitable thing. I 
 must go as soon as I can." 
 
 The mother's fears were stirred. She caught at her son's 
 arm, nervously. " There is nothing wrong, Frank ? " 
 
 " Nothing to make you unhappy, mother. " 
 
 " But you are unhappy ? " 
 
 " Never mind that," said Frank, quickly. " Don't ask 
 me any questions just now. I have a reason for going — but 
 there is nothing wrong. I see now that I ought to have 
 gone long ago." 
 
 He sat brooding over the thought; and Lady Adela 
 watched him with a beating heart, but a firm determination 
 not to probe or question him unless he seemed to wish her 
 to do so. She was a wise woman, and knew that pain dies 
 away more easily when it is not spoken about. And she 
 divined the pain that gave her son his reason for going away. 
 
 " I have wasted a good deal of time," Frank said, pres- 
 ently, with a great sigh. u I wonder what I can do now ? " 
 
 " Lord Mountford spoke of the diplomatic service." 
 
 " Things cannot be got by interest nowadays, and I'm 
 afraid I should have a poor chance at an examination." 
 
 kfc You might run up to London and see Lord Mount- 
 ford," suggested Lady Adela, rather faintly. She was never 
 desirous that her son should leave her when it came to the 
 point. But he took up the idea with some eagerness. 
 
 u Yes— yes, I might, I'll go to-morrow, if you don't 
 mind, mother. Mountford's a good old boy : he might sug- 
 gest something. And — mother " 
 
IN THE MOONLIGHT. 77 
 
 " Yes, Frank ? " 
 
 " You won't mind if I say — that I shall aceept the first 
 thing- that offers — suitable or not ? " 
 
 Lady Adela made a little sound of dismay. Then — " Oh, 
 my boy, has it gone so deep with you ? " she said, in spite of 
 all her resolutions. 
 
 Frank rose and stood leaning against the window-sill, 
 with his face turned away from her. 
 
 44 I'm not sure that I know — no, I won't say that — I do 
 know what you mean. She won't have anything to say to 
 me, mother; and — it has— it has — cut me — rather." 
 
 It was impossible to keep the tremor out of his voice, and 
 tears of sympathy rose to his mother's eyes, although she 
 was devoutly thankful that Lisbeth Verrall had justified the 
 trust reposed in her. 
 
 " My dear boy ! But if she does not care for you — you 
 know she is not of our class and — excellent as she is " 
 
 u Oh, yes; of course, I know you would be pleased," said 
 Frank, rather savagely. kt I did not mean to tell you— but 
 it seems you guessed." 
 
 " I am not pleased at anything which gives you pain," 
 said Lady Adela. 
 
 Frank turned round. "Mother! Would you not help 
 me then ? I believe half her reason for rejecting me is that 
 she thinks you would object. If only you would go to her 
 and plead my cause " 
 
 " I go to her ? My dear boy ! " said Lady Adela, laugh- 
 ing, and almost crying in her mixture of amusement and 
 dismay. " I am not anxious to see you marry the Mistress 
 of Quest ! " 
 
 "Oh, I understand!" said her son, stiffly. He moved 
 into the darkness that hid the middle of the room, and stood 
 there with his hands thrust into his pockets. " You are sorry 
 that I am pained, and yet you will do nothing to prevent it. 
 It is hardly logical, I think." 
 
 " Dear Frank, I did not mean to grieve you. But you 
 know, without my saying so, that there are objections." 
 
 " I don't see them. Her father was a gentleman. She is 
 6 
 
Y8 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 very beautiful— all the world acknowledges that. She is 
 good, clever, not badly off— I do not see how you can wish 
 for a better daughter-in-law. 11 
 
 "I would rather not discuss it, dear," said Lady Adela, 
 with elaborate gentleness. "And — there seems to be no 
 need." 
 
 " Because she has refused me, you mean ? Or rather, she 
 would not listen to me. I believe she would listen," said 
 Frank, with kindJing vehemence, " if only she thought you 
 would approve ! Mother — mother, could you not ? " 
 
 " My dear Frank, it is quite impossible. And, besides, I 
 think Miss Verrall is a woman who knows her own mind." 
 
 This was a statement he could not gainsay ; and he sighed, 
 therefore, but was silent. 
 
 " It will perhaps be a good thing," said his mother, sooth- 
 ingly, " for you to go to Lord Mountford and talk to him 
 about your future. He may be able to do something for 
 you." 
 
 "Anything to get away! to work for myself!" said 
 Frank, almost fiercely. " I have wasted my life long enough. " 
 
 He turned to le.- ve the room ; but, moved by some softer 
 impulse, came back to his mother and kissed her on the 
 forehead. 
 
 " Good-night, mother. I hope I have not said too much. 
 You must forgive me." 
 
 She was only too ready to forgive. She wept bitterly 
 over her boy's pain and sorrow when she was alone; and 
 yet she rejoiced. Elizabeth Verrall had behaved nobly, she 
 said to herself; and she would take an early opportunity of 
 showing her appreciation. She did not realise that any such 
 mark of approbation would be particularly offensive to Lis- 
 beth. 
 
 Francis Moor carried out his designs. He was up early, 
 packed his own portmanteau, and drove in the pony-cart — 
 the only vehicle he possessed — to the station. " I shall not 
 come back again," he said to his mother, half defiantly, 
 "until I have found something to do." 
 
 Lady Adela occupied herself all the morning in writing 
 
IN THE MOONLIGHT. 79 
 
 long letters to her most influential friends. Lord Mount- 
 ford was a distant cousin, and might be expected to be kind ; 
 but whether he would be effective as well as kind she could 
 not be sure. It was just as well to write to him, and to 
 others of his degree, concerning Frank's requirements. 
 
 When two or three days had elapsed, she went to call on 
 Elizabeth. But, whether by accident or design, Lisbeth did 
 not appear — could not be found anywhere. Lady Adela 
 had to come away without seeing her. But she had her re- 
 ward. She saw, as she said afterwards, the most perfect 
 dream of beauty that she had ever yet beheld. 
 
 A girl in white, sitting on the doorstep— that was all. 
 But a girl whose grave, sweet, delicate loveliness quite fas- 
 cinated Lady Adela. The soft golden hair, the tender tint- 
 ing of the complexion, the graceful poise of the dainty 
 limbs, were perfection in her eyes. It was exactly the kind 
 of beauty Lady Adela admired. 
 
 " Who can it be ? " she speculated, as she drove back to 
 Moor End. " A lodger, I suppose. I did not know that the 
 Verrall's would take lodgers— I thought they were above 
 that. The girl looks like a lady. ... It is just as well that 
 Frank is away, poor boy; for a man's heart is sometimes 
 caught at the rebound, and one does not know who this girl 
 can be. Surely not a village beauty : she has a look of ex- 
 traordinary refinement." 
 
 It was thus that she thought of Alys Lorimer; but she 
 did not find out for some time the relationship that existed 
 between the girl and her step-sister, Lisbeth. 
 
 The days went on, and she did not hear very encourag- 
 ing reports of Frank's search for employment. Lord Mount- 
 ford had shaken his head and spoken of the impossibility of 
 getting anything now-a-days except through competitive 
 examination; and Frank was by no means qualified for 
 such a test. But he had been very kind to Frank — had 
 asked him to his house, and introduced him to a great many 
 people, and Lady Adela proudly hoped that Frank might 
 fall in love with an heiress, and write home that he was 
 going to be married before the end of the season. 
 
80 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " That is just what would suit Frank best," she said to 
 herself; for although she was Frank's mother, she was not 
 lacking in discrimination. u He has not enough energy to 
 work without a personal motive: he will never succeed in 
 anything that requires routine. But he would make an 
 excellent county gentleman — an excellent proprietor! If 
 only we had the money, what a fine place Moor End might 
 be!" 
 
 And as Lady Adela wandered restlessly along the echo- 
 ing passages, and in and out of the old-fashioned rooms, she 
 saw visions of restored glories and new splendours which 
 made her heart ache with longing. The love of a house is 
 sometimes as absorbing as the love of a man. Lady Adela 
 had a passion for Moor End. 
 
 At last she had a letter from Frank, couched in more 
 cheerful terms than any of his previous epistles. 
 
 ' k I have had luck at last," he said. " Mountford has in- 
 troduced me to a friend of his who wants a private secre- 
 tary. He is rather an eccentric person — Lord Raynflete, of 
 whom you have probably heard — a philanthropist, and 
 something of a literary man. He is very wealthy, but lives 
 with great simplicity, and has a most wonderful library 
 at one of his houses, and a splendid private gallery at 
 another. He wants somebody to be a kind of companion, I 
 believe : to write his letters and talk literary gossip to him 
 — at least, that is all I have heard mentioned at present, and 
 it does not sound much ; but Mountford says it is an excel- 
 lent opening, and that I may get fairly launched in either 
 literary or political life through Raynflete's help. 
 
 " I have not seen the old fellow yet, but we have cor- 
 responded, and I must say I like his letters. I suppose he is 
 not really old, but one thinks of him as an antique, some- 
 how or other. If he engages me, he won't want me till 
 September, so you will have me back on your hands for a 
 couple of months." 
 
 Lady Adela laid down the letter and sighed. She did 
 not like the proposed situation at all. It seemed to her 
 ridiculous for Frank to accept it. Yet — as Mountford recom- 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 
 
 81 
 
 mended it, it must be worth having. Frank said nothing 
 about salary. She earnestly hoped that he did not mean to 
 accept one. She would not mind his doing the work for 
 nothing. 
 
 She took down the Peerage from a shelf, and looked up 
 Lord Eaynflete. "Seventh baron: three country houses: 
 one in town. Age, thirty-seven. Unmarried." LadyAdela 
 smiled. 
 
 " Silly boy ! " she murmured, thinking of Frank's expres- 
 sions. " Old, indeed ! Why, the man will probably marry 
 in six months. I see he only succeeded to the title three 
 years ago— which accounts for my not knowing anything 
 about him. But I should hardly think that he would want 
 a ' male companion ' very long. " And Lady Adela put away 
 the volume, feeling vaguely relieved. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE NEW LIFE. 
 
 Alys Lorimer experienced a new sensation. 
 
 She had scarcely ever known what it was to be taken in 
 any one's arms, and caressed in the motherly fashion which 
 Lisbeth involuntarily adopted. She was, indeed, just the 
 sort of delicate flower-like girl whom many a woman would 
 have been pleased to pet and fondle; but the circumstances 
 of her life had precluded her from any such indulgences. 
 From the time when she began to be useful and compan- 
 ionable—an extremely early age — her father had monopo- 
 lised her time, her interest, and her affections, save for the 
 few months that she had spent at school. 
 
 Since his death, all had been changed, indeed. She had 
 discovered that her father's affection for her had been sin- 
 gularly selfish, and founded on absolute disregard of the 
 claims of others : he had left her, with what seemed to her a 
 mere pittance, to the tender mercies of a cold and unsym- 
 
g2 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 pathising world. In her desolation she had taken refuge at 
 the Creightons only to find that they (with the exception of 
 Edmund and Julian) cared for her no longer when she was 
 poor: and she had hailed the letter from her unknown sister 
 with a joy largely miugled with fear, lest this new relation- 
 ship should also turn out to be a delusion. 
 
 It did not seem to be one. Lisbeth's greeting was ex- 
 quisitely tender — perhaps all the more so because she had so 
 few people to whom she could show tenderness. Alys felt 
 at home with her at once. 
 
 The driver of the station-cab asked a question about the 
 boxes ; and Miss Verrall bidding Alys step inside the house, 
 came forward to answer him. But as Alys entered the rather 
 narrow passage, she met with an unexpected shock. It was 
 Zadock's wild figure that confronted her, his rough mop of 
 hair and the heavy staff in his hand making him terrible to 
 the timid girl. He said something which she could not 
 understand, and almost fancying that she had come across a 
 madman, she shrank away from him with signs of unmis- 
 takable affright. 
 
 It was a peculiarity of Zadock's that he could not bear to 
 see people show signs of alarm at his appearance. This was 
 the one thing that irritated him almost to madness. He 
 shook his staff violently at the girl, who again recoiled, and 
 chattered so angrily and so unintelligibly that Lisbeth, when 
 she turned back, found Alys almost ready to faint with ter- 
 ror, and trying to hide herself behind the open door. 
 
 "Zadock, you are naughty !" she said, with severity; and 
 Zadock slunk away like a whipped hound, and disappeared 
 into the kitchen regions. " Did he frighten you ? You 
 poor child ! " said Lisbeth. " He doesn't mean anything; he 
 did not know who you were, and one can't explain to him 
 very well." 
 
 Then, finding that Alys still looked white and tremulous, 
 to the girl's great astonishment Lisbeth simply took her up 
 in her strong arms like a baby, and carried her bodily into 
 the sitting-room, where she laid her on the sofa, and pres- 
 ently brought her something hot and strong to drink, after 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 83 
 
 which Alys coughed, laughed, and sat up again, feeling quite 
 revived. 
 
 "You must not mind him," said Lisbeth, solicitously. 
 " He does no one any harm." 
 
 ''Who is he?" 
 
 " Well, he is my step-uncle, but I treat him like a brother 
 or a cousin; he was the same relation to my mother that 
 you are to me." 
 
 " And he lives here ? " Alys repressed a little shudder of 
 disgust. 
 
 " Yes, he lives here. If he had been — like other men, he 
 would have been master here when my grandfather died. 
 Being what he is, you see, I have to be master and mistress 
 too of Quest." 
 
 Alys looked round the room a little wonderingly. She 
 had never sat as a guest in such a room before. It was 
 much like the parlours of ordinary farmers 1 wives: rich in 
 antimacassars and queer old pictures, samplers and big 
 shells. There was a harmonium with books piled upon it, 
 and the furniture was covered in green "rep." There were 
 stiff white curtains at the low window, and pots of musk 
 and geranium upon the sill. Alys had seen something like 
 it when she went into the country with her father from 
 time to time, and had even once lodged in a very similar 
 room ; but it gave her a shock to find her sister— even her 
 step-sister — the owner of such an apartment. 
 
 " What lovely flowers ! " she said at last, looking at the 
 centre table, which was adorned by a great china bowl, full 
 of roses and other summer blossoms. 
 
 "I am glad you like them," said Lisbeth, with a little 
 hesitation. "I've noticed that folks from London think a 
 deal of our roses." 
 
 She thought of Lady Adela's room, which was never 
 without its supply of sweet-smelling flowers ; and although 
 she seldom filled the old punch-bowl for herself, she re- 
 solved that it should never be empty while Alys was at 
 Quest. The girl looked up smiling. 
 
 " Don't you care for them ? " she asked. 
 
84 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " I like 'em growing in the garden best, 1 ' said Lisbeth, 
 frankly. " It seems a sort of murder to pick them and let 
 them die in a stuffy room. But that's just my own poor 
 country notion: town folk like to see them on tables in the 
 house. 11 
 
 " Yes, I think they are lovely — and so sweet." 
 
 " I'll put some more in your room. If you feel rested 
 now, would you like to go upstairs and take off your things ? 
 I'll have tea for you by the time you're ready. You must 
 excuse us not being prepared, as it were : your room is all 
 right, but " 
 
 " Did you not know I was coming to-day ? " said Alys, 
 rising to her feet. 
 
 " It was all my fault : I thought it was to be Thursday, 
 and to-day's Tuesday," said Lisbeth. " But it makes not a 
 bit of difference: not one bit." 
 
 But she had not counted on the delicate poise of the girl's 
 sensibilities, which had already been a good deal disturbed 
 that day. Alys wrung ber slender hands together and then 
 burst into tears. 
 
 "I always do something wrong — I make mistakes — I'm 
 not wanted wherever I go ! " she sobbed. 
 
 " My dear, you are wanted here," said Lisbeth, not quite 
 comprehending, but perfectly pitiful. " I want you: it does 
 not matter which day you come." 
 
 She drew Alys close to her, and held her, while the over- 
 strung girl sobbed away her misery on the broad supporting 
 shoulder of her step-sister. It was with a quivering little 
 smile that Alys at last looked up. 
 
 " How good you are to me ! " she said, gratefully. " I 
 never met any one so kind. I am sure I shall be happy 
 here " 
 
 But the next moment she shrank and shivered again, for 
 in the open doorway she saw the figure of Zadock Verrall 
 with his oaken staff. 
 
 Lisbeth turned her head also, and saw. Then, still hold- 
 ing Alys within one arm, she signalled to Zadock to draw 
 near. 
 
THE NEW LIFE. 85 
 
 " Don't show that you're nervous," she said, in a low tone 
 to Alys. " He doesn't like it. Zadock, look: this is my sis- 
 ter — my dear sister. You must be good to her, Zadock ! you 
 must love her : do you hear ? " 
 
 But for once her exhortation seemed to have no effect. 
 Zadock growled like an angry dog, and moved his stick. 
 Then Lisbeth laid aside her gentleness, and spoke like an 
 offended queen. 
 
 11 Put away that stick, sir. What do you mean by behav- 
 ing so badly ? Put it down — down on the floor." 
 
 With some hesitation, Zadock sulkily complied. 
 
 " Good boy ! " said Lisbeth, softening her voice. " Now, 
 go away — leave the stick. And remember — you must love 
 my little sister." 
 
 " My stick," said Zadock, looking at it as it lay on the 
 ground. 
 
 " No, Lisbeth's stick. Lisbeth will keep it for Zadock — 
 when he is good." 
 
 The poor imbecile stumped away down the stone pas- 
 sages, muttering to himself, and Alys' terrified eyes followed 
 him as long as he was in sight. But Lisbeth gave her a re- 
 assuring smile. 
 
 " He is not often so cross," she said. " I suppose he is a 
 little bit jealous of you. He will soon be good-tempered 
 again; and he is quite harmless and gentle— he follows me 
 about like a great dog." 
 
 " He never hurts any one ? " 
 
 11 Never— unless any one is cruel to animals or children. 
 Then he sometimes flies into a rage. But that happens very 
 seldom." 
 
 Alys listened, and tried to believe it, but wished in her 
 heart that she had known of Zadock's existence before she 
 came to Quest. 
 
 She followed Lisbeth up the narrow stairs, wondering a 
 little at the sort of place she had come to, and marvelling at 
 the apparent absence of servants; but on the landing she 
 saw a red-armed, red-cheeked damsel, who seemed to have 
 been carrying her boxes to the bedroom. "Are they all 
 
86 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 here, Sally ? " her mistress asked ; and Sally replied that 
 there was still another to come. Alys was amazed to see 
 her reappear in a minute or two, carrying with apparent 
 ease a box which had taxed the energy of two London ser- 
 vants at the Creightons' house; and she could not forbear 
 an exclamation of surprise. 
 
 " Won't she hurt herself ? That heavy box ! " 
 
 Lisbeth looked round and smiled. 
 
 " That won't hurt her. We're strong and hearty in these 
 parts of the world. Why" — lifting the box herself to an- 
 other part of the room — " that's a mere feather-weight. I've 
 carried much heavier weights than that." 
 
 " You must be strong ! I could not lift it. I tried this 
 morning. " 
 
 " I should think you couldn't. We must get some colour 
 in your face by and by. New milk and fresh air ought to do 
 something for you," said Lisbeth, almost pityingly. " We've 
 no such white faces here." 
 
 " I ought to be well here, I think. I've not been quite 
 strong lately," said Alys, falling easily into a confidential 
 vein. " Oh, what a lovely view from this window ! " 
 
 The room had two windows — one south, one east, and the 
 stretch of hill and dale on which the girl's eyes now rested 
 was truly magnificent. The evening lights and shades were 
 especially lovely, and Alys stood entranced, hardly noticing 
 that Lisbeth was busy with her boxes, until she turned round 
 to find them all unstrapped and uncorded. 
 
 " Oh, you should not have done all that. I could have 
 done it, or the maid." 
 
 Lisbeth laughed a little. " The maids are too busy to do 
 little things of that sort. I'll look after you — never fear. 
 Now I'll leave you, and you'll come down when you're ready. 
 You must be famished for your tea." 
 
 Alys did not feel hungry, but she wanted to change 
 her dusty dress for a fresher one. She was still in deep 
 mourning, and she had observed with some surprise that 
 Lisbeth's dress did not present a sign of recent bereavement. 
 As a matter of fact, Lisbeth had absolutely refused to 
 
THE NEW LIFE. gf 
 
 go into mourning for a father whom she had scarcely ever 
 seen. 
 
 Alys liked her room. It was large and airy, though low- 
 ceiled, and it had an air of cleanliness and spotless purity 
 which pleased her taste. Curtains and bed furniture were 
 of old-fashioned white dimity, smelling of rose-leaves. The 
 floor was covered with matting, and a rug or two ; the tables 
 and chairs were painted green. Lisbeth had made the room 
 ready, and an unconsciously artistic taste had guided her 
 eye. The room seemed quite as pretty to Alys as some 
 much belauded " aesthetic " rooms that she had seen in 
 London; and she wondered why it should be so different 
 from the terrible little parlour downstairs. The answer was 
 plain, if she had but known it. Farmer Verrall's mother 
 was responsible, in the first instance, for the parlour — Lisbeth 
 only for the bedroom. 
 
 Alys came downstairs in time to be surprised again by 
 the sight of her sister carrying a heavy tray into the parlour, 
 and beginning herself to spread the table. It seemed to her 
 extraordinary that the mistress of Quest should do this com- 
 mon domestic work. She had come with some vague idea 
 of Lisbeth as a stately country gentlewoman, with a poultry 
 farm, and plenty of servants to wait on her — she found a 
 capable, housewifely woman, to whom nothing in the way 
 of work seemed to come amiss, wearing a big apron, and 
 treating her maids with a familiarity which Alys would 
 have considered unladylike in other circumstances. But 
 Lisbeth was different from any one she had seen before. 
 With all her domestic ways, she was a splendidly handsome 
 woman, and in spite of her homely accent and plain dress, 
 she did not seem to lose one jot of her dignity. It was she 
 who brought in almost every plate and dish, much to Alys's 
 bewilderment, not knowing that this was Lisbeth's way of 
 showing attention to her guest. And when the meal was 
 ready, she hardly joined in it, but hovered over Alys, and 
 attended to her wants with a hearty care and hospitality 
 which was not only strange but charming. 
 
 Then when the tea, with its accompaniments of boiled 
 
gg THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 ham and poached eggs, hot cakes and jellies, had come to 
 an end, Alys was taken off into the kitchen " to see Aunt 
 Maria." 
 
 "Aunt Maria" was an old sister of Farmer Verrall's. 
 She sat in a great chair by the kitchen fire, worn, aged, 
 crouching over the blaze, rousing herself now and then to 
 knit a little, or to scold the servants, who moved round her 
 as if she were but a piece of furniture, and bent only on 
 one thing— on keeping possession of the chimney corner, 
 which had been hers for many a long day. She was rather 
 deaf and rather blind, and very forgetful ; and nothing could 
 make her understand who Alys was, or what she was doing 
 there. But she was not an unpleasing object in her white 
 cap and comfortable old Paisley shawl; and it was very 
 plain that she adored Lisbeth— as everybody about the place 
 — Alys was quick to see — adored her and obeyed her. 
 
 But the sight of an old person like Aunt Maria, and of 
 a half-witted man like Zadock on the premises depressed 
 Alys a little; and she was glad to escape with Lisbeth into 
 the fragrant sweet-scented garden, where they watched the 
 moon rise over the distant hills. 
 
 " It is very quiet here, 1 ' said Alys. 
 
 "Too quiet, perhaps; you won't like it," said Lisbeth, 
 with concern. 
 
 " Oh yes, I think I shall. It is a very lovely place. And 
 I suppose " — rather timidly — " that you have friends here ? " 
 
 " Not many," said Miss Verrall of Quest. 
 
 " I met somebody I knew as I came up here in the fly," 
 said Alys, with a sudden blush. " Somebody I have seen 
 before, I mean. That Mr. Moor, who came from you to Mr. 
 Creighton." 
 
 "Yes, you would pass him on the road," said Lisbeth 
 quietly. 
 
 " Had he been here ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 Alys wondered at her curt answer. 
 
 " He is a very handsome man, is he not ? " she said, after 
 a little pause. 
 
THE DIE IS CAST. 89 
 
 II Some people think so. ' Handsome is as handsome 
 does,' " quoth Lisbeth. 
 
 u Isn't he nice, then ? Isn't he good ? " 
 
 " There's no harm in him. But he's idle. Five and 
 twenty, and nothing to do in life ! I couldn't live like that 
 if I were a man." 
 
 " I am sure you would not,'* said Alys. " I can see that. 
 But he looks nice.' 1 '' 
 
 II I don't say he isn't. I've known him nearly all my 
 life," said Lisbeth, shortly, " and I think as well of him as — 
 of most people. It's time to go in, I'm afraid, my dear ; you 
 are shivering, and we have prayers now — if it isn't too late 
 already." 
 
 " Prayers ! " 
 
 u Yes. Grandfather always had them, and I like to 
 think that nothing's changed since his time," said Lisbeth, 
 quietly. 
 
 So to prayers they went, in the big raftered kitchen, 
 where men and maids alike assembled, and where Lisbeth, 
 in her simple stately manner, read a short Psalm, and with 
 all the others said the Lord's Prayer aloud. It w T as the 
 shortest and baldest of functions; but it gave Alys a sense 
 of repose, of strength and confidence, to which she had long 
 been a stranger. Lisbeth 's full clear voice reciting holy 
 words seemed to assure the girl of future happiness, peace, 
 and goodwill. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE DIE IS CAST. 
 
 Life was full of surprises to Alys for some time to come, 
 but gradually she settled down at Quest with a delicious 
 feeling of ease and freedom. Even Zadock ceased to have 
 any terror for her: she became much more fond of the 
 kitchen than of the parlour, and was not averse to light do- 
 mestic tasks— though these Lisbeth generally took away from 
 
90 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 her when she could, for Lisbeth's desire was that she should 
 be waited on, " just as she had been at home." 
 
 "But I wasn't waited on at home," said Alys, with a 
 laugh. " Papa liked me to wait upon him." 
 
 " Oh, I dare say," said Lisbeth, rather drily. 
 
 "Lisbeth, why do you speak in that tone whenever I 
 mention papa ! " 
 
 " What tone, my dear ? " 
 
 They were sitting on the doorstep shelling peas. But 
 Alys's fingers forgot to be busy, as she answered the ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " You speak as if — you did not like him." 
 
 Lisbeth was silent for a minute or two. " I don't know 
 that we'd better talk about it," she said. " But perhaps I had 
 better tell you what I think, once and for all. I've never 
 had any reason to love my father. Perhaps you had. 
 Though I'm not sure that you had either, if the truth was 
 told." 
 
 " Lisbeth, what do you mean ? " said Alys, the conscious 
 colour creeping into her pale cheeks. 
 
 " I mean that I think he was selfish not to provide for 
 you better. Why, Grandfather Verrall did much better 
 than that for me. Of course, I'm not going to take the few 
 paltry pounds your father left behind, Alys. It's all yours, 
 to do what you like with. I've got Quest." 
 
 " Well," said Alys, with rather a tremor in her voice, 
 "did not papa really do his best for you by leaving you to 
 your grandfather's care ? You have benefited by it, Lis- 
 beth." 
 
 " No thanks to him. He didn't care what became of me. 
 And there was no likelihood then of my being mistress of 
 Quest, because Zadock was all right — until " 
 
 " Yes. until " 
 
 Lisbeth rose from her seat and spoke deliberately. 
 " Until your father, when he came here, struck him and 
 threw him down upon the stones so that his poor head was 
 never the same again. There, Alys, I've never got over 
 that, and I'm afraid I never shall. Poor Zadock would have 
 
THE DIE IS CAST. 91 
 
 been like anybody else but for him. And that's the reason 
 I never put on a scrap of mourning for him, as I should 
 have done for decency's sake, if it had only been me that he 
 had hurt or neglected; but I could not do it when I thought 
 of yon poor boy." 
 
 She gave Alys no chance to reply. She walked away 
 into the kitchen, with her big bowl of peas in her hand ; and 
 the girl was left alone upon the doorstep. 
 
 She w T as very much shocked, yet not very much sur- 
 prised. She knew her father's selfish and violent disposition 
 very well, and it was by no means astonishing that he should 
 have knocked the boy out of his way. But Alys was by no 
 means strong-minded : on the contrary, she had more than 
 her share, perhaps, of womanish fears and little supersti- 
 tions. And she was suddenly possessed by a new terror of 
 Zadock, and of the strange aversion that he still showed for 
 her. Was there some occult reason for this dislike, founded 
 on a kind of innate knowledge that she was her father's 
 daughter ? Was it to be her fate to suffer — somewhere, 
 somehow — for her father's violence ? and would Zaclock be 
 the instrument by which vengeance descended upon her 
 head? 
 
 She looked up suddenly, and there was Zadock before 
 her at the garden gate, peering at her, grimacing hideously, 
 threatening her with the staff which Lisbeth had given back 
 to him. He often behaved in this way when Lisbeth was not 
 present. He seemed to take a pleasure in thoroughly fright- 
 ening the girl, and in displaying his hatred to her. Alys, 
 quite unnerved for the moment, almost screamed; aud Lis- 
 beth, hearing a cry came out of the kitchen to see whether 
 anything was wrong. Zadock disappeared as soon as he 
 heard her step; and Lisbeth, leaning over Alys, found her 
 so white, so nervous, so trembling, that she reproached her- 
 self for having spoken to her of her father as she had done. 
 But Alys explained. 
 
 " Zadock startled me: that was all," she said. 
 
 " You shouldn't be frightened of him : he really won't do 
 you any harm," said Lisbeth, kneeling beside her, and draw- 
 
92 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 ing the pretty golden head down on her breast. " We're a 
 poor lot: we don't do anything to amuse you and hearten 
 you up, do we ? Are there none of your London friends you 
 could ask down for a hit ? " 
 
 " I had a letter this morning from Edmund Creighton," 
 said Alys, recovering herself, " and he talks of coming here 
 for his holiday— to this part of the world, I mean. I sup- 
 pose he will take a walking tour. I wish— oh, I wish " 
 
 " Well, what do you wish ? My dove shall have all she 
 wants,' 1 said Lisbeth, who liked to croon over Alys as a 
 mother over her ailing child. 
 
 u If only he could bring Julian — his sister — with him! 
 She is the one that I told you of— the nice one ! Oh, we 
 would have such good walks and expeditions together ! You 
 know you are so busy, Lisbeth dear," said Alys, with a sense 
 of ingratitude strong upon her for her speech. 
 
 "Yes, I am busy," said Lisbeth, gravely. The gravity 
 seemed to have grown on her of late. " Too busy to make 
 you happy, I'm afraid. Have your friend, Alys : write and 
 ask her to come here. She's not a fine young lady, you say : 
 she'll put up with our homely ways." 
 
 Alys clung to her and kissed her, and thanked her; but 
 she could not get over the feeling that she had hurt Lisbeth 
 a little — that there had been for a moment a look of pain in 
 Lisbeth's beautiful, honest eyes. 
 
 It had been a little lonely for her now and then. She 
 had expected Lisbeth to be a companion to her all day long. 
 Her notion of the mistress-ship of a house consisted in "giv- 
 ing orders " for half an hour after breakfast. But Lisbeth 
 was up at four or five in the morning, working beside her 
 maids, tramping about her farm, attending to sick beasts and 
 birds, feeding healthy ones; showing everywhere that she 
 knew what work was, and how to do it. The people she em- 
 ployed were all a little in awe of her : she had a shrewd eye 
 and a quick tongue : she remembered that she was their mis- 
 tress, and expected them to remember it, too. Alys stood 
 aghast to hear her give to stalwart labourers a downright 
 rating for drunkenness : she pleaded in vain when a servant 
 
THE DIE IS CAST. 93 
 
 was summarily dismissed for pilfering ; and she fled in posi- 
 tive alarm when she saw Lisbeth bring- down a riding-whip 
 with considerable force on the shoulders of a half -grown 
 boy. It took a little time to show her — for Lisbeth never ex- 
 plained — that these acts were not the outcome of idle temper 
 and irritability. The mistress of Quest was, at any rate, in- 
 flexibly just. The men whom she scolded could count on 
 her for substantial help when their wives or children were 
 ill, and knew that it was for their sake that she rated them : 
 the servant had been warned half a dozen times before she 
 was dismissed, and was then carefully sent back to her 
 friends: she struck the boy because she had detected him in 
 flagrant cruelty to a dumb animal. Alys admired her, won- 
 dered at her, and trusted her as she had never trusted any 
 one before. 
 
 As for her own comfort, it was considered in every way. 
 But to her amaze — and at first to her discomfort — she found 
 that Lisbeth's own hands did everything for her that she 
 required. No one else ever entered Alys's room : each de- 
 tail of rearrangement, or of cleansing, was performed by 
 Lisbeth herself. Alys remonstrated in vain; for Lisbeth 
 only declared, when questioned, that " none of those girls " 
 were fit to set foot in her sister's chamber, and that she and 
 she alone was qualified to keep things as Alys would like 
 them. 
 
 " I would rather do everything myself," said Alys, almost 
 crying with vexation, when she found Lisbeth on her knees 
 sweeping the floor. 
 
 "You're not meant for such work," said Lisbeth, 
 briefly. 
 
 •* Then I must go away ; for I can't endure to give you 
 the trouble." 
 
 " But it's no trouble, child : I like it. I do my own room 
 out, too ; I can't abide the girls upstairs : they never sweep 
 under the beds. " 
 
 "/would sweep under the beds, if you would let me," 
 said Alys, laughing in spite of herself. 
 
 " I won't have you spoiling your pretty hands, and mak- 
 7 
 
94 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 ing your back ache with house-work, so you needn't think 
 it," said Lisbeth, decisively. " You've come here to be idle, 
 and to get strong; so go downstairs to your drawing or your 
 books, and leave me to get these rooms into fettle — as we 
 north-country folk say." 
 
 Alys retreated obediently, but with a little pout: she was 
 not quite happy until Lisbeth put her into good-humour by 
 letting her darn some fine old house-linen that had got out 
 of repair. Then she felt herself to be of some use, and her 
 serenity was restored. 
 
 It was she, of course, who was sitting on the door-step 
 with a book when Lady Adela drove up and inquired for 
 Lisbeth. It must be explained that the farmhouse of Quest 
 had three outer doors: the front-door, with spotless steps, 
 which was seldom used; the side-door opening on the gar- 
 den, and into a long passage which traversed the house to 
 the back-door, near the kitchen. A central door also shut 
 off the kitchen from that end of the house which was near 
 the garden. 
 
 The steps by the garden-door formed Alys's favourite 
 seat on fine afternoons. The whole valley lay stretched 
 out beneath her like a panorama, and the sweet-scented 
 flowers sent their fragrance straight up to her nostrils as she 
 sat and read. She was not unaware of the attentions which 
 Lady Adela had bestowed upon her, but she had been reso- 
 lute in refusing to lift her eyes from the printed page in 
 order to return the gaze which the visitor was bestowing on 
 her from the pony-cart. 
 
 "Who was the lady who called ? " she asked later. 
 
 u Lady Adela Moor: the mother of the Mr. Moor whom 
 you saw in London." 
 
 " And why were you too busy to see her. Lisbeth ? " 
 
 " I did not want to be interrupted. She came only for 
 fresh eggs, in reality," said Lisbeth, drily. 
 
 "She looked — rather — nice." 
 
 11 1 don't think we know here what you mean by ' nice,' " 
 said Lisbeth, a little roughly, a little impatiently. 
 
 U I mean— she is a lady." 
 
THE DIE IS CAST. 95 
 
 " A lady ! Oh yes. And that's why I don't want her 
 here." 
 
 "Lisbeth!" 
 
 " I don't want fine ladies. I'm not fit company for 
 such." 
 
 " Oh ! fine ladies ! No. But you are a lady yourself, 
 Lisbeth, and fit company for any one," said Alys, decidedly. 
 
 She wondered whether Lisbeth would be annoyed by 
 this remark ; but Lisbeth only stood and looked at her, her 
 hand on her hip, a slow colour rising in her clear olive 
 cheek. 
 
 " Well ! " said Alys, with a vague feeling of amusement. 
 " Don't you agree ? " 
 
 Her sister turned away with a sharp gesture, which might 
 have meant annoyance, o*r, for some reason, simple pain. 
 
 " I don't want to agree," she said, with some fierceness of 
 tone. " I am a working woman myself, and not of Lady 
 Adela's sort." 
 
 She went back to her work; and Alys, still on the door- 
 step, looked before her with a dreamy smile. 
 
 "Have the Moors been rude to Lisbeth, I wonder?" she 
 said to herself. u Or was she always like this to them? 
 They are the sort of people that I think I should like to 
 know. ... It is lonely here. I shall be glad when Julian 
 and Edmund can come." 
 
 But they could not come yet, because it was only July, 
 and Edmund could not possibly leave town until the mid- 
 dle of August. Julian wrote rapturously of her delight in 
 the prospect; for her mother and elder sisters were going to 
 a German spa, and she was overjoyed to find herself allowed 
 to acconmany Edmund instead. But, as Mrs. Creighton re- 
 marked, where was the use of taking an awkward schoolgirl 
 with them, when she would be just as happy — far happier, 
 indeed — on a Cumberland fell-side ? And Alys counted the 
 days— at first — until her friends should come. 
 
 At first ! She had ceased to count them before August 
 came. Because, as it happened, there was a new interest in 
 her life at Quest. 
 
96 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 Early in July, as Lisbeth was stepping lightly about her 
 dairy, the open window was shadowed by a man's figure, 
 and a man's voice fell with startling effect upon her ear. 
 
 " Good morning, Miss Verrall ! Mayn't I say Lisbeth ? 
 I have come back like a bad penny on your hands. " 
 
 She could not resist the smile of welcome, nor prevent 
 the flush that leaped like a flame into her face. 
 
 u Frank!— I beg your pardon, Mr. " 
 
 " Leave it ' Frank,' dear, for the sake of old days. I have 
 not come to bother you, Lisbeth. Only to tell you my 
 news— news that I am sure you will be glad to hear." 
 
 She looked very beautiful, he thought, as she stood listen- 
 ing to him, tall and upright, in her cotton dress and white 
 apron, above which her fine face showed like a rich tropical 
 flower. There was colour in her cheek, fire in her deep 
 dark eyes. 
 
 " You have found work ! " she said, quickly. 
 
 " Yes. Am I a little worthier of respect in your critical 
 mind, Lisbeth ? It is only a beginning, you know : an in- 
 troduction to political life ; but it is worth something— more 
 than perhaps it sounds." 
 
 Then he told her about his secretaryship— which was not 
 to begin until October, as Lord Eaynflete was at present in 
 Scotland. 
 
 Lisbeth was a little disappointed. It seemed to her that 
 it was a small thing to do— to become a sort of " compan- 
 ion" to another man. u Why, isn't it rather like being a 
 servant ? " she asked, bluntly. 
 
 For almost the first time, Francis Moor thought her un- 
 sympathetic. His brow contracted a little, the light in his 
 eye died out. And Lisbeth saw instinctively that she had 
 hurt him, but did not know how to put things right. She 
 changed the subject somewhat abruptly. 
 
 "You have not seen my sister," she said. "Will you 
 come into the garden ? She is generally there." 
 
 Frank acquiesced. He was rather curious to see Alys in 
 her new surroundings. He had thought her very pretty, in 
 a rather pathetic way, when he saw her at Mr. Creighton's 
 
THE DIE IS CAST. 97 
 
 for a minute or two ; but he could not quite conceive of her 
 at Quest. 
 
 " My mother is very anxious to see her," he said, as Lis- 
 beth joined him at the door. u She saw her once in the dis- 
 tance, and wondered who your visitor was." 
 
 " Of course," said Lisbeth, with a smile, " she would never 
 think it possible that Alys could be my sister." 
 
 It was one of the bitter things she sometimes said which 
 made Frank angry. But he would not reply ; he had made 
 many good resolutions before he came, and one of them was 
 to ignore Lisbeth's " unlucky " speeches. He called them 
 "unlucky" when he did not want to think of them as hard. 
 
 " Here she is," Lisbeth said, in so soft a voice that he 
 looked at her in sudden surprise. The dark, handsome face 
 had softened too: the eyes were very tender. "Isn't she 
 pretty ? " she asked, with a faint smile upon her mouth. 
 And then Frank looked away from her — to Alys Lorimer. 
 
 The girl was standing in a narrow path between two 
 beds of crimson and pale-pink phlox, which reached almost 
 to her waist, and formed a lovely background of colour to 
 her slender figure in its white gown. She had taken off her 
 hat, and her golden hair gleamed like an aureole about her 
 head. When she raised her graceful, drooping head and 
 looked at Frank with her innocent blue eyes, he felt a curi- 
 ous thrill. What girl had ever looked at him like that 
 before ? 
 
 She moved, and he saw that she was a little lame. The 
 physical infirmity did not repel him: it only added to his 
 impression of pathos — to the feeling that here was a lovely 
 frail creature who needed to be guarded and guided in her 
 way through the world. Lisbeth was a woman to lean on 
 — and she had despised him for leaning: but Alys would 
 cling and twine herself about one's heart. Was it not better 
 to love a woman of this trusting, clinging kind ? Perhaps, 
 when he asked himself the question, the die was cast. 
 
98 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 BY CROSTHWAITE TARN. 
 
 " You are so different from your sister," said Frank. 
 
 This speech, was not made to Lisbeth, as one might have 
 anticipated: it was made to Alys Lorimer. But the month 
 was no longer June. 
 
 Mr. Francis Moor had settled down at Moor End for the 
 summer, and his mother's heart was relieved about him, for 
 he had found work which seemed likely to satisfy his as- 
 pirations, and because he did not talk to her any more about 
 Lisbeth Verrall. Certainly he was out a great deal, and did 
 not tell her where he went; but she had a sort of impres- 
 sion, whence derived she could not tell, that the fancy for 
 Lisbeth had weakened, if it had not passed away. She 
 would have been sure of it if she had heard his speech to 
 Lisbeth's sister. 
 
 Alys sat on a green mound near the edge of a bit of 
 broken ground, overlooking the still, dark waters locally 
 known as Crosthwaite Tarn. It was a lonely, secluded spot, 
 lying high up among the hills: a clear pool, reputed to be 
 almost fathomless, edged with high banks, above which tow- 
 ered greater heights, except on one side, where a tangle of 
 rowan trees and rushes shaded the stream which ran from 
 the Tarn, past the house of Quest, to join the river in the 
 valley far below. It was a lovely day, full of sunshine and 
 brightness, yet not sultry: it was seldom really hot among 
 these moorlaud heights. Alys sat in the sunshine, and re- 
 joiced. 
 
 " Yes, I am different, I know. Lisbeth is so beautiful." 
 
 " That is just what she says of you." 
 
 " Did you ever know any one like her ? " Alys asked, 
 eagerly. " She is so clever and capable, and yet so loving 
 and kind ! " 
 
 " She is all that," said Frank, in rather a reserved man- 
 
BY CROSTHWAITE TARN. 99 
 
 ner. He did not very much want to talk about Lisbeth. He 
 wanted to talk to Alys about herself. 
 
 " And I am so different ! " sighed the girl. There was 
 surely a hint of coquetry in her sweet blue eyes. 
 
 " Different ! — yes ! but— may I say it ? " 
 
 " Say what ? " said Alys, smiling. 
 
 " Ten thousand times more beautiful." 
 
 Ah, poor Lisbeth ! So soon forgotten, so soon eclipsed, 
 so quickly set in the lower place, when another woman came 
 upon the scene! Frank did not know that he was fickle: 
 he told himself that if Lisbeth had returned his love, he 
 would have never changed. 
 
 " Ten thousand times more beautiful," he murmured, as 
 he lay on the short crisp turf at Alys Lorimer's feet and 
 gazed into her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Moor, how can you ? " 
 
 "Your sister always calls me Frank: do you think you 
 could ever call me Frank ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, I don't think so," said Alys, lowering her eyes. 
 She, too, was under the spell. But she was not to blame: 
 she did not know the things that had happened before she 
 came to Quest. 
 
 " Why not ? " he said, much more earnestly than the oc- 
 casion seemed to warrant. " Would it be very difficult ? 
 Do you dislike the name ? " 
 
 " Oh, no: not at all. But I do not know you well 
 enough " 
 
 " I feel as if I had known you all my life," said Frank. 
 Then he sat up and looked away from her. 
 
 " I see— you think of me as a stranger. Y-ou think you 
 will never know me any better — and you are not sorry. Is 
 that it ? " 
 
 " No, no, it is not that," said Alys, nervously. u But I 
 have been here such a little while " 
 
 "Time does not count," Frank broke in, impetuously. 
 " There are souls that recognize each other at once, and 
 know that they have met before — that they are made for 
 each other to all eternity." 
 
100 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " That must be very rare— and rather inconvenient," said 
 the girl, smiling. It seemed safest to take the matter as a 
 kind of joke. 
 
 ' k You mean it is not our case." 
 
 u Of course." 
 
 His eyes were fixed so earnestly on her face that she 
 turned it aside, and began plucking the stunted grass, the 
 bits of wild thyme and heather which grew beside her. It 
 was a comfort to be able to use her hands and look at the 
 flowers— since she could not get up and walk away from 
 him. And yet— why could she not? She did not know; 
 there seemed to be a weight upon her limbs, a weakness in 
 her muscles; she felt that she must stay where she was 
 until it pleased him to let her go. It was like some sort 
 of hypnotic influence — she could not move against his 
 will. 
 
 When he spoke again, it was with a new tone in his 
 voice. It was less eager, but it was the voice of one who 
 deeply felt w T hat he was saying. 
 
 u I want you to forgive me beforehand for what I am go- 
 ing to say. You will think it presumptuous— strange — alto- 
 gether unheard of; but I must say it in spite of that. Is it 
 possible that some day you might learn to look on me as not 
 a stranger, but a friend ? More than a friend, I mean ... I 
 know you, as you say, so little, and yet— it is presumption, I 
 know— I love you, Alys — I love you." 
 
 His voice was lowered almost to a whisper. He lowered 
 his face, lifted passionately a moment before ; his head was 
 near her arm; before she knew what he meant to do, he 
 had kissed the delicate blue-veined wrist that lay upon her 
 knee. 
 
 A flame sprang into Alys's face and eyes. She drew her- 
 self away from him ; perhaps she would have sprung to her 
 feet but for her lameness, which made her sometimes a little 
 slow to move without help; but the look in her face made 
 him rise — at any rate as far as his knees. He knelt and 
 looked at her. " I beg your pardon," came involuntarily 
 from his lips. . 
 
BY CROSTHWAITE TAEitf. 101 
 
 Then Alys burst into tears. 
 
 It was not dignified, and she knew it, and despised her- 
 self ; but her nerves were too delicately strung for calmness. 
 She felt herself insulted, he had taken a great liberty, and 
 she was very, very angry. There was something beside an- 
 ger in her heart, but she hardly knew that yet. 
 
 Her tears had the effect of reducing Frank to despair. 
 
 " Oh, what a brute I am ! " he cried, penitently. " For- 
 give me ! Forgive me ! I never meant to vex you — I could 
 not help it. Don't think ill of me for it: I didn't mean it as 
 disrespect, if you thought that " 
 
 u Yes," said Alys, with a gasp, " I did." 
 
 " It was not — I assure you it was not. I must have been 
 mad for the moment, but it was so near me, and everything 
 about you, even anything you have touched, is dear to me. 
 Dear and sacred too! because I love you with my whole 
 heart, and — Alys, can you not love me a little too ? " 
 
 The pleading would have sounded boyish, but for the 
 fervour of his voice. Alys did not answer, but she began 
 to relent. Her back was almost turned to him, and the tears 
 were still wet on her cheeks, but the sobs that had fright- 
 ened him had ceased, and her hands were folded before her 
 in her lap. 
 
 "Will you not forgive me ? " said Frank, quite piteously, 
 at last. 
 
 " It was very wrong. I never gave you leave," said 
 Alys, tremulously. 
 
 " Would you not give me leave now % " 
 
 She started and faltered. 
 
 "I love you, Alys, n he repeated. "Can you not love 
 me ? Can you not forgive me ? " 
 
 She yielded then. She moved her hand towards his, and 
 let him take it, as she replied — 
 
 " I might forgive, but " 
 
 " Ah, don't go on ! " 
 
 She looked round at him uncertainly. 
 
 " You were going to say you could not love me." 
 
 u Was I ? " — the corners of her lips relaxed into a smile. 
 
10*2 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST, 
 
 u Were you not ? were you not ? Darling, can you care 
 for me a little ? " And then she let him put his arm quite 
 around her, and for a moment their lips met. 
 
 They were two silly young people, and acted, no doubt, 
 very imprudently ; but life was beautiful to them, and each 
 thought love the most beautiful thing on earth. Also, they 
 found it a joyous thing; not knowing how sad it can some- 
 times be, nor how tragically barren of result. 
 
 Frank's heart had been caught in the rebound. Lisbeth's 
 words had hurt him more than he cared to own — they had 
 effectually prevented him from making any further effort 
 to win her love. He had resolved to show her that he was 
 not the poor thing she thought him; and for that reason, 
 chiefly, he had obtained a prospect of work in London. 
 Pique, rather than love, brought him to Quest again: he 
 wanted to be sure that she knew what he was going to do — 
 "for her sake," as he said to himself; but pique was the best 
 possible preparation for a perfectly new kind of develop- 
 ment. The delicate, flower-like beauty of Alys Lorimer 
 took him by storm. She was as different from Lisbeth as 
 light from darkness— perhaps that was the reason why he 
 fell in love with her so soon. But this was the real love, he 
 told himself— the other had been a brother's affection for a 
 sister; and how lucky it was that Lisbeth had found it out! 
 She had been right and wise all along— he acknowledged it 
 most gratefully ; and he should always love her as a sister, 
 when Alys was his wife. 
 
 The lovers thought themselves far beyond the reach of 
 any observant eye; but— unfortunately, perhaps— they were 
 mistaken. Just as they kissed each other for that first time, 
 a woman's figure came into view behind tbem : they did not 
 see her, but she saw them clearly, and saw the kiss. She 
 stopped short, and looked— looked keenly and steadfastly, as 
 if she could not quite believe her eyes. Then her face was 
 covered by a hot flush, which subsided only to leave her very 
 wan and pale. She had been going to approach them, but 
 now she moved softly away over the short grass, until she 
 found a track further down the hillside, which led towards 
 
BY CROSTHWAITE TARN. 103 
 
 the Gap ; and she passed quietly down this track until she 
 was out of sight. 
 
 Lisbeth had been away on the hills, in order to visit a 
 lonely cottage where an old pensioner of hers was living, 
 and she had arranged with Alys to meet her at the Tarn. 
 Frank Moor had joined Alys as she went slowly up the hill ; 
 she did not mind a long walk if she might walk slowly, and 
 he gave her the help of his arm as well as the benefit of his 
 company. Then he had seated himself beside her to await 
 Lisbeth's arrival. They did riot guess that Lisbeth, with her 
 faithful follower, Zadock, had seen them, and passed them 
 unseen. 
 
 As soon as Lisbeth thought herself well out of their 
 reach, she became aware that she was feeling very tired and 
 rather sick. She did not at first connect these sensations 
 with the sight which she had seen : indeed, she wondered a 
 little, in an odd apathetic way, whether she had not walked 
 too far, or had a sunstroke— then she found that she was 
 crying — that two great tears had fallen on her lap, and a 
 sob was rising in her throat; and then she knew. 
 
 What was it that she discovered at that moment — a mo- 
 ment which she always looked back to as one of the most 
 pregnantly painful moments of her life? She discovered 
 that her whole heart and soul were bound up in the love of 
 one man, and that was the very man whom she had just 
 seen offering his devotion to another. 
 
 She had known before this that she loved Francis Moor. 
 But she thought that her love for him was of that protecting, 
 motherly kind which would be satisfied with the promotion 
 of his welfare ; that she could be happy in his happiness. 
 And, behold, she was not: he was — possibly — happy, and she 
 was very, very miserable. It seemed to her that love and 
 faith had died out of the world, and that a black veil over- 
 spread the sun. 
 
 She was too unhappy to dry her tears; they splashed 
 slowly, one after another, upon her pale cotton gown. She 
 was even regardless of the wondering gaze of Zadock, who 
 had drawn near, and was staring at her remorselessly, with 
 
104 ™ E MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 a separate observation for every down-dropping tear. He 
 drew nearer to her, so near at last that he almost touched 
 her ; and then said — 
 
 " Is it for them % " 
 
 Lisbeth choked back her tears, and tried to laugh. But 
 Zadock's questions always required an answer. 
 
 u For them? Who, Zadock ? " 
 
 " Them — up there," he said, pointing with his stick to the 
 eminence which they had left. " They— they make you 
 cry " 
 
 " No, no, Zadock; be a good boy: it's not their fault," 
 said Lisbeth ; yet, somehow, the simple solicitude of her tone 
 made her eyes gush out with tears again. Zadock's brows 
 gathered into a frown. 
 
 " If they hurt Lisbeth," he said, brandishing his big stick, 
 "Zadock kill them." 
 
 " Hush ! nonsense, Zadock ; you are not to talk in that 
 way. They are good — good, remember that; and you are 
 not to hurt them." 
 
 " If they make Lisbeth cry," he said, sullenly, ' k Zadock 
 make them cry, too." 
 
 For an instant a curious fear awoke in Lisbeth 's breast. 
 A doctor had once told her that it was possible for Zadock 
 to develop strange, murderous instincts, and that, if so, it 
 would be incumbent upon her to put him under restraint. 
 She had rejected the idea with scorn and horror at the time. 
 Zadock, so gentle and affectionate, so fond of the fresh air 
 and of the mountain side, to be capable of violence and im- 
 mured in a lunatic asylum ! It was not to be thought of for 
 a moment— and yet, in spite of herself, she thought of it 
 now. The remembrance left a touch of sternness in her 
 tone. 
 
 4k Zadock is not good," she said. " If Zadock talks in that 
 way, Lisbeth will be very angry. And see — Lisbeth is not 
 crying now." 
 
 She smiled as brightly as she knew how, and Zadock 
 smiled responsively. But a moment later, he looked into 
 her eyes, and still saw the liquid gleam of tears. 
 
BY CROSTHWAITE TARN". 1Q5 
 
 " Zadock kill them if you cry," he said, obstinately. 
 
 " Then Lisbeth won't cry," said the mistress of Quest, in 
 her most decided tone. " Now, give me your hand, Zadock, 
 and let us run down this hill. We shall get home before 
 them." 
 
 And although her heart was so heavy that her hands 
 were like lead, she took his hand and raced him down the 
 hill, knowing that brisk exercise was often the best way of 
 exorcising the evil spirit in Zadock's breast. When they 
 reached the Gap, his face was radiant and content. And 
 for his sake Lisbeth did her utmost to banish any signs of 
 sorrow from her face. 
 
 Not for his sake only. It seemed to her that she would 
 rather die than let Frank suspect that she had shed tears for 
 love of him. He did not know that she loved him: he 
 should never know — in this world. Lisbeth believed that 
 in another far-off country, the bourn from which no travel- 
 ler returns, she would be able to tell him of her love with- 
 out fear and without shame. In heaven, yes; but not in 
 this troublesome, transitory world. 
 
 The lovers waited on the hill, expecting Lisbeth to join 
 them, until the sunset hues began to show themselves in the 
 west. Then, much wondering, and rather inclined to resent 
 Lisbeth's non-appearance (although too blissful to mind it 
 very much), they made the best of their way down to Quest, 
 walking hand in hand until they came within sight of the 
 house. Then, however, they dropped hands, and walked 
 demurely side by side, for Frank had made up his mind to 
 say nothing at present, and Alys was too happy in her girl- 
 ish dreams to think of confidences. 
 
 Certainly it would have been a little hard for Frank to 
 confront Lisbeth quite steadily and tell her that he had 
 transferred his affections to Alys Lorimer. He was ashamed 
 of himself; and yet he said, doggedly, that he could not 
 help it. Alys was a fitting mate for him, and Lisbeth was 
 not — that was the long and short of the matter. He took 
 leave of her at the gate, denying himself the indulgence of 
 another kiss, and only pressing her hands tenderly, and 
 
106 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 gazing for a moment into the blue depths of her eyes. He 
 had no suspicion that there were any watchers. But Lisbeth 
 was looking at him through a muslin blind, and Zadock was 
 peering suspiciously from the shelter of an outhouse in the 
 yard. 
 
 14 Oh, Lisbeth, I am so happy ! " Alys breathed, as she 
 flung herself on her sister's neck, and hid her face. 
 
 "Are you, love ? That is right— quite right." 
 
 But Lisbeth did not ask what made her happy, and Alys 
 had been cautioned not to tell. 
 
 As Frank passed through the yard, by which he chose to 
 take his way, he caught a glimpse of Zadock's face at the 
 door of the shed. He turned and looked again, for he had 
 not often seen it marked with that expression of scowling 
 defiance and mistrust. Surely that look was never meant 
 for him ! He turned back impulsively to ascertain. 
 
 u Hallo, Zadock ! How are you gettiug on ? What are 
 you doing ? " 
 
 Zadock came out of his shed, with a big knife in his 
 hand, which gleamed ominously in the twilight. 
 
 " Making knife sharp," he said. " Zadock kill — kill — Mil 
 you, if you make Lisbeth cry. " 
 
 " Who wants to make her cry ? " said Frank, laughing. 
 But he felt a little uncomfortable as he strode away down 
 the hill. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP ! " 
 
 Edmund Creighton and his sister Julian arrived when 
 August was half over. Alys was glad to see them, but not 
 so glad as she would have been at the beginning of July. 
 Now, it must be confessed that she found them slightly in 
 the way. 
 
 Frank had found many excuses for his visits to Quest. 
 He had to invent excuses, because Lisbeth did not welcome 
 
"LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP!" iQf 
 
 him as she used to do. Her face looked hard and set when 
 he came to the house : she would not always shake hands 
 with him : she used to stand when he came into a room until 
 he was obliged to go away. And Frank dared not protest. 
 His conscience towards her was not free; and he did not 
 like to ask her what this change of manner meant. At last, 
 even Alys remonstrated. 
 
 u Why are you so disagreeable to Mr. Moor when he 
 comes, Lisbeth ? You used to like him, and now you are 
 quite cold and silent." 
 
 " Am I disagreeable — and cold ? " said Lisbeth. " I did 
 not know; but — I think Mr. Moor would do better not to 
 come here so often, and perhaps I wanted to tell him so." 
 
 " It would be better to tell him in words rather than by 
 putting on a stiff manner that makes everybody uncomfort- 
 able," said Alys, with a gleam in her blue eyes. " I am sure 
 Mr. Moor feels it." 
 
 She looked down at the embroidery in her hands, and 
 put in a few stitches. Lisbeth regarded her wistfully. 
 There was something pathetic in the way her dark eyes 
 rested on the girl. Lisbeth's eyes were not quite so bright 
 as they used to be : they were heavy, yet soft, with a linger- 
 ing tenderness in their expression. They looked like the 
 eyes of one who shed a good many tears when other people 
 were in bed. 
 
 " Mr. Moor ! " Why did Alys call him Mr. Moor to her ? 
 It must be hypocrisy. She would not call him so in private ! 
 Why did she not tell her the truth ? Did Frank think that 
 she — she, Elizabeth Yerrall — would mind ? It was a humili- 
 ating idea. 
 
 " I have reason to believe, Alys," she said, at last, " that 
 Lady Adela Moor dislikes his coming to Quest so much. 
 She thinks we are not fit company for him. At least, you 
 may be; but I'm not." She concluded with a bitter smile. 
 
 " Not fit company for Frank Moor ? " said Alys, dropping 
 the title in her astonishment. "But — how extraordinary! 
 Of course he is handsome — and nice— and all that sort of 
 thing, but how is he better than other young men ? " 
 
108 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 Lisbeth was delighted; she thought this speech meant 
 that Alys was inclined to depreciate Frank, but Alys was 
 only using a little of the diplomacy which she had learned 
 in a more sophisticated world. She did not want to deceive 
 Lisbeth ; she was restless at the thought of keeping a secret 
 from her ; but Frank had told her not to betray him, and 
 she was obedient to his slightest wish. 
 
 She said no more, and Lisbeth felt that her remark had 
 done no good, and wondered whether she ought to go to 
 Lady Adela and tell her the whole story. Yet — what had 
 she to tell ? She had seen Frank kissing Alys — that was all. 
 Perhaps it was nothing more. Perhaps Frank — she spoke 
 evil of him to herself now — was in the habit of making love 
 to every girl he came across. But if so, poor Alys! for 
 Alys was not a girl who would give kisses as a matter of 
 course. Lisbeth was silently miserable, and knew not what 
 to do. 
 
 She was delighted to see the Creightons. She grasped in 
 five minutes the reason why Edmund had come. She saw 
 that he wanted Alys by the way in which his cool grey eye 
 softened as he looked at her. And she would speed that 
 wooing by every device in her power. Only Alys, like a 
 wilful girl, seemed to shrink from the young barrister, and 
 devoted herself to Julian. 
 
 All was sunshine for the next few days. Frank stayed 
 away; and Alys, knowing his intention of doing so, was 
 happy with her friends. Edmund did not make love hastily. 
 He had resolved to ask her formally to be his wife, and had 
 not much doubt of the answer. But in the meantime he 
 meant everything to be very pleasant, and behaved like a 
 brother or a friend— he knew the subtle charm of that rela- 
 tionship. He did not force himself even on the girls' com- 
 pany ; he went shooting sometimes with friends who were 
 staying in the neighbourhood, and hoped that Alys would 
 feel his absence and be glad to see him back. But he did 
 not reckon on the fact that after the first few days Frank 
 Moor reappeared upon the scene, and took to meeting Alys 
 and Julian i'n their walks, as he was no longer made wel- 
 
"LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP!" 109 
 
 come at Quest. Lisbeth stayed at home and ate her own 
 heart; but she did not know of these meetings on the moor 
 or by the lonely Tarn. 
 
 Not that Alys meant to keep them secret. She had 
 merely said to Julian, ' k Lisbeth does not like Mr. Moor, so 
 he does not care to come to the house; " and Julian drew her 
 own conclusions. She was a quick, clever little girl, and 
 scented a romance. 
 
 Of course, Alys did not want her to mention these meet- 
 ings ; and, with a mistaken instinct of friendliness, she held 
 her tongue. 
 
 But she was lonely sometimes, when those two were talk- 
 ing; and she indulged in little rambles and excursions of 
 her own, so as to leave them free. She stayed within call, 
 and usually within sight; but she amused herself in her own 
 way. 
 
 One day, when Frank and Alys were sitting beside the 
 tarn, she went round to the lower end of the pool, and began 
 to explore the little thicket of rowan trees and birch trees 
 that grew beside it. She lost sight of the couple on the hill, 
 but that, she decided, did not matter ; they knew where she 
 was, and she could hear them if she called. But she did not 
 bargain for an adventure, such as she never had before. 
 
 She was wandering along, not looking where she was 
 going, after her usual fashion, when she heard a voice that 
 startled her by saying sharply — u Take care ! " 
 
 The warning, perhaps, brought about the disaster. Julian 
 looked down, found herself on the very edge of a bit of 
 broken ground where she must either recoil or jump to a 
 lower level. She jumped — perhaps it would be better to say 
 that she stumbled, and only saved herself from a bad fall 
 by catching at the stem of a rowan tree. But she had not 
 looked before she leapt, and the consequence was that she 
 jumped straight into the middle of a water-colour drawing 
 stretched on a frame, which had been laid on the ground — 
 probably to dry. The ruin was obvious and complete. The 
 sketch was a wreck of torn paper sticking at intervals to a 
 frame. 
 
110 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " Oh, what have I done ? " said Julian, involuntarily. 
 
 " Great mischief," was the answer that reached her ears. 
 u May I suggest that another time you look before you 
 leap ? " 
 
 Julian's face was crimson. She did not know it, but she 
 looked extremely pretty as she raised her hazel eyes timidly 
 to see the speaker. Her wild brown hair was blown across 
 her frank forehead ; her handsome well-set head was bare, 
 for she carried her straw hat in one hand. Her blue linen 
 frock was plain and short; she wore no gloves, and looked 
 about fifteen. 
 
 The man who spoke to her was justified in treating her 
 as quite a little girl— although, as he said to himself, a tre- 
 mendously pretty one. 
 
 The artist, as Julian called him in her mind, was a man 
 of middle age. Perhaps he looked older than he was, or 
 perhaps Julian was a poor judge. At any rate, she set him 
 down vaguely as about " fifty or sixty " ; his real age being 
 thirty-seven. He had a "kind face," she thought, not a 
 handsome one; and the pair of brown eyes under the bushy 
 eyebrows twinkled rather humorously as he looked at her. 
 He was tall, lank, and lean : his hair and beard straggled a 
 little, and his coat was undeniably shabby: but he had the 
 charm of manner that marks some men, and it was unmis- 
 takably the manner of a gentleman. His features were re- 
 fined and clearly cut; his voice was very pleasant. Julian 
 did not see half these things — she was far too much of a 
 child; but she felt them, nevertheless. 
 
 She had landed on a little triangular cove or hollow in 
 the moss-grown bank: two or three square yards of grassy 
 ground, laved by the waters of the stream which issued 
 from the tarn, and shaded by the trees which grew on the 
 sloping bank above it. The steep broken ground which half 
 enclosed this triangle of smooth grass, and down which she 
 had almost fallen, was partly covered with rare ferns, and 
 Julian felt almost as if she had intruded on the artist's pri- 
 vate apartment — so secluded was the spot, so fairy like in its 
 lovely remoteness from the rest of the world. It was not so 
 
"LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP!" m 
 
 very remote, after all: she could see the figures of Frank 
 and Alys at some distance from her on the other side of the 
 tarn. The sight gave her courage to stammer out — 
 
 u I beg your pardon." 
 
 The stranger had risen, and was surveying her with 
 amused and friendly eyes. 
 
 " It does not in the least matter," he said. " I had done 
 almost nothing to that sketch. You have practically only 
 spoilt a piece of paper. " 
 
 " But you had begun it— there was something done. Oh, 
 
 I am so sorry ! " 
 
 u Pray, don't distress yourself," said the artist, smiling. 
 
 II It was a very bad sketch, to begin with, and I was think- 
 ing of beginning another. I am glad you have obliged me 
 to make the attempt." 
 
 " But it is so tiresome to have anything spoilt— anything 
 one has begun," said Julian, finding her natural voice. "I 
 know it myself " 
 
 " Why ? Do you sketch too ? " he said, kindly. 
 
 "No: I am not clever at anything ornamental — oh, I 
 ought not to have said that, ought I ? I am always saying 
 the wrong thing." 
 
 '• What have you said wrong, then ? I did not notice." 
 
 " I mean," said Julian, turning crimson again, " that if it 
 is your life-work, you cannot like it to be spoken of as mere- 
 ly ornamental." 
 
 The stranger was silent for a moment or two, moving the 
 broken frame with his foot, and looking curiously grave. 
 Then he looked up, and met the glance of Julian's bright, 
 brave eyes. 
 
 " You are right," he said. " One never likes to hear one's 
 life-work belittled. But how did you grow so wise ? Many 
 people, far older than you, do not know the truth of what 
 you say." 
 
 " I know some of them do not," said Julian, rather anx- 
 iously; "but then I always thought them stupid." 
 
 He laughed out at that. u It is sometimes said that most 
 people are stupid." 
 
112 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 "Oh, I hope riot — I hope not," said the girl, with fervour. 
 " It would be dreadful to go out into the world and meet 
 nothing but stupid people who don't understand you. It is 
 bad enough as it is when one is only a — a child; but I have 
 always thought it would be nicer when I was old enough to 
 choose my friends for myself. 1 ' 
 
 Looking at her bright original face, the stranger reflected 
 that this young lady was not like other girls, and would 
 probably in the years to come attract to herself all that was 
 brightest and best in the society in which she moved. His 
 curiosity was stirred, although it was usually a difficult mat- 
 ter to stir it. Where did she come from ; this girl, who was 
 not like other girls ? 
 
 "Do you live here?" he asked, rather abruptly. (She 
 was only a child: it was not rude to question her.) 
 
 " Oh, no, I come from London. I am staying at Quest — 
 the farmhouse by the Gap, do you know it ?— with friends. 
 My brother is with me too. Edmund Creighton; do you 
 know him ? " 
 
 "Yes," said the artist, unexpectedly. "I know him — 
 slightly. So you are Miss Creighton. " 
 
 " No, indeed!" said Julian, laughing merrily. "I have 
 some elder sisters who are the Miss Creightons " 
 
 (" The stupid people, I suppose," said the stranger to him- 
 self.) 
 
 " And I'm only Julian. Nobody calls me anything else. 
 I am in the schoolroom still, and shall be there plenty of 
 time longer, I fancy." 
 
 " You will be coming out before long ? " 
 
 " Not for two or three years, probably," said the girl, 
 thereby confirming the stranger in the belief in her youth. 
 " Mamma says she does not want three daughters to chap- 
 erone, you see. But where did you know Edmund ? Do you 
 come to our house ? " 
 
 The artist smiled. " I don't think I have ever been to 
 your house. I have been very often to your father's 
 office, And I am now staying at Sir Richard Leyces- 
 ter's place, where your brother goes to shoot sometimes. 
 
"LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP!" 113 
 
 I don't suppose he will remember me: we were not intro- 
 duced." 
 
 " I was hoping you were a friend of his," said Julian, 
 with such a downcast countenance that the man laughed 
 aloud. 
 
 " Take my word for it," he said, " that your brother will 
 not object to your knowing me. I am quite respectable." 
 At which Julian blushed furiously. "And Miss Verrall of 
 Quest would answer for me, if you asked her." There was 
 a look of humorous amusement on his face, which gave 
 Julian offence. 
 
 " I shall not ask them," she said, trying to be stately, and 
 glancing round for a way of retreat. " If you are staying 
 at Sir Eichard Leyeesters, it is a long way off, and we are 
 not likely to meet again." 
 
 " Quite true," said her new friend. " But my name is 
 John l'Estrange. You might like to tell them that you had 
 met me." 
 
 There was a certain dignity in his manner that quelled 
 Julian's hasty wrath. She examined him furtively from 
 under the brim of the straw hat which she had now placed 
 on her head, and decided that although his velvet coat and 
 slouch hat were too picturesque to be quite correct, he was, 
 nevertheless, a gentleman, and a person to be trusted. She 
 was not usually mistaken in her intuition. And certainly 
 she was not mistaken in this case. 
 
 " You are a good way from Quest," said Mr. l'Estrange, 
 kindly. " Did you come here quite alone ? " 
 
 "No. My friend, Miss Lorimer, brought me," Julian 
 answered, more primly than usual. " She is on the other 
 side — you can see her if you look round." 
 
 " I see. She is talking to some one." 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Moor of Moor End. Do you know him, 
 too ? He met us — he often meets us, and goes for a walk 
 with us." 
 
 " Francis Moor of Moor End ? " said the stranger. It 
 seemed to Julian as if he raised his eyebrows for a moment. 
 
 " Yes ; do you know him, then ? " 
 
114 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 14 Hardly. I have had some correspondence with him, 
 and I hope to know him better by and by." 
 
 " I suppose you meet a great many people in the way of 
 your profession ? People who are interested in art — people 
 who buy pictures, I mean," she added, bluntly, seeing that 
 he looked oddly at sea when she asked her first question. 
 
 44 Oh, yes," he said, laughing quietly, as if amused at his 
 own want of comprehension. "I do meet a good many peo- 
 ple. But I must not figure under false pretences as an 
 artist: I am not an artist by profession." 
 
 44 Are you not ?" cried Julian. u 0h, I am so sorry. I 
 thought you must be, and that painting was your life-work. 
 But what is your life-work ? " 
 
 He was leaning against the steep bank, and for a mo- 
 ment or two his eyes were very grave. He answered soberly 
 enough: " Upon my word, I don't know." 
 
 44 But what are you ? What is your profession ? " 
 
 " I am afraid I am a sort of Jack-of-all-trades, Miss 
 Julian. I was once a barrister, and I have done a little 
 literary work; and a little scientific work; and I paint, as 
 you see." 
 
 "Is that all ? " said Julian. There was such honest dis- 
 appointment in her face, that TEstrange turned to her with 
 a smile. 
 
 " Why, what else do you want ? What did you ex- 
 pect?" 
 
 " I don't know. I only thought that you looked like a 
 man that did something. And that is the only sort of man 
 I like," announced Julian, stubbornly. 
 
 The man's mouth twitched. *■ But my difficulty is, that 
 I do too many things — not that I do nothing. " 
 
 u Jack-of-all-trades — master of none," said Julian. 
 
 "That's quite true," he said, looking at her kindly. 
 " You have got very good and right ideas, wherever you 
 may have learnt them. If you carry them out in your own 
 life, you will be a noble and useful woman." 
 
 The wind was taken out of Julian's sails by this address. 
 She suddenly realised that she was only a young girl, a 
 
JULIAN'S WISH. 115 
 
 mere child, by the side of this man, with his kind, stately 
 benevolence of bearing-, whom she had been trying with 
 girlish ignorance to teach and patronise. She turned very 
 red, and said nothing more. 
 
 Seeing her embarrassment, he gently directed her atten- 
 tion to some rude steps cut in the bank, helped her up them, 
 and handed her across the stepping-stones by which she had 
 crossed the narrow stream. She thanked him abruptly, and 
 fled back to Alys and Frank, who were not very grateful to 
 her for interrupting their colloquy. However, the trio 
 turned back to Quest together, and John l'Estrange becook 
 himself to his sketching materials again. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 JULIAN'S WISH. 
 
 If A]ys had been less preoccupied, Julian would at once 
 have poured into her ears the history of her morning's ad- 
 venture. But Miss Lorimer's attention was just then en- 
 tirely absorbed by Frank Moor; and by the time Quest was 
 reached, Julian, lingering behind the couple for most of the 
 way, had resolved to say nothing about it. Even Edmund 
 was always reproaching her for clumsiness, although not so 
 harshly and bitterly as they did at home; and for once Ju- 
 lian acknowledged that they had cause. To confess that she 
 jumped straight into somebody's sketch— ( u and it is a won- 
 der I didn't jump straight on the man himself!" thought 
 Julian, remorsefully)— would be too humiliating. Only— if 
 Mr. l'Estrange knew Edmund and her father, might he not 
 mention the matter to them, by way of a merry jest ? And 
 that would be worse than anything. 
 
 u I don't believe he would ! " said the child to herself, 
 with burning cheeks. " He would know that I should be 
 laughed at, and I think he would understand ! He seemed 
 so kind— I don't believe he would ever say a word." 
 
HQ THE MISTRESS OF QUEST- 
 
 And she was right. John l'Estrange had no intention of 
 mentioning Julian's unlucky jump to anybody. He was as 
 sensitive as a woman where anybody's feelings were con- 
 cerned. 
 
 But Julian thought, a day or two later, that she had 
 made a mistake. 
 
 For Edmund came home from his shooting, and accosted 
 her, with a look of great amusement. 
 
 " So you have been making acquaintances on the hillside, 
 I hear." 
 
 " Who told you that ? " said Julian, firing up. 
 
 u The acquaintance himself, I suppose," returned Ed- 
 mund, provokingly. " Well, he's a very good fellow ; and 
 it doesn't matter if you talk to him; but I wouldn't advise 
 you to chatter to every man you meet who happens to be 
 sketching at the tarn. It's a favourite place for artists." 
 
 He walked away, not troubling himself further ; for Ju- 
 lian was to him, as to all her family, the merest child, and 
 he was not really ungratified by the words which he had 
 heard spoken of her that day ; but he left his sister stifling 
 with rage and shame and indignation. " So that was what 
 Mr. l'Estrange had thought of her ! He had evidently given 
 Edmund the impression that she had entered into conversa- 
 tion with him of her own accord — like a nasty, forward, 
 flirting sort of girl ! He had no doubt told the story of the 
 spoiled sketch, although Edmund did not allude to it. Ed- 
 mund would probably tease her about it just when she did 
 not want to be teased — at dinner, perhaps, or at breakfast 
 when she got home ! She hated Mr. l'Estrange, and would 
 never speak to anybody again who had not been properly 
 introduced to her in a drawing-room. Perhaps mamma is 
 right after all, and I am nothing but a vulgar tomboy," said 
 Julian, ruefully surveying herself in the small looking-glass 
 which Lisbeth had provided for her use. 
 
 It was a very pretty tomboy that she saw. Her short 
 curls, her low, broad brow, her hazel eyes, and mutinous red 
 mouth, were full of life and beauty. She only saw the im- 
 likeness to other girls of her acquaintance, and did not know 
 
JULIAN'S WISH. 
 
 117 
 
 that this unlikeness constituted her greatest charm. She 
 made a grimace at herself in the glass, and then was sur- 
 prised to see that the hazel eyes were full of tears. She was 
 weeping over her lost ideal of John TEstrange. 
 
 " I thought him so kind— so nice," she was saying to her- 
 self. " And now he is no nicer than other people, and I 
 suppose he did not forgive me for spoiling his sketch, al- 
 though he pretended that he did. I'll never speak to him 
 again. 1 ' 
 
 It was easy to make this resolution : easy to stay close to 
 the house or at Alys's side for a day or two : not so easy 
 to keep it when she came face to face with Mr. l'Estrange 
 one day in the public road that wound up the hill from 
 Oosthwaite town. She went so far as to give him a stiff 
 little nod and try to pass him by; but the man actually 
 stopped short, and smiled, and held out his hand. 
 
 u How are you, Miss Creighton ? I met your brother the 
 other day, and asked after you. Don't you think that we 
 may consider ourselves old acquaintances after that ? " 
 
 " Somebody has been talking nonsense to the child, and 
 putting silly notions in her head," he reflected, looking 
 steadily at Julian's encardined cheeks and shamed, averted 
 eyes. u Well, I won t have it: that is all. She shall tell me 
 what's the matter." 
 
 " Have I offended you ? " he asked, very gently, as she 
 allowed him to take her little hot ungloved hand in his. 
 
 " I don't know — at least — I may as well tell you, Mr. l'Es- 
 trange " 
 
 Why did he suddenly look so astonished ? He opened 
 his lips as if to intercept her, but no sound came. The as- 
 tonishment was gradually obliterated by the flicker of a 
 queer, reluctant smile. 
 
 " Of course I don't mind what any one tells my brother 
 about me — only I did think you would understand what 
 brothers are like, and that you would not say how stupid I 
 had been! Edmund will never let me forget it as long as I 
 live; and I had so much rather you had scolded me at the 
 time than told him " 
 
118 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " Told him that I had talked to you for five minutes ? 
 But there was no harm in that,' 1 said the man, astonishment 
 again predominant in his face. 
 
 " I don't mean that in the least : I mean about the sketch, 
 and my spoiling it," said Julian, almost in tears. Then, try- 
 ing hard to be dignified: " It does not matter, of course; 
 but when brothers tease a girl so dreadfully about being 
 awkward and uncivilised " 
 
 "Does your brother tease you in that way?" said Mr. 
 l'Estrange, the smile coming uppermost. " But I assure you 
 it is not my fault if he does. What did he say ? Because I 
 never mentioned the sketch to him." 
 
 " You— did— not mention— the sketch ? " 
 
 " No. Did he ? " 
 
 "Well— no," said Julian, after a long pause; " I can't say 
 he did. But I have been expecting him to talk about it ever 
 since; I am sure he means to, because he looked so amused 
 and so fanny when he spoke of you, and he advised me not 
 to chatter to everybody I met on a hillside — so I thought he 
 knew." 
 
 " Did he advise you not to chatter to me ? " 
 
 "No," said the girl, quite frankly; k ' he said I might talk 
 to you — you were a good fellow, or something of that kind. 
 Oh !— oughtn't I to have told you ? Are you vexed ? "—for 
 there was something inexplicable to her on her new friend's 
 face. 
 
 " On the contrary, I am gratified at hearing Mr. Edmund 
 Creigh ton's unbiassed opinion of my merits," said the man, 
 with a laugh. " Well, you may talk to me — and I am a 
 good fellow — nothing more ? " 
 
 " He said nothing more to me." 
 
 " Not even " 
 
 He stepped suddenly, and looked at the girl's bright 
 face. 
 
 " He said nothing about the sketch, indeed, Mr. l'Es- 
 trange," said Julian, eagerly. " It was all my imagination. 
 I fancied he knew, and I was afraid of being teased, so I 
 only spoke of you that once. I thought it rather unkind 
 
JULIAN'S WISH. 119 
 
 of you to have given him such a handle against me, you 
 know." 
 
 "But, indeed, I did not," said Mr. l'Estrange, and his 
 voice sounded unusually soft and kindly. " I only mentioned 
 that I met you and talked for a few minutes with you — 
 rather as making a sort of introduction for myself than any- 
 thing else. As your brother does not object, I think you 
 might as well give me the pleasure of coming to look at an- 
 other little sketch I am making — it is close by." 
 
 " I won't hurt it this time," said Julian, smiling. " But, 
 if you are sketching, why are you on the high-road ? " 
 
 " Because I saw you from a distance, and hurried down 
 to the road to waylay you. I thought your advice on my 
 sketch would be valuable." 
 
 They laughed like a pair of children, diverse as their ages 
 were ; and then Mr. l'Estrange showed her a stile and a foot- 
 path by which he had come from a certain coign of vantage 
 on the hillside. He was sketching Quest from this point, 
 and had already made a very pretty study of the old grey 
 house. 
 
 Julian made no difficulty about staying with her new 
 friend. He had found a clump of trees near the stream, 
 and was comfortably ensconced in the shade, with easel, 
 camp-stool, white umbrella, all complete. He wanted her 
 to take the stool, but she preferred the dry fragrant grass 
 with a rug spread over it ; and here she sat and watched 
 him, while he, at her desire, went on with his work. He 
 painted skilfully, she could see that; and she wondered 
 much why he had not adopted art as a profession. 
 
 " You must be very strong," she said at length, after a 
 pause. 
 
 " I am pretty strong. But why ? " 
 
 u You have so many things to carry. Camp-stool, easel, 
 paint-box, and things, rug. luncheon-basket, I declare. You 
 must look like the knight in the Looking-glass book, if you 
 carry all these at once." 
 
 "I am luxurious: I don't carry them at all. My man 
 brought them, and will come back for them by and by." 
 
120 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " You are rich, then," said Julian, meditating. 
 
 " Why ? It is not a ruinous expense to have one's traps 
 carried to a place and brought back again, is it ? " 
 
 "No; but you said 'my man.' That means your serv- 
 ant, don't it ? Even Edmund has not ' a man ' of his 
 own." 
 
 "Perhaps he will have one some day. We bachelors 
 are very self-indulgent fellows," said Mr. l'Estrange, lightly. 
 " There is no telling w 7 hat we won't do to save ourselves 
 trouble. I am very lazy : I like to be waited upon." 
 
 "All men do, I think," said Julian, wisely. "Oh, how I 
 wish I were rich ! " 
 
 Mr. l'Estrange had just begun to put a wash of colour 
 over his sky. For some reason he stopped in the middle, 
 and let his brush make an ugly blur. He could not get it 
 out afterwards, and it spoiled the picture. Perhaps that was 
 the reason why he frowned so deeply w r hen he spoke. 
 
 " Why should you wish to be rich ? " he said, in a vexed 
 tone. 
 
 " If I were rich," said Julian, her eyes dilating and her 
 cheek beginning to glow, " I should never live in London 
 any more. I should go away and live among real things." 
 
 u Real things ? Aren't houses and people real enough for 
 you ? " 
 
 "No; I mean things that grow out of the earth: trees, 
 and grass, and flowers. I would not go to parties and dance 
 till five in the morning. If I danced at all, I would dance 
 in the afternoon. And I would build houses in the country 
 where poor people's children, who were ill and hungry, you 
 know, should come and stay ; and we would all say, ' Ugh, 
 you ugly, smoky, grimy old London, we hate you, and we 
 wish you didn't exist ! ' " 
 
 Mr. l'Estrange's brow had cleared. He broke into a 
 laugh. " Have you been reading Ruskin, child ? " he asked. 
 
 " No. Does he say anything like that ? I always think 
 that that is what I should like to do if I were rich." 
 
 " Perhaps you will be rich some day." 
 
 " Never. There's nobody to leave me any money," said 
 
JULIAN'S WISH. 121 
 
 Julian, blithely ; " and as I can't be rich, I am only sorry 
 that I can't be really poor." 
 
 a Yon are an enigmatical young person," said l'Estrange, 
 " and I never met any girl quite like you. Why should you 
 wish to be really poor ? " 
 
 " It's again because I like real things. I don't want to 
 have to think about my dress, and how I can pretend that 
 last summer's frock is a new one or that I have three hats 
 instead of two. I don't like to go to Scarborough for three 
 days and pretend I was there for weeks. I don't like having 
 big dinner parties and skimping for a month afterwards. I 
 don't mean that we do these things," said Julian, turning 
 red, " but many people do, and I don't want to be one of 
 them." 
 
 " You have seen more of the seamy side of life than I 
 thought," said Mr. l'Estrange. He had put down his brushes, 
 and was listening attentively. 
 
 " I have eyes and ears," said the girl, brusquely. " How 
 can one help seeing and hearing ? " 
 
 " But what would you like to be if you were really poor ? " 
 
 " I should like to be a cottage-woman, with bread to make 
 and dishes to wash, and little children to mind," said Julian. 
 "That would be the nicest thing in all the world, I think. 
 But I can't be that — and the worst is that I can't hope to be 
 allowed to take a degree and become a High School teacher ! " 
 
 " Well, you have a remarkable variety of ambitions," said 
 Mr. l'Estrange, " and quite incompatible ones, apparently. 
 I wish I could gratify any of them for you, but I don't quite 
 see how I can ! " 
 
 "No, I should think not!" and Julian laughed at the 
 idea. 
 
 " Except one," said her friend, very deliberately. 
 
 "One! You could gratify one! What do you mean, 
 Mr. l'Estrange ? " 
 
 He laughed, and went on painting. 
 
 " I suppose you mean that you could persuade papa and 
 mamma to send me to Girton," said she, pensively ; " but I 
 assure you that you are mistaken. They don't wish me to 
 
122 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 go. They say they don't like the effect of so much educa- 
 tion on women. You are quite wrong : you couldn't get 
 them to let me be a teacher." 
 
 " Perhaps I was wrong," he said. " There's no other 
 way, is there ? " 
 
 " Oh no," said Julian, wonderingly. 
 
 Then there was a silence, during which she looked at the 
 landscape, and he painted vigorously, but without much re- 
 gard for the effect of his dashes of colour. 
 
 "Julian," he said at last, U I may call you Julian, may I 
 not ? You must remember this : that our best wishes some- 
 times disappoint us most keenly. Even if you never have 
 what you think you want most, don't be disappointed or 
 soured, as if life had cheated you. Things always come to 
 an end at last, and you see that what you have had has been 
 the best for you." 
 
 His words were meant to be cheering, but they sounded 
 as if they dropped from the lips of a man who knew what 
 disappointment meant. Julian looked at him gravely. 
 
 " I do not like that view," she said. " I would rather say 
 that things mended, not ended, and that you are going to 
 get what is best for you by and by, if you don't get it now." 
 
 " There is a good deal of truth in that," he said, laying 
 down his brushes again. " Julian, you are wonderfully wise 
 for your age — what is your age, by the by, if I may ask ? " 
 
 " I am seventeen." 
 
 u Seventeen ? " He turned upon her sharply. " You are 
 joking — you meaniLfteen ?" 
 
 " No, indeed. I was seventeen last birthday. Why 
 not?" 
 
 " You seemed such a child," he said, looking at her. 
 
 " That's because of my short hair and short frocks. Next 
 year 1 am to let my hair grow, and have my dresses longer." 
 
 " And then you will come out and be a modern young 
 lady!" 
 
 " I can't help myself," said Julian, almost bitterly. 
 
 " No, poor child ! It is a great pity," said Mr. TEstrange, 
 relapsing into a grave mood, and staring straight before 
 
LOVE OR LIFES 123 
 
 him. He sat silent so long that Julian at last found it dull, 
 and rose from her lowly seat upon the rug, saying that she 
 must go. He did not try to detain her. He shook hands, 
 and lifted his hat very ceremoniously, and stood for some 
 little time after she had turned into the pathway that led 
 across the hill to Quest. Then he seated himself again, arid 
 began to meditate. 
 
 u Seventeen ! I never dreamt it. What a pity it will be 
 to see that fine young nature deteriorating to the level of the 
 poor creatures amongst whom she lives! It will deteriorate: 
 there is no doubt of that. 
 
 " I suppose I might prevent it if I chose,'' he went on, 
 with an odd smile. " 1 might, as I said, give her one of her 
 wishes— she would promise anything just now. No, it would 
 not be fair. She must see the world for herself. She is only 
 seventeen, aud I have lived twenty years longer than she 
 has done. It would be taking an unfair advantage of her 
 youth, and she would have the right to reproach me after- 
 wards. Poor little girl ! I hope I shall hear about her from 
 time to time." 
 
 He sighed, shook his head, and looked critically at his 
 w T ork. He had spoilt it: there was no doubt of that. Pres- 
 ently he put up his sketching materials, and threw himself 
 down on the rug for a quiet smoke. But every now and 
 then an irresistible smile curled his lips, and he took his pipe 
 out of his mouth, to say, half aloud — 
 
 " Would they say I was mad if I gave Julian her wish ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 LOVE OR LIFE ? 
 
 Matters were in an unsatisfactory state at Quest. Lis- 
 beth was unhappy, and therefore a trifle more strict with 
 herself and everybody else— except Alys— than usual; Alys 
 was preoccupied; and Edmund Creighton was piqued. 
 
124 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 Julian only was merry and bright as usual, but she was not 
 much to the fore, for Mr. l'Estrange had offered to give her 
 sketching lessons, and she seemed a good deal absorbed in 
 the manipulation of her water-colours. 
 
 Edmund had relinquished his shooting expeditions with 
 the Leycester party. He said that he had only two or three 
 days longer to stay, and that he meant to devote them to 
 Alys and his sister. He had taken up his quarters at the 
 hotel in Crosthwaite, where he could be more at ease than at 
 Quest; but he came to Quest every day, much to Frank 
 Moor's dissatisfaction. 
 
 "Why does that fellow come here so constantly?" he 
 asked of Alys : and Alys answered, with a faint increase of 
 colour in her cheeks — 
 
 " His sister is here. And he is an old friend of mine— we 
 have known each other ever since we were children." 
 
 While Edmund in his turn observed — 
 
 " Moor of Moor End, as the good people call him, hangs 
 about Quest a good deal, apparently. Is he a friend of Miss 
 Verrall's, or of yours ? " 
 
 14 Oh, of both, I think," said Alys, with a much brighter 
 colour in her face than when she had spoken of Edmund to 
 Frank. 
 
 "An idle, sentimental sort of fellow, I should think," 
 said the young lawyer, drily. "Looks like a troubadour." 
 
 " He is very handsome," said Alys, greatly indignant. 
 
 " Handsome ? Hm, yes. Eather Byronic. The type is 
 obsolete, rather, don't you think ? When he has knocked 
 about the world, and been Eaynflete's secretary for a year 
 or two, he will lose that air of subdued melancholy which 
 women call 'interesting.' " 
 
 Alys did not reply, but looked so much vexed and hurt 
 that Edmund saw fit to soften down his opinions a little. 
 
 44 He is rather like a Vandyke portrait at present, and 
 that is a distinct offence to us plainer men," he said, smiling. 
 And Alys laughed out, as one who was pleased by a frank 
 acknowledgment of jealousy. 
 
 The quaint, pretty garden at Quest was at its brightest 
 
LOVE OR LIFE? 125 
 
 autumnal glory. The flowers were not so fragrant as in 
 summer; they were deeper hued than those of spring; but 
 the single dahlias and hollyhocks, Japanese anemones and 
 zinnias, had a beauty of their own which compensated for 
 what was lost. Alys had deserted the doorstep in favour of 
 a bench among the blossoming shrubs, where she liked to 
 dream away her time over a book; and it was there that 
 Edmund found her one evening before he went home. It 
 was not by accident that she was alone, for he had spoken a 
 word to Lisbeth, and she had undertaken to keep Julian out 
 of the way. 
 
 " I wish you luck, Mr. Creighton," Lisbeth said, looking 
 at him sadly, out of her great sorrowful eyes, "but I am 
 afraid you won't succeed." 
 
 k ' I have never failed yet," he said, quietly, " in anything 
 I have attempted." 
 
 u You may have been forestalled." 
 
 " No, I have not," he said, with a nicker of light in his 
 cool grey eyes; "I may have been superseded — but I was 
 the first." 
 
 " Ah, why did you not make sure before she came away ?" 
 cried Lisbeth passionately. 
 
 Why did he not ? He held down his head and went 
 away. He knew he had been to blame. If he had spoken 
 soon enough, spoken decisively, spoken strongly and warm- 
 ly, Alys would have promised him her hand. 
 
 She was rather a slight thing — this Alys Lorimer: sweet 
 and tender and innocent, but in no way strong: not like 
 Lisbeth, who would always have known whether she loved 
 a man or not, and having made up her mind about it, would 
 love him to the end. It sometimes seemed, even to Alys's 
 lovers and admirers, as if her soul were not quite awake : as 
 if her heart were yet, in a sense, untouched. There were 
 possibilities in her nature of which she herself was not 
 aware. But, such as she was, Edmund Creighton was de- 
 termined to make her his; and he told himself that he 
 could make her love him, whether she had had a fancy for 
 Francis Moor or not, if once she were his wife. 
 9 
 
126 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 Full of this thought, he sat down beside her on the bench, 
 and began to talk gently pf the beauty of the scene before 
 him, of the darkening violet sky and the stars that glim- 
 mered faintly above the hills. 
 
 " I am sorry to leave the place," he said. 
 
 " Yes. I am sorry you are going. Could you not leave 
 Julian behind ? " 
 
 "I'm afraid not. Her mother writes that lessons ought 
 to begin before long." 
 
 ''It has been so nice to have her here." 
 
 " What do you mean to do, Alys ? Shall you stay with 
 your sister all through the winter ? " 
 
 "I — suppose so." 
 
 " It will be very cold for you," said Edmund, watching 
 the changes of colour in her face. 
 
 " Yes, but it is healthy. I am ever so much stronger than 
 when I came." 
 
 " You look better. But I must confess " — and he shrugged 
 his shoulders— "that I should dread those fierce gusts which 
 will tear down from the hills, and the dreary desolation of 
 snow, which sometimes lies, they tell me, upon the ground 
 till May. It will take a strong constitution to stand it ; and 
 yours is not very strong — and you have lived in towns and 
 in warmer countries nearly all your life." 
 
 Alys's eyes filled with tears. It seemed to her that Ed- 
 mund was wantonly cruel. But he went on remorselessly. 
 
 " It will be awfully lonely too. Your sister seems to be 
 always busy, and she sees no society. Of course she is not 
 quite of the class to which you are accustomed— she is 
 splendid, admirable, everything that is good, I know; but 
 she is not quite of our world. You can't deny that, surely ! 
 Shall you not feel the absence of congenial companionship 
 a good deal ? " 
 
 She did not reply, and, looking at her, he saw the gleam 
 of a tear upon her cheek. He spoke again, gazing straight 
 into her face, as if quite unconcerned. 
 
 " Even your friend Mr. Moor will be away ; and— I think 
 Lady Adela has not recognised your existence ? " 
 
LOVE OR LIFE? 127 
 
 Alys covered her face with her hands. " Edmund, how 
 unkind you are ! I know — it will be terrible ; but what can 
 I do ? " 
 
 "You are right; it will be terrible,'' said Mr. Edmund 
 Creighton, quietly. "Very especially terrible for you, who 
 have not been accustomed to roughing it. Crosthwaite is 
 lovely in summer, no doubt; but in winter ! — I think you 
 should consult a doctor, Alys, if I may say so, as to whether 
 your chest is strong enough to bear the winter's cold." 
 
 If he wanted to frighten her, he had succeeded. She 
 looked up with scared wet eye. 
 
 " Don't you think I shall be able to bear it, Edmund ? " 
 
 " It depends on what you call bearing it," he said, gloom- 
 ily. " Your father always said your lungs were delicate : of 
 course I do not know." 
 
 " But there is nothing— nothing else for me to do," said 
 Alys. 
 
 "No, I suppose not. Poor little thing! I shall often 
 think of you, Alys, when I am in London, and hear the 
 wind howl round the houses, and see the snow lying white 
 on the streets. Storms don't last long in London, thank 
 Heaven ; we shall be well on into spring while you are still 
 imprisoned by drifts, and Quest is shaken to its foundation 
 by the tempest. I shall think of you as a little bird in a 
 cage — shut up, out of the world, a prisoner." 
 
 "They say— Mr. Moor says— that winter here is quite 
 lovely," said Alys, in a shaken voice. 
 
 " Possibly— for a man! There's plenty of skating, no 
 doubt. I think you will have to make up your mind to stop 
 indoors for three months, Alys." 
 
 " Lisbeth does not stay indoors." 
 
 " You are not Lisbeth. You have had a different train- 
 ing. She is a hardy mountain annual, and you — poor child ! 
 — you are a delicate exotic, just out of your hot-house, and 
 about to be exposed to the rigours of a northern winter. I 
 don't like thinking of it— I don't, indeed! " 
 
 " There is nothing else," said Alys again, in an extin- 
 guished tone. 
 
128 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 She was thinking how true it was, all that he had said ; 
 that she would never be able to bear her life at Quest when 
 Francis had gone away, when Julian and Edmund had 
 abandoned her. She loved Lisbeth, but she did not feel the 
 real strength and grandeur of LisbetlTs character. To her 
 Lisbeth was only a protective power — kindly and generous, 
 but unimportant and uncongenial ; she was not quite capable 
 of seeing the nobler side. 
 
 " There is something else," said Edmund, quietly, "if you 
 would accept it." 
 
 u No, no," she cried, wishing to silence him; "there is 
 nothing else." 
 
 " Listen, Alys. I did not speak definitely enough before 
 you left London ; but I thought you understood — I thought 
 I had said enough to let you know. I have hoped for a very 
 long time now that you would let me make a home for you 
 —a warm, sheltered nest, where you would be safe from all 
 the winds that blow. Let me speak, dearest: do not inter- 
 rupt me yet. I love you with all my heart. Perhaps you 
 do not care for me so much as I care for you— perhaps it is 
 in a different way; but you do like me a little, Alys; I am 
 sure you do— isn't that so ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes— yes— a little," said Alys, tremulously. " More 
 than a little: a great deal — but not " 
 
 " No, I know that : not as much as I care for you," said 
 Edmund, taking for granted that he knew what she was 
 going to say. " But that would come in time. I could make 
 you very happy, Alys. You should have everything you 
 wanted: your nest should be soft as eiderdown. I have 
 waited until I had enough to offer you ; I am able now to 
 think of a house of my own, where we could be happy 
 together; and if I was not sufficiently explicit before, I will 
 be so now. I love you, Alys, and I want you to be my 
 wife." 
 
 "It cannot be, Edmund." 
 
 "Why not, dear ? You know I consider that you are 
 really half promised to me. You know I thought so before 
 you left London " 
 
LOVE OR LIFE? 120 
 
 "Oh, wo, Edmund!" 
 
 " Indeed, I did, and I do not see why you should not keep 
 your promise," said Edmund, purposely exaggerating a little 
 what had passed between them. " Circumstances have 
 changed only on my side: on yours, Alys, surely they have 
 not changed ? " 
 
 She turned her head away and twisted her slender fin- 
 gers. This claim of his confused and frightened her. She 
 had never thought of herself as bound in any way. 
 
 " Listen," he said to her. " I will not mince my words. 
 If you stay here, Alys, for the winter, you will die. You 
 are too frail and weak to support the cold. You will fade 
 away like the hothouse flower that I said you were; and 
 when it is too late you will regret the choice that you have 
 made. You had better come away while there is time. 
 You were not made for these bleak heights and snowy 
 moorlands, little tender child that you are ! I will give you 
 back all that has been missing in your life— music, art, 
 colour, warmth— love. Is it not worth something, Alys ? 
 And remember that the alternative is death." 
 
 His voice sank to an impressive whisper. He was not 
 insincere, for he truly believed that Alys would suffer 
 severely from the cold of the Crosthwaite region ; but per- 
 haps he used superlatives a trifle freely. He knew Alys 
 well, and he knew how to work upon her emotions. 
 
 " Do you think I shall die ? " she asked, with a fright- 
 ened look at him. 
 
 " I think so. I cannot help it— I must say what I think. 
 Alys, my darling, don't expose yourself to such a frightful 
 risk. Let me save you— let me make you happy." 
 
 He stole his hand towards her. His eyes burned with a 
 strange light ; his face was very pale. But as soon as she 
 felt his fingers upon hers, she recoiled. 
 
 " No, no," she said, pushing his hand away. " I can't do 
 it. I can't help it. If I die, I die, and there is an end of it. 
 But I cannot marry you." 
 
 " You think so at this moment, but you will not always 
 think so," said Edmund, in his softest voice. " I love you, 
 
130 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 but I won't plead for my love. I plead for your own life 
 and happiness. Save yourself, darling. Come away with 
 me: we could be married directly, and you would be out of 
 danger. I cannot bear to leave you behind." 
 
 " But you must, Edmund. If I am to die— I can't help 
 it. Perhaps Lisbeth will take me away somewhere. But I 
 cannot love you— I cannot marry you— because— I love 
 some one else." 
 
 Her voice was barely audible, and her face was crim- 
 soned with blushes. Edmund drew his hand away, but 
 kept his eyes on her face. 
 
 "I suppose," he said, in a changed voice, "that it is 
 Francis Moor." 
 
 She would not answer, but he saw her throat quiver, and 
 she put up her hand to hide the trembling of her mouth. 
 
 " You need not say anything. I suppose you are keep- 
 ing it a secret ? I can see it all in your face. It is Francis 
 Moor ? Very well, Alys, I will tell you something else. It 
 is Francis Moor — and it is suicide as well." 
 
 She tried to speak, but he restrained her. 
 
 "He cannot marry you now, and transplant you to the 
 climate in which you could live and nourish. You would 
 not even be better off at Moor End. It is madness, Alys. 
 Let me counsel you as a friend— not as a lover, for one mo- 
 ment. Your wisest course would be to throw over your 
 girlish fancy for Mr. Moor, and marry me at once." 
 
 "I could not be so false — to him." 
 
 " If he loves you truly, he would advise you to do it. 
 Look here, Alys : it is a choice between life and love. If 
 you choose love— that is Frank Moor, you die, as surely as 
 if I stabbed you to the heart ; if you marry me, you choose 
 life. Which shall it be ? " 
 
 "Love," said Alys; and in the starlight he saw that her 
 small white face was transfigured as if by angelic radiance 
 of truth and constancy. " I would rather die here than live 
 to marry you." 
 
 He winced, as if she had struck him in the face. 
 
 "Do you mean that, Alys ? " he asked, in a lower tone. 
 
LOVE OR LIFE? 131 
 
 " I do mean it. I do not want to die — life is too sweet — 
 but I will stay here and be true to Frank, even if it means 
 my death. It is no use tempting me, Edmund ; I have made 
 up my mind." 
 
 " And I have not unmade mine," said Edmund, calmly, 
 as he rose from his seat. u I believe that some day you will 
 see your mistake, and turn to me for help. I shall always 
 be ready, Alys ; and you will long by and by for sunshine 
 and happiness and love." 
 
 He felt that he could say no more just then; he had 
 failed where he had been most certain of success, and he 
 was too wise to persevere in a hopeless task. His strength 
 lay in patience: he believed that Alys would ultimately 
 change her mind. 
 
 He passed out of the garden into the yard, leaving Alys 
 to cry her heart out on the garden-bench. He had fright- 
 ened her, but he had not moved her will. She was still true 
 to the man who had won her love. 
 
 Edmund came suddenly upon Zadock in the yard. The 
 half-witted man was engaged as he had been when Frank 
 Moor once spoke to him— in polishing a knife. Edmund 
 stopped and spoke to him carelessly. 
 
 u Fine knife that, Zadock !«?' 
 
 Zadock grinned horribly. " Knife good. Knife for 
 squoire," he said deliberately. 
 
 " What ! as a present ? " 
 
 Zadock shook his head. " Squoire Moor bad man," he 
 replied. " Zadock kill him some day — with knife." 
 
 Edmund Creighton's heart gave a strange bound. Was 
 it of joy or fear? He asked himself whether it was his duty 
 to take the knife away. 
 
 " Why ? " he said briefly. " What for ? " 
 
 Zadock's eyes gleamed. " He make Lisbeth cry. He kiss 
 her — missy. Missy over there;" and his face grew black 
 with anger, as he pointed towards the garden. u He sorry 
 some day." 
 
 " I hope he will be," said Edmund drily, and tossed the 
 idiot half-a-crown as he turned away. 
 
132 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 He had a curious difficulty in getting- rid of the notion 
 that he ought to have taken the knife away. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 "i WILL REMEMBER. 1 ' 
 
 Julian's eyes were red with weeping, and so was the tip 
 of her nose. It is not becoming to any one to weep vio- 
 lently, but she had hardly arrived at the stage when a girl 
 thinks of what is becoming. Her hair was in a tangled 
 mass, partly hiding her forehead, and her comxnexion was 
 decidedly patchy. She had never looked less pretty in her 
 life, and she did not care. She was quite alone, sitting on the 
 grassy patch of broken bank beside the narrowing stream 
 below the tarn; and she did not think that any one could 
 see her, or would find her out. But she was mistaken ; for 
 some one else had wandered down the borders of the tarn ; 
 and he, her friend, Mr. l'Estrange, had soon caught sight 
 of her, and had recognised the fact that she w T as in a state of 
 woe. 
 
 Some men would have recognised it only in order to 
 make their escape unseen; but l'Estrange was not a man of 
 that kind. His heart went out to the child when he saw 
 that she was in trouble, and he wondered what he could do 
 to comfort her. He made a long circuit, so as to approach 
 her cautiously, yet not to come upon her unawares. She 
 should have a chance of escape, if she did not wish to talk 
 to him. Some girls would be glad to run away and hide 
 their reddened eyes. 
 
 But Julian, although she must have seen him coming, 
 did not seem inclined to run away. She sat, crouching mis- 
 erably on the grass with her hands clasped round her knees, 
 and a damp ball of a handkerchief twisted up in one of 
 them. Her eyes were fixed on the running water at her 
 feet, and even when Mr. l'Estrange approached her, she did 
 
"I WILL REMEMBER." 133 
 
 not lift them, or show by any movement that she was aware 
 of his presence. 
 
 " Shall I disturb you ? " he inquired, from between the 
 trees on the bank, whence he could look down on her tou- 
 sled chestnut head. 
 
 u Oh, no! Please come — I wanted to see you," said 
 Julian, with passionate emphasis. 
 
 He came down, wondering. What was the matter with 
 this little girl whose frankness and innocence had seemed to 
 him so delicious? And would she tell him what was wrong, 
 or would she altogether ignore the facts of reddened eyes 
 and rumpled hair? 
 
 Evidently Julian was not disposed to make a secret of her 
 woe. She unclasped her hands and held out one to him in 
 greeting, and he saw that her eyes were once more swimming 
 in sorrowful tears. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter ? " he said, forgetting that she 
 was anything but a child in trouble. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. l'Estrange! We're going away — to-mor- 
 row ! " 
 
 " I am very sorry to hear it, 1 ' l'Estrange said, holding the 
 little hot hand very kindly, and looking down at her flushed 
 and tear-stained face with honest sympathy. " Is it not very 
 sudden?" 
 
 '' Yes, indeed. I thought we were to have a fortnight 
 longer; and — Miss Verrall had asked me to stay on with 
 Alys for a time ! but mamma has written to say she won't 
 hear of it." 
 
 " Does she not like your being here then ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, for a time ! But she says she sees that I am 
 getting quite out of hand, and shall not be fit for anything 
 when I come back to London." 
 
 " What does she mean by that ? " said l'Estrange, with 
 an irrepressible smile. He seated himself beside her as he 
 spoke. 
 
 " Well, you see," said Julian, rather hesitatingly, " she 
 wants me to get married." 
 
 This was a piece of frankness which apparently startled 
 
134 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 Mr. l'Estrange. He looked at her sharply, with a curious 
 darkening of his brows, as if some suspicious thought had en- 
 tered his head ; but he said nothing. 
 
 " I don't see that it is so necessary: do you ? " said Ju- 
 lian, twisting her handkerchief round her fingers. " You 
 were never married, were you ? " 
 
 " No, child, no.' 1 He turned away his head. 
 
 " Oughtn't I to have said it ? Have I vexed you ? " she 
 asked wistfully. '' I didn't know that people minded— when 
 — when they were — grown up " 
 
 u When they were my age, you meant," he said, turning 
 again towards her, with a kindly smile. " But you know I 
 do not seem so very old to myself. I am thirty-seven. . . . 
 Well, I suppose that does seem old to you. I never married, 
 because the woman I loved when I was little more than a 
 boy, married some one else. That is all. Not very much of 
 a story, is it ? " 
 
 "And you cared a great deal ? " said the girl, softly. 
 
 " Yes, I cared a great deal. My God, yes ! " He said the 
 last word almost under his breath, and Julian shrank a little 
 involuntarily and felt afraid. Why she put the next ques- 
 tion — a question which had a curious effect upon the hearer 
 — she never knew. 
 
 "And — do you care now f " she said. 
 
 To her surprise, l'Estrange rose to his feet and walked a 
 few paces away from her. He stood looking out at the 
 water for some few minutes, with his back turned to the girl, 
 and she remained silent, her own griefs almost forgotten in 
 the consideration of his new and strange emotion. When 
 he came back to her his face was pale, and there was a new 
 expression in his kind eyes. 
 
 " I cannot tell you," he said, quietly, u whether I care now 
 — or not." 
 
 She put out her hand and pressed his arm gently, by way 
 of showing sympathy. " I hope you don't," she said. " I 
 don't like to think of your being sorry all these years— and 
 of going on to be sorry for years to come — for what can't be 
 helped." 
 
"I WILL REMEMBER." 135 
 
 It was quaintly expressed, but the feeling was genuine 
 enough. 
 
 "You are right; it is wasted time," said l'Estrange, in a 
 low voice. " Wasted time, wasted affection, wasted emo- 
 tion; true enough, though nobody has had the courage to 
 tell me so before. Well — perhaps, if I meet you again, I 
 shall be able to tell you that I do not care." 
 
 "Shall we ever meet again?" said Julian; and the 
 bright drops started to her eyes again. 
 
 "You cannot care, surely, whether we meet again or 
 not ? " he asked, with a touch of scepticism — perhaps as- 
 sumed for the occasion — in his tone. 
 
 " Yes, indeed I do. You have been so kind to me. I 
 should often have been very lonely if I had not met you. I 
 thought," said the girl reproachfully, " that you would be 
 sorry too that I was going away." 
 
 " Yes, I am sorry." 
 
 There was some abruptness in the tone of the reply, 
 which made Julian look at him earnestly. But she could 
 not quite understand either his tone or the look upon his 
 face. His eyebrows were knitted, his eyes fixed absently 
 upon the water ; it seemed as if he would not look at her. 
 
 " I never met anybody who helped me so much with my 
 sketching," Julian went on, in regretful tones. "And you 
 have been so kind. I was so glad I had met you, and that 
 Edmund knew you, too. And now I have to go back to hor- 
 rible smoky old London." 
 
 " Yes, and you have not told me exactly why you had to 
 go back so soon," said l'Estrange. "You said something 
 about— marriage. Surely your mother is not thinking of 
 marriage for you — yet ! " 
 
 Julian laughed — rather hysterically ; but the sound was 
 pleasant to the listener's ear. 
 
 " Of course not," she said. " I'm not out yet— I'm in 
 short frocks: I'm a little girl. I thought I was not to come 
 out for two or three years. Mamma can't bear the idea of 
 taking three girls about with her. But my eldest sister's 
 just engaged to be married, and mamma's very pleased about 
 
136 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 it, and writes to me that now I can come out next season, 
 and that I must come home at once and get into proper 
 ways." 
 
 " What are proper ways ? " said the man, smiling. 
 
 " Oh, I must not run about any more, 1 ' Julian answered, 
 dismally. " I must wear gloves, and have my hair done by 
 a maid — I hate being touched by a maid— and learn not to 
 say what I think " 
 
 " Ah, don't do that," said l'Estrange, turning to look at 
 her. " You will be spoiled ! " 
 
 " Mamma says I am like a baby ; that I blurt out every- 
 thing that comes in my head " 
 
 "That is right. I hope you will always do it— with 
 friends, at any rate. Don't learn to lie and cheat and dis- 
 tort the truth, as women in society are so fond of doing: re- 
 member, for HeavenVsake, that there are things dearer than 
 social distinction and a reputation for giving good dinners, 
 or having a well-furnished house— dearer even than dia- 
 monds. I must tell you, Julian — you let me call you Julian 
 as you are not ' out,' don't you ?— that this was the rock we 
 split upon — the woman I loved and myself. I had no 
 wealth to offer her: I was poor and undistinguished; and 
 she left me — because she wanted a line house and jewels 
 and a title: that was all. She could not bear to be poor, 
 she said. Don't be afraid of poverty, child: it is worse to 
 be base than poor." 
 
 " I know — I am sure it is. I will remember. How cruel 
 of her ! I don't think I could have done like that ! " 
 
 " I don't think you could. You are untouched by the 
 world spirit at present. But I see you are going into the 
 very midst of it. If only one could save you— yet nobody 
 can do it but yourself. Nobody else, Julian : you must fight 
 your own battle." 
 
 She looked at him with shining eyes. " I think I shall 
 be able to fight it now. "When one knows that there are peo- 
 ple in the world who understand— and sympathise — it makes 
 such a difference. It seemed to me before as if perhaps I 
 w T as only selfish — fighting for my own hand, as it were." 
 
"I WILL REMEMBER." 137 
 
 "No," he said, almost sternly, " you will be fighting for 
 right and truth— not for yourself at all. Let that conviction 
 tend to give you courage. Act as if the only things that 
 existed were your soul and God. Then you will be treading 
 the narrow, uphill way towards perfection." 
 
 She sat silent and motionless : deeply moved, but a little 
 frightened too. Nobody, in all her short life, had ever spoken 
 to her in this way before. She liked it — she was thrilled by 
 it ; and yet she was afraid. 
 
 " If you were only there to help me ! " she cried presently, 
 with a deep breath of yearning and regret. 
 
 L'Estrange sighed. He too was moved. He seemed 
 another man to Julian from the gentle, kindly, dilettante 
 artist whom she at first had known. There was something 
 finer in his face than she had recognised. She felt instinc- 
 tively that she was in the presence of a nobler nature than 
 one often has the good fortune to find in the journeyings 
 through this somewhat disappointing and troublesome 
 world. 
 
 "I cannot be there," he said, very kindly, after that little 
 pause. " I have other duties. But " 
 
 He made a long pause. 
 
 " Do you ever come to London — to see the exhibitions ? " 
 said Julian, at last, somewhat timidly. " Perhaps some of 
 your pictures will be hung, and you will like to see them ? " 
 
 " I never exhibit." 
 
 " Oh ! but why not ? They would get in at once— they 
 are so beautiful." 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 " Yes, oh, yes ! Have you never tried ? " 
 
 "Never," he answered, gravely, "since I was a mere 
 boy." 
 
 Something told her that he had never tried since the day 
 when the woman he loved destroyed his ambition by reject- 
 ing him because he was poor. She was sure of it — her in- 
 stinct told her so. There was a sympathetic tremor in her 
 voice when she spoke again. 
 
 " Oh, do try now," she said. " Don't think of the past, 
 
138 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 just look to the future and start fresh. You will be famous 
 yet, if you try — and then you will make her ashamed." 
 
 " I don't think so," he answered gently. " And it is bet- 
 ter that she should not hear of me. I don't much want to 
 come into her way again. But — I don't think my pictures 
 are worth exhibiting. I have not much time for them, you 
 know, except during my summer holiday." 
 
 " I suppose you have too many lessons ? " 
 
 " Lessons ? " 
 
 "I beg your pardon: I thought you gave lessons. I 
 don't know why, except that you taught me so beautifully," 
 said Julian, in confusion. 
 
 He took off his hat, and bowed. " I am afraid," he said, 
 " I don't give lessons; I only receive them." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," said Julian, a little cross- 
 ly. " I thought that you were — an artist. And artists either 
 paint pictures or give lessons, don't they ? If you are not 
 an artist, what are you ? " 
 
 He laughed aloud. She wondered, rather impatiently, 
 why he looked as if he had received a compliment that 
 pleased him very much. 
 
 " I cannot claim to be more than an amateur," he said. 
 " And I hardly know how to describe myself. I am writing 
 a book — does that not give me a claim to be called a literary 
 man ? Perhaps I am only a student." 
 
 " Then you don't do anything ? " 
 
 " I've no profession, I am afraid: not even a trade. You 
 look quite shocked : would you rather I said I kept a shop ? " 
 
 " I'm not sure. After all you said to me — if a woman 
 should try to do her best, why should not a man ? " 
 
 " How do you know I am not trying to do my best ? " 
 said l'Estrange, glancing up at her. 
 
 Julian's reply was long in coming. " I don't know. I 
 think you must be," she said at length. " Only— one always 
 wants to label people— I can't tell why." 
 
 " I shall give you no label for myself," said her friend, 
 lightly. " I shall leave myself un classed. Perhaps, if I 
 come to London— for the exhibitions— we may meet again." 
 
"I WILL REMEMBER." I39 
 
 " Oh, do you think it is likely ? Could you not come to 
 see us ? You know papa and Edmund already." 
 
 " They have never been kind enough to ask me to call, 1 ' 
 said l'Estrange, with great gravity, a but we may possibly 
 overcome that difficulty. If I meet you again, you will be 
 sure to remember me ? " 
 
 " Of course I shall. And " — diffidently — " I will remem- 
 ber what you have said." 
 
 "Ah, if you do that!" He caught himself up, as if he 
 had been about to say something which he afterwards 
 judged inadmissible; and then sighed again. "If you do," 
 he went on more slowly, " I shall think you a noble woman 
 — and a \erj unusual one." 
 
 " I am always told," said Julian, half laughing, " that I 
 am not like anybody else; so here will be a chance to de- 
 velop my unlikeness." 
 
 " You are not like anybody else," he rejoined, gravely. 
 "You are finer, braver, than most girls: you have the ca- 
 pacities, mental and moral, for great development. I shall 
 be interested to see what you make of them. In a year or 
 two, one will know better than one knows now." 
 
 He was looking away from her, absently, as she thought, 
 towards the opposite shore. Something curiously imper- 
 sonal in his tone struck her as cold, and gave her a sense of 
 pain. 
 
 " Don't you believe in me ? " she asked, plaintively. " I 
 thought you liked me— a little bit." 
 
 He looked round at her hastily. " Like you, child ! " he 
 said. " Of course— that goes without saying, as we are such 
 friends. I have been wishing that I— that I had a little 
 sister — like you." 
 
 Somehow the words seemed to trip as they fell from his 
 tongue. " Sister " was not the right term after all. But he 
 would not put it differently: he said to himself that it would 
 not be fair. 
 
 " Oh, I wish I were your sister ! " cried Julian. " I am 
 very fond of Edmund; but he does not help me and teach 
 me things as you do. Had you ever a sister ? " 
 
140 TIIE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " Many years ago. She died when she was only a child." 
 
 " I am so sorry." 
 
 "She was eight years old," said the man slowly. "I 
 have never forgotten her. Actually, do you know, I dream 
 about her still, and think I hear her calling me John, as she 
 used to do." 
 
 " Your name is John ? " 
 
 '* Yes. Nobody calls me John now." 
 
 "I am very sorry for you," said Julian. "You seem so 
 lonely in the world — with nobody belonging to you at all. 
 I am afraid I hate that lady you spoke of, when I think of 
 her. I do wish I were your sister, or belonged to you in 
 some way — then I could call you John, and try to make 
 np " 
 
 She spoke in the innocence of her heart, and was amazed 
 at the flame that suddenly darted from TEstrange's pleasant 
 eyes. At first she thought that he was angry, and she fal- 
 tered in her speech. But it w 7 as not anger that stirred his 
 soul. 
 
 " Call me John now," he said, in a quick, low voice. 
 
 "John," she said, obediently; then, with a touch of 
 childish sweetness, u poor John!" and laid her hand again 
 upon his arm. 
 
 He looked at her for a minute or two, still with the 
 strange light in his eyes. Then, very reluctantly, he with- 
 drew his eyes from her face, and fixed them on the ground. 
 
 " That's enough," he said, presently, in an altered voice. 
 " Thank you, my dear child. It was very pleasant to hear 
 the old name again. And now I must be going. I am leav- 
 ing this part of the world in a day or tw r o. So you see we 
 should have to say good-bye very soon in any case." 
 
 " I am very sorry," Julian said, once more. 
 
 But, rather to her surprise, Mr. l'Estrange did not answer 
 " So am I," and gave her what she considered a rather stiff 
 and formal shake of the hand when he said good-bye. 
 
BY THE TARN. 141 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 BY THE TARN. 
 
 Edmund's departure was more regretted by Lisbeth than 
 by Alys. It seemed to Lisbeth, apart from her own attach- 
 ment to Francis Moor, that Mr. Creighton was a much more 
 suitable husband for Alys than Frank could ever be. They 
 had moved in the same circles, they had many of the same 
 acquaintances and friends: they understood each other. 
 Whereas, Lisbeth thought, with a sore heart, there were 
 secret recesses of Frank's nature into which Alys would 
 never enter; things in his temperament which she could 
 never comprehend. Alys was gentle and clinging, very 
 loving, and anxious to do right ; but Lisbeth's keen eyes saw 
 within her a certain power of self-absorption, a shrinking 
 over-sensitiveness to the outside adverse world, which might, 
 if things did not go well with her, develop into positive self- 
 ishness. 
 
 James Lorimer's training and example had produced a 
 very natural result. Alys had learnt from him to admire 
 beauty, to despise and dislike vulgarity and roughness; to 
 demand, as her right in the world, a certain amount of lux- 
 ury and amusement. She was so submissive, so gentle, so 
 dependent, that this tendency to softness of fibre was not 
 usually suspected — or, if perceived, was not taken as a fault. 
 She looked so delicate — and she was a little lame, too, which 
 made every one sorry for her — and she had so sweet a man- 
 ner, as of a person to whom the world ought to be kind, that 
 the tiny speck of self-indulgence did not often appear. Lis- 
 beth saw it, and half despised herself for seeing it ; but she 
 had faith in the better qualities of Alys's nature, and thought 
 that they would conquer the evil before long. And but for 
 the time of test and trial which was drawing near, the in- 
 nate weakness — which was not as yet so very great a failing 
 — might have lain concealed for a lifetime. 
 
 Edmund went, and Julian also departed in tears and 
 10 
 
-L42 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 tribulation. She told Lisbeth that she should never know 
 what it was to be happy again ; and Lisbeth generously in- 
 vited her to Quest for the rest of her natural life, if only her 
 mother could be got to consent to part with her! 
 
 Alys did not cry, but she was very pale; and when the 
 train steamed out of the station, and Julian's head nodded a 
 last farewell from the carriage window, she gazed after it 
 with quivering lips and straining eyes, as if she could not 
 bear to see it go. 
 
 Edmund's last words had unnerved her. 
 
 " You have chosen your lot, then ? " he said, with a bitter 
 
 smile. 
 
 She shrank back a little, trembling in spite of herself. 
 
 "Kemember," he went on, "that I am always at your 
 service. If you think better of it, you have only to send me 
 a line— a word, and I will come and take you away. For 
 your own sake, Alys, remember this." 
 
 " You do not care whether I am false or true," she said, 
 trying to turn the assault. 
 
 " No, I don't," he said, almost violently, " compared with 
 the question of your life or death. You may be as false to 
 Francis Moor as you please, and I at least will never think 
 the worse of you." 
 
 " I shall not be false to him." 
 
 " Very well; I have told you what your fate will be." 
 
 Then they shook hands coldly, and Edmund turned 
 away. The conversation had taken place upon the plat- 
 form, and the train was now advancing. He did not speak 
 to Alys again; but he was remorselessly glad to see the 
 effect his words had had. He carried away a picture of the 
 pale face and dilated eyes, which did not grieve him in the 
 least. Like most men, he thought that everything was fair 
 in love. 
 
 Lisbeth, who had also come to the station, saw that he 
 had said something which agitated Alys, but she had no 
 conception of the way in which he was working on her 
 feelings. She did not know, as they drove back to Quest, 
 that the girl was surveying the wild loveliness of hill and 
 
BY THE TARN. 143 
 
 stream with actual repugnance; that the cool breeze from 
 the heights made her shiver; that the cold grey walls of 
 the old house looked to her like those of a prison. Oh, for 
 the warm, close, comfortable London houses, the safe, well- 
 known, if dirty, streets, the life of a town, where everything 
 that concerned herself was well-ordered and luxurious and 
 conventional! Alys repented in her heart that she had ever 
 come to Quest. 
 
 But the mood of foreboding and of discontent was evan- 
 escent. She had a note from Frank — who was jubilant at 
 Edmund Creigh ton's departure— as soon as she reached 
 home ; and her spirits once more revived. It was delightful 
 to be loved. She was to see Frank on the morrow. She 
 could defy the prospect of loneliness, of bitter weather, even 
 of illness, when he was at her side. Her eyes brightened, 
 and the rose-colour came back to her delicate cheeks. 
 
 Later in the day, Lisbeth, finding her on the door-step 
 with a book upon her lap, came and took a seat beside her, 
 putting her arm gently round the girl's waist. Alys nestled 
 to her with a pretty movement like that of a weary bird. 
 
 " Dear Lisbeth," she said, caressingly ; and that was all. 
 
 " You must be very lonely, dear,*' said Lisbeth, in a gentle 
 voice. 
 
 "Oh, don't say it, Lisbeth. I had forgotten about it. 
 Now I shall feel it again ! " 
 
 " We must get Julian back again one of these days," said 
 Lisbeth, who could not quite understand how any one could 
 banish at will a real and true feeling. 
 
 " Yes; but by herself— not with Edmund." 
 
 " You don't iike Edmund ? " 
 
 " I like him very well as a friend : not as anything 
 else." 
 
 " There is some one you like — as— more than a friend, is 
 there not ? " said Lisbeth, almost in a whisper. 
 
 "Don't ask me, Lisbeth." 
 
 " You had a note from him when we came in ? " 
 
 The rosy colour that overspread Alys's face betrayed 
 her. But she did not speak : she only raised her head from 
 
144 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 Lisbeth's shoulder, and moved an inch away. The move- 
 ment was, however, eloquent, and Lisbeth sighed as she 
 removed her arm. 
 
 " Alys," she said, " I am going to say something unpleas- 
 ant; but I must say it. I am older than you " 
 
 " If you are thinking that you can scold me because you 
 are older than I," said Alys, with a touch of sharpness in her 
 voice, " you are quite mistaken. Your age does not give you 
 that right." 
 
 " But T never thought of scolding. I only wanted to say, 
 dear, that I have known the Moors almost all my life. I 
 love Lady Adela, and I feel that I owe a duty to her. I am 
 afraid she does not know what is going on, and that she 
 would not like it if she did." 
 
 Alys averted her face. " You cannot expect me to an- 
 swer," she said, almost resentfully. 
 
 " No, darling. Don't answer. It would be of no use. 
 But it is just this. If you can get Frank — Mr. Moor — to 
 speak to her at once, I shall be satisfied. But, if he does not 
 speak, either he comes to Quest no more, or I go to Lady 
 Adela myself." 
 
 "Lisbeth!" 
 
 " I must say it, dear. Lady Adela trusts me — I know she 
 does. And I will not have Francis Moor within my doors 
 at Quest, making love to my sister under my very eyes, with- 
 out her knowledge and approval." 
 
 Lisbeth's voice was low and clear, but very stern. She 
 spoke with an intensity of resolution which startled Alys 
 into fear and entreaty. 
 
 "Oh, Lisbeth, dear, do leave things alone. It is all 
 right— indeed, it is. There is not the slightest need for you 
 to worry." 
 
 "I am not worrying," said Lisbeth, calmly. "Only I 
 wish Lady Adela to know the true state of the case." 
 
 Alys could be petulant when she was frightened and dis- 
 tressed. She burst out now with a word of which she did 
 not know the sting. 
 
 " You think that because Lady Adela looks down on you, 
 
BY THE TARN. 145 
 
 she will look down on me too. We may be half -sisters, but 
 we are very different." 
 
 Lisbeth drew back, and put her hand to her heart, as if 
 she were wounded there. It was a simple, natural gesture, 
 such as might have roused an older woman's pity ; but to 
 Alys, in her inexperienced girlishness, which is almost 
 always hard, it seemed theatrical and absurd. Scarcely 
 knowing that she was cruel, she laughed aloud, and, rising 
 from her seat, fled up to her own room, whence she did not 
 reappear for an hour or two. 
 
 Lisbeth remained where she was for some minutes, partly 
 because her eyes were full of tears, which she did not wish 
 to let fall. She was obliged at last to raise her head to wipe 
 them away, and then was sorry that she had done so, for she 
 caught sight of Zadock looking at her from over the fence 
 with the scowl upon his face which tears from her always 
 produced. He entered the garden, and advanced slowly to- 
 wards her, scowling all the time. 
 
 "Missy make Lisbeth cry. Squoire made Lisbeth cry," 
 he said, in a sinister tone. 
 
 " No, no," said Lisbeth, cheerfully. " Lisbeth's not cry- 
 ing at all— what nonsense ! Let us go and feed the fowls." 
 
 Zadock's brow cleared : this was his favourite occupation, 
 engaged in which he seemed to forget his wrath. Lisbeth 
 talked to him, and did her work in her usual energetic way; 
 but she went about, feeling as though she had received a 
 deadly wound. For it seemed to her that Frank must have 
 spoken to Alys of his former fancy for her; and perhaps 
 they had guessed the fact of her love for him. It was in- 
 tolerable to feel that she had been discussed. 
 
 She was quite wrong in this impression. Frank had 
 never once hinted to Alys that he had wanted Lisbeth to 
 marry him; and Alys had spoken simply from the social 
 point of view. She considered herself quite tbe equal to 
 any Lady Adela: and she knew that Lisbeth did not asso- 
 ciate with people of Lady Adela's standing in an ordinary 
 way. She wanted to give a pin-prick, but she had given a 
 wound. 
 
146 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 She was ashamed, however, even of the pin-prick ; and 
 when she came out of the room, she went up to Lisbeth to 
 he kissed, and to murmur a contrite word. But for once 
 Lisbeth drew back. " It does not matter,' 1 she said, avoiding 
 the salute. " You will speak to Mr. Moor about what I have 
 said, if he comes here to-morrow, will you not ? " 
 
 " You are very unkind, Lisbeth," was Alys's reply. And 
 they spoke no more to each other that day. But Alys could 
 not help observing, and being angered by the fact, that Lis- 
 beth waited on her, surrounded her with observances, min- 
 istered to her with even more than her usual care and ten- 
 derness. The girl's narrower nature did not respond to the 
 woman's generosity. She thought that Lisbeth was playing 
 a part— trying to propitiate her — seeking not to give offence. 
 And she lamented to herself that she had been hitherto so 
 much mistaken in her sister. 
 
 The morning brought a cheering glow of bright au- 
 tumnal sunshine. Alys watched for Frank at the garden 
 gate. She did not want him to come in. But he did not 
 arrive until nearly three o'clock in the afternoon, for he 
 had been detained by business, he said, and could not get 
 away before. He was more inclined to go into the house 
 and"rest than take another walk ; but Alys persuaded him 
 that they would be happier up by the tarn— " because Lisbeth 
 had turned so disagreeable." 
 
 "I never knew Lisbeth disagreeable yet," said Frank, 
 quickly. 
 
 "I dare say she thinks she is doing right," returned Alys, 
 with the sigh of a martyr; "but really it is very disagreea- 
 ble for us. Come up the hill, dear, and I will tell you all 
 about it." 
 
 She put her hand within his arm, as they moved away. 
 What was the use of any disguise, she thought, when Lis- 
 beth had spoken of telling Lady Adela ? All the world 
 might as well know now that she and Francis were be- 
 trothed. 
 
 They did not see Lisbeth herself, who came out of the 
 courtyard to watch them going up the hill. Her eyes grew 
 
BY THE TARN. 147 
 
 troubled as she looked, but her mouth was firm. She had 
 made up her mind what she was going to do, and there was 
 nothing more to be said. She did not watch long, or make 
 moan over her own wasted love and buried hopes: she drew 
 her hand once across her eyes and went back to her work. 
 They did not see her, but Zadock saw. 
 
 It would have been well if Lisbeth had noticed Zadock's 
 next movements. He went into the stable, and rummaged 
 about for a few moments until he found the knife which he 
 had been cleaning on the day when it attracted Edmund 
 Creighton's attention : this he secreted inside his coat, and 
 then set out, slowly and doggedly, to follow the pair whom 
 he had learnt to hate. There was danger in his look : dan- 
 ger in the deliberate malice of his eye and the scowl upon 
 his brow. He was no longer the harmless fool who had 
 been so long suffered to go at large : the crisis of his malady 
 had come upon him, and he was little better than a raving 
 lunatic, for whose uncontrolled actions no one could be re- 
 sponsible. Danger, indeed, for those against whom he had 
 conceived a grudge, and whom he vaguely wished to pun- 
 ish for the sorrow that they had brought to his beloved 
 Lisbeth. 
 
 The lovers went slowly up the hill. Their arms were 
 interlaced; their heads near together, for they were talk- 
 ing busily. They never dreamed that they were watched, 
 tracked, followed, by an enemy as cruel and as implacable 
 as any Red Indian of the West, as any fanatic of the gor- 
 geous East. It never crossed their minds that in England, 
 in broad daylight, in full view of half-a-dozen dwellings, 
 they were in clanger of their lives. 
 
 They went to the tarn, and sat under a tree for some lit- 
 tle while, still talking. The madman crept closer and closer. 
 He could hear, although he could not understand, what they 
 said. He saw Frank kiss the girl at last ; and to his brutal- 
 ised intelligence it appeared that they were again injuring 
 Lisbeth by the kisses that made her cry. 
 
 At last they rose and strolled to the head of the tarn, 
 where the banks were steep and precipitous, and they could 
 
^48 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 look down into the deep tarn water, thirty feet below. They 
 were still talking eagerly. 
 
 " Then you will tell her yourself, Frank ?" 
 
 " Certainly, my darling. As if I would leave it for Lis- 
 beth to do ! " 
 
 " It is very meddlesome of Lisbeth." 
 
 " I can't think what she means by it," said Frank, who 
 was vexed ; " but, at any rate, she has roused me to a sense 
 of what is due to you, my darling. I will speak to my 
 mother to-night, when I get home." 
 
 " Dear Frank ! I am so glad. But will she like me ? " 
 
 " My sweet love! She will love you, as I do— as I shall 
 — always and for ever." 
 
 Zadock was creeping towards them in the grass. His 
 movements were so stealthy that they had not distinguished 
 them. But he was drawing very near. 
 
 "What a lovely cluster of rowan-berries!" said Alys. 
 "Do get them for me, Frank." 
 
 The tree grew half a dozen yards away, and its branches 
 drooped over the steep bank, but it was easy enough to get 
 the berries to which Alys had pointed with her parasol. 
 Frank moved forward, and the girl remained alone. 
 
 Now was the moment ! Now the madman saw his chance. 
 He could push her over, or he could even drive his knife 
 into her heart. He would do it, and Lisbeth would be 
 avenged. 
 
 Losing all desire of concealment, he sprang to his full 
 height, uttered a strange, unearthly cry, and sprang for- 
 ward. Fortunately for Alys, he miscalculated the distance, 
 and she was able to start aside. Her scream, as well as 
 Zadock's cry, brought Frank to the rescue. 
 
 " Run, Alys, ran ! He's mad," Frank shouted, as he flung 
 himself between Zadock and the girl. 
 
 And Alys ran. 
 
 She ran wildly, with her hands over her ears, as if to 
 shut out all hearing of the struggle. For that a struggle of 
 some kind was taking place she knew by instinct, more than 
 by sight or sound. At last her strength failed her, and she fell. 
 
SEEKING AND FINDING. 149 
 
 Prone on the earth, she ventured at last to look back. 
 Then she shrieked aloud. On the very edge of the tarn, as 
 it seemed to her, from her point of view, two men were 
 wrestling for life and death. One was strong and brawny: 
 the other was shorter and of slighter build. Oh, who would 
 win ? Who would be victor in that terrible struggle for 
 life and death ? Was it even possible that Francis Moor 
 could subdue the strength of a great muscular giant like 
 Zadock Verrall ? — a strength rendered even more terrible by 
 the fit of madness that had come upon him. 
 
 Alys cowered and trembled, but watched in agony. Sud- 
 denly a great cry rent the heavens, and the cry was followed 
 by a sound which, even at that distance, reached her ears; 
 the sound of a heavy body precipitated into the waters of 
 the tarn. Whose was it ? Who had fallen, and who re- 
 mained behind ? In a frenzy of fear, Alys hid her face, and 
 waited— expecting every moment to hear the madman's 
 steps, expecting every moment to find herself in his mur- 
 derous grasp. But a deadly silence succeeded to that cry, 
 that plunge into the tarn. Five — ten minutes elapsed, and 
 nothing more was heard. Finally, she ventured to with- 
 draw her fingers from her face, and to look up. 
 
 There was nothing to be seen. Zadock Verrall and 
 Francis Moor had alike disappeared. 
 
 Then the sky grew black to Alys's eyes, and strange 
 noises sounded in her ears, and for a time the world became 
 to her a perfect blank. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 SEEKING AND FINDING. 
 
 As the day waned and the light faded, Lisbeth became 
 uneasy. She had seen Alys go out with Frank, and expected 
 them to return before teatime. But when six, seven, and 
 eight o'clock had struck, when the autumnal day was clos- 
 
150 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 ing in, and still Alys did not appear, Lisbeth began to tor- 
 ment herself with useless conjectures as to what had hap- 
 pened. Was it possible that she and Frank, taking alarm 
 at her threat of revealing all to Lady Adela, had gone off 
 together and did not mean to come back ? 
 
 This was her first thought. Then she reproached her- 
 self for what seemed like a base suspicion. Frank was an 
 honourable man: Alys was a modest and sensitive girl: 
 neither of them would do a thing which might be so fatally 
 misunderstood, and which would expose their friends to 
 such anxiety on their behalf. 
 
 This point disposed of, she wondered whether some un- 
 foreseen incident had delayed them, and, when she had ex- 
 hausted all conjectures on that head, she began to think of 
 possible accidents. Had Alys sprained her foot, or turned 
 faint, and been carried to the nearest cottage ? Surely 
 Frank himself could not have come to harm ? Could they 
 have lost their way— a not impossible occurrence — on the 
 bleak hillside ? 
 
 Lisbeth went out and looked at the darkening sky. It 
 was perfectly clear : there had been no hint of misleading 
 fog or bewildering storm for many a day. The weather 
 was perfect for the time of year. Then she strained her 
 eyes over the moorland and the dim white road ; but noth- 
 ing could be seen of her sister and her sister's lover. She 
 would find Zadock, she thought, and ask if he had seen 
 them: he had a knack of knowing where Alys was, and 
 Lisbeth could always extract information from him which 
 nobody else could obtain. 
 
 She looked for him in the kitchen and outhouses, re- 
 membering with surprise, but scarcely with alarm, that she 
 had not seen him about for several hours. His occasional 
 disappearances never disturbed her. He seemed to like to 
 wander away from Quest sometimes : to wander far into the 
 lonely hills ; and he was always better in health and hap- 
 pier in disposition when he had made one of these excur- 
 sions. She had long ceased to be anxious respecting his 
 safety: Zadock was well able to take care of himself. 
 
SEEKING AND FINDING. 151 
 
 " Where is Zadock ? " she asked of a grinning stable-boy 
 whom she came across. 
 
 The boy pointed up the hill. 
 
 "Yon gait," he said, briefly. "After squoire and mis- 
 sy." Everybody on the farm knew Alys by the name of 
 " missy." 
 
 Lisbeth felt a pang of fear— why, she could scarcely tell. 
 
 "Was Zadock pleased to go?" she asked, seeking for 
 some indication of the mood in which he had set out. 
 
 "Nay; he was savage as a bear wi' a sair heid," said 
 the lad. 
 
 Lisbeth was not offended by the words, for the boy was 
 rather a favourite of hers, in spite of a tongue that was 
 somewhat overbold ; he was one of the few people at Quest 
 who seemed to know— instinctively as it were— how to man- 
 age Zadock in his surly moods. She paused for a few min- 
 utes' reflection ; then said, abruptly— 
 
 " Get the big lantern, and come with me." 
 
 She had a fancy that Alys might be lingering at one of 
 the cottages on the way to the tarn. It would not take her 
 long to go and see. 
 
 The boy stared and grunted: he adored his mistress in a 
 loutish kind of way, but he did not attempt to understand 
 her. He waited while she fetched a shawl from the house, 
 and threw on her garden hood ; then took up the lantern 
 that he had lighted, and prepared to start. Lisbeth told 
 him to take the path to the tarn, and to stop at every cot- 
 tage on the way. Surely, she thought, she should find Alys 
 at one of them. 
 
 But her search was vain. At no house had Alys called 
 or stopped to rest. One or two of the women said that they 
 had seen her pass by with " the young squire of Moor End " 
 at an earlier hour ; but none of them could tell in what di- 
 rection they had gone. And at last Lisbeth, thoroughly 
 alarmed, sent the boy Eobin back to Quest for other helpers; 
 and the men turned out of their cottages to shout and 
 search with lanterns for the missing pair. 
 
 Not a few of the searchers had a significant word and 
 
152 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 glance aside which were not suffered to come to Lisbeth's 
 knowledge. They had all noticed Francis Moor's devotion 
 to Miss Lorimer: several had made a rude jest now and 
 then on the transfer of Frank's affection from the elder to 
 the younger sister. But they were grave and respectful 
 enough when Lisbeth looked and spoke. They did not care 
 to offend the imperious mistress of Quest. 
 
 It was dark now; quite dark, for there was no moon. 
 The outline of the sweeping moor and barren hill could but 
 dimly be seen : the black waters of the tarn were well nigh 
 invisible. The lanterns flashed long rays of light over the 
 stunted grass and furze bushes, but the rays revealed noth- 
 ing. The men shouted loudly from time to time ; but there 
 was no answer save the faint rustling of the wind amongst 
 the underwood. 
 
 At last the men gathered into a group, and consulted 
 together in low tones. Lisbeth, who was a little ahead, 
 glanced back and saw them, with heads close together — 
 strange black figures they looked, with gleaming lanterns at 
 their side. She turned and came back to them. 
 
 " What is it ? Have you found anything ? Do you see 
 anything ? " she said. 
 
 There was a momentary silence. Then Job Tyars, the 
 oldest man in her service, a man with white hair and bowed 
 shoulders, to whom every one turned for help in the hour 
 of need, spoke slowly and reluctantly. 
 
 " We think there be nowt to see, mistress." 
 
 " And what do you mean by that, Job Tyars ? " said Lis- 
 beth, with sudden fierceness. 
 
 "We think she be goan for good wi' the squoire, mistress: 
 that's what we thinks." 
 
 " You are idiots and fools, then ! " said Lisbeth, her anger 
 leaping passionately forth. "How dare you say a thing 
 like that to me of my own sister? She has not come back 
 through some accident, I tell you; she may be perish- 
 ing with cold on the hillside for all I know. Look till you 
 find her! and any man who speaks of her having gone 
 away — with any one, may take his wages to-morrow morn- 
 
SEEKING AND FINDING. 153 
 
 ing and be off, for I'll have none of him ; and that I'd say- 
 even if it were Job Tyars himself." 
 
 "Now nay, mistress, now nay," said Job gently. 
 " There's no need to anger thyself over owt that a young 
 lass may do. But the men don't see the use of going 
 further, and losing their neet's rest. Wait till the morrow, 
 mistress, then we shall look again." 
 
 The men, it must be said, were firmly convinced that 
 Alys had eloped with Mr. Moor. Had they really believed 
 that she was in any danger, there would not have been a 
 word said about their night's rest : they would have searched 
 for her high and low. But at present they thought them- 
 selves engaged in a foolish search for a young woman who 
 was probably safe and sound in a comfortable hotel, or half 
 way to London by the night express. 
 
 The light of the lantern flashed on Lisbeth's face, and 
 showed its expression of bitter resentment and indignation. 
 
 u Go to your beds, then," she said, contemptuously. 
 " Give me a lantern. I'll look till I find her, if I go by 
 myself." 
 
 " A'll goo wi' thee, mistress," said old Job. 
 
 11 Me, too," grunted Eobin. The youngster and the an- 
 cient were for once in accord — a thing that did not often 
 happen. 
 
 The other men looked at each other shamefacedly. Then, 
 instead of turning back, they picked up their lanterns and set 
 themselves again to the search. Lisbeth strode on in front, 
 disdainful of their help. She felt, in her rage of helpless 
 fear, as if she could search the whole range of desolate hills 
 alone. 
 
 Suddenly the boy Robin, who had kept needfully to her 
 side, uttered a cry and darted ahead. She followed eagerly, 
 straining her muscles to get up to him. What had he seen? 
 Something white : something which made a little glimmer 
 of something in the darkness: a ghostly heap of some kind 
 among the gorse and heather. Lisbeth sprang forward with 
 a stifled moan. It was Alys— Alys herself, lying half 
 insensible on the bare ground. 
 
154 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 In a moment or two they had surrounded her ; Lisbeth 
 poured some brandy and water into her mouth, and bathed 
 her forehead. At first she fancied that the girl was dead. 
 But presently Alys opened her eyes, and sighed. 
 
 " Are you hurt, my darling ? '' Lisbeth said, pillowing the 
 golden head upon her breast. 
 
 For a minute or two no look of intelligence came into 
 the large blue eyes. Then a strange horror took the place 
 of vacancy, and she raised herself a little to gaze around her 
 with a startled air. 
 
 " Is he there ? " she whispered. 
 
 " Who, dear ? Frank ? " 
 
 "No— no. Zadock!" 
 
 "No, dearest, he is not here," said Lisbeth, suspecting 
 only the childish fear of Zadock which Alys had always 
 shown. " Don't be afraid of Zadock.'' 
 
 " But I am afraid. He will come back. He will kill us 
 — he will kill me — as he killed — Frank. Oh! "—and with a 
 wild cry she sank back senseless once again. 
 
 " She's delirious with exhaustion," said Lisbeth, suddenly 
 becoming very pale and calm. " She does not know what 
 she is saying. We must carry her to the nearest cottage — it 
 is yours, Job, is it not ? " 
 
 She carefully gave directions as to what was to be done, 
 and how she was to be carried: but it was with an icy com- 
 posure which did not seem quite natural. The men looked 
 at one another. They attached more importance to Alys's 
 words than Lisbeth apparently did ; for they knew some- 
 thing of Zadock's occasional fits of rage, and murmured 
 among themselves that there were times when nothing 
 could restrain him, and that he ought to be " shut up." But 
 Lisbeth did not know that these whispers were current, and 
 had never been brought to acknowledge that Zadock's afflic- 
 tion was of a dangerous character. 
 
 Her fears, now that Alys was found, centred themselves 
 on Frank. Where was he ? Where had he left Alys, and 
 what had happened to them both ? Possibly some terrible 
 accident had occurred, and Alys had witnessed it — that 
 
SEEKING AND FINDING. 155 
 
 would account for the shock that her nerves seemed to have 
 received. But she could only wait, with as much patience 
 as was at her command, until her sister could recover con- 
 sciousness sufficiently to explain matters. 
 
 She had sent a man for the Crosthwaite doctor, and now 
 waited at Alys's bedside; for Job Tyars' comely old wife 
 had put her cottage and all that it contained at the disposal 
 of u the mistress." The homely little bedroom was lighted 
 only by one little tallow candle, by which Lisbeth could 
 hardly see her sister's face ; but she kept her hand on the 
 slim wrist, and noted the fluttering of a scarcely perceptible 
 pulse. Alys lay quiet and motionless; her eyes closed, her 
 lips half open. In the faint light Lisbeth could almost have 
 imagined that she was dead. 
 
 Suddenly she opened her eyes wide, and Lisbeth bent 
 down, imagining that she would be recognized. If Alys 
 knew her she showed no signs of recognition. She looked 
 straight before her, and asked, as if of some person un- 
 known — 
 
 " Is he dead ? " 
 
 There was a shuddering horror in her tone. 
 
 " Who, my darling ? " 
 
 "Frank." 
 
 " No, dear, of course not. Why should he be ? " 
 
 Then Alys turned her eyes upon her sister for the first 
 time, and answered coherently— 
 
 " Zadock has killed him," she said. 
 
 Then Lisbeth started a little, and turned pale. "You 
 are mistaken, dearest," she said. "Do not think of such 
 things." 
 
 " They are both dead," said Alys calmly. " Better for 
 them both to be dead, don't you think ? I could not love a 
 — a— murderer. " 
 
 She turned deadly white, and began to shiver violently. 
 Lisbeth had to set to work to subdue the shivering fits, but 
 they were succeeded by fever, and in a very short time the 
 girl was delirious, and evidently in a very serious state. 
 
 It was not until the dawn was creeping into the little 
 
15 a THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 room that Lisbeth found time to come out into the little 
 kitchen, where two or three men still lingered, talking 
 softly over the fire. Mrs. Tyars was with the sick girl ; and 
 Job, who had been snatching an uneasy slumber on the 
 wooden settle, rose to his feet and touched his white fore- 
 lock respectfully as Lisbeth stood among them. Was it the 
 dawn alone that made her look so pale ? 
 
 " Job," she said, " and you others, I want you to do me a 
 favour." 
 
 They waited while she paused a little— not out of unwill- 
 ingness, but from an awkward kind of sympathy that did 
 not know how to express itself. 
 
 " I want you," she said presently, u now that it is light, 
 to go up to the tarn, to go all round it, above and below. 
 Then come back and tell me if you see anything— any- 
 thing " 
 
 Her voice broke. 
 
 " If any one's hurt, missus ? " said one of the men. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, eagerly catching at his words. " If 
 any one's hurt. Or if it looks as if there had been a strug- 
 gle. If the branches are broken— or there are signs of tram- 
 pling feet. Tell me if you see— anything— strange." 
 
 The men looked at her with pity. Tbey understood her 
 fears, rough men as they were, almost better than she did 
 
 herself. 
 
 " Missy talks o' the tarn, I reckon," said Job, tenderly. 
 
 "Yes, she does— she does," said Lisbeth, clasping her 
 hands together. "It's horrible to hear— something must 
 have happened, and she has seen it. You must find out for 
 me what it is. Go now— Mary Tyars is with her; and I will 
 wait here till you come back." 
 
 She seated^ herself on a low seat before the fire, and 
 clasped her hands over her knees. The men slunk out 
 with awe-stricken faces. They had never seen their mis- 
 tress like this before, with the new tremor in her voice and 
 the strange fear in her face. They glanced at her once as 
 they left the room, and Job Tyars solemnly shook his head. 
 
 Lisbeth heard their steps die away into the distance, and 
 
SEEKING AND FINDING. 157 
 
 sat, with her hands before her, gazing into the red embers of 
 the fire. It was not like her to be so supine, so motionless. 
 But the events of the night had tried even her strong nerves. 
 And Alys, in her delirium, had said strange things— had 
 spoken of a deadly struggle, of a fight for life and death, of 
 a horrible dread of a madman's pursuit. 
 
 What did it all mean ? Was she simply raving, or was 
 there any foundation for what she had said ? 
 
 She waited for what seemed to her like an eternity of 
 time. It was not so long— after all; only three-quarters of 
 an hour or thereabouts. But such minutes as these should 
 count as months or years. 
 
 " Frank is dead," she said to herself continuously, as if 
 trying to accustom herself to the idea. "Frank is dead. 
 Alys saw him die. No wonder she is ill. The man she 
 loved is dead. The man I loved," . . . and then she got no 
 further; but went on with the dull repetition of the phrase, 
 which for the moment contained the whole of life and death 
 to her: " Frank Moor is dead." 
 
 Her nerves were wound up to such a pitch that when 
 Job's hand was laid at last upon the latch, she felt as if she 
 must scream aloud in order to relieve their tension. But she 
 only compressed her lips closely, and turned round on the 
 old man with a face like stone. 
 
 "Thou'rt reet, mistress," old Job said, briefly. 
 
 She rose from her chair. 
 
 "You found him?" 
 
 Job nodded, and looked away. 
 
 " By the tarn ? " 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 " I am coming," said Lisbeth, resolutely. She drew her 
 shawl closely around her, and rose up. The old man tried 
 to keep her back. 
 
 "Nay, mistress, nay," he said, pitifully; "it be no sight 
 for thee." 
 
 " If not for me, for whom beside ? ' n she asked him, with 
 a strange laugh, which sounded sadder than a moan. 
 
 He did not quite understand, but shook his head, and 
 11 
 
158 THE MISTRESS OF "QUEST. 
 
 followed her as she went straight out of the cottage, and 
 into the track that led to the lower side of the tarn. He had 
 to direct her once or twice, but she made no response in 
 words, only taking in silence the path that he pointed out. 
 
 The searchers were collected at a little spot on the edge 
 of the tarn, above which the steep bank rose sheer and 
 straight to a height of thirty feet. They had scarcely room 
 to stand, for there was but a narrow shelving space between 
 the water and the cliff. And here among the tangled brush- 
 wood, they had found what they sought. Something — some 
 one — lay upon the ground. They had covered it with a 
 cloak. As Lisbeth drew near the men stood aside. They 
 did not even look as she came swiftly up to them, waved 
 them off with an imperious gesture of her hand, and raised 
 the cloak that covered the horribly silent, motionless thing 
 that they had found. 
 
 Then a wild cry rang out upon the air as Lisbeth dropped 
 upon her knees and covered her face with her hands. For 
 she had come upon Zadock's face. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " MURDER ! " 
 
 Zadock's dead face — yes, that was what lay before her — 
 Zadock's face — finer in death than in life ; for the ugly scowl 
 had gone; the vacant look had been replaced by all the maj- 
 esty of death. There was, curiously enough, no expression of 
 rage or hatred upon his countenance. It was perfectly calm 
 — noble, even ; as if the mists that had beclouded his brain 
 so long had suddenly cleared away, and left it as it ought to 
 have been if James Lorimer's hand had not once struck the 
 growing boy to the ground and inflected an injury that had 
 ceased only with his death. 
 
 And surely it was right that his face should wear that 
 strangely new expression of peace and quietude; for the 
 
"MURDER!" 150 
 
 nature of the man had been originally of peculiar gentle- 
 ness; and the malice and violence which his madness had 
 produced were in no sense of the word his own fault. Who 
 shall doubt but that the poor fool, despised and dreaded by 
 his companions for his irresponsible acts of lunacy, had en- 
 tered upon a new life, where the clouded spirit became itself 
 again ? 
 
 Lisbeth knelt and looked. "Oh, Zadock, Zaclock!" she 
 cried, and there was an intensity of grief in her cry which 
 went to the heart of those who heard it. And yet, in her 
 heart, and in the very midst of her sorrow, there was a thrill 
 of relief. She had loved Zadock ; but she loved Frank, too ; 
 and she was glad it was not Frank. 
 
 " Did he fall ? " she asked the men, presently. " Did he 
 suffer much ? " 
 
 u He was nimble as a cat i" some ways,' 1 was the evasive 
 answer. "He mout hae fallen — an' again, he mout not. 
 Looks rather as though he had been — pushed over th' edge. 
 But see thee here, mistress! " 
 
 They came forward and removed the cloak. Then Lis- 
 beth came forward and saw that a knife had been thrust 
 between the ribs of the unfortunate man, and that his 
 clothes were stained with blood. She recoiled in sudden 
 horror. 
 
 "Why, it's murder!" she said, sharply. "Oh, my poor 
 Zadock ! " 
 
 " I don't think the knife killed him," said Job Tyars. 
 "His neck's broken with the fall." 
 
 Lisbeth's eyes began to gleam. " There has been foul 
 play. I'll find out who did this, and " 
 
 She stopped short, and looked for a moment as if she 
 had been struck by a cruel hand. The thought had de- 
 scended on her like a blow. " Perhaps Frank did it." Per- 
 haps Frank had killed the poor fool whom she had loved in 
 spite of his defects; and perhaps that was the explanation 
 of Alys's delirious horror and belief that he also was dead. 
 
 " I could not love a murderer," she had said. And. look- 
 ing on the dead face of poor Zadock, Lisbeth was inclined to 
 
160 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 re-echo the words. " How can I love the man who killed 
 my poor boy ? " she said to herself. 
 
 Then she pulled her wits together. " It cannot be, 1 ' she 
 reflected. "If there had been any accident of this kind, 
 Frank would have been the first to avow it. He would 
 have come forward and said what he had done. And he 
 would not have used a knife. But some one has done it, 
 and I will bring whoever it is to justice— if I can." 
 
 She rose from her kneeling posture, and with a pale face, 
 from which all expression was banished by a violent effort 
 of her will, she gave directions that the police and the doctor 
 should be sent for at once. 
 
 " You had better not move him," she said. "I believe it 
 is the right thing to leave him untouched as much as possi- 
 ble until he has been seen. You must go to Crosthwaite — 
 some of you. I will stay here till you come back." 
 
 They remonstrated in vain. She drew up her haughty 
 head, and looked at them as a lioness looks at those who try 
 to deprive her of her young. 
 
 " Why should I leave him ? " she said. " Do you suppose 
 I am afraid?" 
 
 " I'll stay beside thee, missus," said Robin, who had fol- 
 lowed his mistress from afar, and now was blubbering like a 
 child. 
 
 She looked at him and hesitated a moment. " You can 
 stay near me," she said, pointing to the top of the bank. 
 "Go there, and keep watch. If anybody comes let me 
 know. I want nobody down here." 
 
 She seated herself on a projecting bank, and drew the 
 shawl over her head, so as partly to conceal her face. The 
 men stole away, almost afraid of her in this mood. They 
 felt, vaguely, in a dim, unconnected way, that they left a 
 tragic figure behind them on the border of that mountain 
 pool. A dead man, watched by a woman with shrouded 
 head and face ; the silence of the morning all around ; the 
 eastern sunshine slanting over the silent land; the birds 
 twittering cheerfully in the trees — there was a contrast here 
 which affected them without their knowing why. 
 
"MURDER!" 161 
 
 Lisbeth had almost forgotten Alys. But she knew that 
 Mary Tyars was an excellent nurse ; and the doctor said there 
 was little to be done. Alys was safe; but Zadock — the dead 
 Zadock, must not be left alone. So Lisbeth sat and 
 mourned. 
 
 A few tears crept slowly down her pale cheeks. But she 
 did not cry or sob aloud — her grief was too great for any 
 such outward manifestations. 
 
 Her heart had clung to Zadock in a curious way. He 
 had been a delightful playmate when she was a little child; 
 so much she could remember. The Wow that extinguished 
 the light of reason in his eye had been struck by her father 
 —she had long realised the fact, although the old Verralls 
 had never liked her to allude to it, not understanding, as she 
 did, how definite the medical testimony on that point had 
 been. Lisbeth had never forgiven her father for that blow, 
 ever since she learned the truth. She had clung to Zadock 
 with passionate affection ; and all through her earlier girl- 
 hood her one dream had been of a time when Zadock might 
 be restored to her, when, through some unlooked-for discov- 
 ery a great surgeon might undertake his cure, and give him 
 back to her as he would have been through all these years 
 if that cruel blow had not been struck — with eyes un- 
 dimmed, spirit unclouded, brain restored to activity and 
 usefulness. As to his heart, Lisbeth had never thought 
 that it needed alteration : mad or sane, Zadock was ever her 
 faithful slave. By her tender care of him, her refusal to let 
 him be shut up in an asylum, she thought to do her best in 
 reparation of the mischief worked by her father's hand — he 
 had seemed to her as her child for whom she toiled, and whom 
 she loved with all the devotion of her great maternal heart. 
 
 Now it was all over. He was gone. There was nothing 
 to live for now. There was no reason why she should be 
 mistress of Quest. She had kept on the farm for his sake ; 
 always with the half -hidden, secret hope that " some day " 
 he might get better, and be able to manage it for himself. 
 But this hope, this purpose, was utterly at an end. Zadock 
 was dead, and Lisbeth was desolate. 
 
1Q2 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 It may seem strange that she should sorrow so "bitterly 
 over the death of a man whose life was a mere burden, and 
 from whom she could obtain neither consolation nor satis- 
 faction of any kind; but just as a mother often loves best 
 the sickly, ailing child, who tires out her strength with its 
 feebleness and its complaints, so Lisbeth cared for Zadock 
 with a protecting love which was not unlike a mother's ten- 
 der care. Her nature was essentially maternal: she was not 
 happy unless she had a weaker creature to protect. 
 
 The sun was high in the heavens before the men came 
 back from Crosthwaite with the doctor and the police. There 
 had been no passers-by. Eobin, perched on the cliff above 
 the tarn, had had nothing to relate. He had once ventured 
 to ask whether he should not bring his mistress some food ; 
 but she had only looked up to rebuke him sharply for speak- 
 ing to her, and had then dropped her head over the corpse 
 again. He had not dared to speak to her a second time. 
 
 The examination of Zadock's body proved that Job Tyars 
 had been quite right in his surmise. The neck was broken, 
 apparently by the fall. There were livid marks of fingers 
 on his neck and arms ; his clothes were torn ; and there were 
 signs of a conflict in the broken brushwood and trampled 
 grass at the edge of the bank or cliff. It was perfectly evi- 
 dent that a struggle of some kind had taken place. 
 
 " And the knife ? " said Lisbeth, in a stifled tone. 
 
 The knife, it was found, had not penetrated so far as to 
 cause death. Indeed, the doctor suggested that Zadock 
 might have been holding it himself, and driven it uncon- 
 sciously into his own side by his fall. But Lisbeth treated 
 this suggestion with scorn. 
 
 "Zadock use a knife! He never did such a thing. He 
 never had a knife like that. Did any one ever see him with 
 a knife ? " she cried, appealing to the men who stood around. 
 
 The men shuffled. They knew what she wanted them to 
 say. And they were not sure of it. One of them, at least, 
 believed that he had seen Zadock with a knife of that kind ; 
 but it was difficult to say so, when the mistress w T as looking 
 at them with angry, indignant, beautiful eyes, and a burn- 
 
"MURDER!" 163 
 
 ing spot of colour on her pale cheek. He compromised, and 
 remarked, cautiously, that he would not like to say. And 
 no one else volunteered any information. 
 
 "Any traces of the other person ?" some one inquired. 
 
 No, there were no traces. Except one— a stud which 
 Eobin had picked up, and was now holding out for inspec- 
 tion. The police inspector took possession of it, and called 
 it a valuable piece of evidence. He did not ask Lisbeth 
 whether she knew it, and she felt a choking sensation in her 
 throat of relief that he did not. She recognised it at once. 
 It was one of a set of studs which Francis Moor was in the 
 habit of wearing— plain gold studs, given him by his mother. 
 Lisbeth knew them well. 
 
 After a cursory examination, the body was carefully re- 
 moved, and carried down to Quest. Lisbeth went with it, 
 following the procession like a mourner. She did not seem 
 to come back to her usual self until she had seen all that 
 remained of poor Zadock lying w T hite and still on the big 
 bed in the room which had once belonged to his father and 
 mother. Lisbeth had never cared to use that room. In her 
 heart she called it "the death-room." She might almost as 
 well have called it " the birth-room," for she and Zadock 
 had both been born there; but the fact most inalienably 
 connected with it in her own mind was that her mother, and 
 Zadock's mother, and Zadock's father had all died and been 
 laid out in that room. She had no fear of death, and always 
 imagined herself as retiring to that room to die if ever a 
 mortal sickness overtook her. But she did not give it to the 
 living — it was kept for the dying and the dead. 
 
 When this was arranged she began to think of Alys, and 
 her tenderness for the girl began to spring up within her 
 and comforted her a little. She went back to Job Tyars' 
 cottage, and heard a favourable report. The fever had sub- 
 sided, and the patient had fallen into a natural sleep. When 
 the doctor came, Lisbeth was relieved to hear that there was 
 no danger of brain fever, which he had apprehended, and 
 that the high temperature and delirium had been mainly 
 the result of long exposure to the cold and damp, together 
 
164 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 with a severe nervous shock. The doctor was almost sur- 
 prised to find her so much better. 
 
 "I expected more of a complication," he said to Lisbeth, 
 with whom he always spoke frankly. "She might have 
 had rheumatic fever, after lying out there in the night air 
 so long, or the shock, whatever it was, might have touched 
 her brain. She is doing very well now. Have you any idea 
 what upset her ? " 
 
 " I suppose she saw the struggle — the fight between Za- 
 dock and — some one else," said Lisbeth, a little vaguely. 
 Her eyes had a far-away look of distress, which the doctor 
 did not like to see. 
 
 " Take care," he said, abruptly. " We shall have you on 
 the sick list next. Don't be over-anxious, Miss Verrall. Has 
 anything been heard yet of the man " 
 
 "Don't speak of it, doctor," said Lisbeth, with sudden 
 sharpness. " I can't bear it yet." 
 
 The doctor was surprised. He had never known Miss 
 Verrall of Quest to have " nerves " ; and yet that speech un- 
 mistakably betokened their existence. He would have liked 
 to give her a soothing draught, but she scouted the sugges- 
 tion. 
 
 " Can we move Alys back to Quest ? " was her next ques- 
 tion. 
 
 He pursed up his lips. 
 
 "I'm afraid it should not be attempted for some days. 
 It's not only the moving " 
 
 "What then ?" 
 
 " I think she had better not be at Quest until everything 
 is over. You know there will have to be an inquest, Miss 
 Verrall. She might hear something of it, and the nervous 
 excitement would possibly return. Can you not keep her 
 here ? " 
 
 " In this little cottage ? It is hardly suitable for her," 
 said Lisbeth, looking round, dubiously. 
 
 The doctor smiled. He had heard of Lisbeth's tender in- 
 dulgence of her half-sister's tastes. 
 
 "It is warm and comfortable enough," he said. "You 
 
"MURDER!" I65 
 
 can send to Quest for all you want. Old Job can turn in 
 with one of his neighbours, or go down to the house, can't 
 he ? You had much better stay here." 
 
 Lisbeth yielded. She saw the justice of the doctor's re- 
 marks ; and yet, if she had been able, she would have op- 
 posed them bitterly. She was wild with impatience to be 
 back at Quest. Her love for Alys acted, however, as a curb 
 upon her. She could not abandon the girl to Mary Tyar's 
 nursing, nor would she consent to have the services of a 
 trained attendant : she saw that Alys must not be removed 
 to Quest against the doctor's advice, and therefore she was 
 chained to the girl's bedside, and to the moorland cottage. 
 And she would rather — far rather — have watched by Za- 
 dock's silent form, and waited for the coming of Francis 
 Moor. 
 
 For he would come : she felt no doubt of that. 
 
 The police had been "putting two and two together"; 
 they had heard that Alys and Mr. Moor had gone up to the 
 tarn in the afternoon ; and Miss Lorimer's strange state, as 
 well as Frank Moor's disappearance, had made them sus- 
 picious. They came to Lisbeth and wanted to interview 
 Alys Lorimer ; but Lisbeth met them with the doctor's or- 
 ders that no one save herself and Mrs. Tyars should go in- 
 side her door. They tried also to interrogate Lisbeth, but 
 she was too clever to answer them. " If I've anything to 
 to say, I'll say it at the proper time, and in the proper 
 place," she said, in her sharpest tones. " You needn't think 
 to be coming to get news out of me, Mr. Inspector." 
 
 The man smiled, and shrugged his shoulders a little as 
 he departed: he knew all about Miss Verrall, and her sharp- 
 ness of tongue did not discoucert him. It was fully believed 
 in Crosthwaite and the neighbourhood that Frank Moor 
 had had something to do with Zadock's death ; and great 
 curiosity was expressed as to how Lisbeth was u taking" it. 
 
 " Of course he wasn't her brother, although one gets 
 into the way of considering him as such," said one gossip 
 to another. " He was her step-uncle, by rights : her mother's 
 half-brother." 
 
IQQ THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 "They were like brother and sister exactly," said her 
 friend. "Lisbeth Verrall thought all the world of him, 
 although he was but a limy." 
 
 "She used to think he would come all right again some 
 day," said the first speaker, confidentially. " She was awful 
 fond of him. Well, it's a good thing Mr. Moor wasn't court- 
 ing her, as folks used to say, for she would never look at him 
 again." 
 
 " They say he took up with that soft, white-looking girl 
 that's been staying at Quest," said the other. " She must 
 ha' been with him when the fight, or whatever it was, hap- 
 pened. She'll have to give evidence at the trial." 
 
 " If it comes to a trial," said the gossipmonger. " But 
 they say he's fled the country, and gone to Amerikay." 
 
 The last report flew over the place like wildfire, and 
 reached the ears of Lisbeth before long. She curled her lip 
 scornfully when she heard it. "I think you forget," she 
 said, briefly, when Mrs. Tyars mentioned the report to her, 
 " that Mr. Moor— if it is Mr. Moor— is a gentleman." 
 
 Mary Tyars stared, and did not see that that had any- 
 thing to do with the matter. 
 
 When Lisbeth had a few moments to spare, she walked 
 to the tarn, and generally stood looking for a time into its 
 translucent depths. In her heart she believed that Frank 
 lay at the bottom of the pool. If he were not dead, he 
 would have come back, she said to herself, to tell the story 
 of Zadock's death like a man of honour and a gentleman. 
 If he stayed away, she was sure that it was because he could 
 not come. " Oh, Frank, Frank, my darling," she found 
 herself crying, with arras stretched out towards the silent 
 water, "can you not hear me and come back — even from 
 the other world, if you are there ? " 
 
 But no answer reached her listening ear, her waiting 
 heart. She walked back to the cottage, and took her place 
 at Alys's bedside. Alys was sleeping; and Lisbeth was able, 
 by and by, to leave her alone and go into the kitchen in 
 order to make some dainty dish with which to tempt the in- 
 valid's appetite. It was almost dark, and Mary Tyars had 
 
SINNED AGAINST OR SINNING? 167 
 
 gone down to Quest. Suddenly Lisbeth paused in her work, 
 and lifted up her head. Some one had paused outside the 
 door: some one was looking in at the little cottage window. 
 Was it Frank Moor ? 
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 SINNED AGAINST OR SINNING? 
 
 Lisbeth stepped quickly to the door of Alys's room and 
 closed it. Then she went to the house door and looked out. 
 Francis Moor stood there in the gathering darkness, leaning 
 against the wall. There was a hint of fatigue and exhaus- 
 tion in his posture which Lisbeth was quick to see ; but there 
 was no trace of sympathy in her voice or manner as she put 
 her strong hand on his arm and drew him inside the door. 
 
 " What have you come here for ? " she said, harshly, but 
 in very subdued tones. " Why do you come creeping up in 
 the darkness like a thief ? " 
 
 His voice was very hoarse as he replied. " You know 
 why," he said. 
 
 There was a moment's silence. The words sounded to 
 Lisbeth like an admission of guilt. 
 
 '' Every one is wondering where you are," she went on. 
 " You were a fool to run away — perhaps you are a greater 
 fool to come back. You have put yourself in the wrong." 
 
 "Lisbeth!" said the man, appealingly; " Lisbeth! You 
 were never pitiless before. Let me speak to you — I want to 
 tell you all." 
 
 " I don't want to listen," said Lisbeth, turning her shoul- 
 der to him, so that she should not see his haggard eyes. " If 
 it were you, indeed — and you say it is — who killed my poor 
 Zadock, my poor boy that I have worked for and tended 
 so many years, why should I ever want to see your face 
 
 again 
 
 ?" 
 
 Why, indeed ? Her heart cried out hungrily for the 
 
168 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 sight, in spite of all her hard words. But she kept her eyes 
 away from his white, pain-stricken face. 
 
 He turned to go, as if he had not another word to say. 
 But— either from illness, or hunger, or distress of mind — he 
 w T as very weak; and as he went he staggered and almost 
 fell, catching at the door-post to support himself, and lean- 
 ing his head for a moment against the wall. Lisbeth flew 
 to his side, and altered her tone at once. 
 
 " Lean on me,'* she said, with sudden gentleness. " There ! 
 you're tired and ill, I see. Sit down here for a minute or two, 
 and I'll give you some soup. You look as if you wanted it." 
 
 He seated himself, but shook his head when she presented 
 him with food. " I can't eat," he said, " and I could not take 
 it from your hand, when you think — as I see you think of 
 me." 
 
 " You don't know what I think," said Lisbeth, brusquely. 
 '* Take what I give you, and don't behave like a child, Frank 
 Moor. Why— Frank?" 
 
 She could not help the word, the softening tone, the rush 
 of love and pity at her heart. For Frank's head had sunk 
 upon his hands, and he was actually crying — more from ex- 
 haustion, perhaps, than from mental distress; but the sobs 
 came against his w T ill, and he could not check them for a 
 little time. Lisbeth forced him at last to eat and drink, but 
 she gave him back his self-control by a word of warning 
 rather than by the food. 
 
 " You must keep yourself quiet," she said sternly ; " for 
 Alys is ill in the next room, and if you disturb her I won't 
 answer for the consequences." 
 
 He recovered himself at this, sat up, and gulped down 
 the cold water which she had brought him. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said, when he was a trifle 
 calmer; "I ought not to have come to you. But I did not 
 know that I should be making such a fool of myself. I will 
 go in a minute or two." 
 
 " Where are you going ? " 
 
 He met her eyes determinedly. 
 
 " I am going to Crosthwaite to the police-station." 
 
SINNED AGAINST OR SINNING? 169 
 
 " Yes ? " she said, with a quick, indrawn breath. 
 
 u To give myself up for being- the cause of Zadock Ver- 
 rall's death. Poor Zadock! You know me better, Lisbeth, 
 than to suppose that it was intentional on my part. I was 
 innocent of a murderous motive, I suppose. . . . But I killed 
 him ; yes, I killed him, and I am ready to take the conse- 
 quences." 
 
 " You killed him ? " whispered Lisbeth, her eyes fixed on 
 his face. 
 
 " God knows I would give my own life to call back his, 
 Lisbeth— if only for your sake— and hers ! " 
 
 " What had she to do with it ? What did she see ? " 
 
 " She has not told you ? " 
 
 " She has not been able to talk without bringing on fever 
 and restlessness, and the doctor tells us she must not be en- 
 couraged to speak. She has been delirious — she talked then 
 — I heard a good deal then, but I did not know how much 
 of it was true." 
 
 u I can tell you that better than any one," said Frank, 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 " Yes, but — Mary Tyars may come back at any moment, 
 and I must not leave my sister so long alone. Yet I must 
 hear what you have to say. Can you wait for me ? and I 
 will come out by and by." 
 
 " I will wait as long as you please. But — Lisbeth, we are 
 here alone, and Alys is lying there — could I not see her once 
 again ? I want to tell her, to " 
 
 " No, no, you must not see her. It would be too danger- 
 ous. It would excite her too much." 
 
 " Does she not want to see me ? " said Frank, in a tone of 
 such pain that for a moment Lisbeth stood silent, scarcely 
 knowing what to say. 
 
 " Alys has had a great shock," she said at last, in a lower 
 and gentler voice. "She cannot bear any excitement at 
 present. I do not know how she feels towards you when 
 she is in her right mind ■" 
 
 "You mean that in her delirium she shrank from 
 
170 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " Am I to tell you what she said ? " asked Lisbeth, pas- 
 sionately. " Well, if you want to hear, you shall. She said 
 she could not love a — murderer. She said it would be better 
 if you both were dead." 
 
 Frank stood up with a ghastly face. " She is quite right," 
 he said. " If I were at the bottom of the tarn, it would, at 
 least, be .well for me." 
 
 The words were no sooner out of Lisbeth's lips than she 
 regretted saying them. And Frank's tone and look fright- 
 ened her. 
 
 11 Don't speak like that," she said, her pain taking as usual 
 the form of imperiousness. " She did not know what she 
 was saying ; but you do, and you need not talk wicked non- 
 sense. You had better wait to hear what she says when she 
 comes to herself." 
 
 Frank was silent for a moment. " And you — you, too — 
 think that of me, Lisbeth," he said, at last. 
 
 In spite of herself she trembled. She did not want to tell 
 him what she had thought. 
 
 " Time enough for me to say what I think when I have 
 heard your story," she said, coldly. "Mary Tyars maybe 
 here . directly, and she must not find you in the house. Go 
 outside : it is dark now, and you w T on't be seen. I will come 
 in about half an hour." 
 
 u Does it matter whether I am seen or not ? " said Frank, 
 rather bitterly. 
 
 She evaded the question. " Please go," she said. " I have 
 no time to talk. Go for my sake if not for your own," she 
 went on vehemently. " The neighbours would think shame 
 of me if they knew that I had been talking with you to- 
 night." 
 
 Without a word he turned to the door, opened it, and 
 went out into the night. 
 
 Then the woman who had seemed so cold and hard to 
 him drew a curtain over the lattice window, and sank upon 
 her knees by the chair where he had sat. The tears flowed 
 down her cheeks, and her whole frame was shaken by a few 
 short, convulsive sobs. It was not often that Lisbeth wept, 
 
SINNED AGAINST OR SINNING? ifl 
 
 and tears did not come readily with her; but the words with 
 which her sobs were mingled rose easily to her tongue. 
 
 " Oh, my God, help him ! " she cried. " And help Alys — 
 and help me. We are all in a sore strait, Lord . . . but 
 Thou knowest all, and Thou canst do what we can't do for 
 ourselves. I loved my poor boy — and he is dead ; and the 
 man that killed him looks to me for help . . . and I love 
 him too. I cannot tear him from my heart, good Lord. I 
 shall love him as long as I live — in this world and the next ; 
 and Thou wilt help me to help him — to save him— to love 
 him — at any cost ! " 
 
 She was in the habit of praying thus for help and guid- 
 ance, and the calm of a great deep-seated faith was not easily 
 disturbed within her. After a few minutes spent in silence, 
 she rose from her knees, dried her eyes, and went on with 
 her preparations for Alys's meal. When it was ready, she 
 entered the other room, and proceeded to light a lamp and 
 give her patient the food which she had brought, without 
 the slightest trace of agitation in her manner. 
 
 Alys took it passively, almost without speaking; but when 
 she lay back upon her pillow again, she said faintly: — 
 
 " I thought I heard some one speaking." 
 
 " I was speaking to— a tramp," said Lisbeth, calmly. 
 
 "You talked— a good deal." 
 
 "I gave him some food. He was nigh perishing of 
 hunger." 
 
 There was a short silence; and then Alys said, in a 
 trembling voice — 
 
 u It was not Frank ? " 
 
 An almost imperceptible pause followed. By nature 
 Lisbeth was the most truthful of women. She hated a lie 
 with a fierce hatred, such as she gave to cowardice and 
 cruelty, and other of the meaner vices. But what could she 
 do in this case ? She bit her lips, and— for their sakes, she 
 said to herself — she told a lie. 
 
 " Certainly not Frank," she said. 
 
 Alys seemed but half satisfied. " It sounded so like his 
 voice ! Lisbeth— if he-comes, don't let me see him !— don't 
 
172 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 — not yet, at any rate 1 I could not bear it, indeed, I do not 
 think I could." 
 
 u You shall never see him unless you wish, my darling," 
 Lisbeth said. 
 
 The girl said no more, and Lisbeth waited quietly until 
 Mary Tyars returned from Crosthwaite. It was nearer an 
 hour than half an hour before she was able to escape from 
 the cottage, and take the path, but faintly visible in the star- 
 light, which led to the banks of the tarn. She knew that 
 she should find Frank there. 
 
 She was not mistaken. She had not gone very far before 
 a dark figure joined her, and walked at her side without a 
 word. Lisbeth led the way— not to the spot where the fatal 
 conflict had taken place, but— to a lower ground, where they 
 were screened from the sight of wayfarers by a bank of 
 brushwood and a few straggling trees. Here they seated 
 themselves on the trunk of a fallen tree, for the night was 
 warm, and Lisbeth had pity on Frank's evident weakness 
 and fatigue. 
 
 It was she who spoke first. " Now, tell me," she said, in 
 a low voice. " Tell me what you like." 
 
 " There is very little to tell," said Frank, in a tone of 
 utter depression. " I have been a fool — I need not have 
 thrown my chances away — I need not have spoilt my life; 
 but I seem to have done both." 
 
 " Is that all you can think of ? " said Lisbeth, bitterly. 
 
 " No, indeed, it is not," he said, stung to manlier indigna- 
 tion by her tone. u I bitterly regret what has happened for 
 your sake. I have been haunted all these days by the 
 thought of your sorrow. You loved him, I know, poor 
 fellow ; God knows I would not have hurt a hair of his head 
 if I could have helped myself." 
 
 " Yes, I loved him," said Lisbeth, in slow, measured ac- 
 cents, from which, however, the bitterness had died away. 
 " I loved him because he represented all that was left to me 
 of home and family. Alys has come into my life too lately 
 to take his place. When I saw him, I recollected that I had 
 something beside myself to live and work for; that he was 
 
SINNED AGAINST OR SINNING? lf3 
 
 my charge, my care, my duty : the world was summed up 
 for me in Zadock, who lies in the death-room at Quest — 
 quiet enough now, and not likely to get into anybody's way. 
 ... If we are to talk selfishly— and it seems impossible not 
 to do it in a case of this kind, when pitying neighbours are 
 apt to tell me that I should be thankful after all that he is. 
 dead — I should say that what you have accomplished is not 
 only the death of poor Zadock himself, but the death in me 
 of anything tender and loving and gentle— the one home-tie 
 which kept me from becoming hard and miserable and cold. 
 If you have spoiled your own life, you have spoilt mine too. 
 It is a selfish consideration, but it seems that we are bound 
 to be selfish." 
 
 "You are not speaking the truth," cried Frank, almost 
 passionately. " You could never be hard or cold. It is not 
 in your nature." 
 
 " It is in my nature as much as it is in all of our natures, 
 when we have nothing to care for," she answered. " What 
 have I had in my life ? A father who neglected me, and 
 took away the reason of the dearest playfellow and comrade 
 I could have had ! My good grandfather is dead, and Zadock 
 now is dead; there is Alys left, but Alys does not love me as 
 I love her. And now you — you — my old friend " 
 
 She stopped abruptly : something rose in her throat and 
 hindered the power of speech. She said, after a pause, in a 
 roughened, jarring voice — 
 
 " You have done me the greatest injury in your power; 
 that is all." 
 
 He misunderstood her completely, as she meant him to 
 do. He thought that she was alluding only to Zadock's 
 death ; whereas she meant also that Frank had injured her 
 by winning her heart and throwing it away. But this, of 
 course, he could not understand. 
 
 "I see," he said heavily, u that I have, indeed, done you a 
 great wrong. I came back, hoping that I might at least win 
 your forgiveness, your pity, for what happened the other 
 night. But, you are right: Zadock's death has made you 
 hard already ; you do not care to think that I was virtually 
 
174 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 the victim of circumstances, and— I firmly believe— in no 
 wise to blame." 
 
 They sat still after this for a little while. A wind went 
 soughing through the branches of the trees; the water of 
 the tarn was a little ruffled, and they heard it lapping 
 .among the stones below their feet. It seemed as though the 
 spirits of the night had called to them and bidden them to 
 love and pardon. There was a tranquil look about the 
 cloudless sky, with its hosts of shining stars; there was 
 complete silence among the everlasting hills. Frank did 
 not look up: he sat with his elbows on his knees and his 
 face half-hidden by his hands. But Lisbeth looked : and to 
 Lisbeth,the influences of the hour brought back the memory 
 of those moments when she had knelt and prayed. 
 
 " I am wrong," she said at last, in a gentler tone. u I 
 said I was miserable ; but at least I need not be wicked. I 
 do not want to be hard on you. I will forgive you if I can. 
 You know I always found it difficult to forgive. But tell 
 me how it happened: I ought to know." 
 
 And then Frank told his story— how he had heard a cry 
 from Alys, and, turning round, saw Zadock running upon 
 her with a knife in his hand ; and how he had flung himself 
 on the madman and wrestled with him to get the knife 
 away. Alys had fled, and he knew not whither she went, 
 but possibly she had seen the whole. 
 
 " We came nearer and nearer to the edge, in spite of all 
 my efforts," said Frank. " I tried in vain to get him away 
 —I tried to loose myself, but it was no use. For some time 
 I held his arm, so that he could not use the knife— he was 
 mad, Lisbeth, mad as he could be, and did not know what 
 he was doing in the least: but at last he got it free, and 
 raised his hand. I struck out wildly, I don't know how; 
 but his hold suddenly relaxed, and he fell backward over 
 the edge of the cliff and amongst the brushwood, where you 
 found him, down below." 
 
 " And then ? " 
 
 "Then, in great horror and fear, I made my way 
 down the bank, and tried to revive him. I could not be- 
 
FORGIVENESS. 175 
 
 lieve at first that he was dead. But at last I gave up 
 hope." 
 
 "You should have done something. You should have 
 called the cottage people at once, and told them how it 
 happened," said Lisbeth, in a stifled voice. " Then they 
 would have believed you. Now" . . . she made a long 
 pause, and finished her sentence at last with an effort, which 
 showed how much it cost her. u Nobody will believe you 
 now." 
 
 " That is true. And, perhaps . . . perhaps, I do not de- 
 serve that they should." 
 
 Lisbeth looked at him. " As your story runs now, you 
 were not — I suppose— to blame," she said, grudgingly. 
 
 " Yes, as it runs now. But — I don't know whether I have 
 told you the truth or not." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " My brain reels when I think of it, as it reeled then," 
 said Prank, pressing his hands to his brow. " It is just this, 
 Lisbeth : it came upon me as I stood beside Zadock's body, 
 and the thought drove me into the wilderness like Cain. If 
 I had held my hand at that last moment — if I had not struck 
 him as I did, with a wild momentary rage, a desire for my 
 own life, and for his death— for one of us had to die, I felt 
 no doubt of that — he might not have fallen as he did. 
 Whether the world counts me to blame or not, I cannot 
 say ; but — I have felt during the past few days — as though 
 I had been indeed — a murderer. Ay, you may well shrink 
 from me, Lisbeth: I cannot expect you to forgive me now." 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 FORGIVENESS. 
 
 He hid his face again with a gesture of despair. He ex- 
 pected to hear words of reproach from Lisbeth — words of 
 bitter anger and desolation. But he was mistaken : his con- 
 
176 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 fession did not produce any such, effect. In fact, a curious 
 revulsion of feeling took place within her. Now that she 
 knew what Frank had really done, and how Zadock had 
 come to his end, she had nothing but pity for the man who 
 struck the fatal blow. 
 
 " You are mistaken," she said, after a pause. " I could 
 forgive you more easily now — than before." 
 
 " That is quite impossible. I am beyond the pale. Do 
 not force yourself to say kind things to me, Lisbeth. I know 
 too well what you — and Alys — feel." 
 
 " I and Alys are two -different persons. I have no shrink- 
 ing from a man merely because he has taken another's 
 life " 
 
 "And Alys has?" 
 
 " You had better not ask me. I do not know how she 
 will feel when she is strong again. At present — but go on 
 with your story: you have not yet told me all." 
 
 14 There is little to tell. I rushed away from the place, 
 feeling myself an outcast from mankind. The sight of his 
 
 face — rigid in death— the death I had Lisbeth, I can't go 
 
 on." 
 
 " Tell me what you did, not what you felt. Where did 
 you go?" 
 
 Frank lifted his face a little, and considered. 
 
 "Upon my soul, I can hardly tell you," he said. "I 
 rushed away over the hills, losing the track, forgetting that 
 others would be anxious about me, forgetting everything ex- 
 cept that face — which I wanted to escape, and could not get 
 away from. I think my brain had some sort of shock — I do 
 not know exactly what I did. I spent a day or two on the 
 hills, and then I got a train and went to London — but, why, 
 I could not tell. The thing that brought me to myself was 
 the heading of a newspaper placard: * Shocking occurrence 
 near Crosthwaite,' or something of that kind. When I saw 
 that, I knew I ought to have made a clean breast of the 
 whole story. So I came here to do it." 
 
 " I am sorry you went away," said Lisbeth, gently. " You 
 ought to have stayed. It would have been braver to stay." 
 
FORGIVENESS. 177 
 
 Frank uttered a sort of groan. 
 
 " I have not been brave. I have been a fool — and worse," 
 he said. "Tell me what has happened here, Lisbetb, for I 
 know nothing." 
 
 " We found Alys insensible, about midnight, I think. 
 You forgot her, Frank. She has been ill ever since. And 
 at dawn he was found. The inquest was held on the second 
 day afterwards. Alys was too ill to attend it, but she made 
 a short statement — a deposition, I think, they call it — that 
 she had seen you and Zadock struggling together, but that 
 she did not know how the struggle ended. And she said 
 that Zadock attacked her first." 
 
 u Ah!" 
 
 "But she seemed to know nothing about the knife. 
 Where did that come from, and why was it in his side ? " 
 
 " He had it in his hand. He may have fallen on it." 
 
 " You did not stab him ? " 
 
 " Lisbeth ! " 
 
 " They have said you did. Oh, you do not know the 
 things they have said about you. The verdict was man- 
 slaughter, Frank : it would have been murder but for Alys's 
 declaration that she saw my poor boy attack you first; 
 and there is a warrant out for your arrest — you did not 
 know ? " 
 
 " I did not know or guess. But it comes to the same 
 thing." 
 
 " Not quite, Frank. If you had been here at first! " 
 
 " I see," said he, quietly, and then the two sat silent for a 
 little while. 
 
 " And you believe all they said, Lisbeth ? You, my old 
 friend!" 
 
 "I could not believe that you had used the knife. It 
 seemed a cowardly thing to do." 
 
 " I don't kuow why I should be glad that you give me 
 even that amount of credit," said Frank, half -bitterly, half- 
 sadly. " As I told you just now, I feel myself guilty— the 
 murderous instinct rose in me " 
 
 " No," said Lisbeth, cutting him short, and speaking in 
 
178 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 her usual clear and steady tone. " That I will not allow you 
 to say. An instinct of self-defence: it was no more than 
 that. Now that I know all the truth, I can judge, and I 
 will not condemn. Before— when I thought you had driven 
 the knife into his side— when I thought that you had fled 
 from justice and had refused to bear the punishment the law 
 decreed— then I despised you. But now I do not despise 
 you, Frank: I honour you, because you have come back; 
 and I will not— I will not hate you— any more." 
 
 Her voice quivered as she spoke the last few words. She 
 had gained an immense victory over herself; and she had 
 gained it by force of her sense of justice, rather than of love. 
 She was hardly prepared, however, for Frank's passionate 
 gratitude. In a moment he had thrown himself down be- 
 fore her, sobbing out his grief and his thankfulness, with 
 his head bowed first to the ground, and later upon his very 
 knees. She stroked his soft dark hair as he lay there, as if 
 she were a mother with an erring child ; but she said very 
 little. She could not dare to let him know how pitiful she 
 was, how dearly she loved him after all. 
 
 The passion spent itself at last, and then she spoke slowly 
 and gravely. 
 
 " You will have to go through with it all," she said, " and 
 I don't know what they will do with you. But you won't 
 forget that I am your friend— that I will do all I can for 
 you — strange as it may seem to those who know that I loved 
 Zadock as if he had been my brother. But you are another 
 brother, too." 
 
 " More than brother ! " her heart cried out ; but she would 
 not give it voice. 
 
 "You must not despair — you must not be cast down. 
 You must believe in yourself and in me. I know, and you 
 know, that you would not have hurt Zadock for the world, 
 if you could have helped it. It was— mostly— an accident; 
 and we must make the other people believe it if we can. 
 Only, you will be brave and strong ? You will not give 
 way to despair again? Promise me— for Alys's sake; for 
 your mother's sake and mine." 
 
FORGIVENESS. 179 
 
 "I promise. I have the courage now that I lacked 
 before." 
 
 " You will conquer if you have courage. Nothing mat- 
 ters—nothing that the world can do, I mean, will make any 
 difference to those who love you, if you do not let yourself 
 sink. Your true friends will be true to you." 
 
 "And Alys." 
 
 " I can speak to Alys about you now. She will learn to 
 understand. And now I must go back to her— and you, 
 what will you do ? " 
 
 " I will go on to Crosthwaite." 
 
 They rose and stood facing one another in the dim star- 
 light. " Good-bye," she said, in a low tone. " Eemember 
 that— after all— I forgive you: I wish you well." 
 
 " Lisbeth, can you give me your hand ? Mine— has blood 
 upon it." 
 
 She held out both her hands, and let him hold them in 
 his own for a moment. She did not forgive by halves. 
 
 " God bless you," he said, in a tone of the deepest feeling. 
 " If all women were like you ! Lisbeth, good-bye." 
 
 "God be with you, Frank," she said: translating the 
 word of farewell into a longer phrase. She was standing 
 on rather higher ground than he. She bent a little forward, 
 and kissed him on the forehead, as a mother or sister might 
 have done. To him in his strained and fevered state, the 
 kiss was like a benediction. 
 
 Then they separated. She went back, slowly and mourn- 
 fully, to the cottage; and he, after watching her until her 
 tall figure disappeared in the darkness, set out at a brisk 
 pace for Crosthwaite. The weight on his heart and brain 
 seemed half removed now he had seen her and heard her 
 say that she forgave. 
 
 Of Alys he could scarcely bear to think at all. Her 
 memory was like an ever-present pain— an open wound. 
 She had produced on him an impression of perfect and spot- 
 less purity, of exquisite refinement, of culture, which made 
 her something like an exotic flower in the northern wilds. 
 He was afraid that she would shrink from him, that she 
 
180 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 would never forget that— even in her defence— he had killed 
 a man. His love was of the passionately adoring kind : he 
 saw the angel rather than the woman in her. He admired 
 her fragility, her delicacy, her gentleness— just the qualities 
 in which Lisbeth was lacking, just the qualities which, as he 
 failed to see, might constitute a kind of weakness in the 
 hour of need. 
 
 He comforted himself with Lisheth's words. She had 
 said that none who loved him truly would love him less for 
 this. She would tell Alys so. And Alys would believe her, 
 and would be true to him through all that remained to him 
 to do and bear. He thought, as he strode along the silent 
 road, that even then Lisbeth might be telling Alys that she 
 might trust him still, for had he not come back to do his 
 duty, to pay, as far as in him lay, each farthing of his debt ? 
 
 Poor Frank ! His imagination played him false. Alys 
 was in no state even to hear his name; and although Lis- 
 beth thought of him day and night, and made herself ac- 
 quainted with every detail of the things that were happen- 
 ing to him, she did not dare to speak to her sister on the 
 subject until fully a week had passed. 
 
 She got Alys down to Quest at last. The girl was much 
 better, although still weak ; but she was able to leave her 
 room and lie on the broad soft couch which Lisbeth had 
 placed for her use in the sitting-room. There was no 
 chance of her being able to sit in the garden for many days 
 to come; the autumnal winds had broken loose, after the 
 long space of summer calm, and they went howling round 
 the house until Alys shivered at the sound as if she thought 
 that it was like the cry of some wandering soul in pain. 
 
 Little by little she began to perceive that the life of Quest 
 was going on in much of its old routine. Lisbeth spent 
 more time with her than usual, but otherwise she was busy 
 about household matters, just as she used to be. The old 
 lady in the kitchen nodded over the fire, more peaceably 
 than ever. There was no disturbing element now, no va- 
 cantly fierce face to scowl at poor Alys as she went along 
 the passages, no growl of anger to meet her on the stairs. 
 
FORGIVENESS. 181 
 
 If Zadock had been removed from her path in any other 
 way, she would have been heartily glad of his absence. 
 
 Nobody spoke to her of what had occurred ; and she her- 
 self, with returning strength, began to feel a glimmer of cu- 
 riosity as to how things had gone. She summoned up strength 
 at last to say to Lisbeth, in a hesitating way — 
 
 " I suppose — Mr. Moor — is not at home ? " 
 
 Lisbeth came at once and took a seat beside her. 
 
 "I am glad you have asked me," she said, " because there 
 are two or three things that I want to say." 
 
 " Oh — not about him" said Alys, shrinking away. 
 
 11 Why not ? " said Lisbeth, almost cheerfully. " You will 
 be glad to know that you can help him." 
 
 " I— help him ? How ? " 
 
 u You have your story to tell, darling. There is a very 
 clever gentleman— a lawyer— coming to see you to-morrow, 
 and you will tell him everything — all that you saw and 
 heard on that afternoon upon the hill." 
 
 a I can't — I can't ! " said Alys, her eyes dilating with hor- 
 ror. " I can't bear to think of it— why must I go over it all 
 again ? Indeed, I can't." 
 
 ** For Frank's sake," said Lisbeth, softly. 
 
 There came a change over Alys's face, such as Lisbeth 
 had never seen before. It was a dark look — half of terror, 
 half of anger— a look that positively disfigured the face that 
 was usually so sweet. 
 
 " I cannot understand how you should speak of him in 
 that way," she said. 
 
 u Do you not ? " 
 
 " You used to say you loved poor Zadock," said Alys, 
 vehemently. "You seemed to care for nobody but him. 
 You did not mind how much he frightened other people— or 
 even injured them. Indeed, you did not; he was all the 
 w T orld to you. It was very good of you, no doubt, to be so 
 kind to him." 
 
 " Alys, he was like a brother to me." 
 
 "I know. But he was not like a brother to anybody 
 else," said Alys, with the persistency of a weak nature that 
 
182 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 had burst the bonds of fear, after harbouring it for many 
 weary days. " Every one was afraid of him, but you would 
 not see it. You kept him here against everybody's advice. 
 Yet now, when he is dead, you don't mind ! You want me 
 to help the man who killed him ! Why, even I — who did 
 not care for Zadock— I hate to think of the horrible savage 
 look on Frank's face, the fierceness, the brutality. And 
 you ask me to help him in some way! I think it is hor- 
 rible!" 
 
 " Alys, dear, do you not see that it was an accident ? " 
 
 " No, indeed, it was not— it was a fight. Oh, I suppose 
 men must fight; and Zadock was mad, and had to be mas- 
 tered ; but Frank need not have killed him for all that. You 
 are a cold-hearted woman to forget the dead so soon." 
 
 " Perhaps I am," said Lisbeth, slowly. She sat looking 
 straight before her, almost wondering why she did not feel 
 more keenly the sting of what Alys had been saying. Was 
 she cold-hearted ? She had never thought so before ; " but 
 one lives and learns," said Lisbeth to herself, without bitter- 
 ness. u I thought you loved Frank," she said at last. 
 
 Alys answered with unaccustomed emphasis. " Love a 
 man who is to be tried for murder ? I couldn't, if I tried." 
 
 " Who told you that he was to be tried for murder," said 
 Lisbeth, with a frown. 
 
 "I heard it through the window. Two of the servants 
 were talking outside, but they did not say whether he had 
 got away or not. I suppose he did." 
 
 u It is manslaughter, not murder," said Lisbeth, calmly. 
 Then after a pause she added, " He is out on bail at present; 
 but he is to be tried next month at the Oossbury Assizes, 
 and you and I will probably be called as witnesses." 
 
 Alys uttered an exclamation of horror. "Ohl" she 
 wailed, " why did T ever come to Quest ? Oh, let me go away 
 from this dreadful place!" 
 
 It was long before Lisbeth could soothe and comfort her 
 —in fact, from that day forth, she seemed to look upon Lis- 
 beth with a certain amount of suspicion. It was to her 
 almost incredible that Lisbeth should regard the man who 
 
FORGIVENESS. 183 
 
 took Zadock's life with anything but aversion. Her feeling 
 for Frank had changed into a kind of shrinking abhorrence, 
 which sprang very largely out of a physical recoil from all 
 that was painful and violent. This dread of suffering or of 
 ugliness in any shape or form was the inheritance which 
 her self indulgent father had bequeathed to her. 
 
 Mr. Crisp, the Moors' family solicitor, came to see her 
 shortly afterwards, and made her tell him the whole story 
 from beginning to end. He was a fatherly old man, very 
 fond of Frank, whom, however, he had never understood, 
 and he had been prepared to find a flaunting milkmaid of a 
 girl with whom Frank had had a foolish flirtation. He was 
 amazed to find this dainty, delicate creature, with lovely face 
 and beautiful draperies, and slender white hands, in the old 
 farm-house at Quest: and he took back to Lady Adela a de- 
 scription of Alys Lorimer very different from the picture 
 which they had constructed for themselves. 
 
 " Why, she is a lady, then ? " said Lady Adela. 
 u As far as birth can make her so," said the lawyer, with 
 a little smile. 
 
 " Her testimony will have all the more weight " 
 
 "Exactly. If she gives it in the right way, and on the 
 right side. For some reason or other she seems— preju- 
 diced." i T 1 
 
 "That must be Miss Verrall's doings," said Lady Adela, 
 bitterly. "We all know how Lisbeth Verrall petted and 
 protected that wretched madman. If she could, she would 
 make this girl doubt even the testimony of her own eyes, 
 and proclaim my poor Frank a murderer." 
 
 " I think nobody can doubt but that tbe blow was struck 
 purely in self-defence," said Mr. Crisp. But he was begin- 
 ning to feel uncomfortable. It was an awkward thing to 
 find that the only witness of the scene was inclined to take 
 the worst possible view of Frank's behaviour. Alys had 
 said very little; but her look, ber tone, had been enough. 
 Mr. Crisp did not trust her as a witness for Frank Moor's 
 defence. 
 
1S4 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 " COME ! " 
 
 Edmund Creighton was sitting at his breakfast with the 
 Times before him, when his eyes first fell upon the name of 
 Crosthwaite. It attracted him, of course, and he at once 
 read the account, as at first given, of Zadock Verrall's death. 
 Frank Moor's name was introduced, but Alys was not men- 
 tioned. In fact, Lisbeth all along kept reporters and inter- 
 viewers at arm's length, and would not allow any access to 
 Quest, or to the cottage where Alys was lying ill. 
 
 Edmund telegraphed for news, but was obliged to gather 
 it after all from the papers, especially the evening journals, 
 which made much capital out of " the tragedy," as they usu- 
 ally called it ; for Lisbeth answered by a few brief words 
 only, stating that Alys had been very ill, but was now bet- 
 ter. Armed with this note, and after collecting every atom 
 of information that was to be obtained, Edmund proceeded 
 to pay his mother a morning call. 
 
 He had ceased to live at home. The atmosphere was un- 
 congenial, especially since his visit to Crosthwaite. Mrs. 
 Creighton never lost an opportunity of throwing out dis- 
 agreeable remarks concerning Alys, and the refusal which 
 she suspected, although Edmund had never confessed it; 
 and, although his blandness of manner was seldom dis- 
 turbed, he found these remarks more trying to his com- 
 posure than he liked. Accordingly, he had taken for him- 
 self a luxurious suite of apartments at the West End, and 
 lived his own life, which was a curious mixture of hard 
 work and self-indulgence. He was already successful in his 
 profession, and determined to be more so; and he was not 
 insensible, in the interval of his work, to the attractions of 
 various pastimes of a refined order which he imagined to be 
 necessary for his well-being. He was materialistic to the 
 backbone ; and had really serious reason to doubt whether 
 he possessed anything in the nature of a soul. If he had 
 had one once, he had perhaps destroyed it. 
 
"COME!" 185 
 
 Not that he was what the world calls a bad man. He 
 was too fastidious, too refined, to have any vices. He sim- 
 ply lived for his own pleasure; and he who makes pleasure 
 his deity has no force wherewith to withstand temptation to 
 evil. When we put our necks under a yoke to the world, 
 we have no conception what baseness the world may not 
 require of us by and by ; and when the time comes, we do 
 the base thing because we are slaves already and cannot 
 escape it. 
 
 Edmund walked coolly into his mother's morning" room, 
 and sat clown in his favourite chair. His mother, seated 
 at her writing-table, turned upon him almost with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 " Well, Edmund, I suppose you have heard this disgrace- 
 ful story ? " 
 
 " What disgraceful story ? " said her son. 
 
 " All about that wretched madman's death. Alys Lori- 
 mer's share in it is very freely commented on in most of the 
 papers. I feel extremely sorry that I ever allowed Julian 
 to associate with her." 
 
 " I fancied," said Edmund, " that you might have some 
 notions of this kind; and that was why I came round to 
 you this morning. You see it is somewhat important to me 
 what you say of Alys Lorimer, because she will one day be 
 my wife." 
 
 " Nonsense, Edmund ! A girl whose character is im- 
 pugned in this way." 
 
 " I do not see in what way it is impugned." 
 
 " My dear boy ! To begin with, she had an assignation— 
 that is evident— with tbis Francis Moor. Don't you recol- 
 lect him ? he came here one day with your father " 
 
 " I saw something of him at Crosthwaite. He had known 
 the Verralls all his life. He often came to Quest." 
 
 " Well, Alys was evidently meeting him in secret, and 
 was alone with him away among those lonely hills — most 
 improper— when this half-witted person made an assault on 
 her. Eeally, I almost think it served her right ! " 
 
 " Served her right to be run at with a knife because she 
 
186 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 happened to be taking a walk without a chaperon ? " said 
 Edmund, irreverently. " My dear mother, you are driving 
 things too far." 
 
 "Not at all, Edmund. Alys had been brought up in 
 London, and knew what propriety was, but she seems greatly 
 to have forgotten her training. I have been questioning 
 Julian, and have, with great difficulty, extracted some de- 
 plorable details. I was greatly displeased with Julian." 
 
 "I don't think she came to much harm. Where is she ?" 
 
 " In her room," said Mrs. Creighton severely. " I could 
 not put up with her impertinence any longer, so I sent her 
 there to stay till lunch was ready. It seems that she ran 
 wild completely, and that Alys was as bad." 
 
 '* Neither Alys nor Julian did anything that need be re- 
 membered against them," said Edmund, firmly. u You have 
 got an entirely wrong idea into j^our head, mother. In an 
 out-of-the-way place like Crosthwaite, people don't think 
 about chaperons. Alys was out quite naturally for a walk 
 with Frank Moor wiien this half mad fellow came up " 
 
 " With a knife," said Mrs. Creighton, in a tone of holy 
 horror. 
 
 " A knife, eh ? Had he a knife ? " said Edmund, stopping 
 short. " I thought there was some doubt about it." 
 
 U A doubt! There is always a doubt," said Mrs. Creigh- 
 ton, contemptuously. " He was found stabbed— so some- 
 body must have had a knife." 
 
 "Ah, yes, but the question is, which of them ? However, 
 if I'd been there, I should have had not the slightest hesita- 
 tion in doing what Frank Moor seems to have done. I 
 should have pitched the fellow over the cliff, or stabbed him 
 to the heart, with the greatest satisfaction in the world. 
 What I cannot understand is, why Moor took to his heels 
 afterwards, and disappeared for the greater part of a week. 
 That will prejudice a jury against him." 
 
 " You may be quite sure that there is something more to 
 come out," said Mrs. Creighton, impressively. " It is a most 
 scandalous affair. I am sorry we have had anything to do 
 with Miss Lorimer." 
 
"COME!" 187 
 
 "You will have a good deal more to do with her, if 
 things turn out as I wish and intend," said Edmund, quietly. 
 " Mother, I came here to-day to ask your help on her be- 
 half." 
 
 lk Excuse me, Edmund. I do not wish to interfere." 
 
 "As my promised wife, Alys has a right to turn to you 
 for help." 
 
 "Is she your promised wife, Edmund ? " 
 
 "Virtually," said Edmund, with the greatest sangfroid. 
 "And this is the time when we can be of service to her. I 
 want to go down to Quest, as soon as I can get away, bear- 
 ing an invitation from you to her— to come and stay here 
 for the next few weeks or months, until the wedding day is 
 fixed, in fact," he added, with a smile. He thought that he 
 might as well take things for granted: knowing Alys as he 
 did, he felt sure that she would turn to him in the hour of 
 her need. 
 
 " Why should she come here ? " said Mrs. Creighton, with 
 strong displeasure. 
 
 " To stop the world's tongues for one thing. To give her 
 a home— and a change from Quest. It is not at all advisa- 
 ble that she should remain there. Her nerves must have 
 had a frightful shock. I should like her to come away at 
 once." 
 
 " She will have to be a witness, I suppose, at this horrible 
 trial." 
 
 " She could go back for that. Let me go to her, and in- 
 vite her to come at once." 
 
 Of course Edmund did not know that at that time Alys 
 could not possibly have travelled: she had not then even 
 been moved to Quest; but he had not had sufficient informa- 
 tion from Lisbeth to be aware of her state. 
 
 " I am very sorry, Edmund," said his mother, with de- 
 cision, "but I must really refuse your request. I have 
 young daughters, I cannot let them associate with any one 
 so regardless of the laws of society as Miss Lorimer has 
 proved herself to be." 
 
 Edmund uttered a short, irritated laugh. " Poor Alys ! " 
 
188 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 he said. "I believe she adores propriety in her heart, 
 and hates the wilds to which Fortune has condemned 
 her." 
 
 " Why did she go there, then ? " 
 
 " Where else had she to go, mother ? " 
 
 " She knew very well that you were dying to marry her," 
 said his mother, scornfully. " She chose to refuse you — I 
 know it well enough — and she will refuse you again. I 
 hope she will. She is one of those persons who have the 
 faculty of attracting disaster. 1 am not superstitious; but 
 I do think some people are born to be unlucky. Alys Lori- 
 mer is one of them, and I will not have her here." 
 
 " My only resource, then, will be to marry her at once," 
 said Edmund, rising from his chair. 
 
 " If she will have you ! " said Mrs. Creighton, with a con- 
 temptuous laugh. " And I should advise you to inquire 
 very closely into her relations with Mr. Francis Moor before 
 you ask her to become your wife." 
 
 Edmund's grey eye sent out a spark of fire. He stopped 
 short as he was leaving the room, and looked steadily at his 
 mother. 
 
 " If you say things of that sort," he said, " you need not 
 expect that you will ever see me in this house again." 
 
 Then he turned and went out, with a not altogether dis- 
 agreeable sense of warmth at his heart. It was something 
 new for him to strike a blow in defence of the absent — even 
 of those he liked. It generally seemed wiser to hold one's 
 tongue. But now he had spoken strongly on Alys's behalf, 
 he loved her the more for it and respected himself for the 
 strength of his affection. 
 
 He did not, however, go north at once. He wrote to 
 Lisbeth asking for details about Alys, and received a letter 
 from the doctor in return. Lisbeth was too much occupied 
 to write. Edmund knitted his brows over the doctor's re- 
 port, and debated within himself whether he might not ven- 
 ture to send a specialist down to London; but finally he de- 
 cided to wait. And when he had another letter, he received 
 an account of such improvement in Alys's health that he de- 
 
"COME!" 139 
 
 cided to wait a little longer. When she could receive visi- 
 tors he would go. 
 
 But before he had the expected letter from the doctor, 
 giving him permission to see her, he had a few lines from 
 Alys herself. They made his heart beat faster than it had 
 done for years. 
 
 " Dear Edmund," the letter ran, — " will you come and see 
 me ? I have something very important to say. " Alys." 
 
 He went by the night train. And all through the jour- 
 ney his mind was occupied, partly by the thought of Alys, 
 and partly by a consideration that was suggested to him by 
 the Westminster Gazette. 
 
 The knife which had been found in Zadock's side— to 
 whom had it belonged ? The question of murderous intent 
 seemed to be hanging in the air, although nobody breathed 
 the words. Had it belonged to Zadock ? Nobody was able 
 to say whether Zadock possessed a knife of that kind or not. 
 
 It came back to Edmund's mind that he had passed an 
 outhouse once in the dusk of a warm evening, and had seen 
 Zadock bent upon the work of sharpening a knife. He 
 had spoken to the man — spoken about the knife. And Za- 
 dock had said to him that he meant to kill the squire with it 
 — that was Frank; and missy too — that was Alys ; because 
 they made Lisbeth cry. 
 
 " It's no business of mine," said Edmund to himself. 
 "No doubt they have other witnesses. Of course, if they 
 have not, a piece of evidence like this would mean some- 
 thing — it would certainly influence the verdict — but it won't 
 be necessary. It would be an awful nuisance to have to 
 give 'evidence for the accused.' Hang the fellow! I 
 wish he were hanged. What business had he to come be- 
 tween Alys and me ? I only hope Alys is tired of him by 
 this time." 
 
 He reached Crosthwaite in the morning, and with his 
 accustomed coolness went to the hotel, had a bath and 
 breakfast, smoked and looked at the newspaper before walk- 
 ing up to Quest. "No use in getting there too early," he 
 18 
 
190 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 said to himself. " Alys won't be ready for visitors till the 
 middle of the day." 
 
 It was more than the middle of the day — it was nearly 
 Jour o'clock in the afternoon by the time he arrived at 
 Quest. 
 
 He had telegraphed that he was coming, and they were 
 expecting him. The servant showed him at once into the 
 sitting-room. Lisbeth did not appear. She had had a pre- 
 monition of what was about to happen ever since Alys told 
 her that she had written to Edmund Creighton. 
 
 The broad, comfortable couch was drawn up near the 
 fire, and upon it, wrapped in shawls, lay the girl whom Ed- 
 mund intended to make his wife. But how changed she 
 was ! The colour had left her cheeks: even her lips were 
 colourless: her great blue eyes looked too large for her 
 face; the veins showed upon her temples and in her thin 
 white hands. But when Edmund appeared, she raised her- 
 self a little, and held out her hand to him, with a little cry. 
 
 "Oh, you have come ! You have come ! I am so glad ! 
 Edmund, take me away ! " 
 
 It was all that he had hoped to hear, he was wildly glad 
 and triumphant, for not only his love but his vanity was 
 satisfied ; but he did not betray any exuberance of joy. He 
 felt that any buoyant utterance would distress her — shock 
 her even; he must keep very calm, very quiet, if he wanted 
 to make her his own. He held her hand in both his own 
 for a minute or two, then drew a chair close to the couch 
 and sat down. 
 
 " My poor little girl ! " he said, tenderly. " So this is 
 what they have made of you ? Did I not tell you that they 
 would kill you between them ? " 
 
 k ' Oh, Edmund, all that you said was true. It is a dread- 
 ful place. They are all fierce, savage, rough— even he " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I understand. I never thought him worthy 
 of you. If it had been a better man, I could more easily 
 have given you up." 
 
 " Have you not given me up ? " said Alys, timidly, as if 
 fearing a rebuff. 
 
"COME!" 191 
 
 " Should I have come if I had ? " 
 
 "Ah ! You said I might always say 'Come.' And I 
 did — because I must get away from here." 
 
 "You shall get away, my sweet. You shall go to the 
 sunny south— the land of birds and flowers and brightness, 
 where you ought to be. We will go together, will we 
 not ? " 
 
 He stroked her hand caressingly as he put the question. 
 But casually, and even carelessly, as it seemed to be asked, 
 he had an intention behind it. He wanted to know whether 
 she was really prepared to marry him, or whether she had 
 only a vague idea of travelling under his convoy to some 
 house where she could be nursed back to health and 
 strength, in order to marry that other man some other day. 
 He must ascertain this before he went any farther. 
 
 She looked scared at once, and drew her hand away. 
 
 " I don't know," she said, piteously. " 1 don't believe I 
 can ever love — anybody — again." 
 
 " So long as you don't love anybody else better than me, 
 I do not mind," said Edmund. 
 
 " Even if I do not care — even for you ? " 
 
 " But you do care — a little," he answered, smiling confi- 
 dently into her eyes. 
 
 "A very little." 
 
 "That is enough." 
 
 " But you will take me away, Edmund ; you will take me 
 away from Quest ? It is killing me ; I cannot stay here all 
 the winter — I shall die, as you said I should. " 
 
 " My bird, my flower, you shall never see winter again if 
 I can help it," he murmured softly. He had slipped down 
 to his knees, and had gathered her in his arms. She leaned 
 against his shoulder, and shed some tears — half of weakness, 
 half of relief. 
 
 " Oh, Edmund, ought I ? Does it not seem— cruel, to 
 abandon him — when he is in trouble ? " 
 
 She dared put the question when she was sure of the 
 reply. 
 
 " My darling, do you think T could bear to see you link 
 
192 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 your life with that of a murderer ? I feel as if I would 
 rather you died first." 
 
 "I would rather die first, too," said Alys, helplessly. 
 " Oh, it is so dreadful ! Think of being mixed up with a 
 trial — of having your name in the papers — and talked about 
 by everybody. I want to get away from it all. Oh, perhaps 
 it was not Frank's fault — but I can't bear to think of him 
 now. You would never be cruel to any one, would you, 
 Edmund ? " 
 
 She was trembling so violently that he felt obliged to 
 kiss and caress her in order to soothe her into quietness 
 again. She accepted his kisses passively, and yet with a 
 certain pleasure. It was natural to her to be petted and 
 comforted like a child. 
 
 Lisbeth looked in once, and immediately withdrew. One 
 brief glance told her all. 
 
 She went upstairs again, and looked out of the window 
 at the wind-swept fell side and the darkening grey sky. 
 She thought of the two men she had loved — one lay in the 
 churchyard, and one in Crossbury Gaol. And Alys had 
 deserted the man who still was dearer to Lisbeth than her 
 life. 
 
 " Does nobody in the world know how to love but me ? " 
 said Lisbeth to herself, with bitterness. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE TRIAL. 
 
 Edmund quoted several proverbs to himself that night, 
 such as those about " not letting the grass grow under one's 
 feet," " making hay while the sun shone," and " taking the 
 bull by the horns." The bull, in this case, meant Lisbeth. 
 
 When Alys had gone to her room, for she was too weak 
 to sit up for very long, he attacked Miss Verrall at once. He 
 was a little afraid of Lisbeth. She was too tall, too strong, 
 
THE TRIAL. 193 
 
 too capable for him. In his heart he called her " unwom- 
 anly." But he was inclined to like her more than usual 
 just now, because of the traces of trouble in her face— she 
 could not hide the fading of her colour or the dark shad- 
 ows below her troubled eyes. He almost fancied that he 
 could discern a silver line in the sombre cloud of her dark 
 hair. 
 
 Nevertheless, he was nervous, as he looked at her after 
 tea, and resolved to speak his mind. There was something 
 stern in her air, something of a masculine strength upon 
 her brow. He stood up and grasped the back of a chair, 
 which he rocked backward and forward as he spoke. 
 
 " I particularly wish to have a word with you, Miss Ver- 
 rall," he said. 
 
 14 Yes, so I thought," Lisbeth replied. She took up her 
 knitting, and plied the needles vigorously. 
 
 This was disagreeable. Edmund was not used to such 
 brusque replies, nor to women who knitted when he talked. 
 He looked at Lisbeth with speechless distaste. 
 
 " Alys has spoken to you, I suppose ? " he said at last. 
 
 11 Alys has said nothing. But I happen to have eyes in 
 my head." 
 
 She spoke with positive temper. Mr. Creighton was a 
 little shocked, and adopted a colder tone. 
 
 " Then, I need hardly say, you will not be surprised. . 
 Your sister and I have known each other for some time, and 
 I am sincerely attached to her. I am happy to say that she 
 has consented to be my wife." 
 
 No answer. Lisbeth bent her head over her work, and 
 knitted savagely. 
 
 " I think," said Edmund, raising his voice a little, and 
 letting the chair go down to the floor again, "that Quest is 
 an unsuitable place for her — in winter. She is too delicate 
 to stand the severe cold, or the strain of such incidents as 
 have lately occurred. I propose, Miss Verrall, to make her 
 my wife at once, and take her away." 
 
 Then Lisbeth stopped knitting. Her dark eyes blazed up 
 at him fiercely. 
 
191 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 u At once % " she repeated, with terrible emphasis on the 
 words. 
 
 ki Yes, at once. As soon as I can get a special licence. 
 Within the week," said Edmund. 
 
 "Does Alys consent ? " 
 
 " I have not put it to her in so many words, but I believe 
 she will." 
 
 " Then, I do not believe it," said Lisbeth, with cold, cut- 
 ting scorn in every word. " Alys is not so base— so cruel — 
 as you would make her out. She will not consent to marry 
 you while Francis Moor's fate hangs in the balance— it 
 would be a heartless thing to do." 
 
 " My dear Miss Verrall," said Edmund, quietly, " do you 
 suppose that she cares what becomes of Francis Moor at all ? " 
 
 Lisbeth looked at him silently. The blood rushed to her 
 cheeks and temples in a violent tide of crimson, then re- 
 treated, leaving her white as death. He wondered why she 
 changed colour so quickly; but he did not know that his 
 question had seemed to her almost an insult to Alys herself. 
 
 "Perhaps I ought not to tell you," she said, in a low 
 voice, " but you ought not to marry Alys in ignorance. She 
 and Frank Moor " 
 
 " Oh, excuse me, I know all about that," said Edmund, 
 with an airy laugh. " Alys is a simple, truthful little thing; 
 she told me long ago. A mere boy and girl attachment, 
 fortunately for me ; not the sort of thing that lasts. It is 
 all over now." 
 
 " All over ! " said Lisbeth, fixing her eyes upon him 
 " and Frank is in prison still ? " 
 
 " My good woman," said Edmund — he would have said 
 "my dear lady" had Lisbeth been a little higher in the 
 social scale—" what has Alys to do with that ? " 
 
 Lisbeth put her knitting on the table, folded her hands, 
 and turned her face away. She felt rather sick. To think 
 that Frank was no more than this to the girl whom he had 
 loved was a great shock to her. 
 
 " The fact is," said Edmund decidedly, "that Alys is ex- 
 tremely unwell. She ought not to stay another day in this 
 
THE TRIAL. 195 
 
 part of the world. I propose that we should be married as 
 soon as possible, then that I should take her for a short time 
 to Bournemouth or some other southern watering-place, 
 from which she could come to Crossbury, if necessary, for a 
 day or two during the course of the trial. When that is 
 over I shall at once take her abroad." 
 
 " Very well," said Lisbeth, calmly. " Now I understand. 
 There is only this to be said. I shall not countenance any 
 such marriage before the trial. It would be, to my thinking, 
 a terrible insult to Mr. Moor. A most painful and unneces- 
 sary piece of cruelty. The trial is only three weeks off. She 
 can wait surely for the end of that." 
 
 fa I cannot wait," said Edmund. 
 
 "If you want her, you must come back for her. She 
 will not marry you now if she has any regard for me." 
 
 " And, pray, why not ? " A sneer curled his thin lips. 
 " Mr. Moors feelings seem very dear to you." 
 
 " I have known Mr. Moor and his mother all my life," 
 said Lisbeth. " Mischief has come to them already through 
 those that live at Quest, and I will not give either of them 
 an additional grief to bear if I can help it. If Alys goes 
 away and marries you before the trial, she need never come 
 back to Quest. I should think it a wanton insult to a man 
 who had perilled his life and his honour in her defence." 
 
 Edmund shrugged his shoulders. "You think you are 
 unanswerable, Miss Verrall. May I ask you whether Mr. 
 Moor would not have defended himself against the attack of 
 that poor lunatic if Alys had not been there ? You are tak- 
 ing an absurd and impracticable view of the affair." 
 
 " I cannot help it," said Lisbeth, steadily. " I know how 
 he loved her— loves her still, and I thought Alys loved him 
 too. I call it a piece of positive indecency for her to marry 
 another man before he has been declared innocent or guilty, 
 and I will not give any such marriage my sanction. If 
 she wants to marry you so soon, I shall tell her to leave my 
 house tomorrow. It shall not be done— with my consent." 
 
 She carried her point. After a good deal more argument, 
 Edmund had the wit to see that she was impregnable ; and 
 
196 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 as he did not wish to make a scandal, or to remove Alys at 
 once from Quest, he was obliged to give way. But he owed 
 Lisbeth a grudge henceforth. 
 
 " Gad, I believe she's in love with the fellow herself," he 
 said, as he trod the path that led to the Crosthwaite Arms. 
 " I'll drop a hint in the right quarter, I think, and let her 
 have a little bullying at the trial. She is just the woman to 
 fly into a rage at some of the questions that could be asked. 
 ... I wonder what her real motive is for wanting to delay 
 the marriage till after the trial." It hardly occurred to him 
 that she could have no other motive than the desire to save 
 Frank pain. " I suppose she thinks he'll be acquitted, and 
 that Alys will turn to him again. Is that possible ? If I 
 thought it were, I would move heaven and earth to get the 
 fellow condemned. How about that knife, I wonder ? " 
 
 And his mind turned once more towards the vision of 
 Zadock with a ghastly grin upon his face, and a gleaming, 
 murderous-looking knife within his hand. 
 
 He had a private interview with a solicitor in Crossbury 
 before he went back to London, and congratulated himself 
 on having given that gentleman a perfectly novel idea. 
 
 Alys wept a good deal when Lisbeth told her in a few 
 succinct words what she thought of Edmund's proposition; 
 but she yielded, on condition that she should be married as 
 soon after the trial as possible, and that Lisbeth would not 
 make any active opposition to her choice. Also, that Ed- 
 mund should come back before the trial took place, and be 
 present in Court while she gave her evidence. 
 
 The case had excited great interest in the county; for, 
 although Frank was not personally well known or very 
 popular, he belonged to an old' family, and his mother had 
 always been liked and respected. Lord Raynflete himself, 
 whose secretary he was to have been, came forward to assure 
 him that the post would still be open to him as soon as he 
 was free to take it: and many other gentlemen testified their 
 belief in his innocence. Unfortunately for Frank, there 
 was a strong feeling against him in the town from which 
 the jurors were taken: they thought that it was a case of a 
 
THE TRIAL. 197 
 
 gentleman ill-treating a poor man, chiefly because he was 
 poor, and they murmured to themselves that it was time 
 these gentlemen were taught the lesson that they could not 
 knock poor people about just as they chose. The Court was 
 crowded on the day when the trial began, and a whole posse 
 of London reporters were present, as well as numberless 
 artists to sketch the faces of prisoner and counsel and wit- 
 nesses alike. 
 
 Frank looked pale and worn, but was perfectly com- 
 posed. The first part of the evidence was given by doctors, 
 servants and labourers, and related to the finding of the 
 body, medical details, and matters of that sort. There w T as 
 no great interest felt until the chief witness (as she was felt 
 to be) was called, and Alys Lorimer came into the witness- 
 box. 
 
 Frank started and turned eagerly towards her as she ap- 
 peared. He was mistaken if he thought that she would look 
 at him: she did not turn her eyes his way at all. She was 
 looking very pale, but more self-possessed than her friends 
 had expected her to be. Edmund was near her in Court; 
 and once, Frank noticed with a jealous pang, he smiled at 
 her encouragingly. What right had he to smile at her ? 
 Did she not, after all, belong to him, and to him alone ? He 
 was soon to be disabused upon this point. 
 
 Alys told her story, in answer to skilfully managed 
 questions, with a clearness and conciseness which she owed 
 in part to Edmund, who had taken care to drill her a little 
 as to her manner of speech. She did not show any feeling 
 or prepossession either way, until it came to the cross- 
 examination ; and then a certain bias gradually revealed 
 itself. 
 
 " Was the prisoner merely defending himself ? " she was 
 asked. "I mean"— as Alys looked perplexed— u was he 
 warding off blows, or returning them ? " 
 
 " He was returning them," said Alys, readily. 
 
 " Did you see a knife in his hand ? " 
 
 " I saw a knife— I don't know whether it was his or not." 
 
 " Was it in Zadock Verrall's hand, do you think ? " 
 
198 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " It might have been." 
 
 " You are not sure ? " 
 
 u No, I am not sure." 
 
 " It might " — insinuatingly — " have been in the prisoner's 
 hand ? " 
 
 "I think" — she spoke faintly — "it might." 
 
 Frank turned and looked at her. There was agony in 
 his eyes. Oh, surely she knew that he had never used a 
 knife — that it was Zadock who had rushed forward with 
 it in his hand! Was it possible that she should not 
 know ? 
 
 " Was it your impression that the prisoner had lost his 
 temper ? " 
 
 "I don't know — I think so. Perhaps he could not help 
 it," said Alys, naively. 
 
 " Did it not look so to you ? " asked the lawyer signifi- 
 cantly. He knew pretty well the answer that he would 
 provoke. Even yet it was a subject over which Alys in- 
 variably lost her self-control. 
 
 tf Oh, it was terrible ! " she cried, forgetting the listeners, 
 forgetting the Court, forgetting Frank himself. "I never 
 saw anything so dreadful before. I thought they would 
 both be killed." 
 
 "But you do not think that the prisoner — Mr. Moor — is 
 the sort of man who would unnecessarily commit violence, 
 I suppose ? " said the counsel, smoothly. 
 
 Dead silence. Alys hung her head. Some one inter- 
 posed, and the question was not pressed. It was observed 
 that Frank Moor suddenly turned very pale. 
 
 " Look at the prisoner. You were walking by the tarn 
 with him, you say ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The eyes met for the first time since the lovers had kissed 
 each other on the bank above the tarn. There was heart- 
 broken despair in Frank's expression : there was fear and 
 repugnance in every line of Alys's face. 
 
 " You were engaged to him then ? " 
 
 "Yes. I suppose so." 
 
THE TRIAL. I99 
 
 " You are engaged to him now ? " 
 " Oh, no, no, no ! " 
 
 " I think that is all I need ask you, Miss Lorimer," said 
 the lawyer, slipping back into his seat with a smile. Her 
 repudiation of an engagement had been the most damaging 
 thing to Frank that he could have desired ; and as he quite 
 persuaded himself of Frank's guilty motives and desire to get 
 rid of Zadock, he was rather pleased with himself for having 
 brought her to this admission. 
 
 Later in the day Lisbeth Verrall was called — chiefly as a 
 matter of form, and to give evidence about the finding of 
 Zadock's body, and the time at which Frank and Alys 
 started together from Quest. She was questioned about the 
 mysterious knife which had been found in Zadock's side ; 
 but she knew nothing of it. Perhaps only Edmund 
 Creighton could have actually declared with certainty that 
 that knife had been in Zadock's possession some days before 
 his death. And Edmund Creighton sat quietly in the Court 
 and held his tongue. 
 
 "You have known the prisoner a long time, I believe ?" 
 some one was saying to Lisbeth. 
 
 " Almost all my life." 
 
 " You were on friendly terms with him ? " 
 
 " I was. We have always been proud of the friendship 
 of the Moors of Moor End." 
 
 There was a ring in Lisbeth's voice which made every- 
 body look up. This was no shrinking, frightened witness, 
 like Alys Lorimer: this was a woman who positively wanted 
 to have her say. 
 
 " Was the prisoner on friendly terms with Zadock Ver- 
 rall?" 
 
 u Yes, generally. He was very kind to him." 
 
 " But lately, that was not so, was it ? " 
 
 " Mr. Moor was always kind to Zadock : but lately Zadock 
 took a dislike to him." 
 
 " Now, what was that for ? " 
 
 "He took fancies sometimes." 
 
 " And what was this particular fancy ? " 
 
200 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 Lisbetli set her teeth. " He thought I was vexed at see- 
 ing Mr. Moor and my sister so much together." 
 
 " And you were vexed — perhaps." 
 
 "Yes — I thought it unsuitable." 
 
 " You were not vexed on your own account ? " 
 
 Lisbeth looked annoyed. "I do not understand you," 
 she said, simply. 
 
 " Is it not a fact that Mr. Moor once paid some attention 
 to yourself ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Lisbeth, quietly, " that is a fact." 
 
 " Perhaps you — unintentionally — suggested to your — 
 your cousin — no, uncle, was it not ? — that he should punish 
 Mr. Moor for his unfaithfulness ? " 
 
 " Certainly not," said Lisbeth, with decision. " I had too 
 great a regard for Mr. Moor to think of such a thing." 
 
 " A regard ? An affection, in fact ? " 
 
 There was a breathless stillness in the Court for a mo- 
 ment or two, while Lisbeth hesitated. Then she lifted up 
 her face, with a light upon it such as few had ever seen 
 before. 
 
 " I had a great affection for Mr. Moor, and I have it still," 
 she said. " I believe him to be one of the gentlest and best 
 men that ever trod the face of the earth, and that he would 
 have willingly died to save me or mine from injury." 
 
 They did not ask Lisbeth any more questions. She looked 
 at Frank before he left the box, and her eyes were brimming 
 with love that knew no bounds. 
 
 " That first girl did her best to hang him," said one re- 
 porter to another. "But the second one has turned the 
 scale." 
 
 " Has she ? " said his friend. " They can't hang for man- 
 slaughter, of course. But she won't get him off alto- 
 gether." 
 
 "No; but there'll be a light sentence," said the first. 
 
 Was it light ? Lisbeth did not think so, when she heard 
 what the judge and jury had to say. 
 
 "Guilty of manslaughter, but recommended to mercy," 
 rang in her ears for days. 
 
HIS WIFE. 201 
 
 Sentence: two years' imprisonment, with, hard labour. 
 To Francis Moor it seemed worse than death. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 HIS WIFE. 
 
 Alys, shrinking and cowering in the carriage which con- 
 veyed her and Lisbeth back to Quest from tne Crosthwaite 
 Station after the trial, would willingly have been anywhere 
 else. In the railway compartment she had been supported 
 by Edmund's presence, but Edmund had taken leave of them 
 at the station, and she was obliged to drive up to Quest with 
 her stepsister. Lisbeth had not spoken to her since they 
 left the Court. Alys had turned faint, and then become 
 hysterical, and Lisbeth had tended her as carefully and 
 gently as possible ; but she had not said a word, and her face 
 had been curiously white and set. She had not heard Alys's 
 evidence given, but she knew from others of its general tenor, 
 and she did not feel tenderly towards the girl. 
 
 She was herself too reticent and self-contained to see that 
 her silence might be the severest condemnation. She was 
 almost startled when Alys suddenly touched her knee with 
 a shaking hand, and cried out— 
 
 " Oh, Lisbeth, do speak to me ! " 
 
 Lisbeth turned and looked at her. "I have nothing to 
 say," she answered, hardly knowing the coldness of her tone. 
 
 " You are angry with me. . . . Yet what could I do ? 
 ... I could not say anything but the truth— as I knew 
 it " 
 
 "No, I suppose not. And yet," said Lisbeth, turning 
 away her face, "no woman would have spoken as you did, 
 if she had loved a man." 
 
 " I don't love him," said Alys, quivering. " I can't ! " 
 
 Lisbeth said nothing. It was difficult to speak while the 
 carriage was passing along the stony road, and even more 
 
202 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 difficult to know what to say. She would willingly have 
 deferred the subject for ever. A great gulf seemed to have 
 opened between herself and Alys; the sisters were separated 
 now, as neither distance nor prejudice had ever separated 
 them before. 
 
 But when they were in the house, it was Alys, timid as 
 she usually was, who reopened the conversation. She seemed 
 to have a feverish desire to make her position clear. 
 
 " You blame me, 1 ' she said, with sudden passion, " and I 
 don't see why." 
 
 " I have not said I blamed you." 
 
 " You look it. I feel it. You are not kind to me." 
 
 u Oh, what does it matter," cried Lisbeth, desolately, 
 " whether I am kind or not ? If you have done what you 
 think right, the matter is over for you. I can only think 
 of him — alone and miserable, and knowing that you do not 
 care " 
 
 She stopped short, seated herself, and rested her face on 
 her hands, her elbows on her knees. Alys watched her with 
 stupefaction; it was seldom that Lisbeth was seen to cry, but 
 she was crying now. 
 
 She drew closer to her sister, and finally knelt down be- 
 side her, the tears flowing over her pale cheeks too. 
 
 u You loved him," she said at last, very softly. 
 
 " I love him still. I do not change." 
 
 " I cannot help it," Alys moaned. " I wish — I wish I 
 did not change. But I can't help it. I loved him once — but 
 now " 
 
 " You never loved him," said Lisbeth, sternly, lifting a 
 tear-stained face from her hands. " Never ! never ! If you 
 had loved him at all, you would not have forsaken him in 
 the time of his sorrow." 
 
 Alys shrank away. " I can't help it. I am very sorry — 
 very sorry for him, but I cannot care for him in the way I 
 used to do. It is all so dreadful— so different ! He is not 
 the same to me. " 
 
 Lisbeth gazed at her with searching, uncomprehending 
 eyes. She could not understand Alys's nature : its want of 
 
HIS WIFE. 203 
 
 depth was more bewildering to her than any other mani- 
 festation could have been. For Frank's sake, she even con- 
 descended to argue, to implore. 
 
 " But don't you see," she said, " that it was an accident, 
 such as might have happened to any man ? In the eye of 
 the law he may seem guilty, but we know that he is not 
 guilty in the eye of God ! Is that nothing ? I thought it 
 was for us who loved him to uphold him, and show our trust 
 in him before the whole world. Oh, it is very hard on him 
 if those he loves best do not take him for what he is, and not 
 for what he seems to the outside world." 
 
 " I cannot help it," said Alys, with a kind of doggedness 
 which seemed incongruous with her gentle face and fragile 
 form. " I cannot help it. I shall never be able to forget 
 how I saw him struggling with Zadock — lifting his hand to 
 strike him — pushing him backward into the tarn. You pro- 
 fessed to love Zadock. I cannot understand how you defend 
 his — murderer." 
 
 " You know as well as I do that Frank never had a mur- 
 derous thought," said Lisbeth, bitterly. " But it is no use 
 talking — you do not love him — you never loved him, and I 
 should be glad of that if it were not for his pain ; but do 
 you never think how he must suffer — how he must be suffer- 
 ing now ? " 
 
 Alys uttered a little cry, and hid her face. " I know," 
 she said, " and I can't help it. I wish I could. If I could 
 love him, I would. But I can't — indeed, I can't." And she 
 shuddered and cried like a frightened child. 
 
 Lisbeth looked at her and drew a long breath. Then she 
 seemed to give up the contest. Her face changed and soft- 
 ened, while it retained its expression of unutterable sadness, 
 and, after a pause, she touched Alys's fair head with her 
 hand, and said, mournfully, but not unkindly — 
 
 " I see — it is no use talking about it. We are different 
 — you and I. He must forget you, and you must forget 
 him." 
 
 " I must go away," said Alys, looking up eagerly. " You 
 won't think it unkind of me if I go away, Lisbeth ? " 
 
204 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " No ; it would be best. But where will you go ? " 
 
 "I don't kuow — I don't care. Anywhere— away from 
 here: out of sight of those dreadful hills." 
 
 Even in the midst of Lisbeth's deep-seated sorrow, the 
 slighting reference to her beloved hills hurt and vexed her 
 a little. To her mind, there was nothing so beautiful in all 
 the world as the bare hill-sides which she looked on every 
 day. But Alys, as she had said, was " different " ; and Lis- 
 beth, forbearingly, made no reply. 
 
 They did not continue the conversation. Alys was worn 
 out and went to bed; Lisbeth sat up half the night, with 
 hands clasped tightly before her and eyes fixed upon the 
 fire, trying to read the riddle of her life aright, and — an 
 even more difficult task — the riddle of other lives besides 
 her own. She gave it up at last as an impossible proceed- 
 ing; but even when she had lain down in her bed, she lay 
 awake, her eyes wide open, her imagination busy in the 
 darkness with pictures of Frank in his lonely cell, of Alys 
 and herself living side by side, but divided for ever in heart 
 and mind by the love of one, the hatred of the other. Life 
 seemed dreary to Lisbeth in those dark midnight hours. 
 
 She was not surprised to hear next morning that Mr. 
 Creighton had called to see Miss Lorimer. It was only 
 natural that Alys should turn in her distress to old friends. 
 Yet, as she went about her work, she was conscious of 
 a shrinking dread of the things that she fancied Alys 
 must be saying to Mr. Creighton about Frank. It seemed 
 to her as though she knew — although she could not hear 
 with her bodily ears — that they were speaking of him in 
 ways that it hurt her to think of, hurt her to suspect. 
 
 She was probably right. Neither Alys nor Edmund had 
 much conception of the cruelty of their own judgment, nor 
 of the coldness of their own hearts. Edmund prided him- 
 self on his clear sense of justice: Alys on her sensitive 
 nature, on her fastidious delicacy and refinement. And, of 
 course, their conclusions were not such as would have 
 soothed or pleased the loyal, loving, steadfast woman who 
 reigned as mistress of Quest. 
 
HIS WIFE. 205 
 
 Edmund went forward eagerly to meet Alys, and bowed 
 over her hand with almost exaggerated respect. She was 
 very pale, very subdued— to his mind, more beautiful, more 
 interesting than ever. Her eyes looked at him pathetically : 
 he felt a thrill of increased affection, of renewed fervour, as 
 he met their glance. He led her to her seat, and arranged 
 the cushions at her back as deferentially as if she had been 
 a princess. And yet, all the time he was conscious of acting 
 King Cophetua to the beggar maid ! 
 
 u You must be tired: you must be worn out," he said, 
 gently. "I am almost surprised to find you downstairs 
 at all" 
 
 " I could not rest. And I thought— I hoped— to see you." 
 
 " Ah, I am glad that you think of me as a friend." 
 
 " If I had not you, I do not know what other I should 
 have," said Alys, the tears filling her blue eyes. 
 
 "Your stepsister," he began, a little dubiously; but Alys 
 interrupted him at once. 
 
 " She is angry with me, vexed, pained, disappointed. We 
 can never be friends again." 
 
 Edmund looked at her keenly. " You do not mean," he 
 said, as if he could not believe his ears, " that she wants you 
 to think yourself still bound to that man ! " 
 
 u Indeed she does," said Alys, covering her face. " She 
 thinks I am false, fickle, everything that is base and mean. 
 And I cannot help it— indeed, I cannot. I would have been 
 true to him if I could ! " 
 
 " Of course, but the thing has become impossible," said 
 Edmund, in his cool, matter-of-fact tone. " You could not 
 care any longer for a man who behaved so brutally to 
 another, and who has just narrowly escaped hanging ! It 
 is absurd to think of such a thing! " 
 
 u You really think so, Edmund ? You don't call me 
 cowardly and false, do you ? " 
 
 " What a question, Alys ! It is a sheer impossibility for 
 a good, sweet, gentle woman like yourself to love a man 
 who has proved himself such a ruffian. And a convict, 
 too ! Would you like to be a convict's wife, I wonder ? " 
 14 
 
206 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " A convict's wife ! A convict ! Oh, Edmund, how ter- 
 rible!" 
 
 "You should be thankful that you found out that man's 
 character before it was too late. Sux^pose that all this had 
 happened after you married him." 
 
 Alys shrank back ; there was a look of positive horror 
 upon her face. 
 
 " I suppose it would have been my duty then to be true 
 to him," she said, faintly. 
 
 " But it is not your duty now. Courage, Alys ! Your 
 duty is to free yourself determinedly from any shadow of a 
 bond to that wretched man in gaol." 
 
 " I wish I could ! I don't know how." 
 
 " Why ? What binds you to him ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Alys, in a tone of deep distress. 
 " But Lisbeth— Lisbeth " 
 
 She got no further, and Edmund waxed impatient, or 
 thought it well to seem so. 
 
 "Lisbeth! Lisbeth indeed! My dear Alys, let me tell 
 you this : if your sister reproaches you for not being true to 
 him, as I suppose she calls it, she does so only because she 
 wishes herself in your place." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said Alys, her eyes growing- 
 large with surprise. 
 
 " You did not hear her give her evidence at the trial. I 
 did. It was as plain as possible that she was in love with 
 him." 
 
 " In love with Francis Moor ? Oh, Edmund, no ! " 
 
 " Oh, Alys, yes ! She almost said so. She did say she 
 loved him— is it not much the same thing ? and she said it 
 in such a way that no doubt was left on other people's minds 
 as to what she meant. I heard it discussed last night, 
 wherever I went, with considerable freedom ; it is common 
 talk." 
 
 " But he— he was not in love with her." 
 
 " I have been making inquiries, Alys, and I find that on 
 all hands it is believed that he was— or professed to be— in 
 love with her long before you came upon the scene. How 
 
HIS WIFE. 207 
 
 far the affair went is not exactly known to the world ; but it 
 seems pretty certain that he would never have married her." 
 
 " Did he— care — for her ? " 
 
 The words came out tremblingly: it almost seemed as 
 though the girl's jealousy had been aroused and her dying 
 love revived. Edmund hastened to put the matter in the 
 light which he knew would seem worst to her. 
 
 " I don't suppose he cared particularly. He is the sort of 
 man that must always be making love. You were only one 
 of many } I am afraid, dear. There were others besides Miss 
 Verrall." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Alys, with a little cry of pain, and then she 
 covered her face with her hands, and lay back on her chair, 
 while Edmund Creighton watched the tears trickle from be- 
 tween her slender fingers, and felt no pang of compunction 
 at the sight. 
 
 When she had wept for some few minutes, however, he 
 thought it time to interfere. 
 
 " Would it not be better," he said, softly, " to forget the 
 existence of that wretched man altogether ? He was always 
 utterly unworthy of you, and now you know it ! I would 
 never think of him again ! " 
 
 " I shall be obliged to remember him," murmured Alys, 
 " so long as I stay here." 
 
 Edmund's eye flashed. He drew nearer, and put his 
 hand on the arm of her chair. 
 
 " Don't stay here, then." 
 
 " I have nowhere else to go." 
 
 " Oh, yes, you have, Alys. My home is ready for you. 
 My heart is ready. You have only to fly there, and you will 
 be at rest, you poor little tired bird ! " 
 
 He drew her hand into his, and fondled it. She sub- 
 mitted uncomplainingly, with a dawning look of quietness 
 upon her face. 
 
 "Alys," he said, "Alys— my darling— you will come with 
 me?" 
 
 His words seemed to break the spell that enfolded her. 
 She drew her hand away, and hid her face again. 
 
208 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " Oh, I can't! I can't! It is so soon! What would Lis- 
 beth say ? " 
 
 And then Edmund knew that his cause was as good as 
 won. 
 
 Kneeling down beside her, and taking her hand once 
 more in his own, he used all the powers of his practised 
 speech to persuade her that her best course was to give her- 
 self to him, to marry him at once. What Lisbeth thought 
 or said mattered very little — would matter not at all when 
 once Alys was his wife. 
 
 "And otherwise," he said, " what will become of you, my 
 darling ? I cannot go away and leave you to bear all the 
 cold and discomfort of the year. You will have dark looks 
 from your step-sister." Alys tried to contradict this state- 
 ment, but he would not hear. u No one will be kind and 
 loving to you: you will have a drearier time than I can even 
 bear to picture. Don't give yourself that unnecessary suf- 
 fering, sweet one: promise that you will be mine, and I 
 shall be content." 
 
 And so at last she promised, as he had known for some 
 time that she would. 
 
 u But it cannot be at once," she protested, after a time. 
 
 " I do not see any reason why it should not be to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, Edmund ! It would not look well." 
 
 " It would look as well as it possibly could," Edmund 
 averred, cheerfully. " It would be a capital answer to the 
 people who are pitying you now, Alys, for your position. 
 There are people, dear, who pity you — yes, pity you, with 
 the pity that is akin to scorn, and I want you to show these 
 people how utterly they are mistaken. When they hear 
 that you have married me, instead of breaking your heart 
 for a man who was utterly unworthy of you, they will re- 
 spect, not pity, you. And I want my wife to hold her own 
 against the world." 
 
 But on this point Alys could not be quite convinced. All 
 that she would do was to promise that she would become his 
 wife before the summer was over ; but she declared that she 
 could not yet say when. He forebore to press her, for he saw 
 
"GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART." 209 
 
 that he had gone far enough ; and he believed that she should 
 ultimately have her way. 
 
 When he had gone back to the inn, and Lisbeth came 
 into the room with the dainty lunch which she had prepared 
 with her own hands for Alys, she was amazed to find the 
 girl flushed, excited, with shining eyes, and a curious look 
 of repressed triumph and determination upon her face. 
 
 " You have talked too much. I thought that Mr. Creigh- 
 ton was here a long time," said Lisbeth, with motherly 
 anxiety. 
 
 " Oh do, I am not tired. It has done me good." 
 
 " Did he bring any news ?" 
 
 "News? No, none." 
 
 u I though, perhaps, he had something special to say — he 
 stayed so long." 
 
 " He had something special to say," Alys answered, al- 
 most defiantly. ll I may as well tell you now as later : he 
 came to ask me to be his wife." 
 
 Lisbeth turned and looked at her. " What did you say ? " 
 she asked, in a choking voice. 
 
 "I told him that I would— before the summer was out." 
 
 Then Lisbeth threw up her hands, with a gesture of de- 
 spairing appeal against the hardness of her sister's tone. 
 
 "May God forgive you, then, Alys Lorimer! " she cried; 
 "for you will have broken Frank Moor's heart." 
 
 " And what is that to me ? " said Alys, with a coldness 
 which perhaps she did not feel. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 "good-bye, sweetheart." 
 
 One interview. One last miserable half-hour before the 
 prison wall closed round him entirely, and he was practic- 
 ally lost to life and hope for a space of weary months and 
 years. Lisbeth was too unhappy to take comfort even from 
 
210 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 the thought that she was once more in the presence of the 
 man she loved. 
 
 He was haggard and pale ; but he looked at her with a 
 brave smile, and thanked her for her visit. 
 
 " It was good of you to come," he said. " I hardly ex- 
 pected it." 
 
 " You did not expect that I should desert you in your 
 trouble, did you ? " said Lisbeth, in a low voice. 
 
 "I don't know — people are so different," he said, hesitat- 
 ingly. u My mother has not given me up — but " 
 
 He came to a full stop, and Lisbeth knew that he thought 
 of Alys. 
 
 "Tell me of her" he broke out impetuously. "Is she 
 well ? " 
 
 u Yes." 
 
 " All this has been a great strain on her, no doubt. She 
 is so delicate. Has she been ill ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Why do you answer in monosyllables, Lisbeth ? "What 
 is the matter ? What is wrong ? " 
 
 *' I do not know that I can say that anything is exactly 
 wrong. Only — I suppose you know— that Alys " 
 
 " She has given me up. I knew that, from the way she 
 gave her evidence. There is something else. Be quick, 
 Lisbeth ! " 
 
 " She wanted me to tell you," said Lisbeth, in trembling 
 accents. " But I said I did not know how. She never loved 
 you, Frank, or she would not have changed so completely — 
 have promised another so soon " 
 
 Frank's face suddenly grew white. " Already ? She has 
 promised to marry another man ? " 
 
 "Yes. Mr. Creighton." 
 
 "Ah!" He let his face fall upon his hands, and re- 
 mained silent for a little time: when he looked up again, 
 it was grey with a dull despair. 
 
 "It does seem almost impossible, does it not?" he said, 
 with a strange low laugh, which was almost a sob, and 
 brought the tears into Lisbeth's eyes. " I can hardly be- 
 
"GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART." 211 
 
 lieve it. Perhaps she does not know her own mind — per- 
 haps she will change again." 
 
 " I do not think so." 
 
 He turned his face away, and sat very still. Lisbeth 
 reached out her hand, and laid it on his arm in token of 
 sympathy. 
 
 "Thank you," he said, by and by, in a tone that was 
 barely audible. " Yon are very good to me, Lisbeth. I 
 seem to have lost all feeling for myself just now: I am nei- 
 ther glad nor sorry for anything that happens." 
 
 "That will pass off." 
 
 " Well, I am not anxious for it to pass off. It will be 
 a wretched time for me, I suppose, when it does. Two 
 years ! " 
 
 " Yon will remember," said Lisbeth, quietly, " that there 
 are friends waiting to welcome you when you come out ? 
 You will not forget us ? " 
 
 He looked at her, and was silent for a minute or two. 
 "My life in England will be ended when I come out again," 
 he said. 
 
 " Only to begin somewhere else." 
 
 " Yes— some where else." There was a suggestiveness in 
 the tone that made Lisbeth's blood run cold. 
 
 " Frank, promise me that you will come back to your 
 mother, and once, at least, to Quest." 
 
 He hesitated : she saw that he had some difficulty in giv- 
 ing her his word. All the more earnestly she pleaded for it. 
 A promise of that kind might make a great difference to him 
 when he had to face the world once more. 
 
 "I cannot refuse you anything," he said to her at last, in 
 a saddened tone. " Yes, Lisbeth, I promise. I will come 
 back — once, at any rate, to Quest. " 
 
 Then there was a silence, during which time he looked 
 absently at the wall, as if absorbed in thought, and Lisbeth 
 stealthily coned every lineament of the worn, melancholy 
 face, as if she wanted to know it thoroughly by heart. 
 
 " I wanted to thank you," he said, when the silence had 
 lasted a little time, " for the kind way in which you spoke of 
 
212 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 me in court. I am told that it made a great deal of differ- 
 ence. ... I am much obliged to you." 
 
 Lisbeth's face grew hot. She was under the impression 
 that her words had formed an unmistakable confession of 
 love, such as nobody could mistake; and she did not know 
 that it had sounded to Frank only like a tender and touch- 
 ing acknowledgment of past friendship. 
 
 "I thought, 1 ' he went on, "that you would have given 
 me up — that you would never say again that we were 
 friends; but you do not so readily dispose of the old ties, do 
 you, Lisbeth ? As my mother says, you, at least, are true as 
 steel." 
 
 " Does Lady Adela say that ? " 
 
 " Indeed she does. She will thank you herself some day. 
 You know — as I do — Lisbeth, that I would never have hurt 
 that poor fellow Zadock if I could have helped it ! It was 
 all a matter of self-defence — although it ended so un- 
 happily." 
 
 " I never blamed you, Frank." 
 
 "God bless you, Lisbeth, for saying so." 
 
 Then their hands met in a long, close clasp, and for a 
 moment they looked into each other's eyes. Francis Moor, 
 absorbed in his own sorrow, in the ruin and disgrace of his 
 life, had not hitherto given any great attention to Lisbeth's 
 appearance or demeanour. It suddenly struck him now, in 
 a vague, tentative fashion, that her face was different, that 
 her eyes looked as if she had known sorrow too. There was 
 deep, passionate, yearning pain in those beautiful dark eyes 
 of hers — a pain that haunted him at times long afterwards 
 in the silent hours of the night — but which did not of itself 
 reveal to him the love that gave it birth. 
 
 The short visit was soon concluded. Lisbeth bade him 
 farewell with such calmness as she had at her command: 
 but in spite of her dislike to tears, they fell over her cheeks 
 one by one as she rose up to go. Frank was less affected 
 than she was. He looked at her with a dull envy of her 
 tears. " Ah, you can cry," he said. '" If I were a little less 
 miserable I almost think I should cry too." 
 
"GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART." 213 
 
 Somehow the words stopped Lisbeth's tears. 
 
 She went back to Quest, feeling that nobody in the whole 
 wide world could be more miserable than herself. 
 
 She was not in charity with Alys. There was a sort of 
 bitter contempt in her mind for the girl that could not be 
 true to her lover in the hour of adversity. She wished with 
 all her heart and soul that she had never tried to find 
 her sister out, never been kind to her, never invited her to 
 Quest. 
 
 Nevertheless, she tried to be just and generous. It was 
 plain that Alys was not of the stuff of which heroines are 
 made. Well, was it her fault ? And was it not better that 
 her weakness should be discovered now, rather than in the 
 days after marriage, when she could not rid herself of Frank 
 so easily ? Even had the course of her love run pretty 
 smooth, Lisbeth knew that she would have had a good deal 
 to put up with as Frank's wife; and perhaps the trial would 
 have been too much for her. There would have been the 
 difficulty of getting on with Lady Adela, whose disappoint- 
 ment at her son's choice could not have been concealed: 
 there would be the bugbear of comparative poverty; and 
 last, but not least, there would have been Frank's dreamy, 
 unpractical, melancholic temperament, which was not of 
 the kind, perhaps, to bring happiness to the heart of a deli- 
 cate and sensitive girl. Lisbeth acknowledged all this to 
 herself, and then sighed. If only the rupture had been 
 brought about in a less tragic and sinister way ! 
 
 Looking out of her window, she saw that Edmund 
 Creighton had come to the house again, and was standing 
 at the door. In a moment or two she heard his steps in the 
 passage, and knew that he had joined Atys in the parlour. 
 A murmur of their voices penetrated to her ear, as she stood 
 in the room above, and made her heart swell with anger. 
 What business had they to flaunt their love-making under 
 her very eyes ? They must know — x\lys at least must know 
 — how intolerably painful it was to her. Alys must go 
 away from Quest, if this was the way in which she was 
 going to behave. 
 
214 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 Then a sudden revulsion of feeling came over her. Her 
 eyes filled with tears. u God forgive me ! " she said to her- 
 self. " Why have I grown so selfish ? Is my pain to be the 
 first consideration in the world ? She is my sister : I must 
 do the best I can for her. Frank would not wish me to be 
 unkind. Oh, I have grown very selfish, very hard, in the 
 last few weeks; but it seems to me as if all my troubles 
 came from the hands of those I love best, of those who are 
 nearest to me. 'It is very hard to bear/' 
 
 She sank into a chair and hid her face in her hands for a 
 little while, with a sort of abandonment of herself to grief, 
 which had not often occurred in Lisbeth's life. By and by 
 she slid from the chair to the floor, and remained, silent and 
 kneeling, for some time. She was going through one of 
 those crises in life where the only peace and safety and 
 strength lies in faith in an Unseen Guide, where the dark- 
 ness and tumult on every side would daunt and destroy if 
 the soul had no vision of a heavenly light. 
 
 Peace and strength came to her in some fashion, and 
 enabled her to confront Alys later in the day with perfect 
 gentleness, although of a grave and regretful kind. Alys 
 looked at her wistfully, and did not seem to know how to 
 respond. Lisbeth's coldness, since her engagement to Mr. 
 Creighton, had weighed greatly upon the girl's spirits. 
 Even Edmund's attempts at encouragement had failed to 
 make her brave. By this time she looked so white and ill 
 that Lisbeth's innate motherliness leaped up like a flame. 
 
 " My dear," she said, putting her hand gently on Alys's 
 shoulder, "you don't look well. Is anything troubling 
 you?" 
 
 The question hardly needed a reply. There was plenty 
 to trouble her, as Alys thought; but she accepted it as an 
 invitation to cast herself once more into Lisbeth's arms, and 
 cry her heart out on Lisbeth's bosom. 
 
 " Poor little lass ! " said Lisbeth, stroking the soft golden 
 hair. " Poor, bonny little lass ! We've all been in such 
 trouble that I've half forgotten to look after thee. What's 
 wrong, dearie ? " 
 
"GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART." 215 
 
 * " Oh, Lisheth, I thought you were never going to love 
 me again ! " 
 
 " I shall always love my little sister," said Lisbeth, slow- 
 ly, but fervently, as if she were making a solemn vow of 
 faithfulness. " I shall always do my best for her, and help 
 her as far as I can. What is it now, Alys ? Why do you 
 seem so unhappy ? " 
 
 a There are a great many reasons," said Alys, a little 
 confusedly. Then, hiding her face again, she added: u Mr. 
 Creighton is going back to London." 
 
 " I suppose he must go, sooner or later." 
 
 " Yes; but— I feel so lonely. Nobody here cares for me. 
 And I am afraid." 
 
 " Afraid ! What are you afraid of ? " said Lisbeth, whose 
 eyes had grown sombre, although her voice was gentle 
 
 still. 
 
 She was prepared for any sort of self-blame and remorse. 
 She expected to hear that Quest was too full of sad memo- 
 ries, perhaps that Alys had dreamt of Zadock, and fancied 
 his ghost lyiug in wait for her at every corner. With any 
 such dark, bizarre freak of the imagination Lisbeth would 
 have sympathised. In the long dark evenings she herself 
 had sometimes fancied that Zadock " walked." She would 
 think more highly of Alys if she could believe that the girl 
 was awake enough upon the spiritual side to feel these 
 things. 
 
 But Alys's concern was for matters material. 
 
 "It is so cold here, Lisbeth," she said. "Edmund is 
 afraid that I shall be ill if I stay. The winds are so keen ; 
 he says that they are keen enough to kill a delicate person 
 in the spring." 
 
 Lisbeth felt herself silenced, repelled. After all the 
 occurrences of the past few weeks, could Alys thiok of 
 nothing but her own health ? Perhaps, however, she re- 
 flected, this way of expressing herself was a blind : she did 
 not want to say how painful the neighbourhood of Quest 
 had become to her. It was curious that Lisbeth, who looked 
 so much stronger and less sensitive than Alys, should have 
 
216 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 the finer sense, the more delicate perception of the two ; but 
 it was the case. 
 
 " Now, when I have really a chance of happiness," said 
 Alys, " it would be terrible to lose it— just through an east 
 wind or a long spell of cold weather." 
 
 " But you could not lose it in that way, unless it were 
 the will of God," said Lisbeth, simply. 
 
 u Oh," said Alys, shrinking a little, "you do put things 
 so strangely, Lisbeth ! Of course, I mean — speaking in the 
 ordinary w T ay— humanly speaking, as people say, that it is a 
 risk for me to stay— that is all. And I feel afraid." 
 
 Lisbeth was silent for a minute or two, and looked at 
 Alys with earnest, scrutinising gentleness. Then she said — 
 
 " Do you mean that Mr. Creighton wants you to marry 
 him at once, Alys ? " 
 
 "No, not quite at once," said Alys, colouring; "but in 
 the summer time, when he is free, and we can go away. 
 He wanted it to be at once, Lisbeth ; but I thought it seemed 
 so heartless — so unkind." 
 
 Lisbeth's lips moved, but she did not answer. 
 
 " I refused to let it be so soon," Alys continued — it was 
 evident that she valued herself a little on account of the re- 
 fusal — "and he is very much distressed — chiefly, of course, 
 because of my health, as he says that this place is so much 
 too cold for me." 
 
 " His mother will, perhaps, invite you there again," said 
 Lisbeth, coldly. 
 
 "Oh, Lisbeth! I could not go there, when Mrs. Creigh- 
 ton behaved so unkindly to me " 
 
 " Are there any other friends with whom you could go 
 and stay ? " 
 
 " None. Papa would not let me make friends. There is 
 only you, Lisbeth." 
 
 "And my home," said Lisbeth, gravely, " is at Quest." 
 
 Alys's eyes filled with tears again. " I know," she said, 
 in a tone of deep depression. " I know. But it is killing 
 me." 
 
 "I will ask the doctor to look at you," said Lisbeth, 
 
"GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART." 217 
 
 yielding a little at the girl's mournfulness of tone. " And 
 we will see what he says. If Quest is really too cold for 
 you " 
 
 " Oh, Lisbeth, Edmund says it is a matter of life and 
 death,' 1 cried Alys, eagerly. 
 
 " We shall see," Lisbeth answered ; and shut her lips so 
 tightly that Alys was not encouraged to say anything more. 
 
 Miss Verrall was not pleased with the part which Ed- 
 mund Creighton seemed to be playing at present. So little 
 was she pleased with it that she resolved at last to express 
 her displeasure; and when she had disposed of Alys in bed 
 that night— for Alys always went to rest early— she put on 
 her long cloak and hood, took a lantern in her hand, and 
 swung steadily down the dark road to the hotel at Cros- 
 thwaite where she knew that Edmund was staying. 
 
 Mr. Creighton was astonished and not particularly de- 
 lighted to see her. He was sitting in a private parlour, read- 
 ing a book : which was rather a surprise to Lisbeth, who ex- 
 pected to find him playing billiards, or standing in the bar, 
 " like other young men.'' She had not fathomed the extent 
 of Edmund's fastidiousness, or of his love for conventional 
 respectability. 
 
 u What can I do for you, Miss Verrall ? " he asked, po- 
 litely. 
 
 u It is just this," said Lisbeth, refusing the offered seat, 
 and facing him with the hood pushed back from her fine 
 head, and her dark hair all blown about her eyes; " I want 
 to know w T hy you are frightening Alys about her health." 
 
 " I am not frightening her, I hope, more than is neces- 
 sary. I sincerely want her to take care of herself." 
 
 " Quest is one of the healthiest places in the world." 
 
 11 But also one of the coldest. Pardon me if I say that I 
 do not think you understand the delicacy of Miss Lorimer's 
 constitution. She is like an exotic plant, cultivated in the 
 hot- house, and now thrust out into the w T intry cold. Is it 
 not likely that I should be anxious for the result ? " 
 
 " I can take care of her," said Lisbeth, hotly. 
 
 Edmund bowed, with a little sarcasm in his smile. 
 
218 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " I do not want her to come to harm. I want to do what 
 is right for her," said Lisbeth, her composure failing a little. 
 " I wish she would marry you at once ! Then you would 
 have the responsibility." 
 
 " One which I should gladly adopt," he said, smoothly. 
 " But Alys objects ; she seems to think that you would con- 
 sider it unnatural. So soon " 
 
 " I should consider nothing unnatural now that she is 
 engaged to you at all," said Lisbeth, w T ho was always plain 
 spoken. " I understood that her own feeling in the matter 
 prevented her — a very right feeling, too." 
 
 " Oh, certainly. It is a pity that her right feelings are 
 allowed to endanger her health, however," said Mr. Creigh- 
 ton, a little viciously. The two faced each other for a mo- 
 ment with a look of positive enmity. It was not the first 
 time that they had felt themselves foes. But Lisbeth was 
 the first to draw back. 
 
 ,k What can I do to prevent it ? " she said. 
 
 " I am sure I hardly know," said Mr. Oreighton, in his 
 politest tones. Lisbeth could not help noticing that the 
 lines of his face had grown sensibly harder and older in the 
 last few weeks. The change seemed to be intensified, as he 
 proceeded — " It would be an unpardonable insult, I suppose, 
 if I suggested that I should be most happy to bear all ex- 
 pense if she were sent to the Riviera, or even to Bourne- 
 mouth or Ventnor, for the rest of the winter." 
 
 " It would be an insult, indeed, when she has a sister 
 who is perfectly well able and willing to do all for her that 
 ought to be done," said Lisbeth, in a tone of deep indignation 
 and offence. 
 
 Then the interview terminated, and each thought that it 
 had been long enough. Lisbeth walked rapidly back to 
 Quest, and Edmund absorbed himself once more in his book. 
 But, although Lisbeth was very angry with him for the sug- 
 gestion, yet it was one that bore fruit. It was owing to that 
 speech, most probably, that, within ten days, Lisbeth and 
 Alys were on their way to a six weeks' sojourn in the south 
 of France. 
 
MRS. CREIGHTON'S YOUNGEST DAUGHTER. 219 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 MRS. CREIGHTON'S YOUNGEST DAUGHTER. 
 
 While Alys and Lisbeth wandered from town to town 
 in the sunny South, sometimes enjoying themselves, and 
 sometimes only wondering why they did not, Julian Creigh- 
 ton was experiencing all the delights and all the disappoint- 
 ments and fatigues of a first London season. 
 
 Her sisters were out of the way. One was married, and 
 gone abroad : the other refused to live at home, as she did 
 not get on well with her mother. Mrs. Creighton had 
 Julian, therefore, at her command, to mould and shape as 
 well as she was able. Unfortunately, Julian did not lend 
 herself well to being modelled on the pattern of other peo- 
 ple ; and if she had not been so very pretty, her mother 
 would have been hard on her. As it was, she was beautiful 
 in such a novel and striking way: she was so original, so 
 innocently audacious, and yet, as everybody felt, so genuine 
 and sincere, that she was liked as much as she was admired 
 — and that is saying a great deal. 
 
 The Creightons put down to the effect of her beauty the 
 fact that they were at this time much more asked out, and 
 asked to better houses than they had ever been before. Sev- 
 eral people of social importance took notice of Julian, as 
 they had never noticed her sisters. And a certain Lady 
 Maria Lascelles, whom they had known very slightly, con- 
 stituted herself a kind of chaperon to the girl, and took her 
 out with her to great houses where Mrs. Creighton never 
 received an invitation for herself. If that good lady had 
 not been altogether delighted and flattered at her daughter's 
 distinction, she would have been angry to feel herself left 
 out; but the maternal instinct was gratified, and, although 
 Julian had once been the best-snubbed girl of the family, 
 she was now the privileged favourite, and might do and say 
 almost what she liked— so long as it had no reference to her 
 experiences at Quest. 
 
220 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " Please do not talk to me of that dreadful place," her 
 mother said to her. " It was by the merest chance that you 
 did not see the murder committed, and I should like to know 
 who would have invited you out after an appearance of that 
 kind in the witness-box ? " 
 
 " I think it would have been to my advantage rather 
 than otherwise," said Julian. " People like sensations, and 
 I should have been a heroine. But, by-the-by, mamma, it 
 wasn't a murder, you know." 
 
 " If it were not a murder— manslaughter is only a pretty 
 name for it— I should like to know what Francis Moor is in 
 prison for ? " said her mother, frigidly. 
 
 "Alys had to give evidence," Julian was beginning, 
 rather unadvisedly ; but her mother at once cut her short. 
 
 " I would rather not hear anything about Miss Lorimer. 
 I never liked her, and now she is quite out of our set." 
 
 " But isn't Edmund engaged to her," said Julian, calmly. 
 
 "Certainly not. At least, if he is, it is against your 
 father's wishes and mine." 
 
 "His house is very pretty," said Julian. This was a 
 thrust in return for her mother's attack on Alys, which 
 Julian resented; for Mrs. Creighton had never yet been 
 asked to inspect the house which Edmund was furnishing 
 for his bride. But she showed no sign of discomfiture. 
 
 "I have never found time to go over it," she said. 
 "Some day, when we are not busy, we might drive round 
 that way." 
 
 Julian smiled. She knew very well that her mother 
 dared not enter the house without an invitation from her 
 son. Edmund was the one person of whom his mother was 
 slightly afraid. 
 
 " What are you looking at, Julian ? " Mrs. Creighton 
 asked, a moment later. 
 
 u The Academy catalogue, mamma." 
 
 " At the index, apparently. Interesting reading ! " 
 
 " I was trying," said Julian, with a little flush on her 
 cheek, " to find the name of an artist in whom I am inter- 
 ested." 
 
MRS. CREIGIITON'S YOUNGEST DAUGHTER. 221 
 
 "And who is that?" 
 
 "A Mr. John l'Estrange— here he is. Two pictures 
 —ah ! " 
 
 " What is the matter ? " said her mother, struck by the 
 tone of the ejaculation. 
 
 " Nothing." Julian blushed, and looked confused. 
 
 " Nonsense — nothing ! You said ' Ah,' as if you were 
 surprised at something. Nothing is more ill-bred than un- 
 meaning exclamations of that kind." 
 
 " I was only surprised at the subject of the pictures," said 
 Julian, making a little effort over herself. " They are land- 
 scapes: one is called 'Crosthwaite,' and the other 'Below 
 the Tarn.' I think they must be taken from places near 
 Quest," she concluded, demurely. 
 
 Mrs. Oeighton gave herself an impatient shake. Then 
 she asked a question in her driest tone — 
 
 " Does this artist live at Quest ? " 
 
 u Oh, no, mamma. He was staying in the neighbour- 
 hood. Edmund knows him." 
 
 u Edmund may know a good many people whom it is not 
 fitting for you to know," said Mrs. Oeighton, with decision. 
 " Have you seen this man in London ? " 
 
 u No, mamma." 
 
 "That is a good thing. Remember, Julian, if you do 
 meet him, that I desire you not to renew the acquaintance. 
 No doubt you met all sorts of queer people at that place in 
 Cumberland, but there is no reason why you should con- 
 tinue to know them for ever afterwards. Any sort of con- 
 nection with Crosthwaite is objectionable to me, after the 
 late painful and disreputable occurrences near Quest." 
 
 "But Mr. l'Estrange had nothing to do with Quest, 
 mamma." 
 
 '• If by any chance you met him and spoke to him, do 
 you suppose he would not mention Quest ? Of course he 
 would; and it might be very awkward. I do not wish any 
 one to know that you ever stayed there, or have any acquaint- 
 ance with Crosthwaite." 
 
 She spoke majestically, as one who is justified in laying 
 15 
 
222 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 down the law ; but on receiving no answer she glanced up 
 and read rebellion in Julian's face. The girl was standing 
 by a table, on which the Academy catalogue had been laid ; 
 she was looking at the open page, and there was a red flush 
 on her face, a mutinous expression on her open brow. 
 Presently she looked up, pushed the book away, and faced 
 her mother with her hands behind her, quite in the old 
 school-girlish way. 
 
 "Mother," she said— and Julian said "mother" only 
 when she wanted to speak seriously — " I must tell you one 
 thing. I do not think I can promise to obey you. Mr. 
 l'Estrange was very kind to me: he is a great friend of 
 mine; and it I see him I shall most certainly speak to him." 
 
 "Julian!" 
 
 " I am sorry, mamma, but I can't help it. He was kind 
 and good to me ; indeed, 1 think he is one of the best men I 
 ever met; and I cannot be ungrateful. But I will promise 
 you this — that I will not talk of Quest or Crosthwaite so 
 that any one shall overhear me. I will be very careful, but 
 I will not promise not to speak to Mr. l'Estrange." 
 
 "You were always a wilful, undutiful girl, Julian. 
 Well, I shall speak to your father about it, and perhaps you 
 will do what he tells you." 
 
 "I am wilful, I know, but I don't think I am undutiful," 
 said Julian, who was always capable of forming an inde- 
 pendent judgment. " And I warn you, mamma, that what 
 papa says won't make a bit of difference." 
 
 "You are an impertinent girl," said Mrs. Creighton, 
 with dignity, but she said no more; and Julian did not be- 
 lieve that she w T ould speak to her father at all. 
 
 Mrs. Creighton punished her rebellious daughter, how- 
 ever, in a rather ingenious manner — by delaying her visit 
 to the Eoyal Academy as long as possible. Of course, it 
 could not be put off altogether: it was one of the things 
 that had got to be done, but it was put off long enough to 
 make Julian exceedingly impatient. At last it took place ; 
 and as soon as she could the girl found the pictures painted 
 by her friend, and sent (she believed) to the exhibition in 
 
MRS. CREIGHTON'S YOUNGEST DAUGHTER. 223 
 
 deference to her own wishes. She felt a glow of pride in 
 thinking that she could influence the actions of a man of 
 genius like Mr. l'Estrange. 
 
 She was quite sure he was a man of genius. He had im- 
 pressed her with something that she called genius, hut which 
 was possibly only a kind of greatness of nature, such as 
 some few men are born with, and which cannot be acquired. 
 She was not experienced enough to know this : she was only 
 certain of the fact that she admired him, and could account 
 for her admiration in no other way than concluding him to 
 be a man of uncommon talent. But she was a little disap- 
 pointed by the pictures when at last she stood before them. 
 They were pleasant, they were even charming; but they 
 did not strike the eye, and no crowd had collected to admire 
 them. Mrs. Creighton, who noticed, of course, the name of 
 the artist, put up her long-handled eyeglass critically. 
 
 " Well, Julian, I don't see that your friend's pictures are 
 so especially remarkable. You girls think all your geese 
 are swans." She was quite restored to good humour by 
 feeling herself able to make this remark, and she gloried in 
 Julian's crestfallen air. 
 
 " Why do I care ? " the girl said to herself, as she fol- 
 lowed her mother through the crowded rooms. "What 
 does it matter whether his pictures are less remarkable than 
 I thought they were ? It was the man I liked better than 
 his work. I suppose one wonders a little whether in one's 
 inexperience one appraised the man also more highly than 
 was necessary. I was such a child ! " 
 
 It was not ten months ago; but a subtle change had 
 passed over her since then. She was no longer a child, she 
 was a woman, greatly admired, and conscious of her power, 
 although unaffected by the knowledge of it. As yet it did 
 not seem to her possible that she should take any pleasure 
 in knowing that men sighed for a smile from her. 
 
 Indeed, it was all the other way with Julian. There was 
 a young man sighing for her at that moment, and she did 
 not like it at all. That is, she did not like him. And yet 
 he was a most unexceptionable suitor: a young baronet with 
 
224 TnE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 ten thousand a year and a delightful country house : a man 
 who had been '• a little wild," but who would (she was told) 
 make a perfect husband. Mrs. Creighton was always throw- 
 ing her into Sir Harry Glossop's way; and Mr. Creighton 
 asked him genially to dinner. Even Edmund had a good 
 word to say for him ; yet, to Julian's mind, he was woefully 
 stupid, ignorant, foolish, and deficient in all the arts that 
 lend grace and dignity to life. Five minutes talk with Sir 
 Harry made her yawn in his face, for she had no interest in 
 the things which interested him, such as racing, shooting, 
 hunting, fishing, and the like; and then her mother scolded 
 her for being rude, and made her ashamed of herself. And 
 although Sir Harry had not yet k< spoken," his manner was 
 so attentive, his visits w T ere so frequent, and his self-compla- 
 cency so remarkable, that Julian felt sure that he would 
 speak some day. 
 
 u You are going to the Kerouels' to-night, are you not ? " 
 Mrs. Creighton asked of her daughter, as they left the Acad- 
 emy. Her eyes were roving in every direction over the 
 crowd, as though she sought something — or somebody. 
 
 " Of course I am, mamma. You know that," said Julian, 
 a little crossty. 
 
 " Did Lady Maria say that she was going to take a party ? 
 — shall you go alone with her ? " 
 
 " She said something about one or two guests," Julian 
 answered, with reluctance. 
 
 " Did she mention their names, dear ? " said Mrs. Creigh- 
 ton, blandly, but wishing that her daughter would be a 
 little more communicative. 
 
 " She said that Sir Harry Glossop would be there. I don't 
 know of any one else." And Julian pouted. 
 
 " Don't put on such an ill-tempered air," said her mother, 
 reprovingly. u You will enjoy it very much. And if Sir 
 Harry goes with you to the ball, you will be sure of one 
 partner, at any rate." 
 
 " I am always sure of a partner," said Julian, rather pro- 
 vokingly. 
 
 " Ah, you are a conceited child," said Mrs. Creighton, 
 
MRS. CREIGHTON'S YOUNGEST DAUGHTER. 225 
 
 with great satisfaction; and the drive ended with mother 
 and daughter on terms of perfect amity. 
 
 Julian was to dine at Lady Maria's house, and go with 
 her to a great ball afterwards. She pretended not to care 
 very much for the prospect, but in reality she was a little 
 excited by it. She had never been to quite so great and dis- 
 tinguished a party in her life before, and she had an ex- 
 tremely becoming new dress for the occasion. She could 
 not help feeling pleased with her own appearance as she 
 stood before her looking-glass that night, while her maid 
 clasped the shining pearls round her pretty white neck, and 
 Mrs. Creighton stood by with a bouquet of white exotics in 
 her hand. 
 
 u I never saw you look better, Julian," said the mother. 
 
 Privately, Julian agreed with her. The dress suited her 
 admirably. It was of some filmy white substance, draped 
 over white silk, and caught here and there by little trails of 
 small-leaved ivy, the dark green hue of which was peculiarly 
 becoming to her complexion. She had chosen the ivy leaves 
 very much against her mother's wish, but the effect was 
 extremely good; and the dressmaker had brightened it by 
 introducing crystal drops here and there, as if to represent 
 the dews of heaven. Nobody knew that Julian had chosen 
 the ivy in subtle remembrance of those far-off days when 
 she sat beside the tarn, upon a mossy bank, with an ivy- 
 grown ridge of broken earth behind her. She looked like a 
 nymph of the woodlands, with the long, graceful trails of 
 greenery upon her shining dress. 
 
 " This bouquet has just come," said Mrs. Creighton. 
 
 " It is very pretty, but not one bit suitable. This dress 
 wants a simple posy, not a stiff bouquet of hothouse flowers," 
 said Julian, scarcely glancing at the exotics. 
 
 "You must take these: I am afraid it will give such 
 offence if you do not," said Mrs. Creighton in a low tone. 
 
 " Why ? who sent them ? " 
 
 " Sir Harry, of course." 
 
 " Oh, Sir Harry! Well, it doesn't much matter whether 
 he is offended or not, does it ? " said Julian, recklessly. " I 
 
226 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 am not going to spoil the effect of my dress for the sake of 
 his feelings, mamma. I have my own flowers here." 
 
 She produced a much less elaborate nosegay, a bunch of 
 daffodils and ivy, tied with long white ribbons, the ends of 
 which were spangled like the ivy in her dress. " There! 
 that is much more appropriate. I wanted to look like 
 Spring ! " 
 
 " It is not a fancy ball," grumbled Mrs. Creighton. 
 " You will be called eccentric, Julian, if you overdo your 
 simplicity." 
 
 But Lady Maria did not agree with Mrs. Creighton. She 
 was an old lady, and never concealed her opinion of any- 
 body's appearance. 
 
 " Charming, my dear, positively charming," she said. 
 " You make me think of the country and of all sorts of 
 happy things. Was the ivy your own idea ? Then I say 
 that you have a perfect genius for dress. Let us hope that 
 your future station in life "—significantly— " will enable you 
 to gratify it." 
 
 " I am sure I hope it will," said Julian, innocently. " But 
 you know, Lady Maria, white silk is all very well ; but what 
 I really look nice in is a linen frock and a straw r hat and 
 hobnailed boots : you should see me in that costume if you 
 really want to admire me." 
 
 She was laughed at and called a saucy child; but Lady 
 Maria regarded her with approbation, as a young woman 
 who had something to say for herself. Her little grey eyes 
 twinkled as she perceived Sir Harry's open-mouthed admira- 
 tion, but she shook her head a little when he began to make 
 compliments. 
 
 "That won't do," she said to herself. "The girl will 
 never marry a fool." 
 
 And she exerted herself a little to keep Julian beside her, 
 so that she should not fall a victim too easily to the enam- 
 oured baronet. 
 
 The ball was a brilliant success, and Lady Maria was 
 pleased to find that her young charge was generally regarded 
 as the prettiest girl in the room. She danced every dance, 
 
JULIAN'S FRIEND. 227 
 
 and behaved beautifully, returning to her chaperon's side 
 much oftener than is usually the custom of modern young 
 ladies. Lady Maria thoroughly approved of her. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Julian, in one of these brief pauses beside 
 Lady Maria, " there's Mr. l'Estrange ! " 
 
 kk And who is Mr. l'Estrange ? " 
 
 " An artist — a friend of mine — a tall, nice-looking man, 
 standing beside the lady in pink: don't you see ? " 
 
 " No, I don't think so. At least, I see nobody but Lord 
 Raynnete in that direction : he's not the man you mean ? " 
 
 u No, I don't know him : it is an artist whom I used to 
 know. I did not expect to see him here." 
 
 " Ah, well," said Lady Maria, " there are artists and art- 
 ists, you see. Bring your friend to me and introduce him if 
 you like." 
 
 She turned to speak to a neighbour; and Julian, with 
 glowing cheeks and shiny eyes, stood face to face with her 
 old friend, John l'Estrange. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 JULIAN'S FRIEND. 
 
 " I am so glad to see you again," said Julian. She would 
 not deny herself the pleasure of saying so, in spite of her 
 mother's objections to reminiscences of Crosthwaite. 
 
 " I am very glad to meet you, if I may say so," said the 
 man. He looked very well, she thought: handsomer than 
 she had expected ; well set-up, faultlessly dressed, with an 
 air of ease and enjoyment which took her a little aback. It 
 was her bewilderment, perhaps, that made her say, with a 
 gancherie more approaching the manner of the schoolgirl 
 whom he had known, than the belle of a London ball- 
 room 
 
 " I did not expect to meet you here." 
 
 " Did you not ? " he said, looking a trifle amused. " But 
 
228 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 you are right : I don't often frequent these big assemblies. 
 Are you engaged for this dance ? " 
 
 " I ivas" said Julian laughing, " but my partner has for- 
 gotten me, or made a mistake: I see he is dancing with some 
 one else, and casting agonised glances at me over his shoul- 
 der now and then. 1 ' 
 
 She nodded and smiled to some one in the distance, and 
 Mr. l'Estrange followed her glance with his own. 
 
 " Oh, young Glossop : I see. Then you are free ? I may 
 lawfully ask you to dance — or to sit out, if you like it bet- 
 ter » 
 
 11 1 am fond of dancing, but I would rather talk than 
 dance just now," said Julian, frankly. " You see it is not 
 often one meets an old friend." 
 
 " Then you count me an old friend! " 
 
 " Oh, yes, Mr. l'Estrange; you were so kind to me." 
 
 The artist's face underwent two or three changes in the 
 course of Julian's speeches. At first he looked grave, even 
 a little stern and anxious — that was when she spoke of him 
 as an old friend, with a pleasant graciousness that her recent 
 experiences of society had taught her: then his face cleared, 
 so that when she uttered his name and mentioned his kind- 
 ness, a peculiarly bright and gratified expression rested upon 
 it for a time. 
 
 " Will you come and look at the orchids in the conser- 
 vatory ? " he said, offering her his arm. u They are very 
 fine." 
 
 Julian glanced involuntarily at Lady Maria, but her 
 chaperon only nodded at her over her fan, and turned smil- 
 ing eyes of recognition on her companion, who bowed in 
 response. 
 
 " Oh, Lady Maria knows you ? I thought she didn't," 
 Julian blurted out, as she moved away. 
 
 " She had perhaps forgotten. But she has known me a 
 good many years; she has been a good friend to me," said 
 Mr. l'Estrange, quietly. 
 
 " For a moment I hardly knew you myself," said Julian. 
 " Dress makes a great difference— even in a man." 
 
JULIAN'S FRIEND. 220 
 
 " Much greater in a womau," said he. " Perhaps you 
 hardly realise how different your own appearance is — 
 
 from " 
 
 " From when you saw me last. Oh, but I am quite aware 
 of it," said Julian, merrily. " I was in a short cotton frock 
 and a straw hat ; and I had no gloves, I remember, and my 
 hair was all down my back. Oh, I am sure I must look very 
 different — I hope improved, Mr. l'Estrange." 
 
 But at the same time she bethought herself of what she 
 had said to Lady Maria about her own looks in the cotton 
 frock and straw hat; and she dropped her eyes that he 
 might not read the little insincerity, the craving for a harm- 
 less compliment that had suddenly beset her. 
 
 u I don't know — I liked the cotton frock," he said, with a 
 smile; and Julian felt oddly satisfied. She looked up, and 
 all her soul was in her eyes. 
 
 " 1 am glad you say that. I am glad you like the cotton 
 frock best," she said. 
 
 " Why ? " he asked, in a low, moved tone. 
 They had reached a shady and secluded spot in the con- 
 servatory, where a seat for two persons had been arranged 
 behind a screen of tall ferns and blooming plants. The soft 
 glow of rose-shaded electric lights and of the balls of col- 
 oured transparency that called themselves Chinese lanterns, 
 filtered through the shade of greenery and fell in charming 
 tracery of light and shade on the girl's warm whiteness and 
 tender bloom, on her pretty curling hair, and the filmy folds 
 of her snowy draperies. Looking at her, Mr. l'Estrange 
 could not feel quite sure that the cotton frock, after all, be- 
 came her best. 
 
 " Why ? " she said, bending her head over her feath- 
 ered fan, and examining its handle attentively, "oh, be- 
 cause it is in the old frock that I feel real. It is myself 
 that you know in the short frock and straw hat — not the 
 dressed-up young lady with jewels and flowers and fan, 
 which always make me feel as if I were masquerading in 
 things that did not belong to me." She raised her eyes 
 suddenly, and although they were full of laughter, there 
 
230 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 was a pathos behind the laughter which struck her listener 
 to the heart. 
 
 u That is perhaps only because you are not quite used to 
 them yet: you have not been k out ' very long, 1 ' he said. 
 
 u I don't know: I have been out some months now, and 
 I ought to have grown a little used to things, ought I not ? 
 But every time I go to a party, I feel as if I were in ' fancy 
 dress, 1 don't you know ? One has to look in a certain way 
 — not as one feels. If I am feeling serious, you know, 
 mamma will say to me, 'Julian, why don't you smile ? ' or 
 if I try to tell Lady Maria anything that really interests me, 
 she taps my arm with her fan and says, ' Girls don't talk 
 about these things in society, my dear.' So I have to sit 
 still and look pleasant, even if I am sick, sorry, or sad ; and 
 life seems less real every da3 T ." 
 
 " What are the things that really interest you, then ? " 
 
 " May one talk about them at a dance, in a white silk 
 dress? Oh, Mr. l'Estrange, I'm afraid you are no better 
 than I am. Like me. you have not been what Lady Maria 
 calls ' perfectly drilled.' lam interested in dreadfully un- 
 fashionable things. I like to read about strikes — and I gen- 
 erally take the side of the workers, which mamma says is 
 absolutely immoral of me; and I want to know all about 
 women's wages, and why they are ground down. And 
 somebody took me once to see a Creche and an Orphanage, 
 and let me play with the children ; and I wanted to go once 
 or twice every week, but mamma did not think I had time 
 for it, and did not care to hear me talk about it, so it was 
 rather disappointing." 
 
 " Why had you not time for it ? What do you do all 
 day ? " 
 
 " I have singing lessons," said Julian, rather dolorously, 
 " and I keep up my German and my drawing. But mamma 
 wants me very often. I have notes to write for her, and 
 needlework to do; and we pay calls, and drive in the Park, 
 and go out a good deal. Oh. I enjoy it very much : it is all 
 very nice ; but it makes me feel not real — like my dress. It 
 would be real to be poor, and work hard, and wear shabby 
 
JULIAN'S FRIEND. 231 
 
 frocks, like the majority of Englishwomen: it is the ma- 
 jority who are poor, is it not ? — but I have no chance of 
 that, and no doubt I should not like it if I had." 
 
 " No, you would not like it, unless your lot in life gave 
 you a motive for it. Women who live in that way are gen- 
 erally working and striving for somebody they love." 
 
 " I think," said Julian, quickly, " that the reverse is true, 
 too — one generally loves what one works and strives for." 
 
 " Child, where did you get these ideas ? " 
 
 u I don't know. Partly, I think, from some of the things 
 you said to me. Don't you remember ? . . . You made me 
 think and try to understand what life ought to be. But I 
 don't understand, and I don't seem to think rightly," said 
 Julian, with a suddenly clouded brow ; " for everybody says 
 that I am wrong." 
 
 "No; you are on the right road. Love to our fellows — 
 that is one of the keys to the right understanding of life. 
 And the other is — love of God." 
 
 Julian gave him a swift, bright look. " That is what I 
 thought; but in my life the thing that troubles me is that 
 the keys don't unlock anything." 
 
 " Patience ! You will see your way in time. Only don't 
 lose the keys. You know very well that it must be right to 
 keep them in your hands." 
 
 " Yes," said Julian ; but she sighed, and her face was sud- 
 denly overcast. "Sometimes — it seems as if there was a 
 chance of using them— and that one was throwing it away." 
 
 He moved a little uneasily. He wanted to hear more, 
 but scarcely knew how to question. At last he spoke, with 
 great deliberation. 
 
 14 A woman's chances sometimes — perhaps oftenest — come 
 through marriage." 
 
 "Yes," said Julian, drearily. He felt the dreariness in 
 her tone. 
 
 44 But the chance does not come Unless she loves the man 
 she marries." 
 
 " Oh, if only I could be sure of that ! " said the girl, with 
 a tremor in her voice. 
 
232 TnE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " Are you not sure of it ? " 
 
 She turned away her face, and spoke rapidly and un- 
 evenly. " Mamma says that is nonsense. She says I have 
 no business to think whether I care for any one or not, and 
 that every sensible girl leaves things of that sort to be de- 
 cided by her parents." 
 
 u Don't believe it," said Mr. l'Estrange, with sudden 
 warmth. " Decide for yourself, or you will be miserable all 
 your life afterwards." 
 
 She made a nervous little movement of inquiry. 
 
 "I am sure you would. Women who marry because 
 their parents tell them to do so are happy only if they are 
 dolls. Women with hearts and brains and souls soon find 
 out that they have made a great mistake. Their conscience 
 is outraged, their lives desecrated : they have tied themselves 
 to a log which will drag them down for ever; and the bet- 
 ter and loftier their nature the deeper and more lasting will 
 be their sense of shame." 
 
 " Oh, that would be terrible ! " cried Julian. Then, low- 
 ering her voice, she asked—" But should one put one's own 
 benefit before that of another person ? " 
 
 " You mean that you are told that you might help and 
 save another person by sacrificing yourself ? " 
 
 " Something like that." 
 
 " Who made you responsible for any man's soul ? " said 
 Mr. TEstrange, rather sternly. " You are only responsible 
 for your own." 
 
 Julian listened as if fascinated : a tender colour rose in 
 her face, and her eyes had suddenly grown humid. 
 
 " Your first duty is to yourself. You do most good in 
 the world by being true, and pure, and generous, and wise : 
 you do no good to any one by refusing to listen to the dic- 
 tates of your own heart and soul. If you are untrue to 
 yourself, it is useless to think that you can help another." 
 
 " I see," said Julian, simply. 
 
 He paused for a moment or two, and then went on in a 
 different tone, and with an evident effort. 
 
 " I will tell you something— something about a girl I 
 
JULIAN'S FRIEND. 233 
 
 once knew. It was a good many years ago. She married a 
 rich man whom she did not care for, because she thought 
 that it was right to obey her parents. The world praised 
 her, and she herself believed that she had done her duty. 
 But the man was uncongenial — harsh — jealous — inconceiv- 
 ably stupid ; he was angry when he found she did not love 
 him ; and he treated her cruelly. For many years nobody 
 found it out. But— only the other day — she died— of a bro- 
 ken heart." 
 
 " Are you sure ? Did she say so ? " 
 
 He bowed his head: it seemed to Julian that his face had 
 grown strangely pale. "She sent — for a man whom she 
 had once loved, when she was on her death bed, and told 
 him so. She asked him to forgive her for having, as she 
 said, ruined three lives by her own want of courage and 
 truth." 
 
 u And he forgave her ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Was she right ? had she ruined his life, too ?" Julian 
 asked, almost in a whisper. She knew perfectly well that 
 he was speaking of himself. 
 
 He raised his head — and she thought what a noble head 
 it was, and how fine were the lines of his features, the ex- 
 pression upon the grave and somewhat careworn face. 
 
 " No," he said, with a manful ring in his voice, " she did 
 not ruin it: she only overcast it for a time. And with that 
 confession of hers, the bitterness of the pain was taken away ; 
 only — he does not want to see any other bright and beautiful 
 young creature making the same mistake." 
 
 He looked at her so kindly that Julian felt at liberty to 
 give him back a serious and wistful smile. 
 
 u You are very kind to me, Mr. l'Estrange," she said, 
 gently, "and I am very glad that I have spoken to you about 
 some of my perplexities. I am sure that what you have said 
 will help me." 
 
 " I shall be pleased indeed if it does. And if there is 
 any other way in which I can be of service to you, I shall be 
 glad." 
 
234 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " Thank you," said Julian, grateful, but a little dubious. 
 " Are we likely, I wonder, to meet again ? I have not seen 
 you in London before." 
 
 u For a good reason: I have only just come up to town. 
 Yes, you may see me again : I should think it highly prob- 
 able. Are you going to Lady Mountsorrel's on Wednes- 
 day ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Julian, opening her eyes ; " are you ? " 
 
 It was impossible for her to keep the puzzled surprise out 
 of her tone. Lady Mountsorrel's house was one of the most 
 inaccessible in London. 
 
 He smiled as he replied — 
 
 " I believe so. I have an invitation." 
 
 " I am going with Lady Maria. She is very kind in tak- 
 ing me about," said Julian, casting down her eyes, in order 
 to hide the embarrassed wonder that she was feeling. How 
 was it that this plain, unassuming, almost commonplace 
 artist had the entree to so many fine houses— houses where 
 even her brother Edmund could not gain admittance ? There 
 was something uncanny about it : something that Julian did 
 not understand. 
 
 Perhaps he read her confusion in her face, for he spoke 
 very seriously and very gently in another moment's time. 
 
 11 There is something I think I must explain to you, Miss 
 Creighton. I hope you will not be angry with me for a sort 
 of deception which sprang up almost involuntarily, but 
 which " 
 
 " Oh, hullo, here you are ! I've been hunting for you 
 everywhere. It's our dance, don't you know! Who ever 
 thought of finding you cooped up here ? " And Sir Harry 
 Glossop cast a glance of extreme contempt and indignation 
 at Julian's companion. 
 
 Julian turned her shoulder to the new-comer. " Please 
 finish what you were saying," she said, pleadingly. 
 
 Mr. l'Estrange shook his head with a smile. 
 
 " It would take me such a long time, that I think I must 
 defer it to another occasion," he said. u Only one word, 
 Miss Creighton: don't believe all you hear." 
 
JULIAN'S FRIEND. 235 
 
 He bowed and retreated, while Sir Harry, offering Julian 
 his arm, broke out into a grumble. 
 
 " Who's that old buffer you've been hiding away with ? 
 Some great swell, I suppose, that you don't mind throwing 
 me over for."' 
 
 " Nothing of the kind: a poor artist," said Julian, boldly. 
 And Mr. l'Estrange, who was not very far away, heard the 
 words, and smiled to himself with supreme satisfaction. 
 
 "Whew! Not worth spending so much time over. 
 Everybody's been wondering where you were. I thought 
 you were huffed with me— taken the hump, because I danced 
 with the duchess's daughter. Couldn't help it, I assure you. 
 I would sooner have danced with you than any one in the 
 room." 
 
 " I was very glad to sit out," said Julian, coldly. " I was 
 tired." 
 
 11 Were you really ? Well, w T e needn't dance now, if you 
 like. Sit down here, and I'll get you an ice." 
 
 He did not give her time to object. He almost thrust her 
 into a chair; then flew for ices, cakes, strawberries — any- 
 thing that he thought likely to meet her taste. Julian wel- 
 comed them as a diversion : anything rather than Sir Harry's 
 conversation. 
 
 But she was not to escape the thing she dreaded. The 
 seat in the corridor which he had chosen was out of hearing 
 of any of the guests. Sir Harry felt that the psychological 
 moment had arrived. He plunged rapidly into an exposition 
 of the desire of his heart. Before Julian knew what he was 
 doing, or could arrest the flow of his eloquence, he was in 
 the midst of that proposal of marriage which she had been 
 longing to avert. 
 
 The worst was that he would not take no for an answer. 
 He averred that he had Mr. and Mrs. Creighton's consent, 
 that Lady Maria had set her heart upon the match, and that 
 he would never be satisfied until she accepted him. Julian 
 found herself in the awkward position of not being believed 
 even when she expressed herself as clearly as she could, and 
 to the verge of positive rudeness. 
 
236 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 He took her back at last, sullenly enough, to Lady Maria. 
 To Julian's surprise she saw that Lady Maria's nearest 
 neighbour was Mr. l'Estrange, and that he was talking to 
 the old lady as if he knew her very well. But when he saw 
 Julian approaching, he moved away with a bow, and let her 
 take her place beside her chaperon. Lady Maria looked at 
 the girl with twinkling, half-malicious eyes. 
 
 u My dear," she said, in Julian's ear, u you are a very 
 clever little girl." 
 
 And Julian could not imagine what she meant. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 IN WHICH EDMUND IS DIPLOMATIC. 
 
 Mrs. Creighton's cup was full Never, she pathetically 
 declared, had so many woes been mingled for the drinking 
 of any respectable British matron, whose sole desire it was 
 that her sons and daughters should marry, and should marry 
 well. 
 
 She was sitting alone one morning, writing notes at a 
 davenport, when her son Edmund suddenly walked into the 
 room. This was an unusual occurrence, for Edmund was 
 generally busy at that hour. Mrs. Creighton put down her 
 pen. 
 
 " Good morning, Edmund. I am glad to see you. I want 
 to consult you about Julian," she began. 
 
 Edmund dutifully kissed his mothers cheek, and drew 
 up a chair opposite hers. " Julian? " he said. " Is she giv- 
 ing you trouble ? I thought she was such a success — Lady 
 Maria's prime favourite, and all that sort of thing." 
 
 " So she is, and it is just that which makes her so tire- 
 some." 
 
 11 Well," said Edmund. " I'm sorry she is giving you any 
 trouble; but unless it is something extremely important, I 
 would sooner hear it at another time, as I have not much 
 
IN WHICH EDMUND IS DIPLOMATIC. 237 
 
 leisure at present, and there is a matter on which I wished 
 to consult you " 
 
 u To consult me ? " Julian's affairs went out of the 
 mother's head. Edmund was infinitely more important 
 and p*recious than Julian in her eyes. " Yes, Edmund, what 
 is it?" 
 
 Edmund crossed one leg over the other, and affected to 
 smile at her eagerness. But he was a little nervous, in spite 
 of himself, and his mother suspected as much. She listened 
 with anxious eyes and a foreboding heart. 
 
 " You know that T have been going on with the furnish- 
 ing of my house ? " he began. 
 
 " So Julian has told me." 
 
 11 1 myself have lived in a corner of it, and superintended 
 everything. It is not a bad house — I always liked Campclen 
 Hill myself ; and there is a little garden where one can pre- 
 tend that one is in the country. I had the advice of Morris 
 Burne about the furniture and fittings, and I really think 
 they are rather nice." 
 
 " You must have spent a good sum of money on it," said 
 Mrs. Creighton, rather grimly. 
 
 " Well, I had been economising for the purpose for some 
 time," returned her son, with a smile. " I had a fair amount 
 on hand. I have been tolerably lucky, as times go." 
 
 u Yes, so it seems. Your father, at your age, was not 
 able to throw his money about in the way it pleases you 
 to do." 
 
 " My father did not go out of the usual jog-trot line of the 
 profession. I have been fortunate in some of my invest- 
 ments," said Edmund. He would not call them speculations 
 when speaking to his mother, least she would take alarm. " I 
 have not been at all extravagent in my expenditure. You 
 must come and look at the result, mother ; I should like to 
 have your opinion of the drawing-room." 
 
 " I shall be pleased to come, Edmund," said Mrs. Creigh- 
 ton, with dignity. " I began to think that you cared very 
 little for my opinion." 
 
 " On the contrary," said Edmund, in his most persuasive 
 16 
 
238 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 manner, " I care very much— too much, mother, for my own 
 peace of mind, because I am afraid of vexing or disappoint- 
 ing you." 
 
 He laid his hand on hers for a moment, and then with- 
 drew it quietly, without undue haste. The Creightons'were 
 not, as a family, given to demonstrations of affection ; and 
 Mrs. Creighton was gratified, but somewhat surprised, by this 
 approach to a caress. She said to herself that she supposed 
 he wanted to get something out of her, and tightened her 
 lips. 
 
 11 Well, Edmund ? " she said, expectantly. 
 
 "When a man gets a house, mother, and furnishes it, 
 you can generally guess what it is for." 
 
 " You need not beat about the bush so much, Edmund. 
 You want to get married, I suppose. Who is it ? " 
 
 " It is Alys Lorimer," said her son, feeling that frankness 
 was now his best policy. 
 
 " I thought so. You know my opinion of that girl, I 
 think." 
 
 " I am not sure that I do. I am not sure that I want to 
 know. She is almost penniless— her paltry sixty or seventy 
 a year does not count for much — but you cannot reasonably 
 make any other objection to her. She is well-born, well- 
 mannered, and very pretty : a girl whom many people would 
 be eager to welcome as a daughter-in-law." 
 
 " Pretty ! With that limp ! " 
 
 " It is very slight. It is almost imperceptible at times, 
 and there is every likelihood of its disappearing as she grows 
 stronger. Her face is always beautiful." 
 
 " You cannot deny that she is weak and sickly," said Mrs. 
 Creighton, with vicious emphasis. 
 
 " She is delicate. I don't mind that. I detest your bounc- 
 ing, robust women." 
 
 " You are quite infatuated, Edmund. But I will say one 
 thing more— and it is the root of all my objections— the girl 
 is not only weak in body, but weak in mind." 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 " You need not fly out at me in that way. I know what I 
 
IN WHICH EDMUND IS DIPLOMATIC. 239 
 
 mean, and I mean what I say. I do not insinuate that she is 
 an idiot or an imbecile — far from it ; but I do say that she 
 has no will of her own, no resisting power, no force of any 
 kind " 
 
 ''You are quite wrong. She has great tenacity of pur- 
 pose." 
 
 11 Oh, so has a limpet," said Mrs. Creighton, snappishly. 
 " But if you once deprive it of its hold, what happens ? The 
 creature dies. I should prefer something with, at any rate, 
 an individual life of its own. She has none." 
 
 " We had better drop metaphor and come to facts," said 
 Edmund, coldly. " Of course it is superfluous for me to say 
 that I do not agree with you. Alys Lorimer is the girl that 
 I have chosen to be my wife, and I wish to know what line 
 you mean to take, and what I have to expect." 
 
 14 You do not expect me to receive her with open arms, 
 when I hold my present views of her ? " 
 
 " Possibly not, but I do expect you to be civil." 
 
 Mother and son faced each other for a moment in silence. 
 There was anger in Mrs. Creighton's face, while Edmund 
 showed only a cold impassibility, growing stonier and more 
 rigid when she burst forth into two or three sharp sentences 
 of repudiation of his choice. She did not actually rage- 
 she was too astute a woman to lose her self-control, and, be- 
 sides, she was in heart rather afraid of Edmund, but she con- 
 centrated a good deal of bitterness into the few words she 
 used. 
 
 " Very well," said the young man, presently. " We have 
 once or twice discussed this subject, but never quite so 
 frankly. We may as well thrash the matter out this time. 
 What do you mean to do ? Are you going to treat her civilly 
 or not ? " 
 
 u I trust," said Mrs. Creighton, stiffly, " that I shall not 
 forget what is due to her as the wife of my son. I have no 
 desire to see any breach between you and your family. Of 
 course, things can never be the same again ; but there is no 
 need for the world to know what we feel on the subject. I 
 shall do my duty, Edmund." 
 
2^0 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " I am glad to hear it," said Edmund, rather satirically ; 
 "but how far does your ideal of duty extend, mother ? Does 
 it include kindness to my wife or not ? " 
 
 Mrs. Creighton suddenly started — with rather histrionic 
 effect. 
 
 " Your wife ! You do not mean that you are married 
 already ? " 
 
 '" No, of course not. But I soon shall be. 1 ' 
 
 " Soon ! Oh, Edmund, without consulting us ? " 
 
 " It is so easy and pleasant to consult you, is it not ? " 
 said Edward, somewhat bitterly. "Look here: these are 
 the facts of the case. Alys has been abroad for the last few 
 weeks with her step-sister, Elizabeth Verrall. She is return- 
 ing next week, and will, of course, pass through London on 
 her way." 
 
 " If you want her to stay here " 
 
 " I do not want her to stay here. She was not made suf- 
 ficiently happy during her last visit for me to be able to 
 propose such a thing. She will stay with her sister at a 
 quiet little hotel that I know of. I have been in correspond- 
 ence with Miss Verrall, and she agrees with me that it would 
 be much the best plan if I could induce Alys to marry me 
 at once, so that she need not return to Quest — a place which 
 will always have unhappy associations for her." 
 
 " Ah, that wretched criminal! " sighed Mrs. Creighton. 
 
 Edmund winced and frowned, but, after a moment's 
 pause, went on. 
 
 " If she finds that all the arrangements are complete, and 
 that nobody will put any obstacles in her way, I think it 
 more than likely that she will consent. And that is why I 
 have come to you. Of course you will not do or say any- 
 thing to make her uncomfortable." 
 
 "I shall not see her most probably." 
 
 "Yes," said Edmund, in a cool, inflexible tone. "I 
 should like you to see her. I should be much obliged to 
 you if you would call on her at Linder's Hotel, and show 
 that you did not retain any memory of former unpleasant- 
 ness." 
 
IN WHICH EDMUND IS DIPLOMATIC. 241 
 
 "Really, Edmund, you ask too much," said Mrs. Creigh- 
 ton, in an amazed tone. 
 
 "Not at all too much, my dear mother. It is the only 
 thing you can do, if you wish to maintain friendly relations 
 with me and my wife after our marriage. That is why I 
 came to talk it over with you beforehand. I want the mat- 
 ter settled now." 
 
 Mrs. Creighton protested, rather angrily, that she could 
 not possibly settle the matter in this way ; but she knew — 
 and Edmund also knew — that she would be forced to yield. 
 She capitulated at last, and was allowed to retire with the 
 honours of war. That is to say. her son thanked her, and 
 became once more perfectly amiable and suave in manner, 
 as his mother liked him to be. He even went the length of 
 asking her why she was troubled about Julian. 
 
 " Julian is a silly girl," said Mrs. Creighton, impatiently. 
 " Sir Harry Glossop proposed to her last night, and she tells 
 me that she has refused him. Such ridiculous nonsense ! " 
 
 " Glossop is considered a good match, isn't he ? " 
 
 " Very good indeed. He has at least ten or twelve thou- 
 sand a year, and a lovely old country house. They say he 
 has sown a few wild oats — but really, what can one expect ? 
 He will not make the worse husband for that," said Mrs. 
 Creighton, who naturally took the worldly view of a man's 
 suitability. 
 
 " He is a bit of a fool : that's the worst of him," said Ed- 
 mund, reflectively, "and Julian is a clever girl." 
 
 "I wish she were not quite so clever, then. What does 
 a girl want with cleverness ? " 
 
 "It's rather the fashion for girls to be clever," said Ed- 
 mund; but he laughed disparagingly at the same time. He 
 did not greatly admire clever girls : Alys was certainly not 
 clever. It was enough, he thought, if a woman were amia- 
 ble and intelligent. 
 
 " I wish you would speak to her, Edmund. Not that it 
 will be of much good when you are making such a poor 
 match yourself. That is one of the worst parts of it. You 
 will be quoted ever afterwards as an example. 'Edmund 
 
242 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 did not marry for money, Edmund married for love. Ed- 
 mund was noble and disinterested, and all the rest of it.' 
 Oh, I know ! " And Mrs. Creighton sighed deeply. 
 
 k 'I might see her for all that," said Edmund; and guided 
 by his mother's advice, he penetrated to a little sitting-room 
 where Julian usually spent her leisure time. Here she was 
 generally as busy as a bird; but Edmund found her leaning 
 against the open window, and looking out idly at a charm- 
 ing prospect of chimney-pots, tiled roofs, and sooty sparrows. 
 When she turned to speak to him, he saw by her eyes that 
 she had been crying. 
 
 " Well, Julian," he began kindly — for in his way he was 
 fond of his little sister, and rather proud of her,— " what 
 have you been doing now ? " 
 
 " Has mamma told you ? " she asked, with a vivid blush. 
 
 u She has indeed. How can you account for your mis- 
 demeanours ? Seriously, Julian, I think you are acting like 
 a fool. You are throwing away a very good chance of es- 
 tablishing yourself in life." 
 
 " I do not want to establish myself in life," said Julian. 
 u Not, at least, in that way." 
 
 " What other way is there ? A woman's vocation is— 
 marriage." 
 
 " Oh, Edmund," said the girl, pleadingly, "if you would 
 only persuade mamma that I am not a person whom mar- 
 riage would suit ! If only she would let me go out into the 
 world and earn my living, I should be much happier than 
 if I married any one I did not love." 
 
 " Who has been putting these nonsensical ideas into your 
 head ? " 
 
 " They are not nonsensical: they are true, and you know 
 it — for you are in love with Alys Lorimer; I know you 
 are!" 
 
 Edmund felt a little discomfited, but tried to defend him- 
 self against the attack. 
 
 u A man can afford to indulge himself, my dear: he has 
 his profession ; but a woman's career is spoiled if she mar- 
 ries badly." 
 
IN WHICH EDMUND IS DIPLOMATIC. 243 
 
 "Then it must be spoiled," said Julian, with flashing 
 eyes; u for never, never, never will I marry Sir Harry 
 Glossop. I wish I could leave London, and go back to 
 Quest." 
 
 " I don't suppose you will be allowed to do that. By the 
 by," said Edmund, suddenly, " you never saw anything again 
 of that man who used to talk to you about your drawings 
 — what was his name ? " 
 
 "Oh, Mr. l'Estrange! Yes, I saw him last night at the 
 Kerouels'," said Julian unhesitatingly, but with a sudden 
 flush which Edmund could not help noticing. 
 
 " You did ! And — you spoke to him ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes! I had a long talk with him. I'm afraid 
 mamma would be angry if she knew." 
 
 " Angry? Why? Not she!" 
 
 " Oh, but Edmund, she begged me not to speak to him." 
 
 Edmund laughed as if he were very much tickled. 
 
 u Why do you laugh ? " said Julian surveying him with 
 suspicion. " Do you think she would like him if she knew 
 him ? " 
 
 " I am sure she would." 
 
 "Well, he is very nice. And he knows Lady Maria 
 quite well. I saw him talking to her. Lady Maria was 
 rather funny last night, I think." 
 
 " Funny— how ? " 
 
 " She looked at me in such an odd way, and told me that 
 I was a very clever little girl," said Julian reflectively. 
 
 " And you don't think you had done anything to render 
 you worthy of such praise ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. I had done nothing— except talk to Mr. 
 l'Estrange." 
 
 Edmund laughed, and Julian felt rather puzzled and irri- 
 tated, but she could not induce him to explain. 
 
 " Look here," he said at last; "let us make a bargain." 
 
 "Tell me what it is." 
 
 "I hope to be going to marry Alys in about a week's 
 time, Ju." 
 
 "Oh, I am so glad! I congratulate you, Edmund, I 
 
244 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 always knew you were fond of her. But has that anything 
 to do with the bargain ? " 
 
 " If you will promise to be kind and sisterly and good to 
 her, I will speak to mother about this man — TEstrange, and 
 dissipate her objections to him. Then you can talk to him 
 as much as you like." 
 
 " But there is no need to make that sort of bargain," said 
 Julian, seriously. " Of course I shall be kind and sisterly 
 to Alys, whatever happen. I always liked her — al- 
 though " 
 
 "Although what?" 
 
 " Perhaps I ought not to say it," remarked the girl, in- 
 genuously. " I was thinking that some people said she did 
 not behave quite well to poor Mr. Moor. " 
 
 "Please keep that sentiment to yourself," said Edmund, 
 with displeasure. " Would you have had her marry a mur- 
 derer ? " 
 
 "I don't think he was a murderer. And I think a 
 woman should be true to the man she loves," said Julian, 
 steadily. 
 
 " You talk a little too freely about love," returned Ed- 
 mund. " Your mind seems to dwell upon it in a way that 
 is not becoming in a girl of your age." 
 
 " Dear me!" cried Julian, hastily; "if I may think about 
 marriage, surely I may think about love! " 
 
 To this remark Edmund had no reply ready, and he soon 
 took leave of her; not forgetting, however, to speak to his 
 mother for a few minutes on his way out, and leaving her — 
 to Julian's great surprise — in an unusually contented and 
 " uplifted " state of mind. 
 
A MARRIAGE DAY. 245 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 A MARRIAGE DAY. 
 
 Linder's Hotel was a very quiet, very respectable place, 
 greatly frequented by sober families and old gentlemen from 
 the country, and quite suitable as a resting-place for Alys 
 and Lisbeth when they arrived in London. Edmund met 
 them at the station, and installed them in their rooms: he 
 had taken a private sitting-room and a couple of bedrooms 
 for them, and had instructed the landlord, with whom lie 
 was already acquainted, to treat them with the profoundest 
 respect and politeness. But he had tact enough not to stay 
 more than ten minutes on this first occasion ; he left them 
 to refresh themselves, and promised to return in the evening. 
 
 His quick eye noted at once that Alys was looking better 
 — fresher and prettier than he bad seen her for a long time. 
 She had cast off the mourning garments altogether, and was 
 prettily dressed. From the brightness of her eyes, and the 
 readiness of her laughter, be conjectured that she would 
 not take exception to the plan that he was waiting to pro- 
 pose. 
 
 It was Lisbeth who surprised him. He had never greatly 
 admired her, and bad even disputed her claim to be called 
 beautiful. But she had blossomed forth into a grave splen- 
 dour at which he stood amazed. She was statelier than ever, 
 and her face was thinned — he called it refined — by thought 
 and suffering. There was a peculiar distinction about her 
 now which could not fail to strike the observer, and he was 
 not surprised to hear afterwards that she had been much ad- 
 mired, and considered a far handsomer woman than Alys 
 Lorimer. Criticism of that kind never disturbed Edmund 
 in the least. " She may be handsomer," he said to himself, 
 " but she is not my style." 
 
 She dressed very plainly — generally in black — but she 
 had grown careful of the make and material of her dresses, 
 and seemed always to have hit upon the very thing that be- 
 came her best. As Edmund w T atched her move across the 
 
246 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 room, with her long robes trailing behind her (she had de- 
 veloped a new liking for a train, and it certainly added dig- 
 nity to her demeanour), he said to himself, with satisfaction, 
 that even his mother would not be able to find fault with 
 the manner and appearance of the much-dreaded mistress of 
 Quest. 
 
 Lisbeth knew of his design to persuade Alys into marry- 
 ing him at once, and approved of it. If Alys meant to 
 marry him, she had said it would be much better for her to 
 do it at once, and not to return to Quest at all. At Quest it 
 would be impossible to avoid sad memories. The sisters had 
 been cheerful and friendly while they were abroad ; but it 
 was possible that division and discussion might arise if they 
 found themselves together in the old house which had been 
 the scene of so much that was tragic and unexpected. Lis- 
 beth shrank less from the prospect of loneliness than from 
 that of Alys's paling, melancholy face. 
 
 So it was with a good heart that she left the girl alone 
 with Edmund that evening; and she hoped, honestly and 
 truly, that Alys would put no obstacles in his way. 
 
 As a matter of fact, Alys's objections proved easy to over- 
 come. Her nerves were stronger, and her courage was 
 therefore greater than when Edmund had seen her last; 
 and after the first shock, she did not seem to find the pro- 
 posal utterly unreasonable. And Edmund knew her weak 
 point: he knew how to urge and to persuade. 
 
 " It will save you from going back to that horribly lonely 
 place among the mountains," he said to her, with a pretended 
 shiver. 
 
 Alys shivered in reality. " It is like a nightmare to me," 
 she said, in a low tone. 
 
 " Yes, my dear child, and I don't wonder. You had bet- 
 ter not see the place again." 
 
 " But, Lisbeth ! won't she be hurt ? " 
 
 u She is far too sensible, Alys; I wrote to her some little 
 time ago, and told her what I thought. She quite agreed 
 with me. She thinks it would be much better for you to 
 marry me at once than to go north again." 
 
A MARRIAGE DAY. 247 
 
 " Oh," says Alys, a little hurt; " does she not want me ? " 
 
 " She is a very sensible person," said Edmund, gravely, 
 " and sees clearly what would suit you best. She is quite 
 willing to sacrifice herself, and let you go. After all, you 
 know, dear, she is used to Quest, and used to loneliness." 
 
 " I suppose she is. But I did think And what will 
 
 your mother say ? " 
 
 11 Oh, she is quite prepared for it. I told her the other 
 day," said Edmund, lightly. " I expect that she will come 
 and call on you to-morrow. You must not mind her cold 
 manner, dearest; she really wishes and intends to be kind." 
 
 He felt the girl shrink a little, and hurried on immedi- 
 ately to pleasanter subjects. 
 
 '• The house is all ready. I have amused myself while 
 you were away by trying to arrange it as you would like." 
 
 " Have you really ? " she asked, with brightening eyes. 
 
 " There is a little boudoir for you, draped in the palest 
 shades of eau de nil silk, with cream-white furniture and 
 white rugs on the floor. It will just suit you. I think. I 
 was lucky enough to hit on some charming Rossetti sketches 
 for the walls; and there are all your favourite prints from 
 Watts and Burne-Jones in the library." 
 
 " Oh, Edmund, how lovely ! " 
 
 " The piano is a Bechstein — I think I heard you say you 
 liked his instruments. You must come and try it: if you 
 don't care for the tone it shall be changed." 
 
 u I am sure to like it." 
 
 "Do you wonder that I want to see you reigning as 
 queen and mistress over the rooms that I have designed for 
 you ? " 
 
 Alys succumbed. It was impossible to her to resist such 
 appeals to her pleasure-loving and artistic temperament. 
 Edmund understood her far better than Francis Moor had 
 ever done. Warmth and luxury and beauty were more to 
 her than any amount of passionate fervour and poetic fire. 
 
 " But, Edmund," she said, at last, " how can it possibly 
 be managed in the time ? " 
 
 u Won't you leave that to me, my darling ? " 
 
2^8 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " Oh, yes — only I wanted to know. Shall you have to 
 get a special licence ? " 
 
 '* No, I knew that my Alys would be reasonable." 
 
 u You knew ? " 
 
 " Forgive me, darling. I put up the banns three weeks 
 ago. There is nothing to prevent our walking into a church 
 to-morrow and getting married straight away." 
 
 She pretended at first to be a little angry at his having 
 taken her consent for granted : but her anger was very short 
 lived. On the whole she was rather glad to find the matter 
 taken so completely out of her hands. 
 
 The meeting between herself and Mrs. Creighton, on 
 which Edmund insisted, passed off very well. Mrs. Creigh- 
 ton was rather impressed by Lisbeth, and said that nobody 
 had ever told her what a handsome, well-dressed woman the 
 mistress of Quest had turned out to be. Lisbeth's grave and 
 dignified manner obliged the visitor to behave with extreme 
 civility ; for there was a look about Lisbeth as of one who 
 would not suffer any rudeness either to herself or to her 
 friends. And Mrs. Creighton was still more favourably in- 
 clined when she heard that Lisbeth had insisted on handing 
 over to Alys her share of the money left by Mr. Lorimer; 
 so that Edmund's wife would have at least a hundred and 
 fifty of her own as pin-money, and need not trouble him 
 about her frocks. Mrs. Creighton was the sort of person 
 who thought it absolutely criminal for a woman to be pen- 
 niless. 
 
 She succeeded in offending Lisbeth completely, in spite 
 of her condescending approval. For she persisted in call- 
 ing Lisbeth " Miss Lorimer," and no remonstrances from 
 Edmund would induce her to change this mode of address. 
 
 " My dear Edmund, she is Miss Lorimer. Why should 
 she not use her own name ? " 
 
 " She has always been known as Verrall." 
 
 " Absurd ! It sounds as if the marriage had not been all 
 right. No, she must be known as Miss Lorimer when she 
 comes up to London : it is not respectable to call her any- 
 thing else. 1 ' 
 
A MARRIAGE DAY. 249 
 
 And, much to Lisbeth's disgust, Mrs. Creighton would 
 not be persuaded to address her as Miss Verrall. 
 
 One good result of Mrs. Creighton's approval of Lisbeth 
 was that Julian was allowed to come and see her as often as 
 she chose. 
 
 " Such a sensible, superior person, 1 ' said Julian's mother 
 " could never do her any harm." But she might have al- 
 tered her opinion if she could have heard a conversation that 
 took place one afternoon when Alys was out with Edmund, 
 and Julian had found Lisbeth all alone. 
 
 The wedding was, of course, the chief topic of conversa- 
 tion. It was to be a very quiet one ; but Julian, like every 
 other girl, was interested in the choice of Alys's wedding- 
 gown, and her own attire as bridesmaid. There was to be 
 no other bridesmaid ; for Lisbeth had refused the office, say- 
 ing that she was too old for it, and that it would become her 
 better to fill the place of parent or guardian, and give the 
 bride away. 
 
 " I have been bridesmaid once before," said Julian. 
 " This is the second time, ' Three times a bridesmaid, never 
 a bride,' is the old saying." 
 
 " Is it true," said Lisbeth, rather abruptly, " that you are 
 already engaged ? " 
 
 An angry spot showed itself on Julian's cheek. " Cer- 
 tainly not," she said, emphatically. U I suppose mamma 
 told you that ? " 
 
 u She said something of the kind, I think." 
 
 " It is quite untrue. I hate the man. I will never marry 
 him— -never." 
 
 " Is he not a man you could care for ? " 
 
 "No; he is odious. You don't think it right to marry a 
 man you don't love, do you ? " 
 
 "No, indeed. I should think it worse than sacri- 
 lege." 
 
 Julian meditated for a moment or two. " So that is why 
 you approve of Alys's marriage," she said, shrewdly. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I hope I am not impertinent. I did not mean to be. 
 
250 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 But every one knows that Alys was engaged — or half-en- 
 gaged—to poor Mr. Frank Moor " 
 
 " She did not love him," Lisbeth broke out, in tremulous 
 tones. " Yes, it is far better for her to marry a man she 
 l oves _ ev en at the cost of her own faithfulness — and a 
 man's broken heart " 
 
 She stopped abruptly. She had not meant to say so much. 
 
 "I know— I understand," said Julian, turning away so 
 as not to see the tears in Lisbeth's eyes. 
 
 " Some women would have loved a man all the more be- 
 cause he was unfortunate," Lisbeth went on, hurriedly. 
 " They would have felt the more bound to him in his dis- 
 grace—but Alys did not see things in that light." 
 
 " You would have done it ? " 
 
 "Ah, yes— I " 
 
 And there Lisbeth stopped. There was a little silence, 
 and by some newly-developed womanly instinct Julian 
 knew that Lisbeth had loved and was still faithful to the 
 man whom Alys had deserted in the hour of his need. 
 
 She slipped her hand into Lisbeth's, and said nothing for 
 a time. When she spoke she did not dare to make any 
 allusion to Francis Moor, so she pursued the train of her 
 own thoughts. 
 
 " It would be the same if a man were poor, I suppose," 
 she said softly. " Poor and— what the world calls— lower 
 in position than oneself. If one loved him, that would not 
 matter, would it ? " 
 
 " Nothing would matter if one really loved," said Lis- 
 beth. "Love is the best and noblest thing in the world. 
 The only blessedness is to love and to be loved." 
 
 And so strong was her conviction on this point that she 
 did not reflect that it might be dangerous doctrine for a 
 young lady of nineteen. 
 
 Sooth to say, Julian was having a hard time of it. Her 
 mother had espoused Sir Harry Glossop's cause, and encour- 
 aged him in every way. He came frequently to the house, 
 and paid assiduous court to Julian, who was not suffered by 
 her parents entirely to reject his attentions. Even her 
 
A MARRIAGE DAY. 251 
 
 father, usually very indulgent to her, was displea.sed by 
 what seemed to him like needless obstinacy; and her moth- 
 er became daily more cold and severe in her behaviour. 
 Julian shed many a tear in secret, but did not once swerve 
 from her decision. She had made up her mind that she 
 would not marry Sir Harry Glossop ; and her mother's cold- 
 ness, her father's displeasure, her brother's remonstrances, 
 had no more effect upon her than the unwelcome wooing 
 of the suitor himself. The only person who openly sympa- 
 thised with her was Lady Maria, who, much to Julian's sur- 
 prise, told her that she was perfectly right, and that she 
 might do much better than become Lady Glossop, a paltry 
 baronet's wife. 
 
 " I don't want to do better : I only want to be let alone," 
 said Julian. 
 
 u Ah, my dear, that's all very well; but I have great 
 hopes for you," said Lady Maria, nodding her curled and 
 feathered head. "You are a good girl, and if you stand to 
 your colours, it will be all the better for you." And she 
 looked so mysterious that Julian could hardly withhold her- 
 self from asking point-blank what she meant. 
 
 Meanwhile the wedding-day drew on apace. Edmund 
 looked radiant, and Alys seemed to tread on air. Looking 
 at them both, Lisbeth sometimes drew a long breath of un- 
 comprehending amazement. Her own nature was so true 
 and strong that she could not understand how people man- 
 aged to forget. Here was Alys, who had given up the man 
 she once professed to love, and who cared not although he 
 was in prison, and under a dark cloud of sorrow and dis- 
 grace. She seemed to have forgotten his very existence. 
 How was it possible, thought Lisbeth, that such forgetful- 
 ness should be ? 
 
 She did not know it, but she was not able always to keep 
 the silent reproach out of her grave, dark eyes. Alys felt 
 it in spite of herself. She had not forgotten the past: she 
 only wanted to forget it; and Lisbeth's tender and solemn 
 looks sometimes made her remember more than she cared 
 to do. 
 
252 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " Lisbeth always looks at me as if I were doing wrong 
 when I am enjoying anything, 1 ' she once said petulantly to 
 Edmund. 
 
 "Never mind her, darling: she does not mean it," he 
 answered, caressing her. But in very truth Lisbeth's eyes 
 sometimes made him uncomfortable too. 
 
 Notwithstanding their apparent joy and prosperity, 
 there was a touch of bitterness in the heart of bride and 
 bridegroom alike. Edmund knew well, although he 
 would not have confessed it for the world, that he had 
 kept silence when his testimony might have counted in 
 Frank Moor's favour ; and Alys was not unaware that 
 her evidence had helped the jury in their decision as to 
 Frank's guilt. She told herself that she had only spoken 
 truth, but she had spoken as an enemy, she knew, not as a 
 friend. 
 
 The wedding day was one of brilliant sunshine. Alys 
 looked very lovely in her white silk dress, her lace veil (Lis- 
 beth's gift) and orange blossoms ; and Julian made a charm- 
 ing bridesmaid. Lisbeth was gravely magnificent in a 
 brocade which Edmund himself had chosen for her; and 
 although there were no guests, and few congratulations, the 
 ceremony was felt to be very successfully performed. Ed- 
 mund snatched a few days from his numerous engagements 
 to take his bride to Paris ; but it was agreed that the orthodox 
 month should be postponed to August, when he could better 
 spare the time to be away. 
 
 Alys did not break down till the very last moment. 
 Then, just when she had donned her travelling-dress, and 
 stood with Lisbeth for one last moment before she left the 
 house, her self-possession failed her. She cast her arms 
 round Lisbeth's neck, and sobbed for a minute or two upon 
 her breast. No one but Lisbeth heard, however, the words 
 she said — 
 
 "Forgive me, Lisbeth! And ask Frank to forgive me, 
 too. I am sorry — indeed, I am — but I could not love him, 
 and I could never have been his wife." 
 
 And in Frank's name Lisbeth kissed her, and forgave. 
 
A MISSING VOLUME. 253 
 
 Next day she went back to Quest, and did not see Alys again 
 until, in the darkest hours of her life, Alys sent word to her 
 to come. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 A MISSING VOLUME. 
 
 The season was almost over. Sir Harry had not relaxed 
 his pursuit, and Julian's resolve had not given way. She 
 began to wonder, however, whether she should be able to 
 hold out to the end. For her sister's pertinacity worried 
 her, and her parents' displeasure did not tend towards peace 
 and quietude in the home. Mrs. Creighton was beginning 
 to threaten her with positive punishment, in the shape of an 
 enforced sojourn with some uninteresting relatives in the 
 heart of the country during the summer months; but, un- 
 fortunately, Julian felt that a visit of this kind would be a 
 delightful reprieve, and was therefore by no means impressed 
 with a suitable horror of it. 
 
 Lady Maria was going out of town, and greatly wanted 
 to take Julian with her; but Mrs. Creighton refused to let 
 the girl accept the invitation. " I don't trust that Lady 
 Maria," she said in private to her husband. " I don't believe 
 she wants Julian to make a good marriage. I am quite 
 certain that she is upholding Julian in her obstinacy about 
 Sir Harry." 
 
 But she could not refuse an invitation for Julian to dine 
 at Lady Maria's house shortly before the end of July. " It's 
 not a party," the old lady said. " One or two old friends of 
 mine — that is all. But I should like Julian to come." 
 
 And Julian went. 
 
 As Lady Maria had said, it was no party. There were 
 two old friends of hers at the table, whom Julian had not 
 seen before; a staid old gentleman and his wife, who prosed 
 intolerably. Julian wondered why she had been asked to 
 come. It seemed a little odd that no younger person should 
 17 
 
254 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 have been invited; and Lady Maria did not talk much to 
 her. After dinner, she was asked to sing, and did her best 
 to keep the three old folks awake ; but they all nodded, and 
 the old gentleman positively snored. Even Julian herself 
 felt inclined to yawn. 
 
 Suddenly Lady Maria roused herself, and spoke in an 
 exceedingly sprightly voice — 
 
 "Julian, my dear child, there is something I want you 
 to do for me. Do go down to the library, and see if you 
 can hunt up the missing volume of Sir Charles Grandison. 
 It's the third volume, and I fancy it must be on one of the 
 lower shelves. You won't mind, will you, my dear ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, I shall be pleased to look for it," said Julian, 
 with alacrity. Almost anything was better than sitting 
 silently in the dull drawing-room, while the three old people 
 dozed. Julian wondered more than ever why she had been 
 asked to come. 
 
 She made her way to the library, where she found a lamp 
 already lighted and began her search for the missing volume. 
 Up and down the shelves she looked, but with no result. 
 And when a tap came to the door, she was so busy that she 
 hardly lifted her head to say " Come in." Probably it was 
 one of the servants, coming to tell her that tea was ready in 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 " Good evening, Miss Creighton," said a man's voice— a 
 voice she knew. And looking round with a start, she found 
 that the visitor was none other than her old friend Mr. l'Es- 
 trange, whom she had not seen for some little space of time. 
 She came forward and shook hands with him, and explained 
 what she was looking for. 
 
 " Yes, so Lady Maria told me. She sent me to help you," 
 said Mr. l'Estrange, in his pleasant, kindly way. 
 
 Julian might have thought this strange, if she had not 
 by this time been pretty well accustomed to Lady Maria's 
 slightly eccentric ways. 
 
 ' k I don't believe the book is here," she said. "I have 
 looked very carefully. But perhaps you will be more suc- 
 cessful than I." 
 
A MISSING VOLUME. 255 
 
 It did not seem as if he were likely to prove so. The 
 book was nowhere to be seen. And presently the two fell 
 into friendly converse, and the search became a little per- 
 functory, interrupted by snatches of laughter and talk which 
 each of them found pleasant. Julian forgot that Lady Ma- 
 ria might wonder what she was doing, and probably Mr. 
 l'Estrange did not mind. 
 
 u And how are you getting on ? I have not seen you for 
 a long time," he said, in a tone of almost paternal interest, 
 which he sometimes adopted towards the girl. u Are things 
 going well with you ? " 
 
 "Pretty well." 
 
 11 1 suppose it would be rude to say that you do not look 
 as if a London season had altogether agreed with you." 
 
 " I should not be surprised if you did. I do not like a 
 London season, if I am to take this as a specimen." 
 
 " It has had more disagreeables than pleasures ? " 
 
 " Decidedly more." 
 
 He was silent for a moment or two. Then— " Miss Creigh- 
 ton, may I ask you a question ? " 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 " You will not be offended ? " 
 
 " I am sure I shall not." 
 
 " Is it true, then, that you are going to marry Sir Harry 
 Glossop?" 
 
 " No, indeed it is not." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. The rumours reached my ears, and 
 — I was surprised." 
 
 " Why were you surprised ? " said Julian, bending her 
 head as if to look more attentively at the book-shelves. 
 
 " I did not think that Sir Harry was quite the man whom 
 you would like. But perhaps I am impertinent." 
 
 " Oh no, no," said Julian with quivering lip. Then, 
 while her eyes filled with irrepressible tears, she added 
 quaintly, " It is just that which makes the disagreeables." 
 
 " I thought so. Of course, every one knows that he de- 
 sires it. He makes no secret of his intentions." 
 
 " So I have been told. Yet he knows quite well " 
 
256 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " Knows that you do not like him ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then why does he persist ? " 
 
 " My father and mother wish it," said Julian, in a very 
 low voice. 
 
 " But surely in these days they do not urge it when you 
 dislike the man." 
 
 " They can't force me to accept him, of course. But they 
 try to — persuade me." 
 
 "That must be very unpleasant," said Mr..l'Estrange. 
 
 " It is horrible," said Julian. And although she turned 
 aside her face, he was sure that she was crying. 
 
 " I am afraid," he said after a short pause, in a very gentle 
 voice, " that your life is not— not— so happy as it perhaps 
 might be." 
 
 "It is miserable," said Julian passionately. This prof- 
 fered sympathy unlocked her heart. " My mother cannot 
 see why I should not accept him ; she is disappointed and 
 vexed, and she will uot let the subject drop. I suppose it is 
 natural from her point of view. But it makes me very un- 
 happy." 
 
 " Still, you do not mean to yield ? " 
 
 "Never." 
 
 " I wonder if I could help you," said Mr. l'Estrange. 
 
 There was a curious thrill in his voice. For some reason 
 or other, Julian's heart seemed to stop beating when he 
 spoke, then throbbed violently, so that her breath grew short. 
 She remembered, too, all that he had said about his own sad 
 story, and her eyes grew dim with unshed tears again. 
 
 " Don't you think it is possible ? " he asked, still in that 
 strange low voice which had an odd effect on Julian's 
 nerves. " I am much older than you, but I think I under- 
 stand you — I believe that I could make you happy. If you 
 would but trust your future in my hands " 
 
 The world went round with Julian. What was he say- 
 ing ? There was a rushing sound in her ears; she gasped 
 actually for breath. As in a dream she heard him ask her 
 to be his wife. 
 
A MISSING VOLUME. 257 
 
 " I would do my utmost to guard you and give you all 
 that you desire," he was saying. " Of course I know the 
 drawbacks, I know my own limitations, I am many years 
 your senior, and perhaps you would never care for an old 
 fellow like me." 
 
 Then she found words. " It is not age that matters," she 
 said; "but that you love— you have loved " 
 
 " That love died years ago," he said. " The only love I 
 have now is my love for you, Julian. Do you doubt it ? My 
 dear, I have tried in vain to hold it back, feeling that it was 
 absurd for me to hope ; but now that I have broken my silence, 
 you must let me tell you that I can honestly say I have never 
 loved before as I love you, Julian, as I shall love you to the 
 last day of my life." 
 
 There was a silence. Julian was standing against the 
 bookshelves, with one hand shadiug her eyes. There was a 
 conflict raging in her soul. She did care for this man, yes, sbe 
 was sure of that ; but she felt convinced that her choice of him 
 would cause a terrible breach between herself and her family. 
 Her mother and father would never consent to her marrying 
 an obscure artist, poor perhaps, and unknown. Could she 
 fight them for his sake ? 
 
 " Could you care for me, Julian ? " his gentle, musical 
 voice was saying. " In spite of all my disadvantages, do you 
 think that you could give me a little love ? You don't know 
 how I have longed for it, how starved my heart has been. 
 Nobody shall be loved more than you are loved, dear, if you 
 will be my wife." 
 
 The girl took her hand away from her eyes, and looked 
 at him. Then she made a step toward him, and held her 
 hands out; he needed no other answer, no other invitation, 
 in a moment he had taken her in his arms and kissed her on 
 the lips. 
 
 " Are you sure ? " he said presently, in a wistful tone. 
 " You think you really can like me, Julian ? " 
 
 " I am quite sure I can." 
 
 "I am ever so much older than you. I believe I am 
 turning grey." 
 
258 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " I am sure you are not. And what does it matter if you 
 are ? " 
 
 " And what will your friends say ? " 
 
 " I suppose they will he very angry," said Julian ; "but I 
 do not see how I can help it." 
 
 He laughed a little, and pressed her closer to him with his 
 arm. 
 
 " Does your mother know of my existence ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Julian, blushing. " She told me if I met you 
 I had better not speak to you." 
 
 u Why ? " 
 
 "She thought I had better not continue to know any- 
 body that I had known at Crosthwaite. And — an artist, you 
 see " 
 
 "You don't mind my being poor and unknown, do you, 
 Julian ? " 
 
 " Not one bit." 
 
 " You w r ould never leave me for a richer man ? " 
 
 " I hate rich men. I always wanted to be poor." 
 
 " Even to live — let us say — in a cottage, and make your 
 own frocks ? I remember it was your aspiration once upon 
 a time. Do you hold to it still ? " 
 
 "More than ever." 
 
 He laughed delightedly, and kissed her once again. 
 And he was still holding her and gazing into her eyes, 
 when the door was thrown opened, and Lady Maria hob- 
 bled into the room. Julian tried to start away; but her 
 lover held her fast, and turned a smile of triumph on his 
 hostess. 
 
 " Young people ! young people ! " said Lady Maria. 
 " What does all this mean, I should like to know ? " 
 
 "It means that Julian is going to be my wife, Aunt 
 Maria, — that is true, is it not, Julian ? " 
 
 " Aunt Maria ! " Julian whispered, turning very pale. 
 " What did he mean ? " 
 
 Lady Maria nodded, "That's right," she said. "Come 
 and kiss me, my dear niece ! Didn't you know he was my 
 nephew ? Ah, I always said that you were a clever little 
 
A MISSING VOLUME. 259 
 
 girl to have taken Raynflete's heart by storm. Plenty of 
 people have tried, I can tell you; but you are the first that 
 had a chance." 
 
 " What do you mean ? Why do you call him— his name 
 
 is " 
 
 " His name, my dear," said Lady Maria, chuckling, " is 
 John l'Estrange, Lord Raynflete; and I think even your 
 mother may be content to forego young Glossop, when her 
 daughter has made the match of the season." 
 
 "Forgive me, clear," said Raynflete, penitently, as Julian 
 tore herself away, and gazed at him with something like 
 horror in her great eyes. u I never meant to deceive you so 
 long. It began in a mistake and then it drifted on. Even 
 if I am not the poor artist that you thought me, you can 
 love me a little still, can you not ? " 
 
 " Oh, I did not know, how could you ? If I had 
 thought " and Julian stopped, confounded by this sud- 
 den change of fortune. 
 
 " It makes no real difference, does it ? " he said, looking 
 down into her sweet startled face. '• I am the same man, 
 after all." 
 
 " But you can't give me a cottage to live in," said Julian, 
 recovering herself a little, and laughing to hide the fact that 
 tears were in her eyes. " And I should dearly like to make 
 my own frocks." 
 
 '* Come up to the drawing-room and have some tea," said 
 Lady Maria. a Love-making is very thirsty work. Julian, 
 dear, I hope you are obliged to me for sending you down to 
 look for the third volume of Sir Charles Grandison. Curi- 
 ously enough, I found it in the drawing-room, just after you 
 had gone." 
 
 " Then did Lady Maria know all about it ? " said Julian, 
 half reproachfully, as she followed her hostess upstairs. 
 
 "I took her into my confidence some time ago, dear. 
 You have been followed so closely by Sir Harry, that I 
 thought the season would go by without my being able to 
 speak to you. So, at last, I persuaded her to ask you to din- 
 ner to-night." 
 
2G0 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " It was very wrong and unkind of you," said Julian. 
 " Suppose I had been wicked, and refused you because you 
 were poor." 
 
 u 1 knew you too well to fear, darling. I knew that you 
 would choose love even with poverty, rather than riches and 
 lovelessness. You were too noble, too brave, too strong to 
 choose the lower path." 
 
 " You showed me the way," Julian murmured ; and she 
 turned upon him a look of love and gratitude, which he 
 could only answer by a- kiss. 
 
 There were no difficulties in Julian's way. Mrs. Creigh- 
 ton capitulated at once, and threw Sir Harry over with the 
 utmost shamelessness as soon as she learned the name and 
 station of her daughter's new suitor. Edmund had already 
 enlightened her as to his identity ; and she had been content 
 that Julian should talk to him ; but it did not occur to her 
 that matters had gone so far, or that he was on the point of 
 declaring himself. Henceforth, the course of true love 
 could not have run more smoothly. 
 
 Julian was a little displeased at the pleasure displayed by 
 her relations, and the congratulations which she received 
 from all the world. 
 
 " I quite regret the poor artist," she said to her lover more 
 than once in a plaintive tone. u He came up to my ideal far 
 more nearly than you can ever do." 
 
 Raynflete laughed. 
 
 tk I am sorry I cannot gratify your love of poverty," he 
 said. 
 
 u I will tell you what we will do," said Julian. " We will 
 at any rate get rid of the feeling that we are rich. We can 
 do that if we use all we have as a trust for others rather than 
 for ourselves, can we not ? " 
 
 " That is the only way in which I could ever excuse my- 
 self for being richer than my neighbours," he answered, 
 whimsically. But there was sound and sober earnestness 
 behind his smile, and Julian knew in her heart of hearts 
 that the man whom she had chosen would be her guide and 
 her helper in everything that was high, noble, and of good 
 
AFTER TWO YEARS. 261 
 
 report. It was the best possible basis for mutual love ; and 
 possibly explained the fact that in after years, the case of 
 Lord and Lady Raynflete was often cited as an instance of 
 perfect happiness in marriage. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 AFTER TWO YEARS. 
 
 Two years may seem a long time to think of beforehand, 
 but it passes very rapidly and counts for little in the retro- 
 spect. Two summers, two winters, had passed away since 
 Francis Moor was sentenced to the expiation of a crime, 
 which was a crime surely in the eyes of the law only, and 
 not in the eyes of God; and the day was drawing near when 
 he should be set free to begin his life over again with tar- 
 nished reputation and a sullied name. How would he face 
 it ? how would he set himself to life and work ? with such a 
 terrible weight behind him— a weight of humiliating mem- 
 ories, of an undying grief. Lisbeth used to sit and dream 
 over his future when her day's work was done, but she never 
 came to any satisfactory conclusion about his fate. 
 
 She was very much alone at Quest. Even the old aunt 
 had died, and there was no one whom she felt it a duty to 
 tend and love. Her grandparents were gone, Zadock was 
 gone; Alys was married; Frank was in prison, she was ut- 
 terly alone. She had few friends in the neighbourhood, and 
 she shut herself up at Quest more than ever, now that her 
 friends were dead or gone away. True, her life was a busy 
 one, and she worked hard, and kept others at work on the 
 farm and in the dairy, but why she did this, nobody knew. 
 It was suggested to her once or twice that she had much bet- 
 ter give up the farm and live on the money that her grand- 
 father had bequeathed to her in a quiet way; but the sug- 
 gestion was never made twice by the same person. Lisbeth 
 had a way of looking the speaker down which was apt to 
 
262 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 discomfort any but the boldest men. She never answered 
 in words; indeed she had nothing to say. She could not 
 very well explain that she was staying at Quest so that 
 Frank Moor might know where to find her when he came 
 home again. 
 
 The only place where she visited was Moor End. To her 
 surprise, perhaps to her pleasure— Lady Adela had sent for 
 her, soon after her return from London, after Alys's mar- 
 riage. She went at once. Lady Adela welcomed her like 
 an old friend. The mother was very worn, very sad, very 
 much depressed ; her eyes had almost failed her from long 
 weeping, and her manner had lost all its stateliness and 
 frigidity. It was Lisbeth now who was the statelier lady of 
 the two. 
 
 In the few short letters that she received from Alys, Lis- 
 beth learned that she was well and happy in her new home. 
 Happy in the main, although there was now and then a 
 touch of apparent discontent or mournfulness which Lisbeth 
 could not altogether understand. She put it down to Alys's 
 habit of slight dissatisfaction with her surroundings, and 
 also to a certain delicacy of health now making itself felt. 
 When Alys's child was born, Lisbeth felt sure that she 
 would write more cheerfully; and she wished now and then, 
 with a sort of jealous pain, that Alys would summon her to 
 her side. 
 
 But Alys did not seem disposed to do anything of the 
 kind. Her hour came and went; a beautiful little girl was 
 born into the world, and the young mother wrote a raptur- 
 ous letter in praise of her baby daughter's beauty. Lisbeth 
 rejoiced— yet laid down the letter with the old feeling of be- 
 wilderment of misgiving. 
 
 " Does she not feel ? Does she never remember ? Is it 
 true that people may be shallow and fickle and false, and 
 yet enjoy perfect happiness ? I could never be happy again 
 if I had gone through Alys's experiences," said Lisbeth, with 
 the sore, sick sensation, of which every earnest nature is at 
 times conscious, when the puzzles of this life baffle it at every 
 turn. 
 
AFTER TWO YEARS. 263 
 
 She was more pleased with Julian's letters than with 
 Alys's. Julian wrote to her regularly ; for she and her hus- 
 band had a great respect for the mistress of Quest, and liked 
 to hear from her. It did Lisbeth good to read Julian's let- 
 ters. They were like herself, frank, free, vivacious, thor- 
 oughly sincere and earnest; and they told of what Julian 
 called " real things," work done for a purpose, help given 
 to others, honest endeavour to benefit the world. They 
 came to Lisbeth like a healthy mountain breeze, showing 
 her— if she needed showing— what married life could be. 
 
 Now and then Julian gave her a word of news respect- 
 ing Alys. " I went to see my sister-in-law this morning," 
 she wrote one day. "She looked very pretty, but rather 
 more delicate than I expected. I think she and Edmund go 
 out too much ; I hear of nothing but dinners and dances, 
 and evening amusements of all kinds. Perhaps you could 
 give her a word of advice, for I am sure she is over-doing it. 
 The baby is a very pretty child, but Alys has not time to see 
 much of her. There is a beautiful nursery, and a very good 
 nurse in charge; so the poor little mite is by no means neg- 
 lected, but if I were Alys, I do not think I should like to be 
 out so much." 
 
 To Lisbeth's mind this was an ominous letter. Could 
 Alys be turning into a fashionable fine lady, too grand to 
 look after her own little girl ? She sat down and wrote a 
 letter of remonstrance, but tore it up. After all, what could 
 she say ? She had heard nothing that she could reasonably 
 object to. Alys was fond of going out, and the nurse looked 
 after the baby. There was nothing to be said. Yet all 
 through the spring days after the arrival of that letter, Lis- 
 beth was haunted by a fear. Lady Adela sent for her a day 
 or two later. Lisbeth always went, whenever Frank's 
 mother intimated a desire for her presence. She found Lady 
 Adela sitting with a letter in her hand and a flush on her 
 cheek, which told Lisbeth something important had occurred. 
 
 " Come in, Lisbeth. Sit down, my dear. I have a letter 
 here — a letter from my son. There is one from the governor 
 too. He is coming out, Lisbeth; he is coming home." 
 
264 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " I thought it would be about this time,'' said Lisbeth. 
 
 " What am I to do with him, Lisbeth ? What am I to 
 say to him ? He seems so dejected, so broken-down. He 
 will never care for his life here again, yet what is he to do ? " 
 
 Lisbeth sat silent; she had no answer ready yet. 
 
 " I am sure of one thing/' said Lady Adela, with nervous 
 rapidity ; k * he must be soothed, comforted, made to feel that 
 here at least we think no ill of him. I shall lead him to see 
 that this is his true refuge, his harbour of safety and peace. 
 If I can keep him for a time from all sad associations, from 
 all reminder of the past, he may recover his feeling of hope, 
 his strength for further effort— do you not think so ? " 
 
 Lisbeth looked at the delicate, anxious face, turned ap- 
 pealingly to hers with eyes that could scarcely see, and 
 answered gently — 
 
 " It might be a good thing, if it could be done. But how 
 can he be kept from sad associations ? " 
 
 " Oh, Lisbeth, dear Lisbeth, there is at least one thing that 
 can be done. Yet how can I say it, when you have always 
 been so good and kind ? But the saddest of all associations 
 will cling about Quest — and you." 
 
 u You mean," said Lisbeth clearly, but in a very low 
 voice, " that I had better come here no more ? " 
 
 " Lisbeth, Lisbeth," the mother repeated, as if she did not 
 know what more to say ; and then she put her handkerchief 
 to her eyes and burst into tears. 
 
 "Don't cry — it is so bad for your eyes," said Lisbeth, 
 quietly. " Indeed, there is nothing to fret about, Lady Adela. 
 I quite understand. I will not come while Mr. Moor is here. 
 If ever he should be away, you will perhaps let me come 
 and see you, once in a while." 
 
 "It seems so ungrateful. I know you did everything 
 you could for my poor boy; but I am sure he will feel it 
 deeply if he sees you here," said Lady Adela. "You will 
 not mind. You are not offended, Lisbeth ? " 
 
 " Not in the least. I understand perfectly," said Lisbeth, 
 in her stateliest way. "You must not trouble yourself 
 about it at all, Lady Adela. Do you know that the flowers 
 
AFTER TWO YEARS. 265 
 
 in your vases are nearly empty ? I am going into the gar- 
 den to cut some more, and I will make your room look very 
 nice.' 1 
 
 She passed into the garden by a side door, with a firm 
 step, and a head held high ; but when she was out of sight 
 and out of hearing, her head sank, and the tears came into 
 her eyes. It was a little hard, after all, she knew better than 
 his mother how to deal with Frank. She feared lest he 
 would take her absence as a sign that she had lost her 
 friendliness for him, for he might hear that she had con- 
 stantly visited his mother while he was away. Besides, had 
 he not promised to come to Quest when he returned ? It 
 was a little hard to feel that Lady Adela still looked on her 
 as an interloper and an enemy. Lisbeth had hoped to gain 
 the place at least of a friend. 
 
 But she controlled herself after her usual fashion, told 
 herself that she was selfish, and came back to Lady Adela 
 with dry eyes and smiling lips, as well as an armful of flow- 
 ers. She arranged her treasures of hyacinth and daffodil as 
 well as she was able, read aloud a little while to Lady Adela, 
 and then took her leave, feeling that she was saying goodby 
 to Moor End for ever. She would never go back again— not 
 even if Lady Adela sent for her— she said bitterly to herself. 
 
 She walked home rapidly, full of passionately sorrowful 
 and angry thoughts ; but all these thoughts were laid to rest 
 when she reached Quest by the intrusion of another element 
 of love and fear. 
 
 The telegraph boy had been to Quest. His visits were so 
 rare that Lisbeth tore open the orange-coloured envelope 
 with a strange sensation of dread. And as she let the thin 
 pink paper drop from her hand, she felt as if her worst fore- 
 bodings had been realised. 
 
 " Miss Verrall, 
 
 " Quest, 
 
 " Crosthwaite. 
 " Come to Alys at once, if you possibly can. 
 
 " Edmund Creightox." 
 
2G6 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 lie had not said why. But he would not have tele- 
 graphed in that way if there had not been trouble in the 
 house. 
 
 Lisbeth looked out the next train in the time-table. 
 There was one at eight o'clock, she would reach London 
 before seven next morning. It was a slow train, but she 
 could not help that; it was the only one there was. She 
 collected a few things together and put them into a bag; 
 she gave orders to her servants, and wrote down some 
 memoranda on paper for their use, then she set off to walk 
 to the station in her vigorous energetic way. One of the 
 servants ran after her with a packet of sandwiches and a 
 flask; in her haste she had forgotten to eat, and would have 
 no chance of a meal again for many hours. 
 
 Lisbeth felt that she did not want the food, something 
 seemed to rise within her against it ; but she would not dis- 
 appoint the kindly maid-servant, so she put the parcel and 
 the flask inside her bag. The stable boy wanted to carry it 
 for her, and she let him; she had always had a liking for 
 that boy since the days when he was Zadock's servant and 
 friend. 
 
 How terribly long and dreary that journey to London 
 seemed ! She could not sleep, and her mind revolved in 
 endless iteration the things that might have occurred. "Was 
 Alys ill ? Probably ; but why had Edmund Creighton not 
 said so ? Or perhaps it was the child— but Lisbeth was 
 startled at the thought that in trouble of this kind Alys 
 should turn to her. She had not expected it. Alys had 
 seemed to go a great way off from her as soon as she was 
 married. 
 
 The London streets looked dim and ghastly in the early 
 morning light, as Lisbeth drove through them in a cab. It 
 was a bad sign, she thought, that nobody was at the station 
 to meet her. She had telegraphed that she was coming, so 
 that they knew when she would arrive. She made the best 
 of her way to the pretty little house on Campden Hill, which 
 Edmund had had such delight in furnishing for his pretty, 
 delicate bride. 
 
AFTER TWO YEARS. 207 
 
 The house had no prettiness apparent now. It was still 
 shuttered and closed ; there was a carriage standing at the 
 gate. The doctor's carriage — Lisbeth was sure of that. She 
 went up the path to the front door, and rang as softly as 
 she could. The door was opened almost immediately by a 
 woman, whose eyes were red with crying, and whose di- 
 shevelled, capless state proved the disorganisation of the 
 household. Lisbeth could not speak, she looked dumbly at 
 the woman, who answered with a sob — 
 
 " She's still living, ma'am, they say ; and would you go 
 up at once, or will you have some breakfast?" 
 
 " I'll go up at once," Lisbeth managed to say. " She was 
 still living ? Who was she ? Alys ? her little sister whom 
 she had loved ? " 
 
 The house was very still. Lisbeth was induced to drink 
 a cup of coffee, and she asked no more questions, indeed, she 
 was afraid to ask. The maid evidently took it for granted 
 that she knew, for she proffered no information. And so, 
 at last, Lisbeth was led upstairs. 
 
 She was not taken to Alys's bedroom ; this was a sur- 
 prise, and even a relief to her. She was conducted to the 
 nursery, the pretty, bright, light room which she had been 
 shown, with an air of mystery, before the days of Alys's 
 marriage. " A spare room," she had been told ; " but if ever 
 we want a nursery, you know " 
 
 The scene came back to her quite vividly as she mounted 
 the stairs; she seemed to see the pretty blush and smile with 
 which Alys had whispered the words so that no one else 
 should hear. 
 
 In the nursery, a little group had gathered round a 
 baby's cot. The doctor stood beside it, grave and profes- 
 sional; at his side was Edmund Creighton, very pale, with 
 a look of great oppression upon his brow. A maid was 
 audibly weeping in the background. But Alys, where was 
 Alys ? Lisbeth didn't see her at first. 
 
 Alys had thrown herself down on her knees beside the 
 little cot. Her hands were clasped before her, her face was 
 white as death itself — white as the little baby face that lay 
 
208 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 on the bed before her. But worse to Lisbeth than its white- 
 ness was its terrible rigidity. A horror seemed to have 
 fallen upon it, which had not the look of ordinary grief. 
 There was something more than the agony even of the 
 woman who loses her first-born child. If Alys had looked 
 like this the day before, when the telegram had been des- 
 patched, Lisbeth did not wonder that they had sent for 
 
 her. 
 
 Edmund Oeighton saw her first. He started slightly, 
 and moved a step from the bedside, as though to make room 
 for her. But she shook her head, and went round to the 
 other side, where Alys knelt. She put her hand on Alys's 
 shoulder, and waited for some response. But Alys made 
 none. With fixed, colourless features, and motionless limbs, 
 she knelt and looked at the face of her child as if she were 
 unconscious of anything beside. 
 
 Lisbeth also looked at the child. It was plain that she 
 had been a beautiful child, with her delicate little features, 
 her soft rings of golden hair, the long dark lashes that lay 
 upon the waxen cheek. But, although the limbs were not 
 wasted with long disease, there was a look upon that little 
 face which showed that life was well-nigh gone, if not in- 
 deed departed. There were strange violet shadows about 
 the eyes and round the little mouth, the soft little features 
 were pinched and sunken. Lisbeth's experience of the sick 
 told her that hope was already over. She looked at the 
 doctor, and read the same verdict in his face. She looked 
 at the father, and saw that he knew the truth. And then 
 she glanced at Alys, and saw, to her inward anguish, an 
 expression that told of passionate hope still existing be- 
 neath the semblance of blank despair. 
 
 The doctor bent, raised the little hand, and put it gently 
 down again. Then he glanced at the father. Edmund put 
 his hand over his eyes, and turned away. Even at that 
 hour, Lisbeth was surprised to see him so much moved. 
 
 But Alys still knelt on, with her eyes fixed on the child's 
 face. The doctor said a word to Mr. Oeighton, but he 
 shook his head, and stood with his back turned to the cot 
 
MRS. CREIGHTON'S SUGGESTIONS. 269 
 
 and to his wife. Then the doctor looked at Lisbeth, as if he 
 read the promise of help in her strong and tender face. 
 
 " It is all over," he said m a low tone. 
 
 " Alys, my darling, come with me, will you not ? " said 
 Lisbeth. 
 
 But Alys took no notice. 
 
 Lisbeth knelt beside her, and folded the slight form in 
 her arms. 
 
 "She is quite well and happy now," she murmured. 
 "You can do nothing for her, dearest; she has gone to her' 
 Father in heaven." 
 
 Then Alys raised herself and spoke. 
 
 "Dead? "she said hoarsely; and Lisbeth did not know 
 that it was the first word she had spoken for four and 
 twenty hours. " Is she dead ? " 
 
 She read assent in Lisbeth's grieving face. 
 
 Then she rose to her feet, and stretched out her hands 
 with a loud and bitter cry. "Oh, my child, my baby- 
 dead! And I have killed her— I— her mother— a mur- 
 deress ! " 
 
 Lisbeth caught her as she fell. She was carried senseless 
 to her room, where she lay for hours between life and death. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 MRS. CREIGHTON'S SUGGESTIONS. 
 
 " But how did it happen ? " Lisbeth asked the doctor. 
 
 He drew in his lips. 
 
 " It is a little difficult to say. There seems to have been 
 a mistake on Mrs. Creighton's part. She came home from 
 a dinner party, went to the nursery, and thought that she 
 would give the child some medicine that I had ordered. 
 She unfortunately mistook the bottles, and gave a strong 
 opiate which Mr. Creighton had been taking on account of 
 long-continued sleeplessness and neuralgia. The child was 
 18 
 
270 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 unable to rally — in fact, the dose would have endangered 
 the life of an adult." 
 
 u My sister was not to blame," said Lisbeth quickly. 
 She was struck by something that seemed to savour of dis- 
 approval in Dr. Parfitt's tone. 
 
 " Oh, certainly not ; it was a misadventure," he replied 
 with great promptness. " I shall have no hesitation in stat- 
 ing that fact at the inquest." 
 
 " There must be an inquest ! " said Lisbeth, in dismay. 
 
 " Oh, yes, no doubt of that. What else could you ex- 
 pect ? " 
 
 *' My poor Alys ! It will be such a trial to her ! " 
 
 " Mrs. Creighton is your step-sister, I believe, Miss Ver- 
 rall," said the doctor, cautiously. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " May I speak frankly to you about her ? n 
 
 "Most certainly." 
 
 " It will be a little difficult," said the doctor, who was a 
 kindly man at heart, " to prevent Mrs. Creighton from accus- 
 ing herself too wildly of culpable carelessness. She is her- 
 self inclined to think that she had neglected the child ; and 
 it must be our endeavour, Miss Verrall, to prevent her from 
 having an access of hysterical self-reproach, which would 
 be extremely painful to every one concerned." 
 
 Lisbeth's face expressed consternation. 
 
 " You do not mean that she was neglectful ? " she breathed 
 rather than spoke. 
 
 " Not at all, not in the least. Only that she thinks so. 
 And of course— well, she knows that she acted against my 
 advice in going out so much : but that was more for her 
 own sake than for the child's," said the doctor, with some 
 reserve. 
 
 " I see," said Lisbeth, sadly. She was beginning to un- 
 derstand Alys's extreme prostration of body and mind. At 
 present even she was kept out of the room, only the doctor 
 and nurse were admitted, therefore she had leisure to hear 
 the different versions of the story with which she was met 
 on all sides. 
 
MRS. CREIGHTON'S SUGGESTIONS. 271 
 
 The truth seemed to be that Alys had gone out a great 
 deal in the evenings— more than the doctor had thought ad- 
 visable—and that the servants had grown careless during 
 the absence of their mistress. The nurse had left the baby 
 in charge of a younger girl, while she herself went out to a 
 party; the maid had fallen asleep, and when Alys came 
 home she was alarmed to find the child crying pitifully, in 
 evident pain, with no experienced person beside it to minis- 
 ter to its wants. In haste and trepidation, she had attempted 
 to give a simple remedy, had mistaken the bottle in a little 
 medicine chest, and had given the wrong dose. 
 
 " And what has become of the nurse ? r Lisbeth asked. 
 
 "Nurse has never come back since the morning after 
 baby was taken ill," said the nursemaid, who had poured 
 some of these details into her ear. " She came home about 
 three o'clock in the morning, thinking she'd slip in without 
 anybody seeing her; and when she found the servant up, 
 and heard from the page-boy what had happened, she just 
 ran upstairs for some of her things and walked straight out 
 of the house, without so much as a by your leave,"— and 
 the girl waxed indignant, as she told the story—" nor wait- 
 ing to see how it would turn out, nor nothing. Eeal heart- 
 less, I call it." 
 
 " I suppose she w T as afraid," said Lisbeth, more to herself 
 than to the girl ; and then she went once more to Alys's 
 room to know if there was any change, and finding none, 
 wandered down to the drawing-room, when, to her moment- 
 ary surprise, she found Mrs. Creighton, senior, in animated 
 discourse with her son. She bestowed a curt greeting upon 
 Lisbeth, and then returned to what she had been saying, 
 while Edmund courteously offered a chair to his guest. 
 
 Lisbeth had time to look at him now. She saw that he 
 had a very harassed expression, but she put that down to 
 the influence of present circumstances. What struck her 
 more than this expression of face was his leanness and the 
 way in which his hair was thinning at the temples. He 
 looked ten years older than when he had married Alys, and 
 the trouble of the last two days did not altogether account 
 
272 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 for the change in his appearance. Lisbeth wondered invol- 
 untarily whether the marriage had been a happy one. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Creighton flowed on in voluble speech. 
 
 " I always told you that she was going out a great deal 
 too much. It seems to me, Edmund, that you made a great 
 mistake in allowing it. Alys was always nervous and deli- 
 cate ; she got thoroughly overdone, and this is the result 
 — your poor child is dead under most peculiar circum- 
 stances." 
 
 "Under such trying and painful circumstances, 1 ' said 
 Lisbeth, interposing— she scarcely knew why— " that I am 
 sure they had better not be discussed until Alys herself is 
 able to tell us how it all happened. 1 ' 
 
 Mrs. Creighton put up her eye-glass, and surveyed the 
 speaker with a look of insolent amaze. Miss Verrall was 
 all very well in her place ; she was good-looking and fairly 
 well off; but, really, was she justified in trying to silence 
 her superiors ? All this was expressed by the poise of Mrs. 
 Creighton's eye-glass ; which, however, Lisbeth was far too 
 simple to understand. 
 
 Edmund turned to her with a sudden look and gesture of 
 relief. 
 
 " You are quite right,' 1 he said, in a voice that he tried to 
 make natural, but which had a dreary and broken sound, 
 "and I am much obliged to you for the suggestion. Let 
 the matter rest, mother, until Alys is able to speak, I beg of 
 you. I should be glad myself," he added, gloomily, " not to 
 hear another word upon the subject." 
 
 He walked straight out of the room as he spoke and shut 
 the door behind him. Mrs. Creighton rose in a white heat 
 of anger and spoke indignantly. 
 
 " It is the first time I ever heard of a stranger interfering 
 between mother and son," she said, " and I was not prepared 
 for such treatment in this house. May I ask, Miss Lo rimer, 
 why I am not to speak to Edmund concerning the death of 
 my poor neglected grandchild ? " 
 
 " I did not mean that," said Lisbeth, quietly. " You are, of 
 course, at perfect liberty to speak ; but I thought that as Alys 
 
MRS. CREIGHTON'S SUGGESTIONS. 273 
 
 was not here, and as she is the chief person concerned, it might 
 be better to wait until she could speak for herself, before we 
 talked over the state of her health, which seemed to be the 
 matter under discussion when I came in." 
 
 u I shall speak to my son in private," said Mrs. Creigh- 
 ton, with her loftiest air. " I see your motive." 
 
 " My motive was love to my sister," said Lisbeth. 
 
 "A desire to screen her, no doubt." 
 
 '• Screen her ? There is nothing to screen. She has been 
 very unfortunate, that is all." 
 
 " Oh, of course, — unfortunate. It is unfortunate when a 
 woman is not responsible for her actions; but means have 
 to be taken against a repetition of such occurrences." 
 
 Lisbeth rose to her feet. She was in a white heat, too. 
 " May I ask what you mean ? " she said. 
 
 " My meaning is plain enough," answered Mrs. Creigh- 
 ton, with a jarring laugh. " I don't think there is much 
 doubt about it. I shall speak to Dr. Parfitt myself." 
 
 " About Alys ? She is under his care already. There is 
 surely no need for you to concern yourself, Mrs. Creighton. 
 She has a husband and a sister to stand by her." 
 
 " Even a husband and a sister cannot always avail to 
 keep a madwoman out of a lunatic asylum," said Mrs. 
 Creighton, drawing her skirts round her as if she were 
 afraid of encountering Lisbeth's slightest touch; "and I 
 warn you that you will be incurring a very heavy responsi- 
 bility if you try to prevent her from being put under proper 
 restraint." 
 
 " Alys mad ! It is absurd," said Lisbeth, contemptuously. 
 " I should sooner think you mad yourself to suggest such a 
 thing." She was quite too angry to remember the claims of 
 courtesy towards Edmund's mother at that moment. "A 
 mistake of the kind she made could be made by the sanest 
 person in the world." 
 
 " I am not going to stand by while she makes it again in 
 a different direction," said Mrs. Creighton, with decision. 
 " Good morning, Miss Lorimer. I am going to find my son 
 and to give him my views. His father, I may say, quite agrees 
 
274 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 with me. We shall find some way of calling attention to 
 our opinion." 
 
 She swept out of the room, and Lisbeth remained alone, 
 a prey to various and conflicting emotions, of which anger 
 was, perhaps, the chief. To think that Alys— the gentle, 
 fragile-looking Alys — should be exposed to the shafts of 
 malice which this woman was evidently delighted to let fly! 
 To think that she could ever be branded with the name of 
 madwoman! The thought was so ludicrous to Lisbeth's 
 mind, that, even in that sad hour, in that house of mourning, 
 she laughed aloud. 
 
 She was left long enough for her anger to die down, and 
 be succeeded by overwhelming anxiety. What was Mrs. 
 Creighton doing now ? To whom was she speaking, and 
 whose mind was she poisoning ? Lisbeth almost made up her 
 mind to go and seek her out, and try to countervail her evil 
 influence; but she came at last, sadly enough, to the con- 
 clusion that she would do more harm than good. Mrs. 
 Creighton's position as Edmund's mother gave her a pres- 
 tige which Lisbeth could not hope to dispute. She could 
 but wait and see what steps were best and wisest for her to 
 take. 
 
 While she was meditating on the subject, the door 
 opened, and Edmund himself came in. His air of lassitude 
 was more marked than ever; and Lisbeth was again struck 
 by the absence of that cool elasticity of manner and bearing 
 which had been his characteristic in the days of old. What 
 was it, she found herself asking mentally, that had changed 
 him so ? 
 
 He entered silently, took a chair and sat down, leaning 
 his elbow on the table near him, and shading his eyes with 
 his hand. 
 
 " I suppose you talked to my mother," he began, with 
 a depressed intonation. 
 
 " She talked to me," said Lisbeth. 
 
 " Ah ! And what do you think ? " 
 
 " Is it necessary to ask ? " 
 
 "That is just the point." And Lisbeth saw that the 
 
MRS. CREIGHTON'S SUGGESTIONS. 275 
 
 mother's words were already bearing bitter fruit. " It 
 would be a terrible tiling if — if— Alys's brain— were af- 
 fected." 
 
 " I think that the suspicion is a very cruel result of an 
 accident that might happen to any body," said Lisbeth, clearly 
 and decidedly. 
 
 " Yes ; if that were the only thing," said Edmund, in a 
 dull whisper. 
 
 " Why— what else is there ? " And for a moment Lis- 
 beth's heart stood still. 
 
 Edmund took his hand away from his eyes, and threw 
 himself back in his chair with a groan. "I don't know 
 what it is. Ever since we were married she has changed. 
 She is not like the same woman. Sometimes she has drooped 
 and pined, and almost refused to speak for days together ; at 
 others she has been unnaturally gay and lively, feverishly 
 anxious for amusements, and ready to sacrifice every thing 
 for the pleasure of the hour. • She was in this latter mood 
 on the evening of the day when the child was taken ill. I 
 wanted her to stay at home, but she refused, although she 
 seemed worn out by fatigue." 
 
 " I see no particular sign of brain disease in all that," 
 said Lisbeth. 
 
 " Perhaps not. What do you see, then ? " he asked 
 quickly. Then as she was silent, he continued almost vehe- 
 mently, " I have my own theory; let me see whether yours 
 tallies with mine. It is no use beating about the bush or 
 standing on ceremony. For God's sake, speak out. " 
 
 "I was afraid I might hurt you," said Lisbeth, tenderly; 
 " and I did not want to do that. I will say what I really 
 think; it does not sound to me as if she were a happy 
 woman." 
 
 " That is it. That is exactly what I have said to myself. 
 But why should she not be happy ? " 
 
 " Happiness," said Lisbeth, trying to find refuge from 
 perplexity in an aphorism, " is more a matter of constitu- 
 tion than of circumstances." 
 
 " She had everything to make her happy," said Edmund, 
 
276 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 shaken completely — as Lisbeth noticed — out of his com- 
 placent belief in himself and his powers; "everything she 
 wanted in the house, in dress, in jewels, in all that is sup- 
 posed to content women. I love her — I do everything I can 
 think of to make her happy. She has nothing to complain of 
 from me. Then there was the child — the prettiest little 
 creature in the world. I cannot understand it," he said, 
 getting up and beginning to pace the room with knitted 
 brows and eyes fixed upon the ground. u I cannot under- 
 stand it— though, perhaps, one should never hope to under- 
 stand a woman." 
 
 u Alys was not always very easy to understand," said 
 Lisbeth, slowly. 
 
 " No ; that was partly what attracted me to her," he said, 
 turning to her eagerly. " In spite of her apparent gentle- 
 ness and simplicity, there was something complex, some- 
 thing fine and subtle in her nature, which I used to ^f eel I 
 could not grasp. When I married I thought I should get 
 hold of this strange elusive quality, but it always escapes 
 me. She ' lies in my hand as tame as a peach late basking 
 over a wall,' to use a well-worn quotation, but she has not 
 given me herself." 
 
 '* Then she could not be happy. A woman always longs 
 to give herself." Edmund looked at her. There was some- 
 thing in his face which he did not like to put into words. 
 
 " Do you think," he said at last, so slowly and reluctantly 
 that it seemed as if the words were being forced from him 
 against his will, "do you think, that she cared more, cared 
 really — for that other man ? " 
 
 Lisbeth uttered a low cry of pain and horror. 
 
 "What! Care for him— and marry you?" she said, 
 with an intensity of feeling which he had never thought of 
 producing by his question. "What do you take her for? 
 She is your wife. How can you ask me ? She is not a 
 wicked woman." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said instinctively; and then he 
 turned away, and leaned against the mantelpiece, with his 
 back to her, and both his hands over his eyes. Lisbeth's 
 
MRS. CREIGHTON'S SUGGESTIONS. 277 
 
 heart smote her; the man was really in trouble, and she had 
 thrown hack his question in his teeth as if it had been in- 
 tended as an insult. 
 
 " I did not mean to speak harshly," she said in a softer 
 tone; " but I cannot believe that Alys could do anything so 
 heartless, and so base, as to abandon the man she loved for 
 the sake of the man whom she did not love." 
 
 ''Women do it every day," said he gloomily. "Alys 
 was brought up in our world. She is not a country girl, 
 unsophisticated, ignorant of life. She belongs to the set 
 she moves in, and I do not know why she should not be 
 happy." 
 
 "Perhaps you have vexed her— disappointed her— alien- 
 ated her in some way ? " said Lisbeth, gravely. 
 
 " Then— upon my soul, I do not know how," he answered, 
 with some heat. 
 
 " I told you— she had had no cause to complain. But her 
 change towards me has been inexplicable, and I can only 
 account for it " 
 
 " By charging her with madness ? That seems like an 
 excess of self-esteem, does it not ? " 
 
 He faced her sharply. " It is not so— not in the least. 
 It is not because she is cold to me that I fear for her mind — 
 that would be ridiculous indeed— but because of a general 
 change in her; because of these alternate fits of excitement 
 and apathy, and because of an occasional confusion of 
 thought which I have remarked in her." 
 
 " Thinking this — knowing this — why did you let her give 
 medicine to your child ? It seems to me that you are as 
 much to blame as she." 
 
 " Perhaps I am," he answered with unaccustomed meek- 
 ness, "perhaps I am; I do not know. But it was an acci- 
 dent; neither of us can be blamed." 
 
 " No, I suppose not," said Lisbeth, with gathering cold- 
 ness. " But— it is not so very long ago since you persuaded 
 her that an accident was an unpardonable offence." 
 
 " Do you think I need reminding of that ? " he asked, 
 with greater bitterness than she had expected to hear. " All 
 
278 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 that one can say is that, in that case the law was on our side. 
 But I do not wonder at your making the gibe." 
 
 " Oh, it was not a gibe," she answered him earnestly. 
 " I'm too sorry for you both to say an unkind word. Only 
 do — do not — be so ready to think that my poor Alys is out 
 of her mind. I cannot believe that." 
 
 " You would be more ready to believe that she was mis- 
 erable, because she did not love me," he asked with a smile, 
 which seemed to her a very mournful one. 
 
 "Yes," she answered boldly; "for she might learn to 
 love you in course of time, whereas madness would make 
 her incapable of learning." 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXIV. 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 The relation of Edmund's troubles added to Lisbeth's 
 perplexities. She did not quite see her way out of the diffi- 
 culties of the situation. On the one hand, Mrs. Creighton 
 suggested that Alys was going mad; on the other, Edmund 
 seemed to think that she was sane enough, but intensely 
 miserable. And how was Lisbeth to judge of the truth ? 
 
 After the first few terrible hours, when Alys's life and 
 reason seemed to hang in the balance, Lisbeth was admitted 
 to her room, and sat silently beside her, holding the tiny 
 white hand in her own, and earnestly wishing that she could 
 soothe that troubled heart. But at present there was nothing 
 to be done. Alys was not allowed to talk, and did not seem 
 to wish to do so. She lay perfectly still, and would only 
 with great difficulty be induced to swallow medicine or food. 
 Once or twice she pushed it away, and broke out into a piti- 
 ful wail. 
 
 "Oh, let me die— let me die! I would sooner die with 
 my baby. Let me die." 
 
 But she was too weak to resist when her nurses continued 
 
RETRIBUTION. 279 
 
 to press restoratives upon her. So the first and the second 
 day passed; and on the second day the inquest upon the 
 little child's body had to take place. 
 
 Alys could not of course attend it: but the doctor allowed 
 her to make a short statement or deposition which was read 
 to the jurymen, who at once passed a resolution expressing" 
 their sympathy for the unhappy mother, and giving the 
 expected verdict of "Death by misadventure." The whole 
 thing was conducted very quietly, with as little pain as pos- 
 sible to the family ; not a word was uttered on the subject 
 of Alys's rumoured failure of mind, and the only expression 
 of censure was one passed upon the missing nurse, who had 
 never reappeared. Lisbeth felt, in a vague way, as if a 
 danger had been averted ; the thing that now chiefly troubled 
 her was Alys's extraordinary apathy, for she lay as if un- 
 conscious of what was happening around her, and had only 
 been aroused to gasp out the few words descriptive of her 
 fatal mistake in the manner of one whose faculties were 
 sleeping or benumbed. 
 
 But the inquest was over, and Lisbeth was still watching 
 at Alys's bedside when a step came to the door, and halted 
 — as if not knowing whether to proceed or not. Lisbeth 
 hardly noticed it, but she suddenly became aware that Alys's 
 eyes were fixed upon her, and dilated with an expression of 
 mingled horror and fear. 
 
 " What is it, my darling ? " said Lisbeth, leaning forward 
 and speaking low. 
 
 " Edmund — it is Edmund — at the door," said Alys, almost 
 inaudibly. 
 
 " Yes, dear ; shall I let him in ? " 
 
 "No; keep him away." 
 
 " Don't you want to see him, dear ? He is so lonely and 
 sad." 
 
 " No; keep him away." Then, with an effort, — " He will 
 never forgive me for killing baby." 
 
 " Darling ! " 
 
 "Keep him away," said the young wife, lifting her head 
 for a, moment from the pillow, and showing a hectic spot of 
 
280 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 colour on each thin cheek. " I can't see him— I can't — I am 
 afraid." 
 
 Lisbeth went reluctantly to the door, almost believing 
 that Alys's ear had been mistaken; but on going out into 
 the dimly-lighted passage, she saw that Edmund, pale as 
 a ghost, was indeed standing outside with a letter in his 
 hand. 
 
 " Did you want me ? " she said, instinctively, although he 
 had not knocked. 
 
 " I wanted to give you this," he answered, holding out 
 the letter. u How did you know I was here ? " 
 
 "She heard you." 
 
 " She is sensible then ? I may go in." 
 
 ** I think you bad, perhaps, better not. She does not want 
 — visitors," said Lisbeth, searching about for words which 
 would not wound him over much. 
 
 " You mean she does not want me ? " 
 
 " She is afraid, poor child. She thinks you will reproach 
 her." 
 
 " Let me go in, just to tell her that nothing in the world 
 would affect my love for her." 
 
 Was it Edmund who was speaking ? The roughened 
 utterance, the agitated manner, were not those of the pol- 
 ished, agreeable man of the world whom Lisbeth had known 
 hitherto. Was the man's real nature, or whatever was truest 
 and best in it, breaking through the artificial surface of 
 veneer ? 
 
 "I do not think you had better," said she, much per- 
 plexed. " She is in a very weak state, and any excitement 
 would make her feverish. I will tell her, if you like, what 
 you say." 
 
 lk Yes, tell her," said Edmund, turning away; "but I sup- 
 pose it is of no use. If she had ever cared for me, things 
 would have been different now." 
 
 And Lisbeth could not deny the truth of his remarks. 
 
 The nurse was with Alys, so she thought it better to open 
 her letter by the light of the gas lamp in the passage than 
 to read it in the sick room. As she looked at the envelope, 
 
RETRIBUTION. 281 
 
 a thrill, a shot of mingled pleasure and pain, seemed to pass 
 through all her veins. Whose writing was on the envelope ? 
 Was it not that of Francis Moor ? And was not Francis 
 Moor by this time a free man ? 
 She opened and read. 
 
 "Lisbeth," the letter ran, "I have kept my promise. I 
 have been to Quest. I said I would not go away. I would 
 not sever myself from every bond in life without going to 
 Quest again. I wish you had been there. But I have kept 
 my word. 
 
 " I spoke to one of the labourers— a new man, I think, 
 who did not know me, and he told me that you had gone to 
 your sister's in London. I did not know her address, and I 
 would not ask for it— very likely he could not have told me 
 if I had asked. I had already written to my mother, telling 
 her not to expect me at Moor End. If she cared to meet me 
 in Liverpool to say good-bye to me before I sailed for Amer- 
 ica, I should be glad. I fixed a date, a place, a time, for that 
 meeting— it is still a week hence. I have kept my word to 
 you, and gone back once more to Quest; but you were not 
 there, and I will never again go home. 
 
 " I meant, on leaving Quest, to go at once to Liverpool, 
 and wait there for my boat. But— I don't know why- 
 something drew me to London— to you— to her. I came 
 yesterday, and took a quiet lodging in Bloom sbury. The 
 first newspaper I took up this morning gave me her address, 
 and told me why you had gone to London just when I was 
 coming back to Quest. I see now why I came ; it was that 
 I might be near you in this trouble, and might even learn 
 from you how she — who could not endure that the man she 
 loved should have the stain of blood upon his hand— how 
 she bears the knowledge that she has killed her own child. 
 Possibly she does not care. 
 
 "But I must know. I shall not leave London until I 
 know. If you can see me, send a line to the address which 
 I give below, and meet me somewhere— wherever you think 
 best— at any hour to-morrow. After dusk if you do not 
 
282 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 mind. I hate to show myself in daylight in the open 
 streets. There is a big church not far from you; we might 
 meet at the gate. If you do not answer, if you do not meet 
 me, I shall know that you too have given me up. 
 
 "F. M." 
 
 Lisbeth's eyes swam in tears. How weary, how bitter, 
 how despairing were the words which he had written ! The 
 iron had entered into his very soul. But he had not forgot- 
 ten his promise to her, and he had wanted to see her — that 
 was something. She thought with pity of the poor mother, 
 whose hopes must already have suffered such a downfall. 
 Could she, Lisbeth, do nothiug to avert the crushing blow 
 that was descending on Lady Adela's head ? Could she in 
 no way help and comfort the man who had suffered so 
 cruelly, and, as Lisbeth believed, so undeservedly ? 
 
 She went to her own room, and hurriedly wrote a note 
 to the address given in the letter. 
 
 " Dear Frank," she wrote, " I want very much indeed to 
 see you. I will be at the gate of the church you speak of at 
 five to-morrow afternoon. You will be sure to be there. It 
 was my great sorrow when I left Quest to think that you 
 might come when I was away ; but they sent for me. Alys 
 is very ill, and feels the poor baby's death terribly. You 
 could not help being sorry for her, if you saw her now. 
 
 " Your sincere friend, 
 
 "Lisbeth." 
 
 She took the letter with her own hands to the nearest 
 pillar-box, and then came back to Alys's room, and took her 
 old place beside the bed. 
 
 Lisbeth was to sit up that night. For some time Alys 
 lay in the passive quiescent state which came of her great 
 weakness; but towards midnight, she began to grow restless, 
 and to utter short broken moans and words which brought 
 her sister at once to her side. 
 
 " I am here, darling ; can I do anything for you ? " 
 
 "It is you, Lisbeth. Oh, I am glad." 
 
RETRIBUTION. 283 
 
 Lisbeth's heart leaped up, it was the first time that Alys 
 had expressed any pleasure in her presence. Indeed, she 
 had seemed to have only an occasional consciousness of it 
 before. 
 
 " The nurse would riot let me speak last night; I wanted 
 you then, but she would not send for you. Now— I must 
 say something." 
 
 Lisbeth did not oppose her. She was of opinion that it 
 would do Alys less harm to talk than to remain silent. It 
 was that strange, dreary, apathetic silence that she dreaded 
 —not the excitement of speech, which might be remedial. 
 
 " Drink this, dear; then you can talk a little if you feel 
 inclined," said Lisbeth, soothingly. And then she sat down 
 and laid her cool firm hand on Alys's hot nervous fingers. 
 
 " Is— is it all over ? " was the first shrinking question. 
 
 "AH over, dear." 
 
 " The inquest— those dreadful men who came to see my 
 poor baby, and hear what I — I had to say ? " 
 
 " It is all over, darling." 
 
 "And now what did they say ? Why has nobody been 
 to tell me ? Did they say I was a murderess ? " 
 
 " They were not so unjust, Alys dear. They said how 
 sorry they were — how they sympathised with you and Ed- 
 mund in your trouble, and how terrible it was for you. 
 That was all." 
 
 Alys lay still, with her great blue eyes fixed on Lisbeth's 
 face. 
 
 "But — did they not say I must go to prison — like — 
 like " 
 
 She could not complete the sentence, but Lisbeth knew 
 that she was thinking of Francis Moor. 
 
 " No, dear; there was no thought of such a thing." 
 
 To Lisbeth's surprise, Alys covered her face with her 
 hands, and the tears trickled down between her thin fingers. 
 
 " Then it is very unfair," she said. " Oh, I ought to go 
 to prison too. I am just as much to blame as Frank was — 
 poor Frank— when he struggled with Zadock for my sake 
 and threw him down." 
 
284: THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " For your sake ! " said Lisbeth faintly. Slie had never 
 heard Alys use this expression before. 
 
 " Yes, for my sake— to save me. Zadock had attacked me 
 first." 
 
 " But, Alys, you did not exactly say so at the time." 
 
 " I know I did not. I was frightened ; I don't think I 
 quite knew what I said. I did not think it made much dif- 
 ference." 
 
 " It would have made a good deal of difference, I think," 
 said Lisbeth, with a tremor in her voice. " If Frank had 
 been known to be defending you, there would have been a 
 motive for the struggle. But you let it be thought simply 
 that you witnessed it from some little distance — not that you 
 had in any way been connected with it." 
 
 " Zadock hated me, you know," said Alys, speaking more 
 connectedly, " and I think he was very angry because Frank 
 had just— kissed me. It was that that made me so afraid to 
 speak out. I did not want every one to know. . . . And it 
 did not occur to me at the time that it would make much 
 difference. But I told it once to Edmund, and he laughed, 
 and said " 
 
 " Yes, dear— said what ? " asked Lisbeth eagerly, as Alys 
 paused. 
 
 " He said it was a good thing it had not been a hanging 
 matter ; for that little incident would have probably decided 
 the verdict, and that Frank would have got off scot-free if I 
 had spoken out in time. Oh, Lisbeth, I have never been 
 happy since." 
 
 Lisbeth drew a long breatb. Now she understood. 
 There was no need for her to seek other reasons for Alys's 
 unhappiness. 
 
 " Since I have been lying here," said Alys, " I seem to see 
 it all quite plainly. I must have been mad or blind, Lis- 
 beth, at the time. Why was it ? I was sickened by the 
 sight of that terrible struggle, and it seemed to me as if 
 Frank had been too violent. But last night— in the very 
 middle of the night— I saw it all over again; just as it hap- 
 pened—and yet I saw it differently. Frank was only de- 
 
RETRIBUTION. 285 
 
 fending himself; he was not savage or cruel, as I thought. 
 Why didn't I see it then ? Why couldn't I say so at the 
 time ? I see now that it was my fault— even Edmund made 
 me see that it was my fault— that Frank was sent to prison. 
 I might have spoken for him, and I was afraid." 
 
 " What were you afraid of ? " said Lisbeth, in a low tone. 
 " I was afraid of him. I thought of him always as a man 
 with blood upon his hands. Zadock's blood. I could not 
 help it— but I was afraid." m 
 
 "It was more your misfortune than your fault," said Lis- 
 beth heavily. u We cannot all be brave." 
 
 " But I am punished for my cowardice," said Alys, lift- 
 ing up her weak hands. " I said I could not love a man 
 who was a murderer— although I might have known that 
 Zadock's death was accident, not murder; and here am I 
 now with my own child's death upon my head— a murder- 
 ess, certainly, if Frank were a murderer. Oh, God has sent 
 a punishment upon me that I do not know how to bear." 
 
 She moved her head restlessly from side to side upon her 
 pillow. Her face was very white, but her eyes were burn- 
 ing brightly. Lisbeth caressed her gently, but did not 
 speak. There was something in her throat which made 
 speech difficult. 
 
 " If they had sent me to prison, I could have borne it 
 better," Alys cried out wildly. "I had been waiting for 
 that— waiting for the time when I could rise up and say, 
 ' Yes, I am glad. I will expiate my wrong-doing, as he has 
 done.'" 
 
 " There was no wrong-doing, Alys. You made a mistake, 
 as others have done before. It was very sad, but it was not 
 a crime." 
 
 " And Zadock's death was not a crime," said Alys, " al- 
 though I said it was. I married Edmund because I felt 
 that awful horror of Frank, as of a man who had killed an- 
 other man. And now— now— people will have that same 
 horror of me — I know how it feels— that horror of the 
 woman who has killed her child ; and I shall be branded 
 as Frank is branded— with an eternal disgrace." 
 19 
 
286 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 u No," said Lisbeth gravely, " that is not true. You are 
 not disgraced; and neither in the eyes of those who love 
 him is Frank disgraced. You injured him most when you 
 gave up your love for him,— not when you kept a cowardly 
 silence, or spoke against him at the trial." 
 
 " Ah, that is the worst of it all. I did not know what I 
 was doing when I said I gave up my love for him." 
 
 " You had better not say any more, Alys." 
 
 " I am not going to say anything wrong. I don't think 
 I have any love for any one left in me. Not even for Frank, 
 not much even for you, Lisbeth, though I love you best of 
 all. Baby has taken away with her my power of loving— 
 and I think I must have lost the right to love when I gave 
 up Frank." 
 
 ** Here is Edmund." 
 
 " Ah, Edmund ! " A tone of sharp terror crept into Alys's 
 voice. " Will he ever look at me without thinking that after 
 all I had better have married the man with blood upon his 
 hands ? " 
 
 " Alys, child, you are mistaken in him. He told me to 
 say to you that nothing you could do would ever destroy his 
 love. He wanted to come in to comfort you. In his love 
 lies the hope of all your future life." 
 
 But Alys could say no more. She broke into tears, and 
 clung to Lisbeth sobbing. 
 
 " There is no hope," said she. " I am not fit to live. I 
 have spoilt two men's lives for them, and I have killed my 
 child. I think that in God's sight I must be worse than a 
 murderer." 
 
 And she would not be comforted. 
 
IN THE DUSK. 287 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 W THE DUSK. 
 
 The dusk was gathering, and the lamplighters were be- 
 ginning their evening round when Lisbeth reached the gate 
 of the church to which Frank had referred, a well-known 
 Kensington church, where it was easy to fix a meeting. She 
 had left Alys in the nurse's hands, and had said that she 
 wanted a little fresh air before dinner, — not that there was 
 any particular need to account for her movements. She was 
 quite independent ; for Edmund was out all day, and Mrs. 
 Creighton refused to come to the house so long as Miss Ver- 
 rall stayed. Julian was abroad with her husband, or she 
 would have come at once ; as it was, she wrote loving and 
 sympathetic letters, with kind messages from Lord Rayn- 
 flete, but could not return home for a month or two. 
 
 Lisbeth stopped at the church gate and waited. Then a 
 man stepped out of the shadows and confronted her. For a 
 moment she shrank back with a sinking heart. Was this 
 Frank ? His face was haggard and worn, his eyes sunken, 
 he had an indescribably haunted look. But she knew him 
 when he spoke. 
 
 "Well, Lisbeth," he said, with a bitter intonation, "so 
 even you do not know me ? " 
 
 " Indeed I do," she answered, and held out both her hands. 
 After a moment's hesitation, he grasped them in his own, 
 and she saw that his lip quivered. 
 
 " Forgive me; I thought that you too were going to give 
 me up." 
 
 " Too ! " she repeated. " Who else ? " 
 
 He answered by a look of reproach. " I have not forgot- 
 ten," he said quietly. " I never shall forget." 
 
 A stab of pain made Lisbeth wince a little. Her love 
 was very generous ; but she was a woman still. 
 
 " Shall we walk on ? " she asked after a short pause. 
 11 We can get into the Gardens almost directly. Mr. Creigh- 
 
288 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 ton showed me the way. I daresay you know it. We can 
 talk quietly there." 
 
 He acquiesced, and walked beside her, without speaking 
 until they reached the green shades of the avenue, which 
 twilight was obscuring. Then he asked a question — 
 
 " How is she ? " 
 
 k Very weak and ill. A trifle better than she was yester- 
 day, perhaps. I think that when the funeral is over " 
 
 " When is it to be ? " 
 
 "To-morrow. It has been a great shock to her, Frank." 
 
 " I suppose so. She knows now how it feels to have done 
 a terrible thing without intention. Has it made her more 
 merciful to me ? " 
 
 " That is just what I wanted to tell you, Frank. She is 
 bitterly repentant. Now she says she understands. Before 
 — her eyes were blinded by fear and cowardice and preju- 
 dice. It would have been almost a relief to her to be con- 
 demned and punished for what she calls — her crime. Yet it 
 was no crime, but pure accident, as was also Zadock Verrall's 
 death. Oh, Frank, you know I always understood that." 
 Lisbeth put her hand upon his arm. 
 
 " I know you did, Lisbeth, dear and true, as you always 
 were; but she left me to my fate." 
 
 " I don't deny it," said Lisbeth, in a low, pained tone ; 
 " but I want you to understand, Frank, that she has awak- 
 ened to a sense of her wrong-doing, and — if she knew that 
 you were near her — would only beg to be allowed to throw 
 herself at your feet, and beg for your forgiveness." 
 
 " It is easy to ask forgiveness," said Frank with a stern 
 smile, " but it is not so easy to forget what you have suffered, 
 in a prison cell, herded with criminals— disgraced, forsaken, 
 condemned. I have never acknowledged and never will 
 acknowledge the justice of that sentence, Lisbeth, and it is 
 all the bitterer to me because Alys herself contributed to 
 bring it about." 
 
 "Not knowingly." 
 . ''There is an old quotation which will serve my turn 
 very well : ' Evil is wrought by want of thought, as well as 
 
IN THE DUSK. 289 
 
 want of heart.' She did her utmost to condemn me to a 
 prison. I love her — yes, to my cost, I love her still ; but I 
 cannot profess that I am sorry for her in her grief. It is a 
 strange piece of retribution, that she should suffer exactly as 
 I suffered — whom she could not love because I had blood on 
 my hands." 
 
 "It is retribution indeed. So much so that you might 
 well be content. You would not wish her to be punished 
 more ? " 
 
 " Nay, I wish her no punishment at all. I hope she will 
 learn mercy to others through her own suffering." 
 
 His tone was hard. Something in him had changed; 
 this was a bitter, almost a desperate man, not the gentle 
 dilettante in art and music whom Lisbeth had once known. 
 The lover of her youth was dead ; and yet she loved the man 
 better still. 
 
 "Frank," she said, gently, "she has suffered and re- 
 pented. It is not only the shock of her child's death, but 
 the conviction of her heart that has changed her. Soon 
 after she was married, she came to know how she had 
 wronged you; and she has never had a happy moment 
 since." 
 
 "Does she not love her husband ?" Frank asked, with a 
 quick, darting glance. 
 
 " That has nothing to do with it," Lisbeth answered, val- 
 iantly. " The point is that she has discovered her mistake, 
 her cowardice, her untruth to you, long before this terrible 
 event happened ; and she has been repenting of it ever since. 
 Think of this, and do not be too hard on her." 
 
 " Oh, I am not hard on her," said he quietly. " I com- 
 prehend her now. She had a shallow nature, in spite of her 
 lovely face; and one takes a little time in finding it out. 
 As for her repentance — how has she shown it ? I read in 
 the papers that she is a society dame — a lady who is always 
 at grand parties, and leaves her household to take care of 
 itself, and her child to die of neglect. There is a long 
 article about it in to-day's Verity. I would advise you to 
 read it." 
 
290 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 "Surely you know, 1 ' cried Lisbeth, stung by bis tone, 
 "that gaiety will not cure the aching of a wounded 
 heart." 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 " That sounds sentimental, Lisbeth, and I always thought 
 that you were so matter-of-fact. Well, I have learnt all 
 that I wanted to know. I am so besotted on her still, you 
 see, that I could not make up my mind to cross the seas, 
 without knowing whether she was better. You say that she 
 is better. Well, that is right. If she had died of her child's 
 death, I think I could have forgiven her.' 1 
 
 " You are very hard, Frank. Is death the only way to 
 soften you ? They have feared for her brain ; and that 
 would be a worse fate than death." 
 
 " Yes," he said, and looked down. 
 
 It seemed to her that she had made an impression. 
 
 "She is not out of danger yet. I do not know how 
 things will turn out; but even you, Frank, can hardly have 
 suffered more than she has done." 
 
 " I am a brute," he said suddenly. He stopped short in 
 the quiet road, and looked far away into the darkness. 
 " God forgive me ! " he ejaculated under his breath. " What 
 is my pain that I should make such a rout about it, com • 
 pared to hers ? Lisbeth, this prison life has demoralised 
 me. I have raged like a wild beast. I have sickened and 
 sulked like a caged animal will do. I have had no care for 
 anything or anybody but myself. The very way you speak 
 proves to me how low I have fallen. To remind me of my 
 sufferings in that way." 
 
 " I did not mean to hurt you, Frank," Lisbeth said meek- 
 ly. She did not quite understand the mingled pain and 
 pathos of his answer. But she felt that the ice was giving 
 way — the hard rock yielding — that there was some gracious 
 change. 
 
 " I should not have spoken in this way in the old days, I 
 suppose," he went on ruminatingly. " I was more generous, 
 I suppose. Yes, I am sorry for her, she has been punished, 
 as you say. What am I that I should wish to add one iota 
 
IN THE DUSK. 291 
 
 to the weight she has laid upon herself ? Lisbeth, I take 
 back what I said." 
 
 "I knew you would," she said, with tears in her eyes. 
 "You would not wish to hurt her more, if you saw how 
 broken-down she is. Tell me that you forgive her, Frank, 
 that I may know you still to be all that I ever thought " 
 
 " Ah Lisbeth, but you never thought well of me." 
 
 "Indeed I did. I lied if I said otherwise. You were 
 always the first and best of men to me." 
 
 Then she stopped short and bit her lip. What had she 
 said ? Would he not gather from her unguarded words 
 how great was her love for him ? 
 
 But Frank had never been given to vanity, and the idea 
 that Lisbeth cared for him otherwise than as a sister had 
 not penetrated his mind. Her refusal of him in the old 
 days had been too decided, her rebuffs too absolute, to lead 
 him to form visions of that kind. Besides, his thoughts 
 were still centred on Alys. 
 
 "I always knew," Lisbeth went on more soberly, "how 
 much good there was in you, and that it needed only a spur 
 now and then to bring it out." 
 
 "There is not much good now, Lisbeth." 
 
 " There is as much as ever, and capabilities of more," she 
 said firmly ; " because you have suffered, and are a stronger 
 man." 
 
 "I have suffered certainly; whether I am stronger or 
 not, only time can show." 
 
 "You are showing it now, you are going to show it 
 now." 
 
 " Am I ? " he said, a little sadly. " Well, tell me how ? " 
 
 "You will forgive Alys the injury she did you— that is 
 the first thing. That is the great thing, because the thought 
 that she had injured you and did not care has been embitter- 
 ing your mind for the last two years. But that is over, is it 
 not ? You will try to forgive and forget ? " 
 
 "Yes," he said gravely; "I will try." 
 
 " Then— will the next thing be so hard ? Frank, you 
 must give up your project of going to America." 
 
292 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 " That is too hard for me. What else can I do ? '' 
 
 "If you go," said Lisbeth, with fine diplomacy, "you 
 must go later on, and in a proper way. Have you thought 
 of your mother ? " 
 
 " Yes; she is to meet me in Liverpool. I did not mean 
 to go without bidding her good-bye, Lisbeth," he said, in 
 something of an injured tone. 
 
 " I should think not. But what is that ? Oh Frank, I 
 did not think you would be so cruel to your mother. " 
 
 " I am not cruel. It is inevitable, I must go." 
 
 " You must go because you cannot make up your mind 
 to bear the pain, the humiliation, of coming home again 
 amongst people, who, you think, will always be remember- 
 ing the past against you ! I do not call it manly to run 
 away." 
 
 " It is not running away. It is the most obvious thing 
 in the world that I must go. Why, I believe I remember 
 you saying to me once that if I would go out to the colonies 
 and do some honest work there, you would respect me." 
 
 " Very likely ; because you had no duties at home," said 
 Lisbeth, with sudden warmth. "But things are changed 
 now. Your mother is much broken in health, her sight is 
 failing, and she is very feeble. You ought not to desert 
 her. You have caused her — unintentionally, I know, — a 
 great deal of grief and pain; do you mean to say that you 
 have no duty towards her now ? To my mind you ought to 
 stay at home, and be a son and daughter to her for the rest 
 of her days. You may even bring home a daughter to her 
 one of these days." 
 
 " Never, Lisbeth ! I could never ask a woman to bear 
 my name now." 
 
 " That is nonsense. A woman who loved you would be 
 proud to bear it, and would love you the better for the trou- 
 ble you have been passing through." 
 
 " Would she ? I do not know such women." 
 
 "Because your eyes are blind. Again, there's Moor End 
 and the estate. Who is to look after them when you are 
 
 gone 
 
 2" 
 
IN THE DUSK. 293 
 
 " There is not much to look after,' 1 said the young man, 
 shrugging his shoulders. 
 
 " But you would not like the old house to pass into the 
 hands of strangers ? And it is not a question of liking," 
 said Lisbeth, with passionate emphasis ; u it is a question of 
 right and wrong. Your duty to your mother should be the 
 first thing in the world to you now." 
 
 They walked on in silence for a few moments. Then 
 Frank said, in a gloomy tone — 
 
 " It's no use, Lisbeth, I couldn't do it. It makes me mad 
 to stay in England. These London streets are torture to me 
 now." 
 
 " But on the moors " 
 
 " It would be worse. I must go. You are wrong in say- 
 ing I am stronger for the past. I am very weak. I shall 
 do no good until I am far away." 
 
 "You are putting yourself first." 
 
 " I suppose I always did," he said, rather bitterly. "It's 
 too late to alter. I must go." 
 
 Lisbeth sighed deeply. " You are wrong," she said, " and 
 you will see it some day. However, I see it is no use say- 
 ing anything more. I must turn back now, Frank. I am 
 so glad to have seen you again." 
 
 " I could not have left England without coming to say 
 good-bye," said Frank affectionately. 
 
 Lisbeth made no answer, and they walked on together 
 in silence for a little time. Then Frank, in glancing side- 
 ways at his companion, saw the gleam of tears upon her 
 cheek. He laid his hand upon her arm. 
 
 " Lisbeth — are those tears for me ? " 
 
 "I am sorry you are going," she said, quickly; "you 
 would not wish me to be otherwise. I have lost so many 
 friends lately that I feel the loss of another to be a misfor- 
 tune." 
 
 "I may come back," he said, rather falteringly. 
 
 " Nay, one cannot count on that. Besides, if you came, 
 it is as another man, with new friends and new interests. 
 That is the way — the man goes out into the world, while the 
 
294 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 women sit at home ; like Lady Adela at Moor End, and Lis- 
 beth Verrall at Quest. It's lonely work." 
 
 " You make me wish I could ask you to come with me," 
 said Frank, half lightly, half sadly. " You would be a capi- 
 tal comrade, Lisbeth, a helpmate for any man if he did not 
 happen to have a stain upon his name." 
 
 The words leaped to her lips, " What do I care for any 
 stain upon your name ? " but she held them back. She 
 would not throw herself at him, she would not place herself 
 in any position of humiliation. She walked on with head 
 erect, and a hot colour burning in her cheeks. She looked 
 very handsome, but so dignified that Frank fancied her 
 offended. He resumed in a different tone — 
 
 " I assure you, Lisbeth, I do not think that my mother 
 will object to my leaving England — at least, for a time. If 
 there were any real reason for my staying, I would try to 
 stay. But it would be intensely painful to me, and I cannot 
 see that it would be an advantage to my mother. My one 
 desire is to get away." 
 
 " I hope you will be successful," she answered gravely ; 
 u but I do not think that you are quite right to go. However, 
 you must be the judge of that. And are we to say good-bye 
 now ? or will you see me again before you go ? " 
 
 " Yes, let me see you again," he implored. " I have still 
 another day before I need meet my mother in Liverpool. If 
 I see you again you can tell me how Alys is." 
 
 " I will meet you at the same hour to-morrow, in the 
 same place, — if that will do." 
 
 u Yes, yes. That is good of you, Lisbeth, good and kind 
 as you always are ! How I have longed for a sight of your 
 face — how I shall long again when I am far away ! " 
 
 " Don't come any further," said she, stopping and holding 
 out her hand. It was unendurable to her to hear him say 
 kind and friendly things any longer. She wanted so much 
 more — so much that he would not and could not give. 
 "Good-bye; I am nearly at the house now, and some one 
 might see us." 
 
 " Good-bye," he said. " Thank you for meeting me to- 
 
A STRONG APPEAL. 295 
 
 night. I was nearly in despair, and you have cheered me. 
 You will cheer me again before I go." 
 
 " If I can," she said, with a grave smile, as they separated. 
 And for the rest of the way home, the lighted streets were 
 to Lisbeth's tear-dimmed eyes only a dazzling blur. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 A STRONG APPEAL. 
 
 Lisbeth did not sit up with Alys that night, and the 
 nurse took her place. But she stayed with her the greater 
 part of the next day, and did her best to comfort her during 
 the sad hour when the little child's coffin was borne away to 
 its resting place, and when the house seemed strangely 
 silent after the departure of mourners and hired helpers, 
 and the trampling of horses' hoofs in the quiet street below. 
 
 " It is all over then," the bereaved mother said at last, 
 with a weary sigh. 
 
 " You will see her again," said Lisbeth. 
 
 " Shall I ? I don't know. I am not good enough. And 
 I don't want to die. I am afraid." 
 
 Yet she looked as white and frail as she lay with her 
 hands stretched out straight before her, and her eyes heavy 
 with weeping and fever and sleeplessness, that a shudder 
 passed through Lisbeth's frame at the words of fear. Alys 
 might not, perhaps, be seriously ill, but she looked as if it 
 would take very little to end her span of life. 
 
 "There is nothing to fear," said Lisbeth, "if you can 
 trust God." 
 
 "You were always good," Alys answered faintly, "but I 
 don't think I ever was. Oh my little baby, my poor little 
 darling that I killed ! Shall I really see her again ? " 
 
 And then she burst into passionate tears, and Lisbeth had 
 a hard task in quieting and consoling her. 
 
 " You will see Edmund to-day, will you not ? " she asked 
 
296 ™ E MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 by and by, when Alys had reached a quieter mood. " When 
 he comes back, he will be tired and sad, — you will see him, 
 then ? " 
 
 u He will not want to come," said Alys, turning her face 
 away. And when Lisbeth urged that he had several times 
 entreated permission to enter the sick room, she only an- 
 swered with her old wailing cry, u I am afraid, I am afraid. 
 I am always afraid." 
 
 It seemed as if her whole being had been usurped by fear. 
 
 Lisbeth let the subject drop, and spoke of other things, 
 trying to draw her sister's mind away from the topics that 
 were so painful to her. But Alys was not easy to distract or 
 amuse. Her mind ran persistently on the evil of her own 
 doings, the uselessness of her existence, the unhappiness of 
 her future. 
 
 " If you thought of others rather than of yourself," Lis- 
 beth said at last, with a touch of severity, " you would find 
 things easier to bear." 
 
 " I do think of others, I am thinking of poor Frank," said 
 Alys, whose tears were set flowing as she spoke. 
 
 Lisbeth hesitated a little before she said—" I may as well 
 tell you, I saw Mr. Moor last night." 
 
 " You saw him ? Where ? " 
 
 " Out of doors. I talked to him a little while. He is go- 
 ing to America." 
 
 Alys's eyes asked eagerly for more. 
 
 " He is to meet his mother at Liverpool in a day or two, 
 and say good-bye to her." 
 
 " Will he never come back ? " 
 
 " He says he may ; but I should think not." 
 
 " Oh, poor Frank ! " said Alys pitifully. And then for a 
 time she lay quite still. 
 
 " Did he speak of me ? " she asked at length. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Lisbeth, tell me— was he very angry— very bitter ? " 
 
 " He was, at first. But afterwards he said he was sorry 
 for you ; he said he forgave you any injury that you had 
 done him." 
 
r A STRONG APPEAL. 297 
 
 She could not help making her tone dry, and her manner 
 cold. She had begged Frank to pardon Alys, but sometimes 
 she had difficulty in pardoning her herself. 
 
 " I am glad he forgave me," said Alys in a soft voice, and 
 then for a time she lay perfectly still, and Lisbeth's heart 
 misgave her as to whether she had done a right thing in re- 
 peating to her what Frank had said. But it had certainly 
 had the desired effect of diverting her mind from the death 
 of her child and the other painful circumstances of her lot. 
 
 " Lisbeth," she asked at last, " do you think he ought to 
 go to America ? " 
 
 "No; I think it is his duty to stay at home, and take care 
 of his mother. I told him so, but I could not convince 
 him." 
 
 " Why does he want to go ? " 
 
 u Because he feels life so painful to him in England. His 
 career is over— he is a marked man ; he does not think he 
 could bear the position. I think it would be wiser and man- 
 lier if he tried to live down evil report, and prove himself a 
 good son, and a good manager of the estate. I am very sorry 
 he is going." 
 
 " Poor Lisbeth ! You will never see him again, then." 
 
 " It is not poor Lisbeth, it is poor Lady Adela," exclaimed 
 Lisbeth, with sudden heat. u She is the person to be pitied. 
 She adores her son, and he has not only brought this grief 
 upon her, but now deserts her in her old age, and when she 
 is growing blind— just because he will not bear a little pain. 
 Oh, why are people so cowardly and so weak ? " cried Lis- 
 beth, in the bitterness of her heart. 
 
 " It must be beautiful to be strong and brave— like you," 
 said Alys, watching her, with a new look in her eyes. " We 
 cannot help our weakness, I suppose." 
 
 " Oh yes, we can," said Lisbeth, passionately, " if only we 
 care enough to help other people we can be as strong and 
 brave as we like." 
 
 " Can you not help him ? " 
 
 " No; he will not let me." 
 
 There was a pause, and Lisbeth shaded her eyes with her 
 
298 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 hand, so that her sister should not see her face. Alys lay 
 very still. 
 
 " Shall you see him again ? " 
 
 "Yes, to-night. 1 ' 
 
 " Then — do you think he would still do anything for my 
 sake ? Lisbeth, I will be brave, and send him a message if 
 you will give it." 
 
 " I will give it, if I think it a right message." 
 
 " Tell him, then, that he must stay in England — for my 
 sake. Not that we shall ever meet again ; not that he need 
 ever remember me; but because — because he has said that 
 he forgave me. If he forgives, he will not give me the 
 added misery of knowing that I have helped to drive him 
 out of England, and that his mother is pining for him while 
 he is far away. By the memory of that little child of mine, 
 Lisbeth, tell him he must not leave his mother all alone. 
 For my sake, and because he forgives me, I ask him to stay. 
 Will you tell him this % " 
 
 " Yes, I will tell him that. But I do not think, Alys 
 dear, he will stay. And if I give him that message, will you 
 do one thing for me ? " 
 
 " What is it ? " 
 
 " See Edmund when he comes back, and be good to him." 
 
 " I suppose it must come some time," said Alys, with a 
 little nervous shiver. " I am a coward — as you say. But — 
 I will see him, if you like. He can but kill me once." 
 
 u He is ready to love you as much as you will let him. 
 You should try to be more than ever to him now," said Lis- 
 beth; and although Alys closed her eyes and turned her 
 head wearily away, she thought there was a glimmer of in- 
 terest, almost of pleasure, in the delicate pale face. She 
 wished heartily that Edmund would come at once, while 
 Alys was in this better mood. 
 
 But the time passed on, and still he did not appear. 
 
 After tea, Lisbeth was forced, rather against her will, to 
 leave Alys to the nurse's care, while she went out to meet 
 Francis Moor at the old church gate. She found him wait- 
 ing for her ; and although the covering was damp, and there 
 
A STRONG APPEAL. 299 
 
 was a white mist in the air, they turned at once into the gar- 
 dens where they had held their previous conversation. And 
 there, after a little preliminary talk, Lisbeth told him Alys's 
 message, and waited anxiously for his reply. 
 
 " It is a strong appeal," he said, in a low moved voice; 
 and then was silent for a time. 
 
 " She asks a good deal," he went on presently. " She 
 asks me to give up all my chances of good work and future 
 happiuess, and to stay with my poor mother. Is that the 
 thing to do, I wonder ? It may be. I have thought the 
 matter over until I hardly know right from wrong." 
 
 But Lisbeth thought that a manlier tone underlay the 
 doubtful speech. She waited ; she began to hope. 
 
 " Yes ; she makes a strong appeal," he said. 
 
 "Your conscience supports it," Lisbeth said quietly. 
 
 h Does it ? I am not quite sure. Well, there is no help 
 for it. I cannot refuse her. I cannot think of you going 
 back and telling her I will not do what she commands. I 
 am faithful to her, you see, although she treated me so 
 scurvily. But she is right, I have seen it all day long — and 
 ever since you spoke to me. Yes, tell her then that I will 
 stay." 
 
 " Oh, Frank, I am so glad." 
 
 " Glad, are you ?— when I feel as if I had promised to cut 
 my throat. It is for my mother's sake, after all — when she is 
 gone, Lisbeth, I shall feel myself free to go where I choose, 
 — you must tell Alys that." 
 
 " Lady Adela will live for many years yet, please God," 
 said Lisbeth, with gentle seriousness. " And in time you 
 will be glad that you have done what is right." 
 
 They talked on for some time, planning his future life a 
 little, and speaking of the things that yet remained. Lis- 
 beth's solid, cheerful good sense brought him more hope and 
 comfort than he had imagined possible. And when they re- 
 traced their footsteps, their hearts were warm although the 
 night was chill, and the rain blown into their faces by the 
 driving wind. 
 
 They came to a crowded crossing, which they had to 
 
300 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 traverse before they reached the turning that led to Ed- 
 mund's house. Lisbeth crossed it timorously ; she was not 
 used to London streets, and was glad to have Frank as a 
 protection. But when she reached the other side, she heard 
 a shout and turned — just in time to see a scramble of horses 
 and men and wheels that made her feel sick with terror. 
 Some one had fallen in the slippery road ; and another man 
 had rushed to his rescue and dragged him into safety, but 
 only to be trampled on by a wildl/ passing pair of horses 
 and touched by a passing wheel. Lisbeth had much ado to 
 collect her scattered senses, even when she became conscious 
 that the man rescued was Edmund Creighton, and that the 
 rescuer, now lying bleeding and unconscious in the road, 
 was Francis Moor. 
 
 There was a crowd and a tumult, and she found herself 
 bending over Frank's prostrate body, and holding something 
 to his lips, while Edmund stood by with a scared, bewildered 
 white face. " He's not dead, is he ? Surely he is not dead," 
 he said, scarcely knowing what he said. And Lisbeth 
 answered, with a composure that amazed herself— " No, I 
 think he is not dead. " 
 
 Then the ambulance came up and there was some talk of 
 the nearest hospital — St. George's seemed to be the best. 
 " Why not to my house ? " said Edmund loudly. " He is a 
 friend of mine " 
 
 But Lisbeth put her hand upon his arm. " No," she said, 
 " not to your house. He would not like it, Edmund. Let 
 him go to the hospital; he will be better there." 
 
 She did not prevent him, however, from accompanying her 
 to the hospital in a cab, and making every possible arrange- 
 ment for Frank's comfort as a private patient. It was per- 
 haps as well, she thought, that he should feel compunction 
 and compassion towards the man whom he had wronged 
 and despised ; although she did not expect either to be so 
 strongly marked. 
 
 The injuries were somewhat serious, but not immediately 
 dangerous. Unless inflammation should supervene; and 
 there was no necessity — no possibility, in fact— for Lisbeth to 
 
A STRONG APPEAL. 301 
 
 stay, as she would have dearly liked to do. She had a 
 smile from the injured man before she went; but Edmund 
 would not come forward, he kept well out of sight, and 
 would not meet Frank's eye. And finally he rather hur- 
 ried Lisbeth away, saying that Alys would be anxious, and 
 that they would come again upon the morrow. They tele- 
 graphed to Lady Adela on their way back to Campden 
 Hill. 
 
 '' Alys was expecting you,' 1 Lisbeth said, when they stood 
 under the hall, and she had time to remember the things 
 that had happened before she left the house. u You will go 
 to her, will you not ? " 
 
 " Go to her first," said Edmund, " and tell her what has 
 happened. I can't. He saved my life, you know. " 
 
 a I know." 
 
 " I was never a friend of his. Alys knows that. Go and 
 tell her. She must know." 
 
 And he hurried into a dressing-room, where he could 
 wash the traces of his fall from face and hands, and change 
 his clothes before presenting himself in his wife's room. 
 He was half inclined not to go. He had a strong suspicion 
 that Alys had loved Frank more than she would ever care 
 for him ; and he saw that this act of courage and self-devo- 
 tion might tend to restore him to the higher place in her 
 estimation. Alys was a good woman, he said to himself, 
 and he was not vulgarly, foolishly jealous; but he would 
 rather have been saved by any other hand than that of 
 Francis Moor. 
 
 It was with a white impassive face, which marked his 
 emotions very successfully, that he at last made his way into 
 Alys's room. He had not seen her since the day of the 
 child's death, when she had been carried fainting from the 
 nursery. At another moment he would have felt painfully 
 nervous. Now, the thought of Frank's action gave him 
 courage to confront a difficult occasion. 
 
 Alys's large frightened eyes met his, and then she gave 
 a little cry. There was something in his look which startled 
 her, and which yet made her not afraid of him. Almost 
 20 
 
302 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 involuntarily, she stretched out her hands; and Edmund, 
 coming close to 'her, took her in his arms. Seeing this, 
 Lisbeth beckoned to the nurse, and husband and wife were 
 left alone. 
 
 "Edmund, can you forgive me ?" 
 
 "My love, my darling, my poor white bud, there is no 
 question of forgiveness between you and me." 
 
 She sighed and nestled closer. She had thought that she 
 did not love him. The restfulness that his love inspired in 
 her, made her wonder whether she might not be happy with 
 him after all. 
 
 " You have heard," he said presently, in rather broken 
 tones. 
 
 "Yes, Lisbeth told me." 
 
 " I owe him my life." 
 
 " And we treated him so badly — at least, I did — Edmund, 
 I have been miserable about him ; yet, Lisbeth says he has 
 forgiven me." 
 
 Edmund was silent, but he pressed her a little closer, and 
 she felt the sympathy that he did not speak. 
 
 " I was cruel to him," pursued Alys. " I said he had blood 
 on his hands, and now— my own— my own ! Oh, Edmund, 
 our poor little girl ! " And then she burst into tears, and 
 sobbed out her grief upon his bosom. 
 
 "I was to blame, too," said Edmund, in sombre tones. 
 Even now he could not bring himself to say anything about 
 the knife— that tiny scrap of testimony which might have 
 been counted towards Frank's acquittal, if all the story 
 had been correctly told. It was too hard for him to con- 
 fess to Alys how far he had been wrong. But in the 
 light of Frank's deed of generous daring, Edmund knew 
 himself to have done a base thing; and for the first time 
 in his life he thoroughly condemned himself. His first 
 task, however, was to soothe and comfort his fragile, ail- 
 ing wife, who clung to him as if he were a very tower of 
 strength. 
 
 " If you could but love me a little, Alys," he murmured 
 at last into her ear. 
 
IN HOSPITAL. 303 
 
 " I will," she said. " If I never did before, Edmund, I 
 will love you now." 
 
 And perhaps she was already nearer loving than she 
 knew. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 IN HOSPITAL. 
 
 LlSBETH went to see Frank next day, but was not allowed 
 to stay very long. He was scarcely conscious, and suffered 
 great pain whenever consciousness returned; she could do 
 nothing for him, and envied the nurses whose task it was to 
 wait upon the patients. It would have been her greatest 
 pleasure in life to nurse him back to life and health; but 
 this was denied her. All that she could do was to be unob- 
 trusively useful in small ways, such as arranging to meet 
 Lady Adela at the station, and looking out lodgings for her 
 near the hospital, in case she wished to stay there rather 
 than with friends. 
 
 Edmund offered, rather doubtfully, to go with her to the 
 station, but Lisbeth declined his escort. She knew that the 
 name of Oeighton was not acceptable in Lady Adela's ears; 
 for, with the inconsistency of a haughty and somewhat 
 overbearing nature, the mother had never forgiven Alys for 
 deserting her son and marrying Edmund Oeighton, even 
 though she did not want the girl as her own daughter-in- 
 law. And Lisbeth knew the feeling, without quite under- 
 standing it. But it was characteristic of Lisbeth to know 
 and respect a great many feelings and fancies which she 
 did not understand. And therefore she quietly got rid of 
 Edmund's company as soon as she could. 
 
 At the hour when Lady Adela had telegraphed that she 
 would arrive, Lisbeth was on the platform at Euston sta- 
 tion, awaiting her. Her eye, roving up and down the car- 
 riages as the train steamed in, soon found the person whom 
 she sought. Lady Adela alighted slowly and rather feebly 
 
304 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 from a first-class carriage, leaning on the arm of a confi- 
 dential maid. Her eyesight was still available for purposes 
 of ordinary movement, although she had almost ceased to 
 be able to read or write; but she was nervous about railway 
 travelling, and had not dared to come alone. Lisbeth's 
 heart yearned over her, and she saw the signs of failing 
 strength in her slow uncertain movement, and the tightness 
 with which she clung to Martha Morris's faithful arm. It 
 would have been a delight to Lisbeth to minister to Frank's 
 mother in every possible way, almost as great a delight as 
 to minister to him, and she was glad to think that she could 
 render her any service. 
 
 She stepped forward through the crowd, and touched 
 Martha on the arm, then addressed herself with peculiar re- 
 spectfulness to Lady Adela. 
 
 "Good evening, my lady; I am glad you are able to 
 come to see Mr. Frank." 
 
 She did not usually say " my lady," and she did not usu- 
 ally say " Mr. Frank " ; but instinct told her that Lady 
 Adela would like her better as the farmer's grand-daughter 
 in London, than as the Miss Verrall of Quest, about whom 
 the Creighton's buzzed in somewhat scornful admiration. 
 And she was right. Lady Adela did not feel so lonely in 
 the crowd when some one came up and spoke to her as the 
 country people spoke to her about Moor End. 
 
 " Oh, it is you, is it, Lisbeth Verrall ? " she said, holding 
 out her hand. " That is very nice ; you have come to meet 
 me, I suppose. Most kind of you — or are you here only on 
 your own business ? " 
 
 " I came to meet you, my lady. Martha, you can go and 
 see about the boxes, please, while I wait here with my lady. 
 You will find us here when you come back." 
 
 "Very well, Miss Verrall," said Martha, civilly enough, 
 for she had known Lisbeth all her life, and had a good deal 
 of respect for her. But there was a new idea in Martha's 
 mind as she went to look for the luggage. " Well, Lisbeth 
 Verrall is come out, to be sure ! She looks just like a lady. 
 And yet her things are plain enough, as far as I could see, 
 
IN HOSPITAL. 305 
 
 and all black, too. But she's as well dressed as my lady, 
 and looks rare an' handsome as ever she did. My lady 
 might see her son choosing worse." 
 
 Which shows that Martha had heard the current gossip 
 in her northern home. 
 
 Lady Adela was too dim-sighted to take note of Lisbeth's 
 dress: but she was struck by the grace of the tall figure, the 
 refinement of the strong, clear-cut features, and the beauty 
 of her sweet expression. One would never think that she 
 was a country girl, thought the aristocratic lady, glancing 
 at her. Yet Lisbeth's long black cloak and small close bon- 
 net were almost as plain as those of a hospital nurse; it was 
 only the smaller details of her dress that betrayed her. 
 The cloak was lined with silk, and edged with soft black 
 fur ; the belt of her dress was clasped with a finely wrought 
 silver buckle— a gift from Alys, by the way ; her gloves and 
 boots were unexceptionable. Lisbeth always had a taste for 
 perfection in small matters as well as great, and these were 
 the things that gave the impression of refinement and dis- 
 tinction, although most of them were lost in Lady Adela's 
 half blind eyes. 
 
 u How did you know, Lisbeth ? Why did you come ? " 
 she said, clinging to Lisbeth's arm, half nervously. 
 
 " I went with Mr. Frank to the hospital, my lady, and it 
 was I who sent you the telegram. " 
 
 " What has happened to him ? " 
 
 " It was a very brave and noble act,'' said Lisbeth, her 
 eye kindling. " He saw a man in danger of being run over 
 —knocked down by the horses and on the point of being 
 trampled on, and he sprang forward to help him. Then he 
 was knocked down himself — and hurt." 
 
 " Oh, Lisbeth, much hurt ? " 
 
 " He is suffering a good deal. But I think the injuries 
 are not dangerous. The nurse says so." 
 
 " My dear, brave, noble boy ! " 
 
 " That was not the best of it," said Lisbeth, speaking close 
 to her ear, so that she should be distinctly heard, as the noise 
 of the crowd swept by. u The best was, that the man he 
 
306 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 saved was the man whom he once thought his enemy — who 
 was his enemy in a certain sense — Mr. Edmund Creigh- 
 ton." 
 
 " The man that stole Alys away from him ! My poor 
 boy!" 
 
 "Then," said Lisbeth, concluding rather lamely, "Mr. 
 Creighton and I took him to the nearest hospital. Mr. 
 Creighton proposed to take him to his own house; but I 
 thought you, my lady — and Mr. Frank, too— would not like 
 it." 
 
 " No ; you were quite right, Lisbeth. What a strange 
 thing that you and Mr. Creighton should meet him in that 
 way ! " said Lady Adela, taking it for granted that Lisbeth 
 and Edmund had been walking out together. Lisbeth halted 
 a moment before replying, then went on composedly — 
 
 " I did not know what you would like to do about being 
 near him, my lady ; so I just looked at two or three sets of 
 apartments in the neighbourhood, and I found one which I 
 thought would suit you, if you would like to take it— quite 
 near the hospital, so that you could go there every day." 
 
 "Oh, Lisbeth, what a good, thoughtful creature you 
 are ! " cried Lady Adela, effusively. " I was wondering 
 what I should do, and wishing that I had telegraphed to 
 the k Victoria ' — but even that is a good way off and it is 
 very expensive. Martha would much prefer lodgings, I 
 know." 
 
 " Shall we drive there at once ? " said Lisbeth, smiling a 
 little at this unconscious tribute to Martha's dominion over 
 her mistress. " We might as well go there, and I can help 
 Martha to unpack, for you will not be able to see him to- 
 night." 
 
 " Not to-night ? Must I wait till morning ? " 
 
 " It is a good sign. He is not ill enough for friends to 
 be admitted at all hours," said Lisbeth, cheerfully; and then, 
 as Martha came up, followed by a porter, wheeling a truck 
 with the luggage, she moved forward, too, and guided Lady 
 Adela's footsteps to a four-wheeled cab. 
 
 At the door she hesitated. " Perhaps you would like to 
 
IN HOSPITAL. 307 
 
 go alone, my lady," she said quietly. " Shall Martha and I 
 follow, with the boxes, in another cab ?" 
 
 Martha glowered at the suggestion, which Lady Adela 
 promptly negatived. 
 
 " Certainly not, Lisbeth ; what nonsense ! Get in at once. 
 Sit by me, Martha will sit opposite. The boxes will go on 
 the roof. What should we have done without Miss Verrall, 
 Martha ? " 
 
 " Indeed, my lady, Miss Verrall's always welcome wher- 
 ever she goes,'' said Martha, primly ; and she did not pay 
 compliments without meaning them. 
 
 The jolting of the cab over the stones prevented any sus- 
 tained conversation during the long drive from Euston, and 
 Lady Adela was heartily tired of it long before the end. 
 But she was extremely pleased with the lodgiDgs that Lis- 
 beth had found for her. They were clean, bright, and com- 
 fortable; and the landlady was a north-country woman, who 
 knew Crosthwaite, and was proud to entertain the lady of 
 Moor End. There could not have been a happier chance. 
 Lady Adela was very gracious. She made Lisbeth sit down 
 to tea with her, while Martha waited on them both. Curi- 
 ous to relate, Lisbeth had never before broken bread with 
 the mother of the man she loved. 
 
 u And tell me all about it, Lisbeth," said Lady Adela, 
 when Martha had retired to unpack the boxes, and Lisbeth 
 was trusting that it was time for her to go. " Tell me how 
 you saw him first; whether you recognised him before he 
 was knocked down." 
 
 Lisbeth's cheeks flamed, but she answered courageously, 
 " I had been speaking with Mr. Frank," she said, after a little 
 pause. 
 
 " Speaking ? Why, you don't mean to say that he en- 
 tered into conversation with you when that Mr. Creighton 
 was close by. I wonder at Frank— poor boy ! " said Lady 
 Adela, with indignation swelling into tenderness. 
 
 " No; Mr. Creighton was not there." 
 
 " I don't understand you, Lisbeth. Not there ? I thought 
 you were walking with Mr. Creighton." 
 
308 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 14 No ; we were near his house, but I had not been walk- 
 ing with him. I had been walking a little way with Mr. 
 Frank, and talking to him." 
 
 Then Lady Adela took the alarm. Her back stiffened 
 visibly; she drew up her graceful neck, and elevated her 
 chin, as she said — 
 
 " Oh, and how was that, may I ask ? " 
 
 kt Lady Adela," said Lisbeth, dropping the ' my lady ' for 
 the first time, l 'you know very well that Mr. Frank and I 
 have always been great friends. And you know me well 
 enough to be certain that no harm is likely to come of it." 
 
 " I know that, Lisbeth," said Lady Adela, in a softened 
 voice. 
 
 44 Before he went away he promised me to come to Quest 
 again. I asked him to promise that, because he was talking 
 wildly, and I thought he might be tempted; you know, my 
 lady, when men are in sore straits, they do sometimes think 
 they can end matters altogether with their life ; and I was 
 afraid for him, and also for you." 
 
 Lady Adela turned her face to the fire, and said nothing. 
 
 44 So I made him promise to come back, at least once— to 
 Quest. I thought that I might be able to cheer him up if he 
 came, for he was in the habit of turning to me in his trou- 
 bles, and I did not think it any wrong to you, my lady, to 
 take his word for it. So he came to Quest— but I had gone 
 away." 
 
 41 He came to Quest ? Since his return ? " 
 
 " Yes, he had promised ; and he came." 
 
 44 So near me, and yet I never saw him ! Lisbeth, you 
 had more influence than I. " 
 
 Lisbeth shook her head. " It was just that he had given 
 his word, and did not like to break it. Then, on finding 
 that I was away, that I had not kept my part of the com- 
 pact, so to speak, for I told him that I should be always 
 there, he rushed off, never thinking of his home, and took 
 the train for London. And then he read in a newspaper of 
 my poor sister's mishap, and he knew where I had gone." 
 
 " Did he write to you? " 
 
IN HOSPITAL. 309 
 
 " Yes, my lady. He asked me to meet him, for he wanted 
 to say good-bye before he set sail for America." 
 
 " Ah, that dreadful America! He cannot go just yet, at 
 any rate.'" 
 
 " He is not going at all," said Lisbeth, in her sedate quiet 
 tones. " He has given up the plan. He was going back to 
 Moor End, my lady, to live with you." 
 
 Lady Adela looked up, her face irradiated with a mix- 
 ture of pleasure and of pain. "Lisbeth, do I owe that to 
 you?" 
 
 u No," said Lisbeth, curtly, "to Alys — not to me." 
 
 "To— Alys!" 
 
 *' I tried my best. I told him of his duty, but he would 
 not heed. And I told my sister, and she begged of him — if 
 he forgave her for her fickleness — to stay in England. Then 
 he gave way. No ; it was not my doing — I wish it had been," 
 said Lisbeth. 
 
 " Then he has not forgotten her — he has not got over it ? " 
 said Lady Adela, in a very low voice. 
 
 Lisbeth was silent, she could answer neither yea or nay. 
 
 " Oh, Lisbeth, if only he had never met her ! " said Lady 
 Adela, covering her face with her hands to hide her tears. 
 " Oh, if at least she could have been true to him ! I would 
 not have opposed it now. I would have made her my dear 
 daughter, if only she had been constant and true. She has 
 broken his heart." 
 
 And again Lisbeth did not answer. Somehow, she felt 
 as if Lady Adela were cruel to say all this to her. If that 
 opposition, now so easily withdrawn, had not been feared in 
 the first instance, Frank and Alys might have now been 
 man and wife, Zadock might still be tramping about the 
 farm at Quest, and Lisbeth herself— well, Lisbeth would 
 have had the satisfaction of knowing that those she loved 
 were happy ; and that would have been joy enough for her. 
 
 She said good-night to Lady Adela as soon as she could, 
 but promised to come next morning and go with her to the 
 hospital. She found Alys restless and uneasy at her long 
 absence, but on the whole decidedly better. It had been de- 
 
310 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 cided that she was to go abroad with her husband, as soon 
 as she was strong enough to be moved ; and she seemed to 
 take some pleasure in the prospect. " When I get into the 
 sunshine," she repeated more than once, " I shall get well, as 
 I did before." 
 
 The first visit paid by Lady Adela to her son was not al- 
 together a success. No doubt it was to her a very trying 
 occasion. She had not seen him for two years at all: and 
 to find him stretched upon a hospital bed, suffering severe 
 pain, and almost too weak to speak to her, was more than 
 she knew how to bear. She wept over him, and disturbed 
 him so much that the nurse had to suggest her departure, 
 and remarked to Lisbeth that the lady must not come unless 
 she could exercise a little more self-control. Lisbeth got 
 Lady Adela away, but herself came back, and sat with Frank 
 for a little while. It was not long, indeed, before the nurse 
 remarked that Miss Verrall's presence had a remarkably 
 soothing effect upon the patient. He was always quieter 
 and cooler when she had been sitting beside him, and slept 
 more restfully, whereas his mother's visits roused and irri- 
 tated him rather more than was advisable. 
 
 " You are not a relation of his, are you ? " said one of the 
 nurses to Lisbeth, one afternoon. 
 
 " No, only a friend." 
 
 " Not engaged to him, or anything ? Excuse my asking, 
 but you have such an extraordinary influence over him. It's 
 like magnetism. If you were nursing him all the time, he 
 would get well twice as fast, I believe." 
 
 " I have been told sometimes that I am a pretty good 
 nurse," said Lisbeth, with a smile. 
 
 "Yes; but I did not mean that. I meant that you 
 seemed to have a peculiar power over him. But you would 
 make a capital nurse. Why don't you come here and 
 train ? " 
 
 " I never thought of it," said Lisbeth ; but it was an idea 
 which possessed a certain charm for her. Lately it had ap- 
 peared to her more than ever impossible that she should 
 continue to live at Quest. She had remained there during 
 
IN HOSPITAL. 3H 
 
 the period of Frank's imprisonment, chiefly from that vague 
 romantic desire that he should find her there when he came 
 back again ; but when once he was back — settled at Moor 
 End, with no need for her— the position would become in- 
 tolerable. 
 
 Why should she not let Quest, or even sell it, and take 
 up some other interest in life ? There was no reason why 
 she should stay in a place which bristled with painful mem- 
 ories, and when the old wounds were likely to be torn open 
 again at any moment. She might come to London; she 
 would have enough to live upon; and give her time to 
 nursing and good works. She would be near Alys, and she 
 could put Francis Moor out of her thoughts better in Lon- 
 don than at Quest. If she were at Quest, his mother would 
 take care that she saw very little of him, and why should 
 she expose herself unnecessarily to insult and rebuff ? 
 
 Not that Lady Adela was rude or unkind. Only, as time 
 went on, and Frank grew rather better, the mother showed 
 pretty clearly that she did not want other visitors than she 
 considered herself sufficient for her son. She made Lisbeth 
 feel herself in the way. She was never uncivil, but she be- 
 came cold. Even although Frank's eyes lighted up at the 
 sight of Lisbeth, and the nurses declared that she did him 
 more good than all the doctors, Lady Adela was undisguis- 
 edly jealous of her. She did not think that Frank was 
 likely to fall in love with Lisbeth ; but she began to find it 
 absurd that he should call a farmer's grand-daughter his 
 " friend." What friendship was really possible between the 
 master of Moor End and the lowlier mistress of Quest ? 
 
 As soon as it was possible, Lady Adela swept her son 
 back to Moor End, with a trained nurse, on whom she relied 
 implicitly. But she said no word to Lisbeth about coming 
 to see him when she too returned to Crosthwaite. And Lis- 
 beth noted the omission with a set lip and a troubled eye. 
 
312 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 EDMUND MAKES AMENDS. 
 
 LlSBETH remained in London until Alys left England 
 with her husband. It was astonishing to most people that 
 Edmund Creighton should throw up his work so suddenly 
 and so completely for the sake of his invalid wife; and 
 many persons said that his career would be entirely ruined ; 
 but Lisbeth was not surprised. Underneath a demeanour 
 which was coolly complacent to the verge of smugness, be- 
 neath an exterior of perfect conventionality and correctness, 
 she had distinguished something more, — a capacity for love, 
 which had long been overlaid by the artificial conditions of 
 his life, but which Alys had brought to the surface, and 
 which had, for the present at least, become the ruling 
 motive of his existence. 
 
 Slowly and steadily it had been gaining ground. And 
 as an unselfish love tends in the long run to purify and en- 
 noble, it follows that Edmund Creighton was now a better 
 man than he had been when he first made love to pretty 
 Alys Lorimer in her fathers house. It was a love that 
 gathered strength from opposition. When his mother first 
 manifested her dislike to Alys, his affection had been but 
 weak; when she was poor and oppressed, it grew stronger; 
 and when she actually refused him for another man, it be- 
 came an overmastering force. No doubt love of power had 
 something to do with its development; he was a man who 
 could not bear to be beaten. And when he had a chance of 
 out-manceuvring his rival, he availed himself of it without 
 remorse. The remorse — if one can call the regret which 
 was beginning to gather force within his bosom by as definite 
 a name — started into being with the sight of Alys's strong 
 feeling on the subject; with the unexpected death of his 
 child; with the discovery that he owed his life to the man 
 whom he had wronged. Edmund was not an impulsive 
 man, and it took him some time to find all these things out. 
 
EDMUND MAKES AMENDS. 313 
 
 But he had some sort of rudimentary conscience; and when 
 it took to growing it showed him something of the truth. 
 
 Love and remorse are two potent factors to enter willy- 
 nilly into a man's life. They have a way of reversing 
 things, which is neither profitable nor pleasant. It was not 
 to Edmund's advantage to leave London for his wife's sake 
 at that particular time of the year; and yet he did it, because 
 it dawned upon him that he loved her better than his own 
 advantage. He knew that his absence for a few weeks would 
 not ruin him, though it would not by any means advance 
 his career. But for Alys's sake he would risk even his 
 worldly prosperity— perhaps the thing that had been dearest 
 to him all his life before. 
 
 And there was another matter that troubled him. Fran- 
 cis Moor, lying crippled and disabled at St. George's Hos- 
 pital, having risked his life to save that of Edmund Creigh- 
 ton, who had robbed him of the woman he loved and done 
 his best to ruin him— this was a picture which he did not 
 like to look upon. And yet it was imperative that he should 
 see Frank Moor before he went back to Moor End ; it would 
 be out of the question to let him leave London without a 
 word of thanks. So, groaning in spirit, Edmund went to 
 the hospital the day before Frank's departure. He had told 
 Lisbeth that he meant to go, and asked her to get him five 
 minutes with Frank alone. u For I don't think I can stand 
 the mother; she used to scowl at me so tremendously when 
 we were at Crosthwaite," he observed. 
 
 Lisbeth smiled. " I am glad that you are going to see 
 Mr. Moor." 
 
 " You had better ask him beforehand whether he objects. 
 Of course there is no reason why he should object," said Ed- 
 mund, assuming his most flippant air. " I shall not detain 
 him five minutes, it is a purely formal business, but it would 
 scarcely be handsome to let him go north without assuring 
 him of my gratitude, would it ? "—and he laughed rather 
 nervously. 
 
 " I think you are quite right," said Lisbeth, discerning 
 something unusually serious behind the air of badinage. 
 
314 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 But she hardly knew what to say when Frank, with a sick 
 man's irritability, tried to decline the visit altogether. 
 
 u What does he want to see me for ? It's absurd. 
 Thanks between him and me are a ridiculous formality. 
 For heaven's sake, Lisbeth, keep the fellow out of my 
 sight." 
 
 But it was too late. Mr. Creighton had taken it for 
 granted that Lisbeth had made all preliminary arrange- 
 ments, and was now ushered into the room by a nurse. 
 
 Frank fell back on his pillow with something between a 
 grunt and a groan. He eyed Edmund with distaste. He 
 had no liking for Alys's husband, even if he had involun- 
 tarily saved his life. And he wished Lisbeth would uot go. 
 She could always protect him better than anybody else, be- 
 cause she seemed to know instinctively how he felt. But 
 she had already gone, and he and Edmund Creighton were 
 alone. 
 
 " I must beg your pardon for intruding," said the visitor 
 stiffly. " I heard that you were leaving the hospital very 
 shortly, and I thought I should like to see you for a moment, 
 and to express my thanks for the action, which — which has 
 had such very unfortunate results." 
 
 " I am much obliged to you," said Frank, feeling slightly 
 incensed. " But there is no occasion to express any thanks 
 at all. I suppose that you understand that the action, as 
 you call it, would have been performed for a tramp just as 
 soon as for yourself." 
 
 " I quite understand that it was not from a personal mo- 
 tive. You would have been better pleased to save the 
 tramp." 
 
 u I am afraid there is no use denying it. I was actuated 
 by no sublime motive of pure beneficence towards you, as 
 some of the women seem to think. If I had seen your face 
 — I might never have moved an inch." 
 
 "I am glad you say so," said Edmund, coldly; "for it 
 makes my position much less unendurable." 
 
 " Unendurable ? " said Frank, eyeing him steadily. u I 
 think I fail to grasp your meaning." 
 
EDMUND MAKES AMENDS. 315 
 
 " I don't know that it is of much use to say any more. I 
 felt that I owed you an apology— that was all. If you dis- 
 claim all desire of benefiting" me — well, perhaps I was 
 wrong, and I will not apologise after all." 
 
 " I was not aware that you had anything to apologise 
 for," said Frank, knitting his brows. It struck him as atro- 
 cious that Edmund should u ax3ologise " for robbing him of 
 Alys, which was what he understood by these enigmatical 
 words. But Edmund had an entirely different meaning, 
 which he now endeavoured to make plain. 
 
 " Of course, you are not aware of it," he said. " There is 
 no need for me to tell you— except that I feel I shall be more 
 of a man if I do it — that perhaps I owe you the truth. It is 
 just this— I believe now that I once misjudged and misrepre- 
 sented you. What I then said had some effect on the mind 
 of another, and if another misjudged you, it was more my 
 fault than — hers." 
 
 " I always thought so," said Frank. " Pray say no more. 
 I appreciate your motive, but there is no use in calling up 
 these old memories." 
 
 His face was pale, but Edmund's was still paler. 
 
 "I did not say it to give you pleasure, Mr. Moor. I tell 
 you the truth for my own benefit. It was a selfish motive, 
 I acknowledge. Yet I have something else to say." 
 
 His voice grew so hoarse that Frank looked at him in 
 amaze, and as he went on speaking, a hot colour flushed his 
 brow. It seemed as if what he said cost him a prodigious 
 effort, and he scarcely knew how to get out the words. 
 
 " I have told Alys she wishes me to say it too. I fear I 
 must make same allusion to a painful subject, for which, I 
 hope, you will pardon me. At the trial, some mention was 
 made of a knife . . . you know the knife I mean. It was 
 denied that the man Verrall possessed such a knife, or had 
 been seen to handle it. I had seen him with it in his hand, 
 and had heard him threaten you with it; but I held my 
 tongue." 
 
 "You were there," said Frank slowly; "you heard the 
 evidence; you knew the effect such a piece of evidence 
 
316 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 would have had on the minds of the jury ? and you held 
 your tongue ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Edmund. He was white again now, white 
 to the very lips. " I wish to say," he added hurriedly, " that 
 I am perfectly willing now to publish a statement of the 
 fact, and leave the public to think what they will of me. It 
 would no doubt cause a great revolution of feeling in your 
 favour, although the verdict could not be reversed. I don't 
 suppose it would affect the law, of course ; but it would affect 
 public opinion." 
 
 "I think it would affect public opinion of you rather 
 than of me," said Frank quietly. 
 
 " I think it might, I am prepared for that." 
 
 " Prepared for that ! Why, good Lord, man, it would 
 make you a public laughing stock, or worse. It would 
 mean ruin to your career." 
 
 " Possibly. Isn't your career ruined in the same way ? " 
 said Edmund, still in the hoarse unnatural voice in which 
 his confession had been made. 
 
 " You have your wife to think of; I have none." 
 
 " She is as anxious as I am that some atonement should 
 be made to you for all you have suffered. She urged me 
 before I came out to write a letter to the papers, and tell the 
 whole story, including her own regret for what she had said 
 at the trial. I told her," hesitating a little, " that I did not 
 think you would desire that ; as far, at least, as she was con- 
 cerned." 
 
 " Great heavens ! no. I never heard of such an extraor- 
 dinary proposition." 
 
 " It would make a great difference to you. That is why 
 I came to say it. I owe you something : I am willing to — 
 to pay. I will write to the Times." 
 
 He moved towards the door, hat and stick in hand, as if 
 wishful to be gone ; his face was averted from Frank, who 
 tried in vain to catch his eye. 
 
 " Stop ! " cried the young man. " Don't go off in such a 
 hurry. I must think. How can one answer a thing like 
 this all at once ? Yes, I suppose it would make a difference 
 
EDMUND MAKES AMENDS. 317 
 
 in public opinion. People would see that that poor fool had 
 a grudge against me, which those idiots at the trial would 
 not see. But do you suppose I can let you do it ? Tut, let 
 sleeping dogs lie. The matter is half forgotten already; 
 why rake it up again ? " 
 
 " Fiat justitia," muttered Edmund, with his hand on the 
 door. 
 
 " The heavens shall not fall for me," said Frank, loudly. 
 "No; for your wife's sake, Creighton, for Alys's sake, the 
 thing shall not be done." 
 
 "She wishes it ; she thinks it right." 
 
 " I don't know. It's right as far as you are concerned, 
 you are right to be willing to do it. It would not be right 
 for me to accept the sacrifice. You have come to me. I 
 accept that as sufficient atonement; I want no more. 
 Come back, Creighton, come back and shake hands over it, 
 and let us both hold our tongues." 
 
 The colour had risen again to Edmund's cheek. 
 
 " Your generosity shames me," he said ; and although he 
 relinquished his hold upon the door, he stood still, with his 
 eyes cast down. "I have wronged you in every way," he 
 said, with the stiff reluctant manner of one who forces words 
 out of himself against the grain; " and— I have regretted it 
 ever since." 
 
 " Say no more about it," said Frank. " The best way is 
 to think of the matter as it affects her. You must be silent 
 — as I shall be— for her sake." 
 
 Edmund paused for a moment, then walked back to the 
 bedside and took the offered hand, saying deliberately — 
 
 " Apology is a poor word. I came to ask your pardon, 
 and did not know how to say it. I say it now. " 
 
 "We are friends from this moment. Don't think of it 
 again. Only tell me one thing — was it simply this acci- 
 dent of mine that made you resolve to tell me— and the 
 world ? " 
 
 Edmund knitted his brows, and looked as if he did not 
 want to reply. But there was something in Frank's sympa- 
 thetic personality which impelled even Edmund Creighton 
 21 
 
318 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 to confidence. He looked into the listening dark eyes as lie 
 spoke. 
 
 " There is an old story," he said, in a hesitating, rather 
 shamefaced way, " of the ring of Polycrates — you know it ?" 
 
 '* The man who cast his ring into the sea that he might 
 propitiate the gods. I know Schiller's poem as well as the 
 classic. Go on. I don't see." 
 
 " It was a superstitious fancy that haunted me. I thought 
 that if I made the sacrifice . . . the gods would let me go 
 free. Perhaps they may." 
 
 u Upon my word I don't understand." 
 
 "It is silly fancy," said Edmund, moving away. " My 
 wife is ill — the doctors fear that she may not recover ; or 
 that if she recovers her mind may be affected. It seems a 
 silly enough notion that the wrath of the gods should be 
 averted by any sacrifice of ours, does it not ? Yet I have 
 wished many a time that I could believe it — or that I lived 
 in a day when any sacrifice could avail. " 
 
 Frank scarcely grasped the sense of these latter words. 
 He was struck with dismay. 
 
 " Is she so ill ? " he said in a low tone. 
 
 "She may get better," Edmund answered, passing his 
 hand over his eyes; and then throwing back his head as if 
 to avert a premonition of evil, " and that is why I am taking 
 her abroad. Change of air— change of scene— is what the 
 doctors say she wants. And peace of mind." 
 
 They said no more; for at that moment, the nurse ap- 
 peared to say that the interview had lasted long enough. 
 But they parted on friendly terms, as Frank had never 
 thought to part with the man who had injured him. It was 
 long before he could forget what Edmund had told him, or 
 put away the thought of Alys, ill and, perhaps, unhappy, 
 going away from England to suffer— perhaps— for who 
 could tell ? — to die. 
 
 Lisbeth wondered a little at his silence concerning the 
 interview. He told her nothing; he could not bear to re- 
 peat what Edmund had said to him. Besides, he thought 
 that it might give her pain. So the day- came when he said 
 
EDMUND MAKES AMENDS. 319 
 
 farewell to her, and was carried north in an invalid-carriage, 
 with his mother triumphant at his side. 
 
 u You live near them, don't you ? " said the nurse who 
 had spoken to Lisbeth before about her marvellous influence 
 over the patient's nerves. 
 
 "Yes, quite near." 
 
 " Are you going home soon ? " 
 
 " I don't know. Why ? " 
 
 " Because they will want you soon," said the nurse, with 
 a significant smile. 
 
 " Want me ? " said Lisbeth, drawing back. 
 
 " Yes, want you, Miss Verrall. That good lady will fidget 
 him to death." 
 
 " But Nurse Emma went with him too." 
 
 " And if she's wise she will tell Lady Adela Moor to send 
 for you. You can quiet him when no one else can. And 
 he's not out of the wood yet. I should be very much afraid 
 of a relapse— but she would hurry him away." 
 
 " I am not going hack for some time," said Lisbeth ; " and 
 even if I were at home, it is not at all likely that Lady Adela 
 would want me. I may never see them again." 
 
 She spoke in rather a quelling tone ; and the nurse, al- 
 though she smiled a superior smile, said nothing more. 
 And then Lisbeth, feeling strangely dull and quiescent, went 
 back to Campden Hill, and helped to pack Alys's hoxes for 
 her departure with Edmund to a German spa. They had 
 asked Lisheth to accompany them, hut she had refused. She 
 had seen enough of Edmund to he sure that it would be 
 better for the two to be together. Besides, her heart once 
 more yearned for Quest. She longed for the free mountain 
 air, the moorland breezes, the untrammelled life of the 
 farm. And there was attraction in the thought that she would, 
 at least, be near Moor End ; that she might some day see Frank 
 as he drove in his carriage and she walked by the wayside ; 
 that at any rate she might hear of him, and know how he 
 was getting on. 
 
 So back she went to Quest, and had a lonely time of it. 
 As she had expected, Lady Adela took no notice of her 
 
320 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 existence. She saw nothing of Frank, and the nurse seemed 
 to have been sent away. Now and then rumours reached 
 her ears— rumours that Mr. Moor was very ill, or that he 
 did not get on well with his mother, who nagged him to 
 death : and so on. She tried to shut her ears to them, but 
 in spite of her resolution, they worried and annoyed her, 
 and the impossibility of getting at the truth hurt her more 
 than all. 
 
 She had been at home more than a month, when one day 
 she was amazed to see Lady Adela at her door. She had 
 driven up in a pony -cart, and was tearful and hot and em- 
 barrassed all at once. She almost fell at Lisbeth's feet, when 
 the mistress of Quest met her at the door. 
 
 " Oh, Lisbeth," she said, u will you come to him ? He 
 will be better if you come." 
 
 "Is he ill ?" asked Lisbeth, with white lips. 
 
 "Yes; he is ill and he wants you. I sometimes think 
 that if anybody can make him better it is you. And oh, 
 Lisbeth, tell him — make him understand — that it is only my 
 love for him which makes me so anxious and so fidgetty, 
 and all that I care for is his happiness. You can make him 
 do anything, Lisbeth. I give him up to you, if only you 
 will come to Moor End with me." 
 
 And Lisbeth went. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 The German watering place to which Edmund Creighton 
 had been recommended to take his wife was a pretty little 
 town, set on the borders of a silver lake, and edged by 
 beautifully wooded hills. The scenery was charming, the 
 climate delightful, the company select. Edmund took a 
 suite of apartments in the best hotel, and devoted himself to 
 the service of his wife, but not with such good results as he 
 had anticipated. He came to her one afternoon, as she re- 
 
TOO LATE. 321 
 
 clined on a couch in the verandah, a spot from which a 
 lovely view of the hill and lake could be obtained. The 
 verandah itself was cool and in shadow; but the landscape 
 was bright with sunshine, and the scent of exquisite flowers 
 was wafted to the nostrils from the garden, which stretched 
 for some distance before the house. 
 
 But Alys was not looking at the prospect, nor did she 
 seem to be enjoying the sunshine and the flowers. She 
 lay huddled into a corner of the wide couch, her white 
 drapery closely wrapped round her, and her eye fixed with 
 a curious intensity upon her hand. Even when Edmund 
 drew quite close to her, and laying his hand upon the couch, 
 stood looking down on her, she made no response. 
 
 " I have brought you some flowers, dearest, 1 ' he said at 
 last. 
 
 Then she stirred and looked up. He showed her the 
 bunch of magnificent roses that he held, and placed it gently 
 in her lap; but she only uttered a languid word of thanks, 
 and showed no sign of pleasure. 
 
 He sighed as he drew a chair close to the couch, and 
 seated himself. She looked very fair, but very frail, he 
 thought, in the clear summer daylight. Her face seemed to 
 have grown smaller, and the golden hair that strayed about 
 her forehead gave her a childish look. There was little 
 colour in her face ; even her parted lips were pale, and the 
 dark shadows round her blue eyes made them look large 
 and almost ghastly. 
 
 Strangers, on seeing her for the first time, generally 
 exclaimed, " How ill she looks ! " but the worst of it, in Ed- 
 mund's opinion, was, that she was not ill. That is, she had 
 no definite disease. There was a gradual wasting away,— a 
 decline of strength ; and that was all. 
 
 The one obscure symptom that puzzled all the doctors 
 was a certain confusion of thought and ideas, which some- 
 times made itself manifest. She did strange things some- 
 times; she did strange things, which made Edmund's heart 
 contract with a pang of fear. The best construction that 
 could be put upon them was that they came simply from 
 
322 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 physical weakness ; and that if her general health im- 
 proved, her brain would also recover tone. There seemed 
 no reason, the doctors said, why she should not get well 
 and strong. Only she did not do it, and nobody could quite 
 tell why. 
 
 "Would you like to go for a drive this afternoon, 
 Alys ? " 
 
 "No, thank you." 
 
 The tone was perfectly apathetic. " Have you been out 
 to-day at all ? I should like to take you for a sail on the 
 lake." 
 
 She made him no answer. 
 
 " Shall I order a boat, dear ? " 
 
 "No, thank you." 
 
 " Are you not tired of lying here and doing nothing ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Alys— Alys, why won't you rouse yourself and try to 
 get well ? " 
 
 The cry came from his very heart. He loved her pas- 
 sionately, and had hoped to teach her to love him in return. 
 For a few days in London, after their great reconciliation, 
 and after Edmund had made the confession to Frank Moor, 
 upon which she had insisted, he thought that he had 
 achieved his end; but when Lisbeth went away, she began 
 to droop, and become daily more cold and indifferent, as 
 well as weaker in health. It seemed sometimes to him as if 
 she did not care to live. 
 
 She looked up with a kind of wonder, and then the blue 
 eyes filled with tears. "I do try," she whispered, "but I 
 can't. It's no use." 
 
 " Darling, don't cry. I did not speak crossly, did I ? It 
 is only that I can't bear to see you looking so weak and ill, 
 and caring for nothing or nobody." 
 
 The faintest glimmer of a smile crossed her wan face. 
 " I do care for you," she said, softly. 
 
 " Do you, darling ? Do you really ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," she said, suddenly sinking back into indiffer- 
 ence, and closing her eyes. "But I am so tired." 
 
TOO LATE. 323 
 
 That was always the way. When he had succeeded even 
 in rousing her attention, he could not keep it for more than 
 a minute or two. There seemed to he no getting any grip 
 over her mind. He sat and watched her in speechless 
 tribulation. What could he do ? All his efforts seemed 
 fruitless, and yet he felt himself compelled to try again. 
 
 " Alys, love, would you like me to send for Lisbeth ? " 
 
 "No," she said, listlessly. " Lisbeth is busy; she told me 
 so." 
 
 " I don't think she is too busy to come to you." 
 
 " Oh, yes, she is ; she is staying at Moor End. I had a 
 letter from her last week." 
 
 M I am glad of that," said Edmund, encouraging her to 
 talk. " And what news did she give you ? " 
 
 '* Oh, none in particular." 
 
 " Was Mr. Moor better ? " asked her husband, somewhat 
 incautiously. 
 
 "I don't know." She turned her head away and closed 
 her eyes. He saw his mistake ; the very mention of Frank's 
 name had stirred a train of painful thoughts, and she could 
 not easily shake them off. 
 
 " I think we might ask Julian to come and see us," he 
 said, trying to divert her mind. 
 
 She did not answer. She was again looking at her 
 hand. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " he said, gently. " What are you 
 looking at, dear ? " 
 
 She raised her blue eyes plaintively to his face. " It is 
 my hand," she said, in a low, complaining voice. " Don't 
 you see it ? Do you think I shall ever get it off ? " 
 
 "Get what oft?" 
 
 " The stain. Don't you see it — a great red stain. It has 
 been there ever since I killed my child. " 
 
 Edmund's blood ran cold. He had never heard her 
 speak in this way before. Evidently there was some fixed 
 delusion in her mind. He remembered now how often he 
 had seen her wearing gloves. He looked as she bade him, 
 at the little wasted hand, and it was white as snow. 
 
32-i THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " There is nothing on your hand, darling," he said. 
 
 14 Oh, yes, there is, Edmund ; you must have noticed it. 
 It came when I was ill. At first I only saw it now and 
 then, but since we came here it has grown and grown, and 
 I am so afraid that people will remark it and ask what I 
 have done." 
 
 " Alys, my sweet, how can there be ? " 
 
 44 Why, you told me so yourself," she said, looking at 
 him with the clear, collected gaze of one who was perfectly 
 aware of what she was saying, and able to judge correctly 
 of the propriety of her idea. " You first made me expect to 
 see it — long before it came. Don't you remember what you 
 said?" 
 
 44 1 do not know what you mean, dear." 
 
 41 It was at Quest," said Alys, still in the same tone of 
 gentle argument, " and we were talking about poor Frank 
 Moor. I wanted to give him up because I was afraid of 
 him, but I was not sure whether I was doing right, and you 
 asked me how I could marry a man with blood on his hands. 
 That was because he had accidentally killed Zadock Verrall, 
 you know. "Well, it is just the same with me. Ever since 
 baby died, I have had this stain of blood on my hands." 
 
 Was it any use to remonstrate ? With a qualm of agony, 
 Edmund tried the experiment. 
 
 " You must know, dear Alys, that I spoke figuratively. 
 Frank Moor had no stain of blood on his hands, in your 
 sense of the words; neither have you." 
 
 44 But you said he had," returned Alys, with mild per- 
 sistence, " and I see it myself. It is one of those things that 
 cannot be hid." 
 
 " Why don't you wash it off, then ? " he said, trying to 
 humour the fancy. " Get some water. I will ring for some 
 hot water and wash your hands for you. Shall I carry you 
 in?" 
 
 She agreed to this proposal with some apparent pleasure; 
 and Edmund carried her into the little sitting-room which 
 opened on the verandah, and rang the bell for some hot 
 water. 
 
TOO LATE. 325 
 
 " Do you think it will come off ? " she asked, with the 
 simplicity of a child. 
 
 " Of course it will, dear. You shall see," he answered, 
 trying to speak cheerily, and in the most unconcerned 
 fashion in the world, while he felt as if his heart would 
 break. 
 
 Presently, a maid brought the hot water, soap, and a 
 towel. She did not look surprised. She had heard some- 
 thing of the English lady's vagaries before this time. Ed- 
 mund fancied he caught a glance of pity from her eye, and 
 dismissed her summarily from the room. Pity for himself 
 and Alys he could not bear. 
 
 He knelt down beside her, and did as she bade him — 
 sponged and rubbed the delicate little hands and dried them 
 on the soft towel, and rubbed them again. But, as he might 
 have known, it was all of no use. As soon as the hand was 
 dry, Alys would utter a su bdued cry, and say — 
 
 " Ah, it is no use. See, the stain is coming back. It is 
 worse than ever. You will never wash it off." And, at 
 last, the tears filled her eyes, and fell from them like rain. 
 
 Then Edmund's self-possession gave way, as it had never 
 done since he had attained the days of manhood. He laid 
 his head down on Alys's lap, and sobbed aloud with a pas- 
 sion of grief and love. And then she put her hand softly 
 on his hair, and seemed to come to herself. 
 
 " What is it, Edmund ? Oh, Edmund, don't. What is 
 the matter ? " she said. 
 
 But all the reply he could make was to take the little 
 hand and cover it with kisses — alas, alas ! with tears. All 
 remembrance of what she had said seemed to have faded 
 from his mind. He had to invent some story of sudden ill- 
 ness to account for his emotion, before she could be pacified. 
 
 But this incident left him a different man. * He was one 
 upon whom a great blow was falling, and every day he ex- 
 pected it to come. He saw that the doctors' worst prognosti- 
 cations were being verified. The mental shock caused by 
 the child's death, following on the strain of Frank's trial, 
 and all that the trial signified, had been too much for her. 
 
326 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 He might as well take her hack to England at once— to 
 some quiet place, where they would be beyond the reach of 
 prying eyes and slanderous tongues. 
 
 He began to make arrangements for the return. It was 
 only retarded by the arrival of a letter from Julian, who 
 wrote to say that she and her husband were travelling in 
 that direction, and would join her brother and his wife upon 
 the morrow. 
 
 Edmund went to the station. Julian exclaimed, at the 
 sight of him, — 
 
 " Edmund, how ill you look ! " and was surprised and 
 abashed to find that he did not smile in reply. 
 
 They entered the open carriage that was in waiting; 
 and then the young man turned to his sister, and tried to 
 explain. 
 
 "You will find Alys very much changed," he said ab- 
 ruptly. " I am glad you have come. But you ought to be 
 prepared." 
 
 " Prepared for what ? " said Lady Baynnete, half fright- 
 ened by his melancholy look. 
 
 u She is ill. If I had had time I would have written. It 
 is an illness of the mind rather than of the body. The 
 death of the child " 
 
 He broke off, and said no more. Julian and her hus- 
 band exchanged glances of mute consternation. Edmund 
 was utterly unlike himself. And even yet they were not 
 thoroughly prepared. 
 
 When Julian had paid her first visit to Alys, Lord Eayn- 
 flete found her weeping in her own room. 
 
 " Oh John," she said, "it is terrible." 
 
 "Is she so ill?" 
 
 "She looks very ill. But it is not that; she is quite 
 placid and indifferent, but she seems like a child. I am 
 afraid that her mind is gone." 
 
 "Poor thing, she has had a great deal of trouble." 
 
 "And she has a mania," said Julian, lowering her voice. 
 " She is always wanting to wash her hands— to get the stain 
 off, she says. There must be a reminiscence of Lady Mac- 
 
TOO LATE. 327 
 
 beth, I suppose; and then Edmund said something, before 
 they were married, about Frank Moor's hands being stained ; 
 and she has never forgotten it. To see any one so gentle 
 and innocent as Alys accusing herself of a crime, when it 
 was all pure accident, is terrible to me." 
 
 But Julian did not express another thought that was in 
 her mind. She had always considered in the old days, that 
 Alys had shown great want of faith in Francis Moor; she 
 had put the worst construction on his actions; and yet this 
 fate had overtaken her, that she also should take another's 
 life, and be pursued by remorse for what was, after all, pure 
 accident. Now she understood the hopeless look in Ed- 
 muud's face. 
 
 "You have seen her," the brother said later in the day; 
 " and what do you think ? " 
 
 Julian's starting tears alone replied. 
 
 " You think there is no chance ? " he said. 
 
 "Edmund, dear Edmund, I do not know; how can I 
 tell ? What do the doctors say ? " 
 
 " Only what I know already. There is one comfort — it 
 cannot last very long." 
 
 "Perhaps that may be— best," said Julian, with an ef- 
 fort. 
 
 " Yes, best— for her, Julian ; the worst is— I can say it to 
 y OU _that I feel I drove her to this pass." 
 
 " You, Edmund ? " 
 
 " I argued her out of her own judgment. I made her 
 think Frank Moor more guilty than he was. You see how 
 what I said sank into her mind. What right had I to say 
 that his hands were stained with blood ? She will never 
 let me forget that phrase of mine." 
 
 " You thought so ; it was not your fault," 
 
 " Nay, I did not think so," said Edmund, with a bitter 
 smile ; " I lied if I said I thought so ; and now my sin has 
 found me out." 
 
 He had planned to make the journey to England as soon 
 as possible; but it was evident to all that Alys would not be 
 able to go. She was growing weaker every day. The 
 
328 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 doctor at last intimated plainly that he might as well give 
 up his design. She would never leave the place alive. 
 
 After the decision, nothing remained but to stay quietly, 
 and watch her fading away, like a flower with a broken 
 stem. Edmund scarcely ever left her. Julian tried to re- 
 lieve his watch, but he could not bear to be away from the 
 sick room more .than a few minutes at a time. Then came 
 a transient gleam of hope. She seemed better; she had 
 more colour, and took more interest in the things around 
 her. For a little while even Edmund hoped that things 
 were after all not so bad as they seemed. 
 
 He was sitting with her one evening, when he observed 
 that she was looking wistfully at him, as if she wanted to 
 speak. He leaned forward and re arranged the cushions at 
 her back. She was not in bed, for the weather was hot and 
 close, and she had seemed more comfortable on a sofa near 
 the window. He bent forward to kiss her very gently, when 
 he had put the cushion right ; and to his infinite surprise and 
 poignant pleasure, she lifted her face to return his kiss. 
 She had not done this for many a long clay. 
 
 " I have been ill, have I not ? " she said. 
 
 "Yes, my darling, very ill." 
 
 " And you have brought me here to get better. What a 
 pretty place ! " 
 
 She spoke as if she had never seen it before. 
 
 " And what did you do w T ith baby when you brought me 
 here ? " 
 
 Had she forgotten all that had happened ? Edmund's 
 eyes drooped ; but he answered steadily, " She is at 
 home." 
 
 " And well ? " 
 
 "Quite well." 
 
 " Oh, I am glad. I have had horrible dreams. . . . Ed- 
 mund, tell me they were not true." 
 
 "No, darling, they were not true." 
 
 Her head sank on his shoulder. "I am so glad," she 
 said, with a sigh of relief. And then she did not speak for 
 some little time. But presently she lifted up her face. 
 
FAREWELL TO QUEST. 329 
 
 " Edmund,'' she whispered, " was there not a mark— a stain 
 — upon my hand ? " 
 
 Ob, that old delusion, how it wrung his very heart! 
 But love gave him strength to make a firm reply. " No, 
 dearest, none." 
 
 "I thought not," she answered, with a long drawn 
 breath. " There used to be, you know ; but it is all — washed 
 — clean. " 
 
 And she laid down her weary head in a slumber, from 
 which she never woke again. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 FAREWELL TO QUEST. 
 
 When Lady Adela bore off Lisbeth in triumph to Moor 
 End, she had come to the very end of her resources. The 
 nurse had been dismissed rather too soon, as it turned out; 
 and Frank was still in an exceedingly delicate state of 
 health. But Lady Adela was quite incompetent to manage 
 him. He had grown impatient of enforced inaction, and 
 was resolved to exert himself as much as possible. The con- 
 sequence was that he had brought on an attack of fever 
 which he absolutely refused to nurse, although the doctor 
 warned him that the result of neglect might be serious. He 
 was ill enough to be very fractious and totally unmanage- 
 able, and therefore Lady Adela had flown to Lisbeth for 
 assistance. 
 
 But it was curious to see how Frank's unreasonableness 
 vanished in the charm of Lisbeth's presence. He was sub- 
 missive to her, when he defied every one else; and in half 
 an hour after her arrival, he had gone peaceably to bed, and 
 was undergoing all the treatment which he had previously 
 scouted. He had taken a severe chill, and there was danger 
 of pneumonia; but Lisbeth was an excellent nurse. She 
 scolded him, to be sure, when he did imprudent things ; but 
 
330 THE MISTRESS OP QUEST. 
 
 she had not to scold him very often. He was so delighted 
 to see her again that he professed entire obedience to her 
 commands. 
 
 u How did my mother get you here ? " he said one morn- 
 ing, as he watched her sitting with her needlework at the 
 window, and admired the beauty of her profile. 
 
 " How ! by asking me to come." 
 
 " But why had you not come before ? " 
 
 Lisbeth gave him a glance of surprise, and coloured, in 
 some confusion. She did not like to say to him that she 
 had once been asked to stop away. 
 
 " Were you offended with us, Lisbeth ? " 
 
 " Not at all." 
 
 " Then why have you avoided us ever since we came 
 back to Moor End ? " 
 
 "I had a reason," said Lisbeth, decisively; "but it is not 
 worth telling, and I don't mean to tell it. So don't ask me 
 any more." 
 
 He did not ask her, but he grew very thoughtful, as he 
 watched her at her work. 
 
 Next he attacked his mother, when she was alone with 
 him, and Lisbeth had gone out for a walk. Lady Adela was 
 a good deal subdued in his presence, for she felt that she had 
 mismanaged him, and was disposed to be apologetic. 
 
 " Mother, I have been asking Lisbeth why she did not 
 come and see us after she came back to Quest." 
 
 "I suppose she was too busy," said Lady Adela, trying 
 not to look embarrassed. 
 
 " I don't think that was it. Perhaps she thought she was 
 not welcome." 
 
 Lady Adela was not a good dissembler. She dropped 
 something with a clatter, and had to search for it a good 
 deal with her half-blind eyes before she could find it again. 
 Meanwhile, Frank watched her with an odd expression on 
 his face. 
 
 " I suppose, mother," he said, when at last peace was re- 
 stored, " that you never gave her reason to suppose that we 
 did not want her here ? " 
 
FAREWELL TO QUEST. 331 
 
 "Well, really, Frank, I cannot always remember exactly 
 what I said. Perhaps I did remark once that I wanted to 
 see as much of you as possible — wanted to keep you to my- 
 self, or something of that sort. But I had no idea that she 
 would take offence." 
 
 Frank asked no more questions, to his mother's infinite 
 relief. But the fact was that he had extracted all the in- 
 formation he wanted, and meant to act upon it. 
 
 " Lisbeth," he said, when next he had an opportunity of 
 speaking without being overheard by any one else, " I have 
 found out why you would not come to Moor End." 
 " Have you, Mr. Frank ? " 
 
 " You always call me ' Mr. Frank ' when you want to vex 
 me. But I am not going to take any notice. I find that my 
 mother, in her mistaken solicitude for me, wanted to keep 
 me all to herself. She has acknowledged as much to me. 
 She was very polite to wish to cut me off from all our old 
 friends. Remember, Lisbeth, that you are to take no notice 
 of what she said, then, but to be as friendly as you can." 
 
 " I don't think I am wanting in friendliness, am I ? " said 
 Lisbeth, with a smile. 
 
 "You show a pretty good imitation of it," said Frank 
 contentedly. "I only hope it is genuine." 
 
 And then they laughed together; and it seemed like 
 music in Lisbeth's ears when she heard his laugh. 
 
 Indeed, he was growing quite cheerful ; and both mother 
 and nurse noted the change in him with joy. Moreover, it 
 was quite evident that his neighbours were prepared to re- 
 ceive him in the friendliest manner, and utterly to ignore 
 the past. It was generally felt that he had been treated 
 hardly, and that amends ought to be made to him ; and the 
 county people called in shoals, and welcomed him back to 
 the fells, with a general air of having understood that he 
 had been on a voyage or a hunting expedition, or some- 
 thing of that kind, and that they were pleased at his having 
 reached home safe and sound. In spite of his occasional 
 doubts and suspicions, Frank found this treatment soothing. 
 But in the midst of this cheering and remedial process, 
 
332 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 came the news of Alys Creighton's illness and death. Not 
 till long afterwards did Frank hear the details of those sad 
 latter days of hers; but the fact of her death was sufficient 
 to depress him and to throw him back for a considerable 
 time. Even Lisbeth— herself full of sorrow— could not 
 cheer him now ; and when he was able to do without her, 
 she was allowed to go back to Quest, where she occupied 
 herself with winding up her affairs, and arranging to sell 
 the farm. 
 
 But this operation took time, and months passed before 
 it was concluded. She said nothing about her plans to Lady 
 Adela and Frank, although she saw them with tolerable fre- 
 quency. In fact, she took a great deal of pains to prevent 
 her intentions from coming to their ears. It was not until 
 the following May that Frank heard that the farm was ac- 
 tually sold, and that she was going away. 
 
 He rode over to Quest as soon as he heard the news, and 
 found her in the garden, tying up plants and otherwise 
 making herself busy. The two looked at each other for a 
 moment or two in the pleasant sunshine, and thought that 
 the air of Crosthwaite was good for man and woman alike. 
 And, indeed, the thought was justifiable, for they were a 
 goodly pair. 
 
 Frank had filled out since his illness, and looked older 
 and graver than his years. He was tanned by sun and 
 wind ; he had also lost the delicate look which had charac- 
 terised him in days of old, and was the handsomer for its 
 loss. Lisbeth had blossomed out into fuller beauty, although 
 her face was thoughtful, and her eyes a little sad when her 
 face was in repose. They gleamed brightly now, however, 
 as she looked up at Frank. 
 
 His words were hurried, and his manner eager, when he 
 spoke. 
 
 " Lisbeth, can it be true ? Are you going away from 
 Quest ? " 
 
 "Yes," she answered; and her eyes fell, and the colour 
 came into her cheeks. 
 
 " Have you actually sold the place ? " 
 
FAREWELL TO QUEST. 333 
 
 "I have." 
 
 11 Who is the purchaser, may I ask ? " 
 
 "LordKaynflete." 
 
 a Then I suppose you have got a fair price. But why did 
 you do it without any reference to us ? Do you think it was 
 kind ? Did you think we had no regard for you, or what 
 you meant to do ? Lisbeth, you were inconsiderate of your 
 friends." 
 
 " I did not mean to be so," she answered, pressing her 
 hands nervously together. " I only thought that you would, 
 perhaps— in your kindness — urge me to stay ; and I cannot 
 tell you how monotonous, how painful even, this life at 
 Quest has become to me. I am only too glad to think of leav- 
 ing it behind." 
 
 " And pray, what do you mean to do ? " 
 
 " I am going to London," said Lisbeth, slowly. " I am 
 going to become a hospital nurse." 
 
 "You!" 
 
 " Yes ; why not ? Don't you think I shall make a good 
 one?" 
 
 4 ' You are a good one already. Why should you go and 
 waste your time in drudgery ? " 
 
 " If that is drudgery, I think I like drudgery. You are a 
 man, you have your mother — and other interests — and you 
 do not know how much a woman feels her loneliness. Here 
 at Quest— with the winds sighing round the house, and the 
 rain beating against the window-panes— oh, you don't know 
 what it is like when one is quite alone." 
 
 " Poor Lisbeth ! And you have never spoken of all this." 
 
 " Not as long as it had to be borne. There is no use in 
 complaining of the inevitable. But I have got rid of Quest 
 at last. And yet I love the place." 
 
 She looked round her with a glance which was full of 
 unutterable yearning and affection. Every stick and stone 
 was dear to her, although she had resolved to leave them 
 all. The outlines of the hills were stamped upon her very 
 soul. And Frank was the only person in the world who 
 understood. 
 
334 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " You will be miserable in London, Lisbeth," he said, 
 gently. u Why should you go there — of all places ? " 
 
 "I must go where there is work to do. I cannot be 
 idle. 1 ' 
 
 " But you might find work here." 
 
 She shook her head. " There is nothing for me to do. 
 Nobody wants me. In London I can at any rate be of use." 
 
 "How can you say that nobody wants you here ? You 
 know it is untrue." 
 
 " I know nothing of the kind," she answered shortly ; 
 and turned her back to him on the pretext of tying one of 
 her plants to a stick. He stood silent, frowning and biting 
 hard at his brown moustache. 
 
 " Shall you never come back ? " he asked in a lower voice. 
 
 " Oh, yes, sometimes. Lord Raynnete is to put in a re- 
 spectable man and woman who will let me lodge here if I 
 like, from time to time. I shall be glad to come back now 
 and then, when I am tired." 
 
 " I don't believe it," said Frank, almost rudely. " You 
 will never come back, when once you have gone away." 
 
 She turned round and looked at him in surprise. 
 
 "Because," he said, speaking between set teeth, as if 
 repressing some emotion, " you do not care for any of us. 
 You are going away because you do not care." 
 
 " I do care," she cried, darting a defiant glance at him. 
 
 " Then if you care, why do you not stay ? Lisbeth, stay 
 with me." 
 
 He had said it now— said what had been in his heart for 
 many a long day, but which he had never dreamed of utter- 
 ing to her. She heard it, and turned pale. Indeed, she stag- 
 gered as if she had received a blow. Once she had dreamt 
 of his love indeed ; but that was so very long ago. 
 
 " Lisbeth, will you not answer me ? I have told you the 
 truth now. I love you, as I never loved any woman — not 
 even Alys — as I love you. I said once that I would never 
 ask any woman to be my wife, but I take back the word. I 
 ask you — you, Lisbeth, dearest and best of women, to be my 
 wife." 
 
FAREWELL TO QUEST. 335 
 
 " I have beard," said Lisbeth, falteringly, " that you cared 
 for another — that there was a Miss Harrington." 
 
 " It's a lie. I never thought of Miss Harrington." 
 
 " And then there is Alys. She is dead, but " 
 
 " I do not forget her. I loved her— yes ; but I love you, 
 Lisbeth, better." 
 
 " Lady Adela " 
 
 "Never mind Lady Adela. The question lies between 
 you and me. Everything else can settle itself afterwards. 
 Lisbeth, can you tell me that you do not care for me at all ? " 
 
 " N — no," she said, faintly; " I cannot quite say that." 
 
 " Say the truth, then. You love me ? " 
 
 "A little." 
 
 " How little ? How much ? Lisbeth, will you be my 
 wife ? " 
 
 She blushed more deeply than he had ever seen her 
 blush before; then, without answering, she walked slowly 
 towards the house. Probably she did not quite know what 
 she was doing; but she sought the house with an instinctive 
 desire for shelter. He followed her, doubtingly, hesitat- 
 ingly, until she faced him in the little parlour where they 
 had so often met before. Then, seeing something in her 
 face that gave him courage, he simply took her in his arms, 
 and kissed her on the lips. 
 
 There was no talk after this of her going to London to 
 become a hospital nurse. Frank would not hear a word of 
 it. And in his new triumph, he had become so masterful, 
 so dictatorial, that Lisbeth hardly knew him, and abdicated 
 her old habits of command, unconditionally. It was some- 
 thing new to her even to make a pretence of obeying. 
 
 " And now tell me the truth," he said to her, solemnly 
 enough, " how long is it since you learned to care for me a 
 little bit?" 
 
 She blushed hotly. But Frank received an answer which 
 he did not expect. " All my life, I think," she said. 
 
 " All your life ! — yes, as a sister ; but with this kind of 
 love?" 
 
 u Ever since I knew what love meant." 
 
336 THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. 
 
 " What, when you refused me and scolded me ? " 
 "It was because I loved you all the time." 
 Frank was silent. His mind flew back over the inteven- 
 ing spaces, and he thought of the days when he had neg- 
 lected Lisbeth for her sister's sake, and of all the pain that 
 she must silently have endured. His heart smote him as he 
 stooped to kiss her lips again. 
 
 " What a blind bat I have been ! Forgive me, Lisbeth, I 
 will try to atone for all I have given you to bear. I don't 
 know how you can put up with me, nor how I found cour- 
 age to tell you of my love. But since you know it, since 
 you love me a little, I must hope that you will put up with 
 all that is wanting in me, all that is amiss— weakness, folly, 
 
 poverty, loss of my good name " 
 
 " Nay, Frank, you have won that back already." 
 " You will help me, Lisbeth," he said gravely, "to win it 
 back." 
 
 There was no opposition. Lady Adela declared herself 
 delighted. The county people waxed enthusiastic over the 
 marriage, which they declared to be so delightfully roman- 
 tic, and°deluged Lisbeth with presents. More than this, they 
 called upon her afterwards, and said that it was no wonder 
 Frank Moor had fallen in love with her. She soon won for 
 herself the reputation of being the handsomest woman of 
 the country-side. 
 
 But a reputation for beauty mattered very little to Lis- 
 beth, when she had a husband to love, and, in later years, 
 children of her own to tend. They occupied her thoughts, 
 and she cared little for that outer world of which Julian 
 told her from time to time. Her husband, her boys and 
 girls were all the world to the quondam mistress of Quest. 
 
 THE END. 
 
JVPPLETONS' TOWN AND COUNTRY LIBRARY. 
 
 PUBLISHED SEMIMONTHLY. 
 
 1. The Steel Hammer. By Louis Ulbach. 
 
 2. Eve. A Novel. By S. Baring-Gould. 
 
 3 For Fifteen Years. A Sequel to The Steel Hammer. By Louis Ulbach. 
 i. A Counsel of Perfection. A Novel. By Lucas Malet. 
 
 5. The Deemster. A Romance. By Hall Caine. 
 
 6. A Virginia Inheritance. By Edmund Pendleton. 
 
 7. Ninette : An Idyll of Provence. By the author of Vera. 
 
 8 "The Right Honourable:' By Justin McCarthy and Mrs. Campbell-Praee. 
 9. The Silence of Dean Maitland. By Maxwell Gray. 
 
 10. Mrs. Lorimer: A Study in Black and White. By Lucas Malet. 
 
 11. The Elect Lady. By George MacDonald. 
 
 12. The Mystery of the " Ocean Star." By W. Clark Russell. 
 IS A7%stocvcicv A Novel. 
 
 14! A Recoiling Vengeance. By Frank Barrett. With Illustrations. 
 
 15. The Secret of Fontaine-la- Croix. By Margaret Field. 
 
 16. The Master of Rathkelly. By Hawley Smart. 
 
 17. Donovan: A Modern Englishman. By Edna Lyall. 
 
 18. This Mortal Coil. By Grant Allen. 
 
 19. A Fair Emigrant. By Rosa Mulholland. 
 
 20. The Apostate. By Ernest Daudet. 
 
 21 Raleigh Westgate ; or, Epimenides in Maine. By Helen Kendrick Johnson. 
 
 22. Arius the Libyan : A Romance of the Primitive Church. 
 
 23. Constance, and Calbofs Rival. By Julian Hawthorne. 
 
 24. We Two. Bv Edna Lyall. 
 
 25. A Dreamer of Dreams. By the author of Thoth. 
 
 26. The Ladies' Gallery. By Justin McCarthy and Mrs. Campbell-Praed. 
 
 27. The Reproach of Annesley. By Maxwell Gray. 
 
 28. Near to Happiness. 
 
 29. In the Wire- Grass. By Louis Pendleton. 
 .30. Lace. A Berlin Romance. By Paul Lindau. 
 
 31. American Coin. A Novel. By the author of Aristocracy. 
 
 32. Won by Waiting. By Edna Lyall. 
 
 33. The Story of Helen Davenant. By Violet Fane. 
 
 34. The Light of Her Countenance. By H. H. Boyesen. 
 
 35. Mistress Beatrice Cope. By M. E. Le Clerc. 
 
 36. The Knight-Errant. By Edna Lyall. 
 
 37. In the Golden Days. By Edna Lyall. 
 
 38. Giraldi ; or, The Curse of Love. By Ross George Dereng. 
 
 39. A Hardy Norseman. By Edna Lyall. 
 
 40. The Romance of Jenny Harlowe, and Sketches of Maritime Life. By W„ 
 
 Clark Russell. 
 
 41. Passion's Slave. By Richard Ashe-King. 
 
 42. The Awakening of Mary Fenwick. By Beatrice Whitby. 
 
 43. Countess Loreley. Translated from the German of Rudolf Menger. 
 
 44. Blind Love. By Wilkie Collins. 
 
 45. The Dean's Daughter. By Sophie F. F. Veitch. 
 
 46. Countess Irene. A Romance of Austrian Life. By J. Fogerty. 
 
 47. Robert Browning's Principal Shorter Poems. 
 
 48. Frozen Hearts. By G. Webb Appleton. 
 
 49. Djambek the Georgian. By A. G. von Suttner. 
 
 50. The Craze qf Christian Enqelhart. By Henry Faulkner Darnell. 
 
 51. Lai. By William A. Hammond, M. D. 
 
 52. Aline, A Novel. By Henry Greville. 
 
 53. Joost Avelingh. A Dutch Story. By Maarten Maartens. 
 %4. Katy of Catoctin. By George Alfred Townsend. 
 
 55. Throckmorton. A Novel. By Molly Elliot Seawell. 
 56 Expatriation. By the author of Aristocracy. 
 57. Geoffrey Hampstead. By T. S. Jarvis. 
 
APPLETONS 1 TOWN AND COUNTRY LIBRARY.— (Continued.) 
 
 58. Dmitri. A Romance of Old Russia. By F. W. Bain, M. A. 
 
 59. Part of the Property. By Beatrice Whitby. 
 
 60. Bismarck in Private Life. By a Fellow-Student. 
 
 61. In Low Relief. By Mobley Roberts. 
 
 62. The Canadians of Old. A Historical Romance. By Philippe Gaspe. 
 
 63. A Squire of Low Degree. By Lily A. Long. 
 
 64. A Fluttered Dovecote. By George Manville Fenn. 
 
 65. The Nugents of Carriconna. An Irish Story. By Tighe Hopkins. 
 
 66. A Sensitive Plant. By E. and D. Gerard. 
 
 67. Dona Luz. By Juan Valera. Translated by Mrs. Mary J. Serrano. 
 
 68. Pepita Ximenez. By Juan Valera. Translated by Mrs. Mary J. Serrano. 
 
 69. The PHmes and their Neighboi^s. By Richard Malcolm Johnston. 
 
 70. The Iron Game. By Henry F. Keenan. 
 
 71. Stories of Old New Spain. By Thomas A. Janyier. 
 
 72. The Maid of Honor. By Hon. Lewis Wingfield. 
 
 73. In the Heart of the Storm. By Maxwell Gray. 
 
 74. Consequences. By Egerton Castle. 
 
 75. The Three Miss Kings. By Ada Cambridge. 
 
 76. A Matter of Skill. By Beatrice Whitby. 
 
 77. Maid Marian, and other Stones. By Molly Elliot Seawell. 
 
 78. One Wmnan's Way. By Edmund Pendleton. 
 
 79. A Merciful Divorce. By F. W. Maude. 
 
 80. Stephen Ellicott's Daughter. By Mrs. J. H. Needell. 
 
 81. One Reason Why. By Beatrice Whitby. 
 
 82. The Tragedy of Ida Noble. By W. Clark Russell. 
 
 83. The Johnstown Stage, and other Stories. By Robebt H. Fletcher. 
 
 84. A Widower Indeed. By Rhoda Broughton and Elizabeth Bisland. 
 
 85. The Flight of the Shadow. By Geobge MacDonald. 
 
 86. Love or Money. By Kathabine Lee. 
 
 87. Not All in Vain. By Ada Cambbidge. 
 
 88. It Happened Yesterday. By Fbederick Marshall. 
 
 89. My Guardian. By Ada Cambbidge. 
 
 90. The Story of Philip Methuen. By Mrs. J. H. Needell. 
 
 91. Amethyst: The Story of a Beauty. By Chbistabel R. Colebidge. 
 
 92. Don Braulio. By Juan Valeba. Translated by Clara Bell. 
 
 93. The Chronicles of Mr. Bill Williams. By Richard Malcolm Johnston. 
 
 94. A Queen of Curds and Cream. By Dorothea Gerard. 
 
 95. " La Bella " and Others. By Egerton Castle. 
 
 96. u December Roses." By Mrs. Campbell-Pbaed. 
 
 97. Jean de Kerdren. By Jeanne Schultz. 
 
 98. Etelka's Vow. By Dobothea Gebabd. 
 
 99. C?vss Currents. By Maby A. Dickens. 
 
 100. His Life's Magnet. By Theodoka Elmslie. 
 
 101. Passing the Love of Women. By Mrs. J. H. Needell. 
 
 102. In Old St. Stephen's. By Jeanie Dbake. 
 
 103. The Berkelei/s and their Neighbors. By Molly Elliot Seawell. 
 
 104. Mona Maclean, Medical Student. By Gbaham Tbavebs. 
 
 105. Mrs. Bligh. By Rhoda Bboughton. 
 
 106. A Stumble on the Threshold. By James Payn. 
 
 107. Hanging Moss. By Paul Lindau. 
 
 108. A Comedy of Elopement. By Chbistian Reid. 
 
 109. In the Suntime of her Youth. By Beatbice Whitby. 
 
 110. Stories in Black and White. By Thomas Habdy and Others. 
 110J. An Englishman in Paris. Notes and Recollections. 
 
 111. Commander Mendoza. By Juan Valeba. 
 
 112. Dr. Fault's Theory. By Mrs. A. M. Diehl. 
 
 113. Children of Destiny. By Molly Elliot Seawell. 
 
 114. A Little Minx. By Ada Cambbidge. 
 
 115. Capt'n Davy's Honeymoon. By Hall Caine. 
 
 116. The Voice of a Flower. By E. Gebabd. 
 
 117. Singularly Deluded. By Sabah Gband. 
 
 118. Suspected. By Louisa Steatenus. 
 
 119. Lucia, Hugh, and Another. By Mrs. J. H. Needell. 
 
 120. The Tutor's Secret. By Victob Cheebuliez. 
 
APPLETONS 1 TOWN AND COUNTHY LIBRARY.— ( Continued.) 
 
 121. From the Five Elvers. By Mrs. F. A. Steel. 
 
 122. An Innocent Impostor, and Other Stories. By Maxwell Gray. 
 
 123. Ideala. By Sarah Grand. 
 
 124. A Comedy of Masks. By Ernest Dowson and Arthur Moore. 
 
 125. Relics. By Frances MacNab. 
 
 128. Dodo : A Detail of the Day. By E. F. Benson. 
 
 127. A Woman of Forty. By Esme Stuart. 
 
 128. Diana Tempest. By Mary Cholmondeley. 
 
 129. The Recipe for Diamonds. By C. J. Cutcliffe Hyne. 
 
 130. Christina Chard. By Mrs. Camfbell-Praed. 
 
 131. A Gray Eye or So. By Frank Frankfort Moore. 
 
 132. Earlscourt. By Alexander Allardyce. 
 
 133. A Marriage Ceremony. By Ada Cambridge. 
 
 134. A Ward in Chancery. By Mrs. Alexander 
 
 135. Lot 13. By Dorothea Gerard. 
 
 136. Our Manifold Nature. By Sarah Grand. 
 
 137. A Costly Freak. By Maxwell Gray. 
 
 138. A Beginner. By Rhoda Broughton. 
 
 139. A Yellow Aster. By Mrs. Mannington Caffyn (" Iota"). 
 
 140. The Rubicon. By E. F. Benson. 
 
 141. The Trespasser. By Gilbert Parker. 
 
 142. The Rich Miss Riddell. By Dorothea Gekard. 
 
 143. Mary Fenwick's Daughter. By Beatrice Whitby. 
 
 144. Red Diamonds. By Justin McCarthy. 
 
 145. A Daughter of Music. By G. Colmore. 
 
 146. Outlaw and Lawmaker. By Mrs. Campbell-Praed. 
 
 147. Dr. Janet of Harley Street. By Arabella Kenealy. 
 
 148. George Mandeville's Husband. By C. E. Raimond. 
 
 149. Vashti and Esther. 
 
 150. Timor's Two Worlds. By M. Jokai. 
 
 151. A Victim of Good Luck. By W. E. Norris. 
 
 152. The Trail of the Sword. Bv Gilbert Parker. 
 
 153. A Mild Barbarian. By Edgar Fawcett. 
 
 154. The God in the Car. By Anthony Hope. 
 
 155. Children of Circumstance. By Mrs. M. Caffyn (" Iota 11 ). 
 
 156. At the Gate of Samaria. By William J. Locke. 
 
 157. The Justification of Andrew Lebrun. By Frank Barrett. 
 
 158. Dust and Laurels. By Mary L. Pendered. 
 
 159. The Good Ship Mohock. By W. Clark Russell. 
 
 160. Noemi. By S. Baring-Gould. 
 
 161. The Honour of SaveMi. By S. Levett Yeats. 
 
 162. Kitty's Engagement. By Florence Warden. 
 
 163. The Mermaid. By L. Dougall. 
 
 164. An Arranged Marriage. By Dorothea Gerard. 
 
 165. Eve's Ransom. By George Gissing. 
 
 166. The Marriage of Esther. By Guy Boothby. 
 
 167. Fidelis. By Ada Cambridge. 
 
 168. Into the Highways and Hedges. By F. F. Montresor. 
 " nsittart. By Mrs. J. H. Needell. 
 
 George Paston. 
 
 169. The Vengeance of James Vansittart. 
 
 170. A Study in Prejudices. By Georgi 
 
 "The publishers of the Town and Country Library have been either partic- 
 ularly sagacious or very fortunate in the selection of the novels that have thus 
 far appeared in this excellent series. Not one is lacking in positive merit, and 
 the majority are much above the average fiction of the day. Any person who likes 
 a good story well told can buy any issue in the Town and Country Library with 
 the utmost confidence of finding something well worth while. 11 — Boston Beacon. 
 
 Each, 12 mo, paper cover, 50 cents ; clot h, $1.00. 
 
 Far sale by all booksellers ; or will be sent by mail on receipt of price by the 
 Publishers. 
 
 New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
R 
 
 D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 OUND THE RED LAMP. By A. Conan Doyle, 
 author of " The White Company," " The Adventures of Sher- 
 lock Holmes," " The Refugees," etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 The " Red Lamp," the trade-mark, as it were, of the English country practitioner's 
 office, is the central point of these dramatic stories of professional life. There are no 
 secrets for the surgeon, and, a surgeon himself as well as a novelist, the author has 
 made a most artistic use of the motives and springs of action revealed to him in a field 
 of which he is the master. 
 
 " A volume of bright, clever sketches, ... an array of facts and fancies of medical 
 life, and contains some of the gifted author's best work." — London Daily News. 
 
 A 
 
 FLASH OF SUMMER. By Mrs. W. K. Clif- 
 ford, author of " Love Letters of a Worldly Woman," " Aunt 
 Anne," etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " The story is well written and interesting, the style is limpid and pure as fresh 
 water, and is so artistically done that it is only a second thought that notices it." — San 
 Francisco Call. 
 
 HTHE LILAC SUNBONNET. A Love Story. By 
 
 -* S. R. Crockett, author of "The Stickit Minister," "The 
 
 Raiders," etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " A love story pure and simple, one of the old-fashioned, wholesome, sunshiny kind, 
 with a pure-minded, sound-hearted hero, and a heroine who is merely a good and beauti- 
 ful woman ; and if any other love story half so sweet has been written this year it has 
 escaped us." — New York Times. 
 
 ]\/[ AELCHO. By the Hon. Emily Lawless, author 
 1V1 f " Grania," " Hurrish," etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 "A paradox of literary genius. It is not a history, and yet has more of the stuff 
 of history in it, more of the true national character and fate, than any historical mono- 
 graph we know. It is not a novel, and yet fascinates us more than any novel." — 
 London Spectator. 
 
 T 
 
 HE LAND OF THE SUN. Vistas Mexicanas. 
 
 By Christian Reid, author of " The Land of the Sky," " A 
 
 Comedy of Elopement," etc. Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $1.75. 
 
 In this picturesque travel romance the author of " The Land of the Sky " 
 takes her characters from New Orleans to fascinating Mexican cities like 
 Guanajuato, Zacatecas, Aguas Calientes, Guadalajara, and of course the City 
 of Mexico. What they see and what they do are described in a vivacious 
 style which renders the book most valuable to those who wish an interesting 
 Mexican travel-book unencumbered with details, while the story as a story 
 sustains the high reputation of this talented author. 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 HTHE GODS, SOME MORTALS, AND LORD 
 J- WICKENHAM. By John Oliver Hobbes. With Portrait. 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 The author of " Some Emotions and a Moral " presents in this book her 
 most ambitious work. She has written, not a study, nor a collection of epi- 
 grams, but a complete novel in which she has gone deeper and further than 
 in any previous essay. Her brilliancy of thought and style is familiar, but 
 her admirers will find a new force in the sustained power with which she has 
 drawn some remarkable characters and worked out an impressive theme. 
 
 DOG-MYRTLE AND PEAT. By S. R. Crockett. 
 
 ■*—' Uniform with "The Lilac Sunbonnet." i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 The idyllic charm of " The Lilac Sunbonnet " reappears in this fascinating 
 picture of the quaint humor, the stern conviction, and the passing shadows 
 of Scottish life. Mr. Crockett has made his place, and readers need no intro- 
 duction to his work. 
 
 /N THE FLRE OF THE FORGE. A Romance 
 of Old Nuremberg. By Georg Ebers, author of " Cleopatra," 
 " An Egyptian Princess," etc. In 2 vols. i6mo. 
 Dr. Ebers's new romance transports the reader to mediaeval Nuremberg, 
 and depicts life in the imperial free city at the commencement of the Haps- 
 burg dynasty. Its pages glow with vivid pictures of the olden days of 
 chivalry, and its characters are knights, nobles, monks, nuns, fair maidens, 
 and the patrician merchants whose stately homes still lend their picturesque 
 charm to the Nuremberg of to-day. 
 
 1X/TAJESTY. A Novel. By Louis Couperus. Trans- 
 •£'■* lated by A. Teixeira de Mattos and Ernest Dowson. 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " No novelist whom we can call to mind has ever given the world such a master- 
 piece of royal portraiture as Louis Couperus's striking romance entitled ' Majesty.' "— 
 Philadelphia Record. 
 
 "A very powerful and cleverly written romance. "—New York Times. 
 
 1\Z1 'ASTER AND MAN. By Count Leo Tolstoy. 
 
 ■^ "-* i6mo. Cloth, 75 cents. 
 
 In its simplicity, force, and directness this new work of fiction by Tolstoy 
 will take a high rank among his shorter tales. There is no insistence upon a 
 moral, but the impression left by the tale is none the less profound. 
 
 J^HE ZE1T-GEIST. By L. Dougall, author of 
 ■* "The Mermaid," "Beggars All," etc. i6mo. Cloth, 75 cents. 
 Miss Dougall has written a charming and thoughtful story in " The Zeit- 
 Geist " which will not be forgotten by the reader. Its suggestions are of pe- 
 culiar interest at a time when the subjects touched upon are in so many minds. 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue, 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 LATEST FICTION. 
 f^HE MARRIAGE OF ESTHER. By Guy 
 
 J- Boothby, author of "On the Wallaby," etc. i2mo. Paper, 
 
 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 Mr. Boothby has entered the first rank of antipodean writers of lomance, and the 
 dramatic situations and sustained interest of this new romance will enlarge his circle 
 of readers. 
 
 Z7 FE'S RANSOM. A Novel. By George Gissing, 
 J—-* author of " Denzil Quarrier," " The Odd Women/' " New Grub 
 Street/' etc. i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 "Powerful it undoubtedly is, and it exercises a glowing fascination on the reader." 
 — Boston Traveller. 
 
 " The public appears ready to receive in the same library parcel Rudyard Kipling's 
 jungle epic, Mr. Crockett, Mr. Weyman, and Mr. George Gissing."— Loudon Academy. 
 
 T 
 
 HE MERMAID. By L. Dougall, author of 
 Beggars all," "What Necessity Knows," etc. i2mo. Paper, 
 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " 'The Mermaid' is a novel so far out of the ordinary run of fiction, and so thor- 
 oughly artistic in every line, that it is sure to find a hearty welcome."— Boston Beacon. 
 
 " Fascinating almost to a hypnotic point."— Boston Traveller. 
 
 " One of the most deeply interesting and novel stories that has recently been put 
 before the public. . . . When one begins it he does not wish to put it down until it is 
 finished."— New Haven Leader. 
 
 rHE HONOUR OF SAVELLI. By S. Levett 
 Yeats. i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " Unsurpassably written, full of matter of historical interest, and in excellences of 
 composition, clearness of description, and delineation of character, is assuredly one of 
 the first in the field."— Chicago Evening Journal. 
 
 " The story is fit to rank with Mr. Weyman's or Mr. Doyle's, and the more suc- 
 cessors its author gives it the better."— Boston Saturday Evening Gazetie. 
 
 OEMI. By S. Baring-Gould, author of "Eve," 
 " Red Spider," " Little Tu'penny," etc. l2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; 
 cloth, $1.00. 
 " The plot is well developed, the incidents are exciting, the dialogue bright and 
 sparkling; in short, the author has never done better work."— Boston Advertiser. 
 
 "A romantic novel of old France, full of life and fire— one that makes the blood tin- 
 gle. It is far away and beyond anything he has previously done."— A 7 . Y. World. 
 
 N 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 NOVELS BY HALL CAINE. 
 y^HE MANXMAN. By Hall Caine. i2mo. 
 
 -* Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 "A story of marvelous dramatic intensity, and in its ethical meaning has a force 
 comparable only to Hawthorne's ' Scarlet Letter.' " — Boston Beacon. 
 
 " A work of power which is another stone added to the foundation of enduring fame 
 to which Mr. Caine is yearly adding."— Public Opinion. 
 
 "A wonderfully strong study of character; a powerful analysis of those elements 
 which go to make up the strength and weakness of a man, which are at fierce warfare 
 within the same breast : contending against each other, as it were, the one to raise him 
 to fame and power, the other to drag him down to degradation and shame. Never in 
 the whole range of literature have we seen the struggle between these forces for 
 supremacy over the man more powerfully, more realistically delineated, than Mr. Caine 
 pictures it." — Boston Home Journal. 
 
 " ' The Manxman ' is one of the most notable novels of the year, and is unquestion- 
 ably destined to perpetuate the fame of Hall Caine for many a year to come." — Phila- 
 delphia Telegra' h. 
 
 " The author exhibits a mastery of the elemental passions of life that places him 
 high among the foremost of present writers of fiction." — Philadelphia Inquirer. 
 
 n^HE DEEMSTER. A Roi?iance of the Isle of 
 •*■ Man. By Hall Caine. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " Hall Caine has already given us some very strong and fine work, and ' The 
 Deemster' is a story of unusual power. . . . Certain passages and chapters have an 
 intensely dramatic grasp, and hold the fascinated reader with a force rarely excited 
 nowadays in literature." — The Critic. 
 
 " One of the strongest novels which has appeared for many a day." — San Fran- 
 cisco Chronicle. 
 
 " Fascinates the mind like the gathering and bursting of a storm." — Illustrated 
 London News. 
 
 "Deserves to be ranked among the remarkable novels of the day. — "Chicago 
 Times. 
 
 " Remarkably powerful, and is undoubtedly one of the strongest works of fiction of 
 our time. Its conception and execution are both very fine." — Philadelphia Inquirer. 
 
 c 
 
 APT'N DAVY'S HONEYMOON. A Manx 
 Yarn. By Hall Caine. i2mo. Paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 "A new departure by this author. Unlike his previous works, this little tale is 
 almost wholly humorous, with, however, a current of pathos underneath. It is not 
 always that an author can succeed equally well in tragedy and in comedy, but it looks 
 as though Mr. Hall Caine would be one of the exceptions." — London Literary 
 World. 
 
 " It is pleasant to meet the author of ' The Deemster' in a brightly humorous little 
 story like this. ... It shows the same observation of Manx character, and much of 
 the same artistic skill." — Philadelphia Times. 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
T 
 
 D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 NOVELS BY MAARTEN MAARTENS. 
 
 HE GREATER GLORY. A Story of High Life. 
 By Maarten Maartens, author of " God's Fool,** " Joost 
 Avelingh," etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. , 
 
 " Until the Appletons discovered the merits of Maarten Maartens, the foremost of 
 Dutch novelists, it is doubtful if many American readers knew that there were Duich. 
 novelists. His ' God's Fool' and 'Joost Avelingh' made for him an American reputa- 
 tion. To our mind this just published work of his is his best. . . . He is a master of 
 epigram, an artist in description, a prophet in insight." — Boston Advertiser. 
 
 " It would take several columns to give any adequate idea of the superb way in 
 which the Dutch novelist has developed his theme and wrought out one of the most 
 impressive stories of the period. ... It belongs to the small class of novels which 
 one can not afford to neglect." — San Francisco Chronicle. 
 
 " Maarten Maartens stands head and shoulders above the average novelist of the 
 day in intellectual subtlety and imaginative power."— Boston Beacon. 
 
 /^OD'S FOOL. By Maarten Maartens. i2mo. 
 
 L^ Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " Throughout there is an epigrammatic force which would make palatable a less 
 interesting story of human lives or one less deftly told."— London Saturday Review. 
 
 " Perfectly easy, graceful, humorous. . . . The author's skill in character-drawing 
 is undeniable." — London Chronicle. 
 
 " A remarkable work." — New York Times. 
 
 "Maarten Maartens has secured a firm footing in the eddies of current literature. 
 . . . Pathos deepens into tragedy in the thrilling story of ' God's Fool.'" — Philadel- 
 phia Ledger. 
 
 " Its preface alone stamps the author as one of the leading English novelists of 
 to-day." — Boston Daily Advertiser. 
 
 "The story is wonderfully brilliant. . . . The interest never lags; the style is 
 realistic and intense ; and there is a constantly underlying current of subtle humor. 
 ... It is, in short, a book which no student of modern literature should fail to read." 
 — Boston Times. 
 
 "A story of remarkable interest and point."— New York Observer. 
 
 7 
 
 VOST AVELINGH. By Maarten Maartens. 
 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 "So unmistakably good as to induce the hope that an acquaintance with the Dutch 
 literature of fiction may soon become more general among us." — London Morning 
 Post. 
 
 " In scarcely any of the sensational novels of the day will the reader find more 
 nature or more human nature." — London Standard. 
 
 "A novel of a very high type. At once strongly realistic and powerfully ideal- 
 istic." — London Literary World. 
 
 " Full of local color and rich in quaint phraseology and suggestion." — London 
 Telegraph. 
 
 " Maarten Maartens is a capital story-teller."— Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 "Our English writers of fiction will have to look to their laurels."— Birmingham 
 Daily Post. 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO- 72 Fifth Avenue* 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 M 
 
 ANY INVENTIONS. By Rudyard Kiplinc*. 
 Containing fourteen stories, several of which are now pub- 
 lished for the first time, and two poems. i2mo, 42) pages. 
 Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 "The reader turns from its pages with the conviction that the author has no supe« 
 ior to-day in animated narrative and virility of style. He remains master of a powei 
 n which none of his contemporaries approach him— the ability to select out of countless 
 details the few vital ones which create the finished picture. He knows how, with a 
 phrase or a word, to make you see his characters as he sees them, to make you feci 
 the full meaning of a dramatic situation."— New York Tribune. 
 
 "'Many Inventions' will confirm Mr. Kipling's reputation. . . . We would cite 
 with pleasure sentences from almost every page, and extract incidents from almost 
 every story. But to what end? Here is the completest book that Mr. Kipling has yet 
 given us in workmanship, the weightiest and most humane in breadth of view."— 
 Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 " Mr. Kipling's powers as a story-teller are evidently not diminishing. We advise 
 everybody to buy • Many Inventions,' and to profit by some of the best entertainment 
 that modern fiction has to offer." — New York Sun. 
 
 " ' Many Inventions ' will be welcomed wherever the English language is spoken. 
 . . . Every one of the stories bears the imprint of a master who conjures up incident 
 as if by magic, and who portrays character, scenery, and feeling with an ease which is 
 only exceeded by the boldness of force." — Boston Globe. 
 
 "The book will get and hold the closest attention of the reader." — American 
 Bookseller. 
 
 " Mr. Rudyard Kipling's place in the world of letters is unique. He sits quite aloof 
 and alone, the incomparable and inimitable master of the exquisitely fine art of short- 
 story writing. Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson has perhaps written several tales which 
 match the run of Mr. Kipling's work, but the best of Mr. Kipling's tales are matchless, 
 and his latest collection, 'Many Inventions,' contains several such." — Philadelphia 
 Press. 
 
 "Of late essays in fiction the work of Kipling can be compared toonly three — 
 Blackmore's ' Lorna Doone,' Stevenson's marvelous sketch of Villon in the 'New 
 Arabian Nights,' and Thomas Hardy's ' Tess of the D'Urbervilles.' ... It is probably 
 owing to this extreme care that ' Many Inventions ' is undoubtedly Mr. Kipling's best 
 book." — Chicago Post. 
 
 " Mr. Kipling's style is too well known to American readers to require introduction, 
 but it can scarcely be amiss to say there is not a story in this collection that does not 
 more than repay a perusal of them all." — Baltimore American. 
 
 " As a writer of short stories Rudyard Kipling is a genius. He has had imitators, 
 but they have not been successful in dimming the luster of his achievements by con- 
 trast. . . . 'Many Inventions' is the title. And they are inventions— entirely origi- 
 nal in incident, ingenious in plot, and startling by their boldness and force." — Rochester 
 Herald. 
 
 "How clever he is! This must always be the first thought on reading such a 
 collection of Kipling's stories. Here is art— art of the most consummate sort. Com- 
 pared with this, the stories of our brightest young writers become commonplace."— 
 New York Evangelist. 
 
 " Taking the group as a whole, it may be said that the execution is up to his best 
 in the past, while two or three sketches surpass in rounded strength and vividness ol 
 imagination anything else he has done." — Hartford Courant. 
 
 "Fifteen more extraordinary sketches, without a tinge of sensationalism, it would 
 be hard to find. . . . Every one has an individuality of its own which fascinates tb;> 
 reader." — Boston Times. 
 
 New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue, 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 Books by Mrs. Everard Cotes (Sara Jeannette Duncan). 
 
 H^HE STORY OF SONNY SAHIB. Illustrated. 
 
 •*■ i2mo. Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 This little romance of youthful heroism will fascinate older and younger readers 
 alike. It is a story of the Indian Mutiny and the years which immediately followed. 
 
 TZERNON'S AUNT. With many Illustrations. 
 * i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 
 
 " One of the best and brightest stories of the period."— Chicago Evening Post. 
 " A most vivid and realistic impression of certain phases of life in India, and no one 
 can read her vivacious chronicle without indulging in many a hearty laugh."— Boston 
 Beacon. 
 
 A DAUGHTER OF TO-DAY. A Novel. i2mo. 
 -** Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " This novel is a strong and serious piece of work ; one of a kind that is getting too 
 rare in ^hese days of universal crankiness." — Boston Courier. 
 
 " A lew and capital story, full of quiet, happy touches of humor."— Philadelphia 
 Press. 
 
 /} SOCIAL DEPARTURE: How Orihodocia and I 
 -**• Went Round the World by Ourselves. With in Illustrations 
 by F. H. Townsend. i2mo. Paper, 75 cents ; cloth, $1.75. 
 
 " It is to be doubted whether another book can be found so thoroughly amusing 
 from beginning to end."— Boston Daily Advertiser. 
 
 " A brighter, merrier, more entirely charming book would be, indeed, difficult to 
 find." — St. Louis Republic. 
 
 N AMERICAN GIRL IN LONDON. With 80 
 Illustrations by F. H. Townsend. i2mo. Paper, 75 cents ; 
 cloth, $1.50. 
 "So sprightly a book as this, on life in London as observed by an American, has 
 never before been written."— Philadelphia Bulletin. 
 
 HE SIMPLE ADVENTURES OF A MEM- 
 SAHIB. With 37 Illustrations by F. H. Townsend. i2mo. 
 Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " It is like traveling without leaving one's armchair to read it. Miss Duncan has 
 the descriptive and narrative gift in large measure, and she brings vividly before us 
 the street scenes, the interiors, the bewilderingly queer natives, the gayeties ot the 
 English colony."— Philadelphia Telegraph. 
 
 A 
 
 T 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 Ti/TEMOIRS ILLUSTRATING THE HISTORY 
 
 IVl OF NAPOLEON I, from 1802 to 1815. By Baron Claude- 
 Fran^ois de Meneval, Private Secretary to Napoleon. Ed- 
 ited by his Grandson, Baron Napoleon Joseph de Meneval. 
 With Portraits and Autograph Letters. In three volumes. 
 8vo. Cloth, $6.00. 
 
 These volumes furnish a picture of Napoleon's daily life which is believed 
 to be unexcelled in point of closeness of observation and graphic detail by 
 any other narrative. That Meneval was not the man to neglect his oppor- 
 tunities is shown abundantly by the glimpses of character revealed in his 
 diaries and notes. Yet, for personal and other reasons, his invaluable recol- 
 lections were not given to the world. They have been treasured by his 
 family until the present time of profound interest in Napoleonic history. 
 Of Napoleon's relations with Josephine and Marie Louise — of all the features 
 of his domestic and social existence — Meneval had abundant knowledge, for 
 he shared Napoleon's private life ; and since he was sitting at the fountain- 
 head of information, he is able to shed new light on many features of the 
 Napoleonic campaigns. His narrative is most interesting ; its historical 
 importance need not be emphasized. 
 
 "The Baron de Meneval knew Napoleon as few knew him. He was his confiden- 
 tial secretary and intimate friend. . . . Students and historians who wish to form a 
 trustworthy estimate of Napoleon can not afford to neglect this testimony by one of his 
 most intimate associates." — London JVezvs. 
 
 " These memoirs, by the private secretary of Napoleon, are a valuable and impor- 
 tant contribution to the history of the Napoleonic period, and necessarily they throw 
 new and interesting light on the personality and real sentiments of the emperor. If 
 Napoleon anywhere took off the mask, it was in the seclusion of his private cabinet. 
 The memoirs have been republished almost as they were written, by Baron de Meneval's 
 grandson, with the addition of some supplementary documents." — London Times. 
 
 " Meneval has brought the living Napoleon clearly before us in a portrait, flattering, 
 no doubt, but essentially true to nature ; and he has shown us what the emperor really 
 was— at the head of his armies, in his Council of State, as the ruler of France, as the lord 
 of the continent — above all, in the round of his daily life, and in the circle of family and 
 home." — London Academy. 
 
 " Neither the editor nor translator of Meneval's memoirs has miscalculated his deep 
 interest —an interest which does not depend on literary style but on the substance of what 
 is related. Whoever reads this volume will wait with impatience for the remainder." — 
 jV. Y. Tribiuie. 
 
 "The work will take rank with the most important of memoirs relating to the period. 
 Its great value arises largely from its author's transparent veracity. Meneval was one 
 of those men who could not consciously tell anything but the truth. He was constitu- 
 tionally unfitted for lying. . . . The book is extremely interesting, and it is as impor- 
 tant as it is interesting." — N. Y. Times. 
 
 " Few memoirists have given us a more minute account of Napoleon. . . . No lover 
 of Napoleon, no admirer of his wonderful genius, can fail to read these interesting and 
 important volumes which have been waited for for years." — N. Y. World. 
 
 " The book will be hailed with delight by the collectors of Napoleonic literature, as 
 it covers much ground wholly unexplored by the great majority of the biographers of 
 Napoleon." — Providence Journal. 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
H 
 
 D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 TWO VALUABLE BOOKS. 
 
 ANDBOOK OF BIRDS OF EASTERN 
 
 NORTH AMERICA. With Keys to the Species ; Descrip- 
 tions of their Plumages, Nests, etc. ; their Distribution and 
 Migrations. By Frank M. Chapman, Assistant Curator of 
 Mammalogy and Ornithology, American Museum of Natural 
 History. With over 200 Illustrations. i2mo. Library Edi- 
 tion, $3.00 ; Pocket Edition, flexible covers, $3.50. 
 
 The author's position has not only given him exceptional opportunities 
 for the preparation of a work which may be considered as authoritative, but 
 has brought him in direct contact with beginners in the study of birds, 
 whose wants he thus thoroughly understands. The technicalities so con- 
 fusing to the amateur are avoided, and by the use of illustrations, concise 
 descriptions, analytical keys, dates of migration, and remarks on distribu- 
 tion, haunts, notes, and characteristic habits, the problem of identification, 
 either in the field or study, is reduced to its simplest terms. 
 
 "Written in simple, nontechnical language, with special reference to the needs of 
 amateurs and bird-lovers, yet with an accuracy of detail that makes it a standard au- 
 thority on the birds of eastern North America." — J. A. Allen, Editor of The Auk. 
 
 "A boon to the amateur, a convenience to the professional, and wili prove a help 
 and incentive to the study of birds." — C. Hart Merriam. 
 
 "I am delighted with the 'Handbook.' It is so entirely trustworthy and up to 
 date that I can heartily recommend it." — Olive Thome Miller. 
 
 "One seldom finds so many good things in a single volume, and I can not recom- 
 mend it too highly. Its conciseness and freedom from errors, together with its many 
 original ideas, make it the standard work of its class." — John H. Sage. 
 
 " What we have all waited for." — Bradford Torrey. 
 
 PAMTLTAR FLOWERS OF FIELD AND 
 •*■ GARDEN. By F. Schuyler Mathews. Illustrated with 
 
 200 Drawings by the Author. i2mo. Library Edition, $1.75 ; 
 
 Pocket Edition, flexible covers, $2.25. 
 
 In this convenient and useful volume the flowers which one finds in the 
 field are identified, illustrated, and described in familiar language. Their 
 connection with garden flowers is made clear. Particular attention is drawn 
 to the beautiful ones which have come under cultivation, and, as the title 
 indicates, the book furnishes a ready guide to a knowledge of wild and culti- 
 vated flowers alike. 
 
 New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 BERKELEY 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 Books not returned on time are subject to a fine of 
 50c per volume after the third day overdue, increasing 
 to $1.00 per volume after the sixth day. Books not in 
 demand may be renewed if application is made before 
 expiration of loan period. 
 
 
 & 
 
 \ 
 
 ■■■ 
 
 &P 
 
 -ft \&. 
 
 tltf > 
 
 REC GIR- 
 
 D£C«* 
 
 fc 
 
 in. 
 
 $ # 
 
 &fc 
 
 373 
 
 50m-7,'16 
 
.y.„£..££'? KELEY LIBRARIES 
 
 00550^137 
 
\M 
 
 HM