BERKELEY
LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF
CALIFORNIA
'^. /f
2.^
Che Jlutftor's edition
MOUNT ROYAL
NOVELS BY THE SAME AUTHOR*
Lady Audleyt Secret
Henry Dtuibar.
Eleanor's Victory.
Aurora Floyd.
John Marchmont's Legacy,
The Doctor's Wife.
Only a Clod.
Sir Jasper's Tenant.
Trail of the Serpent.
The Lady's Mile.
Lady Lisle.
Captain of the Vulture.
Birds of Prey.
Charlotte's Inheritance.
Rupert Godwin.
Run to Earth.
Dead Sea Fruit.
Ralph the Bailiff.
Fenton's Quest.
Lovels of Arden.
Robert Ainsleigrh.
To the Bitter End.
MUly Darrell.
Strangers and Pilgrims.
Lucius Davoren.
Taken at the Flood.
Lost for Love.
A Strange World.
Hostages to Fortune.
Dead Men's Shoes.
Joshua Haggard.
Weavers and Weft,
An Open Verdict.
Vixen.
The Cloven Foot.
The Story of Barbara.
Just as I am.
Asphodel
Mount RoyaL
The Golden Calf.
Phantom Fortune,
Flower and Weed.
Ishmael.
Wyllard's Weird.
Under the Red Flag.
One Thing Needful.
Mohawks.
Like and Unlike.
The Fatal Three.
The Day will come.
One Life, One Lpve,
Gerard.
The Venetians.
All along the River.
Thou art the Man.
The Christmas Hirelings.
Sons of Fire.
London Pride.
Under Love's Rule,
Rough Justice.
In High Places.
His Darling Sin.
The InfideL
The Conflict.
A Lost Eden.
The Rose of Life.
The White House.
Her Convict.
Dead Love has Chains.
During Her Majesty's
Pleasure.
Our Adversary.
Beyond These Voices.
I The Green Curtain.
Miranda.
]y[oUNT ROYAL
BY
M. E. BRADDON
Author of " LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET," " VIXEN,"
''LONDON PRIDE," ETC.
eK*)
Xont)on
SmPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO., Ltd.
t>rintel> for the Butbor
3Bt! TCliUiam Clowes & Sons, Xiinitcbj*
%on&on anl> JBeccles.
CONTENTS
m
CHAP. PAGE
L The Days that are No More . • . . 5
II. But then came One the Lovelace of hi3 Dat 18
III. *TiNTAOEL, Half iw Sea, and Half on
Land" 32
IV. * Love I Thou art Leading Me prom Wintry
Cold' 4^
V. *The Silver Answer Rano, — "Not Death
BUT Love"' 55
Ti. In Society . . , 61
Tii. Cfpid and Psyche .;,••. 83
vm. Le Secret de Polichinelle .... 94
IX. *LovE IS Love for Evermore' . . . .113
X. *Let Me and My Passionate Love oo bt' . 122
XI. *Alas for Me then, My Good Days are
Done' . . . . . . . . 128
XII. * Grief a Fixed Star, and Joy a Vane that
Veers' 131
XIII. *7x)VE WILL have His Day' .... 140
XIV. *3uT Here is One who Loves i'^r as of
Old' 155
XV. *TnAT LiF AND VoiCE ARE MUTB FOR EVER ' , 166
XVI. *NoT THE GODS CAH ShAKB THE PAST ' . . 17 J
xviL *I HAVK PUT Mr Days and DuEAiia out ot
MiuD' 18C
720
iv Contents.
onAr. »Aai
XVIII. 'And Pale from thb Past we Draw Nigh
Theu' 185
XIX. ' But it Sufficeth, that the Day will End ' 201
XX. *"iyj[o Knows Not Circe?' . . . . 216
XXL *And Time is Setting Wi' Me, O' . .229
XXII. 'With sucn Remorseless Speed Still Come
New Woes' 231
XXIII. * Yours on Monday, God's to-dat* , . 243
XXIV. Duec or Murder? 250
XXV. *Dust to Dust' 255
xxvL *Pain for Thy Girdle, and Sori.ow upon
Tiiy Head' 265
xxvu. *I Will have no Mercy on IIim' , . 269
xxviiL *Gai Donc, la Voyaoeusb, au Coup du
Pelekin !' 283
XXIX. 'Time Turns the Old Days to Derision' . 288
XXX. * Thou shouldst come like a Fury Crowned
WITH Snakes' 299
xxxL 'His Lady Smiles; Delight is in Her
Face' 305
xxxiL ' Love bore such Bitter and such Deadly
Fruit' 318
xxxiiL 'She Stood up in Bitter Cask, with a
Pale yet Steady Face' .... 330
XXVI7. V/ifi JLLAVJfi DjNB WITH TeARS AND TREASONS . 346
CHAPTER L
THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE.
And he was a widower,' said ChristabeL
She was listening to an oft-told tale, kneeling in the firelight,
at her aunt's knee, the ruddy glow tenderly touching her fair soft
hair and fairer forehead, her big blue eyes lifted lovingly to Mrs.
Tregonell's face.
* And he was a widower. Aunt Diana,* she repeated, with an
expression of distaste, as if something had set her teeth on edge.
' I cannot help wondering that you could care for a widower — a
man who had begun life by caring for somebody else.'
* Do you suppose any one desperately in love ever thinks of
the past 1 ' asked another voice out of the twilight. * Those in-
fatuated creatures called lovers are too happy and contented with
the rapture of the present.'
* One would think you had tremendous experience, Jessie, by
the way you lay down the law,' said Christabel, laughing. * Bui
I want to know what Auntie has to say about f aUing in love with
a widower.'
* If you had ever seen him and known him, I don't think you
would wonder at my liking him,' answered Mrs. Tregonell, lying
back in her armchair, and talking of the story of her life in a
placid way, as if it were the plot of a novel, so thoroughly does
time smooth the rough edge of grief. * When he came to my
father's house, his young wife had been dead just two years — she
died three days after the birth of her first child — and Captain
Hamleigh was very sad and grave, and seemed to take very little
pleasure in life. It was in the shooting season, aad the othtr
men were out upon the hills all day.'
' Murdering innocent birds,* interjected ChristabeL * How I
hate them for it ! '
'Captain Hamleigh hung about the house, not seeming to
know very well wh^t to do with himself, so your mothar
I
6 Mount Boyal.
and 1 took pit^ upon him, and tried to amuse him, which
effort resulted in his amusing us, for he was ever so much
cleverer than we were. He was so kind and sympathetia
We had just founded a Dorcas Society, and we were muddling
hopelessly in an endeavour to make good sensible rules, so that
we should do nothing to lessen the indei)endent feeling of our
eople — and he came to our rescue, and took the whole thing in
and, and seemed to understand it all as thoroughly as if he had
been establishing Dorcas Societies all his life. My father said it
was because the Captain had been sixth wrangler, and that it
was the higher mathematics which made him so clever at making
rules. But Ciaxa and I said it was his kind heart that made him
80 quick at understanding how to help the poor without humiliat-
ing them.'
*It was very nice of him,* said Chriatabel, who had heard the
story a hundred times before, but who was never weary of it,
and had a special reason for being interested this afternoon.
* And so he stayed a long time at my grandfather's, and you fell
in love with him ? '
*I began by bein^ sorry for him,' replied Mrs. Tregonell.
* He told us all about his young wife — how happy they had been
— how their one year of wedded life seemed to him like a lovely
dream. They had only been engaged three months ; he had
known her less than a year and a half altogether ; had come
home from India ; had seen her at a friend's house, fallen in love
with her, married her, and lost her within those eighteen months.
'Everything smiled upon us,' he said. 'I ought to have
remembered Polycrates and his ring.'
* He must have been rather a doleful person,' said Christabel,
who had all the exacting ideas of early youth in relation to love
and lovers. * A widower of that kind ought to perform suttee,
and make an end of the business, rather than go about the world
prosing to nice girls. I wonder more and more that you could
have cared for him.' And then, seeing her aunt's eyes shining
with unshed tears, the girl laid her sunny head upon the matronly
shoulder, and mui-mured tenderly, ' ITorgive me for teasing you,
dear, I am only pretending. I love to hear about Captain Ham-
leigh ; and I am not very much suiprised that you ended by-
loving him— or that he soon forgot his brief dream of bliss with
the other young lady, and fell despei-ately in love with you.'
* It was not till after Christmas that we were engaged,' con-
tinued Mrs. Tregonell, looking dreamily at the fire. * My father
was delighted — so was my sister Clara — your dear mother
Everything went pleasantly ; our lives seemed all sunshine. 1
ought to have remembered Polycrates, for I knew Schiller's
ballad about him bv heart. But I could think of nothing beyond
that pui feet till-sulhcing hapi»inosa. Wo were not to be mairied
The Days that are No More, 1
till late in the autumn, when it would be tliree years since his
wife's death. It was my father's wisii that I sliould not be
\iarried till after my nineteenth birthday, which would not be
till September. I was so happy in my engagement, so confident
in my lover's fidelity, that I was more than content to wait.
So all that spring he stayed at Penlee. Our mild climate had
improved his health, which was not at all good when he came to
us — indeed he had retired from the service before his marriage,
chiefly on account of weak health. But he spoke so lightly and
confidently about himself in this matter, that it had never
entered into my head to feel any serious alarm about him, till
^rly in May, when he and Clara and I were caught in a drench-
ing rainstorm during a mountaineering expedition on Rough Tor,
and then had to walk four or five miles in the rain before we
came to the inn where the carriage was to wait for us. Clara and
I, who were always about in all weathers, were very little
worse for the wet walk and the long drive home in damp clothes.
But George was seriously ill for three weeks with cough and low
fever ; and it was at this time that our family doctor told my
father that he would not give much for his future son-in-law'a
life. There was a marked tendency to lung complaint, he said ;
Captain Hamleigh had confessed that several members of hia
family had died of consumption. My father told me this — urged
me to avoid a marriage which must end in misery to me, and waa
deeply grieved when I declared that no such consideration would
induce me to break my engagement, and to grieve the man I
loved. If it were needful that our marriage should be delayed, I
was contented to submit to any delay ; but nothing could loosen
the tie between me and my dear love.'
Aunt and niece were both crying now. However familiar the
story might he, they always wept a little at this point.
* George never knew one word of this conversation between
my father and me — he never suspected our fears — but from that
hour my happiness was gone. My life was one perpetual dread
— one ceaseless strugle to hide all anxieties and fears under a
smile. George rallied, and seemed to grow strong again— was
full of energy and high spirits, and I had to pretend to think him
as thoroughly recovered as he fancied himself. But by this time
I had ^rown sadly wise. I had questioned our doctor — had
looked mto medical books — and I knew every sad sim and token
of decay. I knew what the flushed cheek and the brilliant eye,
the dAinp cold hand, and the short cough meant I knew that
the hand of death was on him wkom I loved more than all the
world besidea There was no need for the postponement of our
marriage. In the long bright days of August he seemed won-
derfully well—aB well as he had been before the attack in May.
I waa almost happy ; for, in spite of what the doctor bad tolcl
8 Mount BoyaX,
me, I began to hope 1 but early in September, while the dress-
makers were in the house making my wedding clothes, the end
came suddenly, unexpectedly, wim only a few hours' warning.
Oh, Christabel I I cannot speak of that day !*
* No, darling, you shall not, you must not,* cried Christabel,
showering kisses on her aunt's pale cheek.
* And yet you always lead her on to talk about Captain Ham-
lei^h,* said the sensible voice out of the shadow. ' Isn't that just
a little inconsistent of our sweet Belle V
*■ Don't call me your * sweet Belle' — as if I were a baby,' ex-
claimed the girL ' I know I am inconsistent — I was bom
foolish, and no one has ever taken the trouble to cure me of my
folly. And now. Auntie dear, tell me about Captain Hamleigh's
son — the boy who is coming here to-morrow.'
* I have not seen him since he was at Eton. The Squire
drove me down on a Fourth of June to see him.'
' It was very good of Uncle Tregonell.'
* The Squire was always good,' replied Mrs. Tregonell, with a
dignified air. Christabel's only remembrance of her uncle was of
a large loud man, who blustered and scolded a good deal, and
frequently contrived, perhaps, without meaning it, to make
everybody in the house uncomfortable ; so she reflected inwardly
upon that blessed dispensation which, however poorly wives may
think of living husbands, provides that every widow should
consider her departed spouse completely admirable.
* And was he a nice a boy in those days ] ' asked Christabel,
keenly interested.
* He was a handsome gentleman-like lad — very intellectual
looking ; but I was grieved to see that he looked delicate, like
his father ; and his dame told me that he generally had a winter
cough.'
* AVho took care of him in those days ? '
* His matern.'d aunt — a baronet's wife, with a handsome house
in Eaton Square. All his mother's people were well placed in
life.'
* Poor boy ! hard to have neither father nor mother. It was
twelve years ago when you spent that season in London with the
Squire,' said Chi'istabel, calculating profoundly with the aid of
her finger tips ; and Angus Hamleigh was then sixteen, which
makes him now eight-and-twenty-^readfully old. And since
then he has been at Oxford — and he got the Newdigate — what is
the Newdigate ? — and he did not hunt, or drive tandem, or have
rats in his rooms, or paint the doors vermillion — like — ^like the
general run of young men,' said Christabel, reddening, and hurry-
mg on confusedly ; * and he was altogether rather a superior sort
of person at the university.'
He had not your cousin Leonard's high spirits and powerful
The Days that are No More, 9
physique,' said Mrs. Tregonell, as if she were ever so slightly
offended. * Young men's tastes are so different.'
* Yes,' sighed Christabel, ' it's lucky they are, is it not ? It
wouldn't do for them all to keep rats in their rooms, would it '
The poor old colleges would smell so dreadfuL Well,' with
another sigh, * it is just thi-ee weeks since Angus Hamleigh
accepted your invitation to come here to stay, and I have been
expiring of curiosity ever since. If he keeps me expiring much
longer I shall be dead before he comes. And I have a dreadful
foreboding that, when he does appear, I shall detest him.'
* No fear of that,' said Miss Bridgeman, the owner of the
voice that issued now and again from the covert of a deep arm-
chair on the other side of the fireplace.
* Why not. Mistress Oracle 1 * asked Christabel.
* Because, as Mr. Hamleigh is accomplished and good-looking,
and as you see very few young men of any kind, and none that
are particularly attractive, the odds are fifty to one that you will
fall in love with him.'
* I am not that kind of person,' protested Christabel, drawing
up her long full throat, a perfect throat, and one of the girl's
chief beauties.
* I hope not,' said Mrs. Tregonell ; * I trust that Belle has
better sense than to fall in love with a young man, just because
he happens to come to stay in the house.'
Christabel was on the point of exclaiming, * Why, Auntie, you
did it ; ' but caught herself up sharply, and cried outinstead, with
an air of settling the question for ever,
'My dear Jessie, he is eight-and-twenty. Just ten years
older than I am.'
' Of course — he's ever so much too old for her. A bias/ man
of the world,' said Mrs. Tregonell. * I should be deeply sorry to
see my darling marry a man of that age — and with such ante-
cedents. I should like her to marry a young man not above two
or three years her senior.'
* And fond of rats,' said Jessie Bridgeman to herself, for she
had a slirewd idea that she knew the young man whose image
filled Mrs. Tregonell's mind as she spoke.
All these words were spoken in a goodly oak panelled room in
the Manor House known as Mount Royal, on the slope of a bosky
hill about a mile and a half from the little town of Boscastle, on
the north coast of Cornwall. It was an easy matter, according to
the Herald's Ofiice, to show that Mount Royal had belonged to
the Tregonells in the days of the Norman kings ; for the
Tregonells traced their descent, by a female branch, from the
ancient baronial family of Botterell or Bottereaux, who once
held a kind of Court in their castle on Mount Royal, had their
dungeons and their prisoners, and, in the words of Carew,
10 Mount BoyaL
'exercised some large jurisdiction.' Of the ancient castle hardly
A stone remained; but the house in which Mrs. TregoneU
lived was as old as the reign of James the First, and had all
the rich and qviaint beauty of that delightful period in
architecture. Nor was there any prettier room at Mount
Royal than this spacious oak-panelled parlour, with curious
nooks and cupboards, a recessed fireplace, or * cosy-comer,'
with a small window on each side of the chimney-breast,
%nd one pfirticuLar alcove placed at an angle of the house,
overlooking one of the most glorious views in England. It
might be h3rperboie perhaps to call those Cornish hills mountains^
yet assuredly it was a mountain landscape over which the eye
roved as it looked from the windows of Mount Eoyal ; for those
wide sweeps oi iiill side, those deep clefts and gorges, and
heathery slopes, en which the dark red cattle grazed in silent
peacef ulness, an*^ the rocky bed of the narrow river that went
rushing through, the deep valley, had all the grandeur of the
Scottish Highlands, all the pastoral beauty of Switzer-
land. And HAvay to the right, beyond the wild and
indented coast-Hue, that homed coast which is said to have
gi ven its name t(j Cornwall — Comu-Wales — stretched^the Atlantic
The room had that quaint charm peculiar to rooms occupied by
many generations, and upon which each age as it went by has left
its mark. It was a room full of anachronisms. There was some of
the good old Jacobean furniture left in it, while spindle-legged
Chippendale tables and luxurious nineteenth- century chairs and
sofas agreeably contrasted with those heavy oak cabinets and
corner cupboards. Here an old Indian screen or a china monster
suggested a fashionable auction room, filled with ladies who wore
patches and played ombre, and squabbled for ideal ugliness in
Oriental pottery ; tliere a delicately carved cherry-wood jom-cfiew,
with claw feet, recalled the earlier beauties of the Stuart Court.
Time had faded the stamped velvet curtains to that neutral
witliered-leaf hue which painters love in a background, and
against which bright yellow chrysanthemums and white asters in
dark red and blue Japanese bowls, seen dimly in the fitful fire-
glow, made patches of light and colour.
The girl kneeling by the matron's chair, looked dreamily into
the fire, was even fairer than her surroundings. She waa
thoroughly English in her beauty, features not altogether perfect,
but corajjlexion of that dazzling fairness and wud-iose bloom
which is in itself enough for loveliness ; a complexion so delicate
as to betray every feeling of the sensitive mind, and to vary witli
eveiy shade of emotion. Her eyes were blue, clear as siunmer
skies, and with an expression of childlike innocence — that look
which Ui\\s of a soul wIiohc purity has never been tamislied by
the knowledge of eviJ. That frank clear outlook waa natural in
The Days that a/re No More, 11
A girl brought np {la Christabel Courtenay had been at a good
woman's knee, shut in and sheltered from the rough world, reared
in the love and fear of God, shaping every thought of her life by
the teaching of the Gospel
She had been an orphan at nine years old, and had parted for
ever from mother and father before her fifth birthday, Mrs.
Courtenay leaving her only child in her sister's care, and going
out to India to join her husband, one of the Sudder Judges.
Husband and wife died of cholera in the fourth year of
Mrs. Courtenay's residence at Calcutta, leaving Christabel in her
aunt's care.
Mr. Courtenay was a man of ample means, and his wife,
daughter and co-heiress with Mi-s. Tregonell of Kalph Champer-
nowne, had a handsome dowry, so Christabel might fairly rank
as an heiress. On her grandfather's death she inherited half of
the Champemo%vne estate, which was not entailed. But she had
hardly ever given a thought to her financial position. She knew
that she was a ward in Chancery, and that Mrs. Tregonell was
her guardian and adopted mother, that she had always as much
money as she watted, and never experienced the pain of seeing
poverty which she could not relieve in some measure from her
well-suj^lied pm^e. The general opinion in the neighbourhood of
Mount Koyal was that the Indian Judge had accumulated an
immense fortune during his twenty years' labour as a civil
servant ; but this notion was founded rather upon vague ideas
about Warren Hastings and the Padoga tree, and the supposed
inability of any Indian official to refuse a bribe, than on plain fa-cta
or personal knowledge.
Mrs. Tregonell had been left a widow at thirty-five years of
age, a widow with one son, whom she idolized, bnt who was
not a source of peace aud happiness. He was open-handed, had
no petty vices, and was supposed to possess a noble heart — a fact
which Christabel was sometimes inclined to doubt when she saw
his delight in the slaughter of birds and beasts, not having in
her own nature that spoi-tsman's instinct which can excuse such
murder. He was not the kind of lad who would wilfully set his
foot upon a worm, but he had no thrill of tenderness or re-
morseful pity as he looked at the glazing eye, or felt against his
hand the last feeble heart-beats or snipe or woodcock. He waa
a troublesome boy — fond of inferior company, and loving rather
to be first fiddle in the saddle-room than to mind his manners in
his mother's pink-and-wMte panelled saloon — among the best
people in the neighbourhood. He was lavish to reckkisness in
the use of money, and therefore was always furnished with fol-
loweiB and flatterers. His University career had been altogether
a failure and a disgrace. He had taken no degree — had made
himself not<Mious for those rough pranks which have not evea
12 Mount Boyai.
the merit of being original — the traditionary college misde*
meanours handed down from generation to generation of under-
graduates, and which by their blatant folly incline the outside
world to vote for the suppression of Universities and the extinc-
tion of the undergraduate race.
His mother had known and suffered all this, yet still loved
her boy with a fond excusing love — ever ready to pardon — ever
eager to believe that these faults and follies were but the crop of
wild oats which must needs precede the ripe and rich harvest of
manhood. Such wild youths, she told herself, fatuously, gene-
rally make the best men. Leonard would mend his ways before
he was five-and-twenty, and would become interested in his
estate, and develop into a model Squire, like his admirable
father.
That he had no love for scholarship mattered little — a
country gentleman, with half a dozen manors to look after, could
be but little advantaged by a familiar acquaintance with the
integral calculus, or a nice appreciation of the Greek tragedians.
When Leonard Tregonell and the college Dons were mutually
disgusted with each other to a point that made any further
residence at Oxford impossible, the young man graciously an-
nounced his intention of making a tour round the world, for
the benefit of his health, somewhat impaired by University
dissipations, and the widening of his experience in the agricul-
tural line.
* Farming has been reduced to a science,' he told his mother ;
* I want to see how it works in our colonies. I mean to make a
good many reformations in tlie management of my farms and
the conduct of my tenants when I come home.'
At first loth to part with him, veiy fearful of letting him
so far out of her ken, Mrs. Tregonell ultimately allowed herself to
be persuaded that sea voyages and knocking about in strange
lands would be the making of her son ; and there w;is no sacri-
fice, no loss of comfort and delight, which slie would not have
endured for his benefit. She spent many s:ul honis in praj^er,
or on her knees before her open Bible ; and at last it seemed to
her that her friends and neighbours must be riglit, am I that it
would be for Leonard's good to go. If he stayed in England, she
could not hope to keep him always in Cornwall. He could go to
London, and, no doubt, I^ondon vices would be worse than Oxford
vices. Yes, it was good for him to go ; she thought of Esau,
and how, after a fooKsh and ill-governed youth, the son, who had
bartered his father's blessing, yet became an estimable member
of society. Why should not her boy flourish as Esau had
flourished t but never without the parental blessing. That would
be his to the end. He could not sin beyond her large capacity
lor pardon : he could not exhaust an inexhaustible love. So
The Days that are No More. 13
Leonard, who had snddenly found that wild Cornish coast, and
even the long rollers of the Atlantic contemptibly insignificant
as compared with the imagined magnitude of Australian downs,
and the grandeurs of Botany Bay, hurried on the preparations
for his departure, provided himself with everything expensive in
gunnery, fishing-tackle, porpoise-hide thigh-boots, and waterproof
gear of every kind, and departed rejoicing in the most admirably
appointed Australian steamer. The family doctor, who was one
of the many friends in favour of this tour, had strongly recom-
mended the rough-and-tumble life of a sailing-vessel ; but
Leonard p.'efeired the luxury and swiftness of a steamer, and,
suggesting to his mother that a sailing-vessel always took out
emigrants, from whom it was more than likely he would catch
scarlet fever or small-pox, instantly brought Mrs. Tregonell to
perceive that a steamer which carried no second-class passengers
was the only fitting conveyance for her son.
He was gone — and, while the widow grieved in submissive
silence, telling herself that it was God's will that she and her son
should be parted, and that whatever was good for him should be
well for her, Christabel and the rest of the household inwardly
rejoiced at his absence. Nobody openly owned to being happier
without him ; but the knowledge that he was far away brought
a sense of relief to every one ; even to the old servants, who had
been so fond of him in his childhood, when the kitchen and ser-
vants' hall had ever been a happy hunting-ground for him in
periods of banishment from the drawing-room.
*It is no good for me to punish Mm,' Mrs. Tregonell had
remonstrated, with assumed displeasure ; * you all make so
much of him.'
*0h, ma'am, he is such a fine, high-spirited boy,* the cook
would reply on these occasions ; * 'tesn't possible to be angry
with him. He has such a spirit.'
* Such a spirit ' was only a euphuism for such a temper ;
and, as years went on, Mr. Tregonell's visits to the kitchen and
servants' hall came to be less appreciated by his retainers. He
no longer went there to be petted —to run riot in boyish liveli-
ness, upsetting the housemaids' work-boxes, or making toffy
under the cook's directions. As he became aware of his own
importance, he speedily developed into a juvenile tyrant ; he
became haughty and overbearing, hectored and swore, befouled
the snowy floors and flags with his muddy shooting-boots, made
havoc and work wherever he went. The household treated him
with unfailing respect, as their late master's son, and their own
master, possibly, in the future ; but their service was no longei
the -service of love. His loud strong voice, shouting in the
passages and lobbies, scared the maids at their tea. Grooms and
■table-boys liked him ; for with thtnu he was always familiar,
14 Mount Boyal,
and often friendly. He and they had tastes and occupations in
eommon ; but to the women servants and the grave middle-aged
butler his presence was a source of discomfort
Next to her son in Mi-s. TregonelPs affection stood her niece
ChristabeL That her love for tlie girl who had never given her
a moment^s pain should be a lesser love than that which she bore
to the boy who had seldom given her an hour's unalloyed pleasure
was one of the anomalies common in the lives of good women.
To love blindlv and unreasonably is as natural to a woman as it
is to love: and happy she whose passionate soul finds its idol in
husband or child, instead of being lured astray by strange lights
outside the safe harbour of home. Mrs. Tregonell loved her
niece very dearly; but it was with that calm, comfortable
affection which mothers are apt to feel for the child who has
never given them any trouble. Christabel had been her pupil :
all that the girl knew had been learned from Llrs. Tregonell ;
and, though her education fell far shoi-t of the requirements of
Girton or Harley Street, there were few girls whose intellectual
powers had been more fully awakened, without the taint of
pedantry. Christabel loved books, but they were the books her
aunt had chosen for her — old-fashioned books for the most pai't.
She loved music, but was no brilliant pianist, for when Mrs.
Tregonell, who had taught her carefully up to a cert'iin point,
suggested a course of lessons from a German professor at Ply-
mouth, the girl recoiled from the idea of being taught by a
stranger.
* If you are satisfied with my playing, Auntie, I am content
never to play any better,' she said ; so the idea of six months'
tuition and study at Plymouth, involving residence in that lively
port, was abandoned. London was a far-away world, of which
neither aunt nor niece ever thought That wild northern coast is
still two days' journey from the metropolis. Only by herculean
.abour, in the way of posting across the moor in the grey dawn
of morning, can the thing be done in one day ; and then scarcely
between sunrise and sunset So Mrs. Tregonell, who loved a life
of placid repose, had never been to London since her widowhood,
and Christabel had never been there at all. I'here was an old
house in Mayfair, which had belonged to the Tregonells for the
last hundred years, and which had cost them a fortune in repairs,
but it was either shut up and in the occupation of a caretaker, or
let furnished for the season ; and no Tregonell had crossed iti
threshold since the Squire's death. l^Ii-s. Tregonell talked of
ip ending a season in London before Christabel was much older.
Ell order that her niece might be duly presented at Courtj
and qualilied for that place in society which a young Ihdy
>f good family and ample means might fairly be entitled to
bola
The Days that are No More. 16
Christabcl had no eager desire for tlie gaieties of a London
season. She had spent six weeks in Bath, and had enjoyed an
occasional fortnight at Plymouth- She had been taken to
theatres and concerts, had seen some of the best actors and
actresses, heard a good deal of the finest muaic, and had been
duly delighted with all she saw and hem-d. But she so fondly
loved Mount Royal and its surroundings, she was so completely
happy in her home life, that she had no desire to change that
tranquil existence. She had a vague idea that London balls and
parties must be something very dazzling and brilliant, but she
was content to a))i(lo her aunt's pleiusure and convenience for the
time in which she w;ia to know more aUtiit metropolitan revelries
tiian was to be gfithered from lautlatory paragnir)lis in fashionable
newspapers. Youth, with its warm blood ana active spirit, is
rarely so contented as Christabcl was : but then youth is not
often placed amid such harmonious circumstances, so protected
from the approach of evil
Clu'istabel Courtenay may have thought and talked more
about Mr. Hamleigh during the two or three days that preceded
his arrival than was absolutely necessary, or strictly in accord-
ance witli that common-sense wliich characterized most of her
acts and thoughts. She was interested in him upon two grounds
— first, because he was the only son of the man her aunt had
loved and mourned ; secondly, because he was the first stranger
who had ever come as a guest to Mount RoyaL
Her aunt's visitors were mostly {)eopl«» whose faces she had
known ever since she could remember : there were such wide
potentialities in the idea of a perfect stranger, who was to be
domiciled at the Mount for an indefinite period.
* Suppose we don't like him ? ' she said, speculatively, to Jessie
Bridgeman, Mrs. Tregonell's housekeeper, companion, and fac-
totum, who had lived at Mount Royal for the last six years,
coming there a girl of twenty, to make herself generally useful in
small girlish ways, and proving herself such a clever manager, so
bright, competent, and far-seeing, that she had been gradually
entrusted with every household care, from the largest to the
most minute. Miss Bridgeman was neither brilliant nor
accomplished, but she had a genius for homely things, and she
was aamii-able as a companion.
The two girls were out on the hills in the early aijtumn
morning — hills that were golden where the sun touclied them,
purple in the shadow. The heather was fading, the patches of
lurze-blossom were daily growing raxer. Yet the hill-sides were
alive wi^h light and colour, only less lovely than the translucent
blues and gi^eena of yonder wide-stretching sea.
* Suppose we should all dislike him 1 ' repeated Cliristabel,
digging the point of her walking-stick into a ferny hillock on th«
c
16 Mount Boyal,
topmost edge of a deep clett in the hills, on whicli commanding?
spot she had just taken her stand, after bounding up the narrow
path from the little wooden bridge at the bottom of Uie glen,
Almost as quickly and as lightly as if she had been one of tlie
deeply ruddled sheep that spent their lives on those precipitious
slopes ; 'wouldn't it be too dreadful, Jessie % '
*It would be inconvenient,' answered Miss Bridgeman,
coolly, resting both hands on the horny crook of her stm-dy
imbrella, and gazing placidly seaward ; ' but we could cut him.
* Not without offending Auntie. She is sure to like him, for
Ihe sake of Auld Lang Syne. Every look and tone of his will
recall his father. But we may detest him. And if he should
like Mount Royal very much, and go on staying there for ever !
Auntie asked him for an indefinite period. She showed me her
letter. I thought it was rather too widely hospitable, but I did
not like to say so.'
*I always^say what I think,' said Jessie Bridgeman, dog-
gedly.
* Of course you do, and go very near being disagreeable in
consequence.'
Miss Bridgeman's assertion was perfectly correct. A sturdy
truthfulness was one of her best qualifications. She did not volun-
teer unfavourable criticism ; but if you asked her opinion upon
any subject you got it, without sophistication. It was her rare
merit to have lived with Mrs. Tregonell and Christabel Courtenay
six years, dependent upon their liking or caprice for all the com-
forts of her life, without having degenerated into a flatterer.
* I haven't the slightest doubt as to your liking him,' said Miss
Bridgeman, decisively. * He has spent his life for the most part
in cities — and in good society. That I gather from your aunt'«
account of him. He is sure to be much more interesting and
agi'eeable than the youn^ men who live near here, whose ide.is
are, for the most part, strictly local. But I very much doubt his
liking Mount Royal, for more than one week.*
* Jessie,' cried Christabel, indignantly, ' how can he help liking
this?* She waved her stick across the autumn landsca])e, describ-
ing a circle which included the gold and bronze hills, the shadowy
gorges, the bold headlands curving away to Hartland on one side,
to Tintage' on the other — Lundy Island a dim line of dun coloui
«a the horizon.
*No doubt he will think it beautiful — in the abstract. He
will rave about it, compai-e it with the Scottisli Highhuids — with
Wales — with Kerry, declare tliiee Cornish hills the crowning
glory of Britain. But in three days he will begin to detest a
place where there is only one post out and in, and where he ha.s
to wait till next day for his morning paper'
' What caji he want with newspapers, if ho Ib enjoying hiH lifo
The Days that are No More. 1?
with U8 ? I am sure there are books enough at Mount Royal
He need not expire for want of something to read.*
* Do you suppose that books — the best and noblest that evei
were written— can make up to a man for the loss of his daily
paper ? If you do, offer a man Shakespeare when he is looking
for the Dail^ Telegraph, or Chaucer when he wants his Times,
and see what he will say to you. Men don't want to read now-
adays, but to know — to be posted in the very latest movements of
their fellow-men all over the universe. Ileuter'a column is all
anybody really cares for in the paper. The leaders and the
criticism are only so much padding to fill the sheet. People
would be better pleased if there were nothing but telegrams.'
* A man who only reads newspapei-s must be a most vapid com-
panion,' said Christabel.
' HartUy, for he must be l)rira full of tacts.'
* I abhor facta Well, if Mr. Hamleigh is that kind of
j>ei'son, I hope he may be tired of the Mount in less than a
week.'
She was silent and thoughtful as they went home by the
monastic churchyard in the hollow, the winding lane and steep
rillage street Jessie had a message to carry to one of Mrs.
Tregonell's pensioners, who lived in a cottage in the lane ; but
Christiibel, who was generally pleased to show her fair young face
in such abodes, waited outside on this occasion, and stood in a
profound reverie, digging the point of her stick into the loose
eai-th of the mossy bank in front of her, and seriously damaging
the landscape.
*I hate a man who does not care for books, who does not
love our dear English poets,' she said to herself. * But I must
not say that before Auntie. It would be almost like snying th.-it
I hated my cousin Leonard. I hope Mr Hamleigh /ill be —
Ct a little different from Leonard. Of coui-se he will, if his life
been spent in cities ; but then he may be languid and super-
cilious, looking upon Jessie and me as inferior creatures ; and
that would be worse than Leonard's roughnesa For we all know
what a good heart Leonard haa, and how warmly attached he is
to ua'
Somehow the idea of Leonard's excellent heart and affec-
tionate disposition was not altogether a plesisant one. Christabel
shuddered ever so faintly aa she stood in the lane thinking of her
cousin, who hail hist been heard of in the Fijis. She banishe<l
his image with an etfoit, and returned to her consideration of
tliat unknown (quantity, Angus Hamleigh.
' I am an idiot to be making fancy pictures of him, when at
•even (Vclock this evening I shall know all about him for good or
evil,' she said jdoud, aa Jessie came out of the cottage, which
ttAstled low down in its little garden, with a slate for a. dooixiej^
IS Jfount RoyaX,
and a slate standing on end at each side of the door, for boundary
line, or ornament.
' All that is to be known of the outside of him,* said Jessie,
answering the girl's outspoken thought. * If he is really worth
knowing, his mind will need a longer study.'
* I think I shall know at the first glance if he is likeable,*
replied Christabel ; and then, with a tremendous eflfort, she
contrived to talk about other things as they went down the High
Street of Boscastle, which, to people accustomed to a level world,
is rather trying. With Christabel the hills were only an excuse
for flourishing a Swiss walking-stick. The stick was altogether
needless for support to that light well-balanced figure. Jessie,
who was very small and slim and sure-footed, always carried her
stout httle umbrella, winter or summer. It was her vade-Tnecum
— good against rain, or sun, or mad bulls, or troublesome dogs.
She would have scorned the affectation of cane or alpenstock !
but the sturdy umbrella was very dear to her.
CHAPTER XL
BUT THEN CAME ONE, THE LOVELACE OP HIS DAT.
AliTHOUGH Angus Hamleigh came of a good old west country
family, he had never been in Cornwall, and he approaclied that
remote part of the country with a curious feeling that he was
turning his back upon England and English civilization, and
entering a strange wild land where all things would be different
He would meet with a half-barbarous people, perhaps, rough,
unkempt, ignorant, brutal, speaking to him in a strange language
—such men as inhabited Perthshire and Inverness before civili-
zation travelled northward. He had accepted Mrs. Tregonell'a
mvitation out of kindly feeUng for the woman who had loved
his father, and who, but for that father's untimely death, might
have been to him as a second mother. There was a strong vein
of sentiment in his character, which responded to the sentiment
betrayed unconsciously in every line of Mrs. Tregonell's letter.
His only knowledge of the father he had lost in infancy had
come to him from the lips of others, and it pleased him to think
that here was one whose memory must be fresher than that of
any other friend in whose mind his father's image must needs be
lui a living thing. He had all his life cherished a regretful
fondneiw for that unknown father, whose shadowy picture h«5
had vainly tried to recall amon^ the first faint recollectiona ol
biibvhoo<i — the dim dreamland or half -a wakened consciousness.
tie had frankly and pi-omptly accepted Mia. Tregoiiell's ix>*i«
But then came One, the Lovelace of his Day, 19
tati(m ; yet ho felt that in going to immure himself in an
iid manor house for a fortnight — anything less than a fort-
fight would have been uncivil — he ,wa8 dooming himself to
ineffable boredom. Beyond that pious pleasure in parental
reminiscences, there could be no possible gratification for •
man of the world, who was not an ardent sportsman, in such
a place as Mount RoyaL Mr. Hamleighs instincts were
of the town, towny. His pleasures were all of an intellectual
kind. He had never degraded himself by vulgar profligacy,
but he liked a life of excitement and variety ; he had always
lived at high pressure, and among people posted up to the
last moment or the world's history — people who drank the
very latest pleasure cup which the Spirt of the Age — a Spirit of
passing frivolity — had invented, were it only the newest brand
of champagne ; and who, in their eagerness to gather the roses o!
life, outatripped old Time himself, and grew old in advance of
their age. He had been contemplating a fortnight in Paris, as
the first stage in his journey to Monaco, when Mrs. Tregonell's
letter altered his plans. This was not the first time she had
asked him to Mount Royal, but on previous occasions his engage-
ments had seemed to him too imperative to be foregone, and he had
regretfully declined her invitations. But now the flavour of life
had grown somewhat vapid for him, and he was grateful to anyone
who would turn his thoughts and fancies into a new direction.
* I shall inevitably be bored there,' he said to himself, when
he had littered the railway carriage with newspapers accumulated
on the way, 'but I should be bored anywhere else. When a
man begins to feel the pressure of the chain upon his leg, it
cannot much matter where his walks lead him : the very act of
walking is his punishment.'
When a man comes to eight-and-twenty years of age — a mar
who has had very little to do in this life, except take his pleasure
— a great weariness and sense of exhaustion is apt to close round
him like a pall. The same man wiU be ever so much fresher
in mind, will have ever so much more zest for life, when he
comes to be forty — for then he will have entered upon those
calmer enjoyments of middle age wh^ch may last him till he is
eighty. But at eight-and-twenty there is a death-like calmness
of feeling. Youth is gone. He has consumed all the first-fruits
of life — spring and summer, with their wealth of flowers, are
over ; only the quiet autumn remains for him, with her warm
browns and dull greys, and cool, moist breath. The fires upon
youth's altars have all died out — youth is dead, and the man wha
was young only yesterday fancies that he might as well be dead
also. What is there left for him ? Can there be any charm ia
this life when the looker-on has grey hair and wrinkles t
Having nothi>:g in life to do except seek his own pleasarf
90 Mount Boyal.
»nd spend his ample income, Angus Hamleigh had naturally
t^iken the time of life's march prestissimo.
He had never paused m his lose-gathering to wonder
whether there might not be a few thorns among the flowers, and
wiiether he might not find them — afterwards. And now the
blossoms were all withered, and he was beginning to discover the
lasting quality of the thorns. They were such thorns as inter-
fered somewhat with the serenity of his days, and he was ghid
to turn his face westward, away from everybody he knew, or
who knew anything aljout him.
* My character will present itself to Mrs. Tregonell as a blank
page,' he said to himself ; * I wonder what she would think of
me if one of my club gossips had enjoyed a quiet evening's talk
with her beforehand. A dear friend's analysis of one's character
and conduct is always so flattering to both ; and 1 have a plea-
sant knack of offending my dearest friends ! '
Mr. Hamleigh began to look abput him a little when the
train had left Plymouth. The landscape was wild and romantic,
but had none of that stern ruggedness which he ex})ecterl to
behold on the Cornish Border. Deep glens, and wooded dells,
with hill-sides steep and broken, but verdant to their topmost
crest, and the most wonderful oak coppices that he ever remem-
bered to have seen. Miles upon miles of oak, as it seemed to
him, now sinking into the depth of a valley, now mounting to the
distant sky line, while from that verdant undulating surface of
young wood there stood forth the giants of the grove — wide-
Bjireading oak and towering beech, the miglity growth of many
centuries. Between Lidford and Launceston the sct^nery grew
tamer. He had fancied those deep ravines and wooded heights
the prelude to a va-st and awful symphony, but Mary Tavy and
Lifton showed him only a pastoral landscape, with just so much
wood and water as would have served for a Ci-eswick or a Con-
stable, and with none of those grand Salvatoresque effects
which he had admired in the country round Tavistock. At
liaunceston he found Mrs. Tregonell's landau waiting for him,
with a pair of powerful chestnuts, and a couple of servants, whose
neat brown liberies had nothing of that unsophisticated semi-
savagery which Mr. Hamleigh had expected in a place so reiDote.
' Do you drive that way ? * he asked, pointing to the almosr'
perpendicular street.
* Yas, sir,' replied the coachman.
* Then I think I'll stroll to the top of the hill while you are
putting in my portmanteaux,' he said, and ascended the rustic
street at a leisurely pace, looking about him as he went.
The thoroughface which leads from Launceston Station to th«
ruined castle at the top of the hill is not an imposing promenadeu
Its architectural features might perhaps be best described Uk«
But then came Ortc, the Lovelace of his Day, 21
the snakes of Ireland aa nil — but here and there an old-fashioned
lattice with a row of rtower-i>ots, an ancient gable, or a bit of
cottage garden hints at the picturesque. Any late additions to
the domestic architecture of Launceston favour the unpretending
usefulness of Camden Town rather than the aspiring sestheticism
of Chelsea or Bedford Park ; but to Mr. Hamleigh'a eye the
rugged old castle keep on the top of the hill made amends. He
was not an ardent archieologist, and he did not turn out of his
way to see Launceston Church, which might well have rewarded
him for his trouble. He was content to have spai-ed those good-
looking chestnuts the labour of dragging him up the steep.
Here they came springing up the hill He took his place in the
carriage, pulled the fur rug over his knees, and ensconced h'rn-
self comfortably in the roomy back seat.
* This is a sybaritish luxury which I was not prepared for,' he
said to himself. ' I'm afraid I shall be rather more bored than I
expected. I thought Mrs. Tregonell and her surroundings would
at least have the merit of originality. But here is a carriage
that must have been built by Peters, and liveries that suggest
the sartorial excellence of Conduit Street or Savile Row.'
He watched the landscape with a critical eye, prepared for
disappointment and disillusion. First a country road between
tall ragged hedges and steep banks, a road where every now and
then the branches of the trees hung low over the carriage, and
threatened to knock the coachman's hat off. Then they can>e out
upon the wide waste of moorland, a thousand feet above the sea
level, and Mr. Hamleigh, acclimatized to the atmosphere of club-
houses, buttoned his overcoat, drew the black fur rug closer
about him, and shivered a little as the keen breath of the
Atlantic, sweeping over far-reaching tracts of hill and heather,
blew round him. Far and wide as his gaze could reach, he saw
no sign of human habitation. Was the land utterly forsaken 1
No ; a little farther on they passed a hamlet so insignificant, so
isolated, that it seemed rather as if half a dozen cottages had
dropped from the sky than that so lonely a settlement covdd be
the result of deliberate human inclination Never in Scotland
or Ireland had Mr. Hamleigh seen a more barren landscape or a
poorer soil ; yet those wild wastes of heath, those distant tors
were passing beautiful, and the air he breathed was more in-
spiring and exhilarating than the atmosphere of any vaunted
health-resort which he had ever visited.
* I think I might live to middle age if I were to pitch my tent
on this Cornish plateau,' he thought ; * but, then, there are s<
many things in this life that are worth more than mere length of
days.'
He asked the names of the hamlets they pjiased. This lonely
cUwch, dedipjiited to §t. D?ivid— wfe^uce, oU I wlie^ce came tW
22 Mount Boyal
oongregution — belonged to the parish of Davidstowe ; and hert
there waa a holy well ; and here a Vicarage ; and there — oh !
crowning evidence of civilization — a post-office ; and there a
farm-house ; and that was the end of Davidstowe. A little later
they came to cross roads, and the coachman touched his hat, and
flaid, * This is Victoria,' as if he were naming a town or settlement
of some kind. Mr. Ilamleigh looked about him, and beheld a
low-roofed cottage, wWch he assumed to be some kind of public-
house, possibly capable of supplying beer and tobacco ; but other
vestige of human habitation there was none. He leant back in
the carriage, looking across the hills, and faying tD himself,
* Why, Victoria ? ' Was that unpretentious and somewhat
dilapidated hostelry the Victoria Hotel ? or the Victoria Arms 1
or was Royalty's honoured name given, in an arbitrary manner,
to the cross roads and the granite finger-post ? He never knew.
The coachman said shortly, ' Victoria, and as * Victoria ' he ever
after heard that spot described. And now the journey was all
downhilL They drove downward and downward, until Mr.
Hamleigh began to feel as if they were travelling towards the
c«sntre of the earth — as if they had got altogether below the outer
crust of this globe, and must be giadually nearing the unknown
gulfs beneath. Yet, by some geographical mysteiy, when they
turned out of the high road and went in at a lodge gate, and
ilrove gently upward along an avenue of elms, in whose rugged
tops the rooks were screaming, Mr. Hamleigh found that he was
titill high above the undulating edges of the cliffs that overtopped
the Atlantic, while the great waste of waters lay far below
golden with the last rays of the setting sun.
They drore, by a gentle ascent, to the stone porch of Mount
Jioyal, and here Mrs. Tregonell stood, facing the sunset, with an
Indian shawl wrapped round her, waiting for her guest.
*I heard the carriage, Mr. Hamleigh,' she said, as Angus
jidighted : * I hope you do not think me too impatient to see
what change twelve years have made in ^ou ? '
* I'm afraid they have not been particularly advantageous to
me,* he answered, lightly, as they snook hands. * How good of
you to receive me on the threshold 1 and what a delightful
place you have here ! Before I got to Launceston, I began to be
afraid that Cornwall was commonplace — and now I'm enchanted
witli it. Your moors and hills are like fairy-land to me 1 '
' It is a world of our own, and we are very fond of it,' said the
widow ; * I shall be aorry if ever a railway makes Boscastle open
to everybody,*
* And what a noble old house 1 * exclaimed Angus, as he
foUowed his hostess across the oak-panelled hall, with its wide
shallow staircase, curiously carved balustr^uies, igid lantern root
\ re you quite Alone here 1 *
But then came One, the Lovelace of his Day, 2S
* Oh, no ; I have ray niece, and a young lady who is a com-
paniou to bolh of us.'
Angus Hamleigh shuddered.
Three women 1 He waa to exist for a fortnight in a house with
three solitary females. A niece and a companion ! The niece
rustic and gawky ; the companion sour and fmmpish. He began,
hurriedly, to cast about in his mind for a convenient friend, to
whom he could telegraph to send liim a telegram, summoning
him back to London on urgent business. He was still medi-
tating this, when the butler opened the door of a spacious room,
lined from floor to ceiling with books, and he followed Miu
Tregonell in, and found himself in the bosom of the family. The
simple picture of home-comfort, of restfulness and domestic peace,
which met his curious gaze as he entered, i)lejused him better than
anything he had seen of late. Club life — with its too studious
indulgence of man's native selfishness and love of ease — fashion-
able life, with its insatiable craving for that latter-day form of
display which calls itself Culture, Art, or Beauty — had afforded
him no vision so enchanting as the wide hearth and high chimnevof
this sober, book-lined room,with the fair and girlish form kneeling
in front of the old dogstove, framed in the glaring light of the fire.
The tea-table had been wheeled near the hearth, and Mrs.
Bridgeman sat before the bright red tea-tray, and old brass
kettle, ready to administer to the wants of the traveller, wlio
would be hardly human if he did not thirst for a cup of tea after
driving across the moor. Christabel knelt in front of the fire,
worshipping, and being worshipped by, a sleek black-and-white
sheep-dog, native to the soil, and of a rare intelligence — a creature
by no means approaching the Scotch coUey in physical beauty,
but of a fond and faithful nature, bom to be the friend of man.
As Christabel rose and turned to greet the stranger, Mr. Ham-
leigh was agreeably reminded of an old picture — a Lely or a
Kneller, perhaps. This was not in any wise the rustic image
which had flashed across his mind at the mention of Mi-a.
Tregonell's niece. He had expected to see a bouncing, countryfied
maiden — rosy, buxom, the picture of commonplace health and
vigour. The girl he saw was nearer akin to the lily than the
rose — tall, slender, dazzlingly fair — not fragile or sickly in any-
wise — for the erect figure was finely moulded, the swan-like throat
was round and fulL He was prepared for the florid beauty of a
milkmaid,and he found himself face to face with the elegance of an
ideal duchess, the picturesque loveliness of an old Venetian
portrait.
Christabers dark brown velvet gown and square point lac©
collar, the bright hair falling in shadowy curls over her forehead,
and rolled into a Ipose knot at the back of her head, sinned in
no wise against Mr. Hamleigh's notions of good taate. Then
34 Mount Boyai.
was a picturesqueiiess al)ont the style which indicated that Miss
Courtcnay belonged to that advanced section of womankind
which takes it« ide;is less from modern fashion-plates than from
old pictures. So long as her archaism went no further back than
Vandyke or Moroni he would admire and approve ; but he
ehuddered at the thought that to-morrow she might burst upon
him in a mediaeval morning-gown, with high-shouldered sleeves,
a ruff, and a satchel. The picturesque idea was good, within
limits ; but one never knew how far it might go.
There was nothing picturesque about the lady sitting before
the tea-tray, who looked up brightly, and gave him a gracious
bend of her small neat head, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Tre-
gonell's introduction — ' Mr. Hamleigh, Miss Bridgeman !' Thia
was the companion — and the companion was plain : not un-
pleasantly plain, not in any matter repulsive, but a lady about
whose looks there could be hardly any compromise. Her com-
plexion was of a sallow darkness, unrelieved by any glow of
colour ; her eyes were grey, acute, honest, friendly, but not
beautiful ; her nose was sharp and pointed — ^not at all a bad
nose ; but there was a hardness about nose and mouth and chin,
as of features cut out of bone with a very sharp knife. Her
teeth were good, and in a lovelier mouth might nave been the
object of much admiration. Her hair was of that nondescript
monotonous brown which has been uhkindly called bottle-green,
bat it w{\a arranged with admirable neatness, and offended less
than many a tangled pate, upon whose locks of spurious gold
the owner haa wasted much time and money. There was nothing
unpardonable in Miss Bridgeman's plainness, as Angus Hamleigh
said of her later. Her small figure was neatly made, and her
dark-grey gown fitted to perfection.
* I hope you like the little bit of Cornwall that you have seen
this afternoon, Mr. Hamleigh,' said Christabel, seating herself in
a low chair in the shadow of the tall chimney-piece, fenced in by
her aunt's larger chair.
' I am enraptured with it ! I came here with the desire to be
intensely Cornish. I am prepai-ed to believe in witches — war-
locks '
* We have no warlocks,' said Christabel * They belong to the
North.'
* Well, then, wise women — wicked young men who play foot-
ball on Sunday, and get themselves turned into granit^rocking
stones — magic wells — Druids — and King Arthur. I believe the
principal point is to be open to convictien about Arthur. Now,
I am prepared to swallow everything — his castle — the river
where his crown was found after the fight — ^waa it his crown, by-
the-by, or somebody else's ? which lie found — hia hair-brushes—
hi9 boots — anything you please to show n»f.'
But then came One, the Lovelace of his Day. 25
' We will show you his quoit to-morrow, on the road to Tin-
lagel/ said Miss Bridgeman. * 1 don't think you would like to
swallow that actually. He hurled it from Tintagel to Trevalga
in one of his sportive moods. We shall be able to give you
plenty of amusement if you are a good walker, and are fond of
' I adore them in the abstract, contemplated from one's
windows, or .in a picture ; but there is an incompatibility between
the human anatomy and a road set on end, like a ladder, which
I have never yet overcome. Apart from the outside question of
my legs — which are obvious failures when tested by an angle of
forty-five degrees — I'm afraid my internal machinery is not
quite so tough as it ought to be for a thorough enjoyment of
mountaineering.'
Mrs. Tregonell sighed, ever so faintly, in the twilight. She
was thinking of her first lover, and how that fragility, which
meant early death, had showed itself in his inability to
enjoy the moorland walks which were the delight of her girl-
hood.
' The natural result of bad habits,' said Miss Bridgeman,
briskly. ' How can you expect to be strong or active, when I
dare say you have spent the better part of your life in hansom
cabs and express trains ! I don't mean to be impertinent, but I
know that is the general way with gentlemen out of the shooting
and hunting season.'
* And as I am no sportsman, I am a somewhat exaggerated
example of the vice of laziness fostered by congenial circum-
stances, acting on a lymphatic temperament. If you write books,
SB I believe most ladies do now-a-days, you shall put me in one
of them, as an awfiU warning.'
* I don't write books, and, if I did, I would not flatter your
vanity by making you my model siniier,' retorted Jessie ; * but
I'll do something better for you, if Christabel will help me. I'll
reform you.'
* A million thanks for the mere thought I I hope the process
will be pleasant.'
* I hope so, too. We shall begin by walking you off your
legs.'
* They are so indifferent as a means of locomotion that I could
very well afford to lose them, if you could hold out any hope
of my getting a better pair.'
* A week hence, if you submit to my treatment, you will be
AS active as the chamoise hunter in ** Manfred." '
* Enchanting — always provided that you and Miss Courtenay
will follow the chase with me.'
' Depend upon it, we nhall not trust you to take your walks
aloa^i unless you have a pedometer which will hefHT witness to
26 Mount Boyal^
Ihe distance you have done, and which you will be content
to submit to our inspection on your return,' replied Jessie,
utemly.
* I am afraid yon are a terribly severe high priestess of this
new form of culture,* said Mr. Hamleigh, looking up froru his tea-
cup with a lazy smile, 'almost as bad as the Dweller on the
ITireshold, in Bulwer's " Zaiioni." *
* There is a dweller on the threshold of every science and every
admirable mode of life, and his name is Idleness," answered Miss
Bridgeman.
* The vis inerticg, the force of letting things alone,* said Angus ;
* yes, that is a tremendous power, nobly exemplified by vestries
and boards of works — to say nothing of Cabinets, Bishops, and
the High Court of Chancery ! I delight in that verse of Scriptiu-e,
" Their strength is to sit still." '
* There shall be very little sitting still for you if you submit
yourself to Christabel and me,' replied Miss Bridgeman.
* I have never tried the water-cure — the descriptions I have
heard from adepts have been too repellent ; but I have an idea
that this system of yours must be rather worse than hydropathy,
said Angus, musingly — evidently very much entertained at the
way in which Miss Bridgeman had taken him in hand.
* I was rot going to let him pose after Lamartine's poete
mourant, just because his father died of lung disease,' said Jessie,
ten minutes afterwards, when the warning gong had sounded,
and Mr. Hamleigh had gone to his room to dress for dinner, and
the two young women were whispering together before the fire,
while Mrs. Tregonell indulged in a placid doze.
* Do you think he is consumptive, like his father ? ' asked
Cliriatabel, with a compassionate look ; * he has a very delicate
appearance.*
* Hollow-cheeked, and prematurely old, like a man who has
lived on tobacco and brandy-and-soda, and has spent his nights
in elub-house card-rooms.'
* We have no right to suppose that,* said Christabel, * since
we know really nothing about him.*
* Major Bree told me he has lived a racketty life, and that if
he were not to pull up very soon he would be ruined both in
health and fortune.*
* What can the Major know about him 1 ' exclaimed Christ*
abel, contemptuously.
This Major Bree was a great friend of ChristabeFs ; but thert
Jtre times when one's nearest and dearest are too provoking for
endurances.
* Major Bree has been buried alive in Cornwall for the last
twenty years. He is at least a quarter of a century behind the
age,' she said* impatiently.
But then came One, the Lovelace of Ms Day. 27
* He gpent a fortnight in London the year before last,' said
Jessie ; * it was then that he heard such a bad account of Mr.
Hamlei^h.'
* Did he go about to clubs and places making inquiries, like a
private detective ? * said Christabel, still contemptuous ; * I hate
such fetching and carrying !'
* Here he comes to answer for himself,' replied Jessie, aa the
door opened, and a servant announced Major Bree.
Mrs. Tregonell started from her slumbers at the opening of
the door, and rose to greet her guest. He was a very frequenl
visitor, so frequent that he might be said to live at Mount Royal,
although his nominal abode was a cottage on the outskiits of
Boscastle — a stone cottage on the crest of a steep hill-side, with
a delightful little garden, perched, as it were, on the edge of «
▼erdant abysB. He was tall, stout, elderly, grey, and florid —
altogether a comfortable-looking man, clean shaved, save for a
thin grey moustache with the genuine cavalry droop, iron grey
eyebrows, which looked like a repetition of the moustache on a
somewhat smaller scale, keen grey eyes, a pleasant smile, and a
well set-up figure. He dressed well, with a sobriety becoming
his years, and was always the pink of neatness. A man welcome
everywhere, on account of an inborn pleasantness, which
prompted him always to say and do the right thing ; but most
of all welcome at Mount Royal, as a first cousin of the late
Squire's, and Mrs. Tregonell's guide, philosopher, and friend in
all matters relating to the outside world, of which, despite hia
twenty years' hybernation at Boscastle, the widow supposed him
to be an acute observer and an infallible judge. Was he not
one of the few inhabitants of that western village who took in
the Times newspaper ?
* Well ! ' exclaimed Major Bree, addressing himself generally
to the three ladies, * he has come — what do you think of him ? '
* He is painfully like his poor father,' said Mra. Tregonell.
* He has a moat interesting face and winning manner, and
I'm afraid we shall all get ridiculously fond of him,* said Miss
Bridgeman, decisively.
Chi-istabel said nothing. She knelt on the hearth-rug, play-
ing with Randie, the black-and-white sheep-dog.
* And what have you to say about him, Christabel ? * asked
the Major.
* Nothing. I have not had time to form an opinion,' replied
the girl; and then lifting her clear blue eyes to the Major's
friendly face, she said, gravely, " but I think, Uncle Oliver, it
was very unkind and unfair of you to prejudice Jessie against
him before he came here.'
' Unkind ! — unfair I Here's a shower of abuse ! I prejudice !
Oh 1 I remember. Mm. ISregonell asked me what people thought
38 Mount Boyal,
of him in London, and I was obliged to acknowledge that his
reputation was — well — no better than that of the majority of
joung men who have more money than common sense. But
that was two years ago — Nous avons chxing^ tout cela I '
'If he was wicked then, he must be wicked now/ said
ChriatabeL
* Wicked is a monstrously strong word I* said the Major.
* Besides, that does not follow. A man may have a few wild
oats to sow, and yet become a very estimable person afterwards.
Miss Bridgeman is tremendously sharp — she'll be able to iind out
all about Mr. Hamleigh from [)ersonal observation before he has
been here a week. 1 defy him to hido his weak points from
her.'
* What is the use of being plain and insignificant if one hjus
not some advantage over one's superior fellow-creatures I ' aske<i
Jessie.
' Miss Bridgeman has too much expression to be plain, and she is
far too clever to be insignificant,' siiid Major Bree, with a stately
bow. He always put on a stiitely manner when he addressed
himself to Jessie Bridgeman, and treated her in all things with as
much respect as if she had been a queen. He explained to
Christabel that this was the homage which he paid to the royalty
of iiiteihx-l ; but Christabel had a shrewd suspicion that the
Major cherished a secret passion for Miss Bridgeman, as exalted
and as hopeless as the love that Chaatelard bore for Mary Stuart.
He had only a small pittance besides his half -pay, and he hat! a
very poor opinion of his own merits ; so it was but natural that,
at fifty-five, he should hesitate to offer himself to a young lady
of six-and-twenty, of whose sharp tongue he had a wholesome
ftwe.
Mr. Hamleigh came back before much more could be sjiid
about hira, and a few minutes afterwards they all went in to
dinner, and in the brighter lamplight of the dining-room Major
J?.roe and the three ladies had a better opportunity of forming
their opinion as to the external graces of their guest.
He was good-looking — that fact even malice could hardly
dispute. Not so haiulsorue as the absent Leonard, Mi-s. Tre-
gonell told herself complacently ; but she was constraine<I at
the same time to acknowletlge that her son's broadly moulded
features and florid comi)lexion lacked the charm and interest
which a woman's eye found in the delieatechisellintjand sulnlued
tones of Angus Hamleigh'acouuLenance. His eyes were darkest
grey, his complexion was fair and somewhat pallid, his luiir
Drown, with a natural curl whicli neither fashion nor the barber
could altogether suytfjress. Hi«5 cheeks were more sunken than
they should have been at eighi-and-twenty, and the large dark
eyes were unuaturaliy bright. All this the three ladies and
But then came One, the Lovelace of his Day, 29
Major Bree had ample time for observing, during the leisurely
course of dinner. There was no flagging in the conversation^
from the beginning to the end of the repast. Mr. Hamleigb
waa ready to talk about anything and everything, and hia
interest in the most trifling local Bul)jects, whether real or
assumed, made him a delightful companion. In the drawing-
room, after dinner, he proved even more admirable ; for he dis-
covered a taste for, and knowledge of, the best music, which
de%hted Jessie and Christabel, who were both enthusiasts.
He had read every book they cared for — and a wide world of
books besides — and was able to add to their stock of information
upon all their favourite subjects, without the faintest touch of
arrogance.
* I don't think you can help liking him, Jessie,' said Christabel,
AS the two girls went upstairs to bed. The younger lingered a
little in Miss Bridgeman's room for the discussion of their latest
ideas. There was a cheerful fire burning in tlie lar^e basket
grate, for autumn nights were chill upon that wUd coast.
Christabel assumed her favourite attitude in front of the fire,
with her faithful Eandie winking and blinking at her and the
fire alternately. He was a privileged dog — allowed to sleep on
a sheepskin mat in the gallery outside his mistress's door, and to
go into her room every morning, m company with the maid who
carried her early cup of tea , when, after the exchange of a few
remarks, in baby language on her part, and expressed on his by
a series of curious grins and mucli wagging of his insignificant
apology for a tail, he would dash out of the room, and out of the
house, for his morning constitutional among the sheep upon som(j
distant hill — coming home with an invigorated appetite, in
^me for the family breakfast at nine o'clock,
*I don't think you can help liking him — as — as a casual
xcquaintance ! ' repeated Christabel, finding that Jessie stood in
a dreamy silence, twisting her one diamond ring — a birthday
gift from Miss Courtenay — round and round upon her slender
finger.
'I don't suppose any of us CfU help liking him,' Jessie
answered at last, with her eyes on the fire All I hope is,
that some of us will nothkehim too much. He has brought a new
element into our lives — a new interest — which may end by
being a painful one. I feel distrustful of him.'
* Why distrustful ? Why, Jessie, you who are generally the
r-ery essence of flippancy — who make light of almost everything
in life— except religion — thank God, you have not come to that
vet I — ^you to be so serious about such a trifling matter as a visit
from a man who will most likely be gone back to London in a
fortnight — gone out of our lives altogether, perhaps : for I don't
suppose he will care to repeat his experiences in a lonely country-
house.'
80 Mount Boyal,
' He may be gone, perhaps — yes — aad it is quite possinle thai
he may never return — but shall we be quite the same after h<
has left us? Will nobody regret him — wish for his retui-n-^
yearn for it — sigh for it— die for it — ^feeling life worthless — a
burthen, without him ? '
* Why, Jessie, you look like a Pythoness.'
* Belle, Belle, my darling, my innocent one, you do not know
what it is to care — for a bright particular star — and know how
remote it is from your life— ^never to be brought any nearer !
I felt afraid to-night when I saw you and Mr. Hamleigh at the
piano — you playing, he leaning over you as you played — both
seeming so happy, so united by the sympathy of the moment I
If he is not a good man — if '
* But we have no reason to think ill of him. You remember
what Uncle Oliver said — he had only been — a — a little racketty,
like other young men,' said Christabel, eagerly ; and then, with
a sudden embanassment, reddening and laughing shyly, she
added, *and indeed, Jessie, if it is any idea of danger to me that
is troubling your wise head, there is no need for alarm. I am
not made of such inflammable stuff — I am not the kind of girl to
fall in love with the first comer.'
* With the first comer, no ! But when the Prince comes in a
fairy tale, it matters little whether he comes first or last. Fate
has settled the whole story beforehand.*
* Fate has had nothing to say about me and Mr. Hamleigh.
No, Jessie, beUeve me, there is no danger for me — and I don't
suppose that you are going to fall in love with him ? '
* Because I am so old "? ' said Miss Bridgeman, still looking at
the fire ; *no, it would be rather ridiculous in a person of my
age, plain and pass/e^ to fall in love with your Alcibiades.*
' No, Jessie, but because you are too wise ever to be carried
away by a sentimental fancy. But why do you speak of him so
contemptuously ? One would think you had taken a dislike to
liim. We ought at least to remember that he is my aunt's
friend, and the son of some one she once dearly loved.'
* Once,' repeated Jessie, softly ; ' does not once in that case
mean always ? '
She w;is thinking of the Squire's commonplace good looks and
portly figure, as represented in the big picture in the dining-
room — the picture of a man in a red coat, leaning against the
bhoulder of a big bay horse, and with a pack of harriers fawning
round him — and wondernig whether the image of that dead
man, whose son was in the house to-night, had not sometimes
obtruded itself upon the calm plenitude of Mrs. Tregonell'a
domestic joys.
* Don't be afraid that T shall forget my duty to your aunt or
your uunf s guest, dear/ she said suddenly, as if awakened from
But then came One, the Lovelace of his Da/y, 81
% rererie. * You and I will do all in onr power to make him
happy, and to shake him out of lazy London ways, and then,
when we have patched up his health, and the moorland air haa
blown a little colour into his hollow cheeks, we will send him
back to his clubs and his theatres, and forget all about him.
And now, good-night, my Christabel,' she said, looking at her
watch ; see ! it is close upon midnight — dreadful dissipation for
Mount Royal, where half -past ten is the usual hour.'
Christabel kissed her and departed. Handle following to the
door of her chamber — such a pretty room, with old panelled
walls painted pink and grey, old furniture, old china, snowy
draperies, and books — a girl's daintily bound books, selected and
purchased by herself — in every available comer ; a neat cotta^je
piano in a recess, a low easy-chair by the fire, with a five o'clock
tea-table in front of it ; desks, portfolios, work-baskets — ^all the
frivolities of a girl's life ; but everything arranged with a womanly
neatness which indicated industrious habits and a well-ordered
mind. No scattered sheets of music — no fancy-work pitch-and-
tossed about the room — no slovenliness claiming to be excused aa
artistic disorder.
Christabel said her prayers, and read her accustomed portion
of Scripture, but not without some faint wrestlings with
Satan, who on this occasion took the shape of Angus Hamleigh.
Her mind was overcharged with wonder at this new phenomenon
in daily life, a man so entirely different from any of the men
she had ever met hitherto — so accomplished, so highly cultured ;
yet taking his accomplishments and culture as a thing of course,
as if all men were so.
She thought of him as she lay awake for the first hour of the
still night, watching the fire fade and die, and listening to the
long roll of the waves, hardly audible at Mount Royal amidst all
the common-place noises of day, but heard in the solemn silence
of night. She let her fancies shape a vision of her aunt's
vanished youth — that one brief bright dream of happiness, so
miserably broken ! — and wondered and wondered how it was
possible for any one to outlive such a grief. Still more incredible
did it seem that any one who had so loved and so lost could ever
listen to another lover ; and yet the thing had been done, and
Mrs. Tregonell's married life had been called happy. She always
spoke of the Squire as the best of men — was never weary oi
praising him — loved to look up at his portrait on the wall —
preserved every unpicturesque memorial of his unpicturesque
life — heavy gold and silver snuff boxes, clumsy hunting crops,
spurs, guns, fishing-rods. The relics of his murderous pursuits
would have filled an arsenal. And how fondly she loved her
eon who resembled that departed father — save in lacking some
of his beat quatitiui? How she doated on Leonard, the mosk
D
82 M(yimt Boyal,
commonplace and nnattractive of young men ! The thoaght of
her cousin set Christabel on a new train of speculation. If
Leonard had been at home when Mr. Hamleigh came to Mount
Boyal, how would they two have suited each other 1 Like fire
and water, like oil and vinegar, like the wolf and the lamb, like
any two creatures most antagonistic by nature. It waa a happy
accident that Leonard was away. She was still thinking when
she fell asleep, with that uneasy sense of pain and trouble in
the future which was always suggested to her by Leonard's
image — a dim unshapen difficulty waiting for her somewhere
along the untrodden road of her life — a lion in the path.
CHAPTER IIL
•tintagel, half in sea, and half on land.'
There was no sense of fear or trouble of any kind in the mind of
aijyl<o<iy the next morning after breakfast, when Christabel,
Miss Biidgeman, and Mr. Hamleigh started, in the young lady's
own particular pony carriage, for an exploring day, attended by
Randie, who was intensely excited, and furnished with a pic-nic
basket which made them independent of tlie inn at Trevena, and
afforded the opportunity of taking one's luncheon under
difficulties upon a windy height, rather than with the common-
place comforts of an botel parlour, guarded against wind and
weather They were going to do an immense deal upon this first
day. Christabel, in her eagerness, wanted to exhibit all ber
lions at once.
* Of course, you must see Tintagel,' she said ; * everybody
who comes to this part of the world is in a tremendous hurry to
Fee King Arthur's castle. I have known people to set out in the
middle of tha night.'
* And have you ever known any one of them who was not
just a little disappointed with that sttipendous monument of
traditional royalty?' asked Miss Bridgeuian, with her moat
prosaic air. * They expect so much — halls, and towers, and kt'ep,
and chapel— and find only ruined walls, and the faint indication
of a grave-yard . King Arthur is a name to conjure with, and
Tintagel is like Mont Blanc or the Pryramids. It can never be
BO grand as the vision its very name has evoked.*
' I blush to say that I have thought very little about Tintagei
liitherto,' said Mr. Hamleigh ; ' it has not been an integral j)art
of my existence ; so my expectations are more reasonable tlirtu
those of the enthiisuvatic touiiau I promise to be delighted '-yi* jj
youi ruiuM.'
« Tinta^el, half in Sea, and half on Land* 83
• Oh, but you will preteiid,' said Christabel, * and that will bo
hateful I I would rather have to deal with one of those pro-
voking people who look about them blankly, and exclaim, " Is this
all ? " and who stand in the very centre of Arthur's Hall, and ask,
" Aijd, pray, where is Tintagel ? — when are we to see the castle? "
No ! give me the man who can take in the grandeur of that wild
height at a glance, and whose fancy can build up those ruined
wralls, re-create those vanished towers, fill the halls with knighta
in shining armour, and lovely ladies — see Guinevere herself upon
her throne — clothed in white samite — mystic, wonderful ! '
' And with Lancelot in the background,' said Mr. Hamleigh.
* I think the less we say about Guinevere the better, and your
snaky Vivien, and your senile Merlin, your prying Modred.
What a disreputable set these Round Table people seem to have
been altogether — they need have been dead thirteen hundred
years for us to admire them I *
They were driving along the avenue by this time, the stout
chestnut cob going gaily in the fresh morning air — Mr. Hamleigh
sitting face to face with Christabel as she drove. What a fair
face it was in the clear light of day 1 How pure and delicate
every tone, from the whiteness of the lily to the bloom of the
wild rose 1 How innocent the expression of the large liquid
eyes, which seemed to smile at him as he talked 1 He had known
so many pretty women — his memory was like a gallery of beau-
tiful faces ; but he could recall no face so completely innocent,
BO divinely young. ' It ia the youthfulness of an unsullied
mind,* he said to himself; *I have known plenty of girls as
young in years, but not one perfectly pure from the taint of
worldliness and vanity. The trail of the serpent x^as over
them all ! '
They drove down hill into Boscastle, and then straightway
began to ascend still steeper hills upon the other side of the
harbour.
' You ought to throw a viaduct across the valley,' said Mr.
Hamleigh — * something like Brunei's bridge at Saltash ; but
perhaps you have hardly traffic enough to make it pay.'
They went winding up the new road to Trevena, avoiding
the village street, and leaving the Church of the Silent Tower
on its windy height on their right hand. The wide Atlantic lay
far below them on the other side of those green fields which
bordered the road ; the air they breathed was keen with the
wft breath of the sea. But autumn had hardly plucked a leaf
from the low storm-beaten trees, or a flower from the tall
hedgerows, where the red blossom of the Ragged Robin mixed
«nth the pale gold of the hawk-weed, and the fainter yellow of
the wild cistus. The ferns had hardly begun to wither, and
4ngus Hamleigh, whose I^st experiences had been among tb«
84 Mount Boyal,
stone walls of Aberdeenshire, wondered at the luxuriance of
this western world, where the banks were built-up and fortified
with boulders of marble-veined spar.
They drove through the village of Trevalga, in which there
is never an inn or public-house of any kind — not even a cottage
licensed for the sale of beer. There was the wheelwright, car-
penter, builder, Jack-of -all-trades, with his shed and his yard—
the blacksmith, with his forge going merrily — village school —
steam threshing-machine at work — church — chapel; but never
a drop of beer — ^and yet the people at Trevalga are healthy, and
industrious, and decently clad, and altogether comfortable
looking.
* Some day we will take you to call at the Rectory,' said
Christabel, pointing skywards with her whip.
* Do you mean that the Rector has gone to Heaven ? * asked
Angus, looking up into the distant blue ; * or is there any
eoi'thly habitation higher than the road on which we are driving.
* Didn't you see the end of the lane, just now 1 ' asked
Christabel, laughing ; * it is rather steep — an uphill walk all the
way ; but the views are lovely.'
* We will walk to the Rectory to-morrow,* said Miss Bridge-
man ; * this lazy mode of transit must not be tolerated after
to-day.*
Even the drive to Trevena was not all idleness ; for after
they had passed the entrance to the path leading to the beauti-
ful waterfall of St. Nectan's Kieve, hard by St. Piran's chapel
and well — the former degraded to a barn, and the latter, once
of holy repute, now chiefly useful as a cool repository for butter
from the neighbouring dairy of Trethevy Farm — ^they came to
a hill, which had to be walked down ; to the lowest depth of
the Rocky Valley, where a stone bridge spans the rapid brawling
stream that leaps as a waterfall into the gorge at St. Nectan's
Kieve, about a mile higher up the valley. And then they came
to a corresponding hill, which had to be walked up — ^because in
either case it was bad for the cob to have a weight behind him.
Indeed, the cob was so accustomed to consideration in this
matter, that, he made a point of stopping politely for his people
*o alight aw either end of anything exceptional in the way of a
ZiilL
* I'm afraid you spoil your pony/ said Mr. Hamleigh, throw-
Sig the reins over his ami, and resigning himself to a duty,
which made him feel very much like a sea-side flyman earning
Vis day's wages toilsomely, and saving his horse with a view to
future fares.
* Better that than to spoil you,' answered Miss Bridgeman,
as she and Christabel walked briskly beside him. * But if yo»
Caston the reins to the dashboard, you may trust Felix.'
• Tintagel, half in Sea, and half on Land,* 3fi
* Won't he run away 1 '
* Not he,' answered Christabel. * He knows that he would
oeyer be so happy with anybody else as he is with us.'
* But mightn t he take a fancy for a short run ; just far
tnough to allow of his reducing that dainty little carriage to
match-wood? A well-fed under- worked pony so thoroughly
enjoys that kind of thing.'
* Felix has no such diabolical suggestions He is a conscien-
tious person, and knows his duty. Besides, he is not under*
worked. There is hardly a day that he does not carry ua
somewhere.'
Mr. Hamleigh surrendered the reins, and Felix showed him-
self worthy of his mistress's confidence, following »t her heels
like a dog, with his honest brown eyes fixed on the slim tall
figure, as if it had been his guiding star.
* I want you to admire the landscape,' said Christabel, when
they were on the crest of the last hill ; * is not that a lovely
valley r
Mr. Hamleigh willingly admitted the fact. The beauty of
a pastoral landscape, with just enough of rugged wildness for
the picturesque, could go no further,
*Creswick has immortalized yonder valley by his famous
picture of the mill,' said Miss Bridgeman, *but the romantic
old mill of the picture has lately been replaced by that large
ungainly building, quite out of keeping with its surroundings.'
'Have you ever been in Switzerland?* asked Angus of
Christabel, when they had stood for some moments in eilent
contemplation of the landscape^
* Never.'
* Nor in Italy?'
* No. I have never been out of England. Since I was five
years old I have hardly spent a yeai* of my life out of Cornwall.'
* Happy Cornwall, which can show so fair a product of its
Boil ! Well, Miss Courtenay, I know Italy and Switzerland by
heart, and I like this Cornish landscape better than either. It
is not so beautiful — it would not do as well for a painter or a
poet ; but it comes nearer an Englishman's heart What can
one have better than the hills and the sea ? Switzerland can
show you bigger hills, ghostly snow-shrouded pinnacles that mock
the eye, following each other like a line of phantoms, losing
themselves in the infinite; bet Switzerland cannot show you
that.'
He pointed to the Atlantic : the long undulating line of the
coast, rocky, rugged, yet verdant, with many a curve and pr<>-
montory, many a dip and rise.
* It is the most everlasting kind of beauty, is it not ? ' asked
Christabel, delighted at this little gush of warm feeling in one
ii(*) Mount Boyal.
whose iiBual mattii«r wa.^ so eqnuble. * One could never tire of
the sea. And I am always proud to remember that our sea is so
big — stretching away and away to the New World. I should
have liked it still better before the days of Columbus, when it
led to the unknown ! *
' Ah ! ' siglied Angus, * youth always yearns for the un-
discovered. Middle age knows that there is nothing worth dis-
covering 1 '
On the top of the hill they paused for a minute or so to con-
template the ancient Borough of Bossiney, w^hich, until dis-
franchised in 1832, returned two members to Parliament, with
a constituency nf little more than a dozen, and which once had
•Sir Franci.s Drake for its representative. Here Mr. Ilamleigh
beheld that modest mound willed the Castle Hill, on the top of
which it was customary to read the writs before the elections.
An hour later they were eating their luncheon on that windy
height where once stood the castle of the great king. To
Christabel the whole story of Arthur and his knights was }is real
as if it had been a part of her own life. She had Tennyson's
Arthur and Tennyson's Lancelot in her heart of hearts, and
knew just enough of Sir Thomas Mallory's prose to give sub-
stance to the Laureate's poetic shadows. Angus amused himself
a little at her expense, as they ate their chicken and salad on tl«e
grassy mounds which were supposed to be the graves of heioes
who died before Athelstane drove the Cornish across the Tamar,
and made his victorious progress through the country, even to the
Scilly Isles, after defeating Howel, the last King of Cornwall.
* Do you really think that gentlemanly creature intheLaureate'f
5pic — that most polished and perfect and most intensely modern
English gentleman, self-contained, considerate of othei-s, always
the right man in the right place — is one whit like that lialf-naked
tiixvh century savage — the real Arthur — whose Court costume
was a coat of blue paint, and whose war-shriek was the yell of a
Red Indian % What can be more futile than our setting up any
one Arthur, and bowing the knee before him, in the face of the
fact that Great Britain teems with monuments of Arthurs —
Arthur's Seat in Scotland, Arthur's Castle in Wales, Arth ur'a
Bound Table here, there, and everywhere ? Be sure that Artlmr
•— Ardheer — the highest chief — was a generic name for the princes
/f those days, and that there were more Arthurs than ever theio
were Ccesars.'
* I don't believe one word you say,' exclaimed Cliristabej,
indignantly ; * there was only one Arthur, the son of Uther and
Ygerne, who was born in the castle that stood on this very cliff,
on tlie first night of the year, and cjirried away in secret by
Merlin, and reared in secret by Sir Anton's wife — the brave good
Arthur — the Christian king — who was killed at the battlo of
* Tintagel, half in Sea, and half on Latid' 37
Camlan, near SlaughUr Bridge, and was buried at Glastosi-
bury.'
'And embalmed by Tennyson. The Laureate invented
Arthur — he took out a patent for the Round Table Mul hia
invention is only a little leas popular than that other )'iH)iluet of
the age, tJie sewing-machine. How many among moderu tourista
would care about Tintagel if Tennyson had not revivet' »Jie old
legend ? '
The butler had put up a bottle of champagne *or Mr.
Hamleigh — the two ladies drinking nothing but p» Kling
water — anfl in this beverage he drank hail to the spirit of the
legendary prince.
* I am ready to believe anything now you have rae up
here,' he said, * for I have a shrewd idea that wifhout your help
1 should never be able to get down again. I shouid live and die
on the top of this rocky promontory — sweltering m the summei
8un — bulfeted by the winter winds — an unwilling Simeon
Stylites.'
' Do you know that the very finest sheep in Cornwall are said
to begi'own on that island,' said Miss Bridgeman gravely, point-
ing to the grassy top of the isolated crag in the foreground, wheron
once stood the donjon deep. ' 1 don't know why it should be
so, but it is a tradition.'
'Among butcheiv ?' said Angus. *I suppose even butchers*
have their traditions. And the poor sheep who are condemned
to exile on that lonely rock — the St. Heleiia of their woolly race
— do they know that they are achieving a posthumous pej'fection
— that they ar« straining towards the ideal in butcher's meat %
There is room ior much thought in the question.'
' The tide is out,' said Christabel, look seaward ; * I think w e
ought to do Trebarwith sands to-day.'
'Is Trebarwith another of your lions 1' aaked Angus,
placidly.
' Yes.'
* Then, please save him for to-morrow. Let me drink the cup
of pleasure to the dregs where we ai-e. This champagne htis a
magical taste, like the philter which Tristan and Iseult were so
foolish as to drink while they sailed across from Ireland to this
Cornish sliore. Don't be alarmed, Miss Bridgeman, I am not
going to empj.y the bottle. I am not an educated tourist — have
read neither Black nor Murray, and I am very slow ab(»ut taking
in ide:is. Even after all you have told me, I am not clear in my
mind as t^ which i? the castle and which the chapel, and whicK
the burial-ground. Let us finish the afternoon dawdling about
Tintagel. Lei u>* see the sun set from thisspot, where Arthur must
so often have watched it, if the men of thirteen hundred years
ago ever cared to ^^atch the sun setting, which I doubt. The^
88 Mount Boyal.
belong to the night-time of the world, when civilization wa« dead
in Southern Europe, and waa yet unborn in the West. Let ue
dawdle about till it is time to drive back to Mount Royal, and
then I shall carry away an impression. I am very slow at taking
impressions.'
' I think you want us to believe that you are stupid,' said
Christabel, laughing at the earnestness with which he pleaded.
* Believe me, no. I should like you to think me ever bo much
better than I am. Please let us dawdle.'
They dawdled accordingly. Strolling about upon the short sea-
beaten grass, so treacherous and slippery a surface in summer
time, when tierce Sol has been baking it. They stumbled against
the foundations of long-vanished walls, they speculated upon
fragments of cyclopean masonry, and talked a great deal about
the traditions of the spot.
Christabel, who had all the old authorities — Leland, Carew,
and Norden — ^at her fingers' ends, was delighted to expound the
departed glories of this British fortress. She showed where the
ancient dungeon keep had reared its stony walls upon that * high
terrible crag, environed with the sea ; and how there had once
been a drawbridge uniting yonder cliff with the buildings on the
mainland ' — how divorced, as Carew says, * by the downfallen
steep cliffs, on the farther side, which, though it shut out the sea
from his wonted recourse, hath yet more stiengthened the island ;
for in passing thither you must first descend with a dangerous
declining, and then make a worse ascent by a path, through his
stickleness occasioning, and through his steepness threatening, the
ruin of your life, with the falling of your foot,* She told Mr.
Hamleigh how, after the Conquest, the castle was the occasionaJ
residence of some of our Princes, and how Richard King of the
Romans, Earl of Cornwall, son of King John, entertained here
his nephew David, Prince of Wales, how, in Richard the Second's
t^jne, this stronghold was made a State prison, and how a certain
Lord Mayor of London was, for his unruly mayoralty, con-
demned thither as a perpetual penitentiary ; which seems very
hard upon the chief magistrate of the city, who thus did vicarious
penance for the riot of his brief reign.
And then they talked of Tristan and Iseult, and the tender
old love-story, which lends the glamour of old-world fancies to
those bare ruins of a traditional past. Christabel knew the old
chronicle through Matthew Arnold's poetical version, which
gives only the purer and better side of the character of the
Knight and Chatelaine, at the expense of some of the strongest
features of the story. Who, that knew that romantic legend,
oould linger on that spot without thinking of King Marc's faith-
less queen ! Assuredly not Mr. Hunleigh, who waa a staunch
believer in the inventor of * aweetuesB and light,' and who kiiew
▲mold's yeraee by heait
*Tintagel, half in Sea, and half on Land* 89
•What have they done with the flowers and the terrace
walks ? ' he said, — ' the garden where Tristan and his Queen
basked in the sunshiue of their days ; and where they parted for
ever! —
• " All the spring time of their love
la already gone and past,
And instead thereof is seen
Its winter, which endure th still—
Tyntagel, on its surge-beat hill.
The pleasaunce walks, the weeping queen,
Oihe flying leaves, the straining blast.
And that long wild kiss — their last."
And where — oh, where — are those graves in the King's chapel in
which the tvrant Mare, touched with pity, ordered the fated
lovers to be buried ? And, behold ! out of the grave of Tristan
there sprung a plant which went along the walls, and descended
into the grave of the Queen, and though King Marc three several
times ordered this magical creeper to be cut off root and branch,
it was always found growing again next morning, aa if it were
the very spirit of the dead Jbiight struggling to get free from the
grave, and to be with his l^y-love again 1 Show me those
tombs, Miss Courtenay.'
* You can take your choice,* said Jessie Bi idgeman, pointing
to a green mound or two, overgrown with long rank grass, in
that part of the hill which was said to be the kingly burial-place.
* But as for your magical tree, there is not so much as a bramble
to do duty for poor Tristan.'
* If I were Duke of Cornwall and Lord of Tintagel Castle,
I would put up a granite cross in memory of the lovers ; though
I fear there was very little Christianity in either of them,* said
Angus.
* And I would come once a year and hang a garland on it,*
•aid Christabel, smiling at him with
• Eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue-
Eyes too expressive to be blue.
Too lovely to be grey.*
He had recalled those lines more than once when he looked
into Christabel's eyes.
Mr. Hamleigh had read so much as to make him an interest-
ing talker upon any subject ; but Christabel and Jessie noticed
that of his own life, his ways and amusements, his friends, his
■urroundings, he spoke hardly at all. This fact Christabel
noticed with wojider, Jessie with suspicion. If a man led a
ffood wholesome life, he would surely be more frank and open —
ne would surely have more to say about himself and hit
MHOciateB.
iO Mount Royal.
They dawdled, and dawdled, till past four o'clock, and to
none of the three did the hours so spent seem long ; but they
found that it would make them too late in their return to Motint
Royal were they to wait for sunilown before they turned then
faces hom<>wards ; so while the day was still bright, Mr. Hani-
leigh consented to be guided by sleep and perilous paths to the
base of the rocky citadel, and then they strolled back to the
Whaniclitfe Arms, where Felix had been enjoying himself in
the stable, and was now des])erately anxious to get home,
rattling up and down hill at an alarming rate, and not hinting
at anybody's alighting to walk.
This was only one of many days spent in the same fashion.
They walked next day to Trebarwith sands, up and down hills,
which Mr. Hamleigh declared were steeper than anything he had
ever seen in Switzerland ; but he survived the walk, and hia
spirits seemed to rise with the exertion. This time Major Bree
went with them — a capital companion for a country ramble,
beic-jj just enough of a botanist, archaeologist, and geologist, to
leaven the lump of other people's ignorance, without being
obnoxiously scientific. LIr. Hamleigh was delighted with that
noble stretch of level sand, with the long rollers of the Atlantic
tumbling in across the low rocks, and the bold hea/llands behind —
spot beloved of marine })ainters — spot where the gulls and the <\ia,gs
hold their revels, and where man feels himself but a poor creature
face to face with the lonely grandeur of sea, and cliff, and sky.
So rarely is that long stietch of yellow sand vulgarized by
the feet of earth's multitudes, that one-half expects to see a
procession of frolicsome sea-nymphs come dancing out of yonder
cave, and wind in circling measures towards the crested wave-
lets, gliding in so softly under the calm clear day.
These were halcyon days — an Indian summer — balmy
western ze])h/fa — sunny noontides — splendid sunsets — altogether
the most beautiful autumn season that Angus Hamleigh had
known, or at least, so it seemed to him — nay, even more than
this, surely the most beautiful season of his life.
As the days went on, and day after day was spent in Cliris-
tabel's comjjany — almost as it were alone with her, for Misa
Bridgeman and Major Bree were but as figures in the back-
ground — Angus felt as if he were at the beginning of a new life
— a life filled with fresh interests, thoughts, hopes, desires,
unknown and undreamed of in the former stages of his being.
Never before had he lived a life so uneventful — never before
had he been so happy. It surprised him to discover how
jimple are the elements of real content — how deep the charm of
a placid existence among thoroughly loveable people ! Oiris-
Ubel Courtenay wjis not the loveliest woman he haii ever
luiown, nor the most eleg<-mt, nor the most accojuplished,
« Tintagelj half in Sea, and lialf on Land. i I
aor tlie most fascinating ! but she was entirely dilFerent from
all other women with whom his lot had been cast. Her innocence,
her unsophisticated enjoyment of all earth's purest joys,
her transj)arent purity, her perfect trustfulness — these were
to him as a revelation of a new order of beings. If he had
been told of such a woman he would have shrugged his
shoulders misbelievingly, or would have declared that she must
be an idiot But CLristabel was quite as clever as those
brilliant creatures whose easy manners had enchanted him in
days gone by. She was better educated than many a woman he
knew who passed for a wit of the fii-st order. She had read
more, thought more, was more sympathetic, more companionable,
and she was delightfully free from solf-consciousneas or vanity.
Ho found himself talking to Christabel aa he had never
fcilked to anyone else since tliose early days at the University,
the blight dawn of manhood, when he coutided freely in that
second self, the chosen friend of the hour, and believed that all
men lived and moved according to his own boyish st-andard of
honour. He talked to her, not of the actualities of his life, but
of his thoughts and feelings — his dreamy speculations upon the
gravest problems which hedge round the secret of man's final
destiny. He talked freely of his doubts and difficult! -a, and the
half-belief which Ciime so near unbelief-^the wide love of all
creation — the vague yet passionate yearning for immortality
which fell so far short of the Gospel's sublime certainty. He
revealed to her all the complexities of a many-sided mind, and
she never failed him in sympathy and understanding. This
was in their graver moodt, when by some accidental turn of the
conversation they fell into the discussion of those solemn
questions which are always at the bottom of every man and
tvoman's thoughts, like the unknown depths of a dark water-
pool. For the most part their talk was bright and light aa
those sunny autumn days, varied as the glorious and ever-
changing hues of sky and sea at sunset. Jessie was a delightful
companion. She was so thoroughly easy herself that it was
impossible to feel ill at ease with her. She played her part of
confidante so pleasantly, seeming to think it the most natural
thing in the world that those two should be absorbed in each
other, and should occasionally lapse into complete forgetfulness
of her existence. Major Bree when he joined in their ramblea
was obviously devoted to Jessie Bridge*r«n. It was her neatly
gloved little hand which he was eager to clasp at the crossing
of a stile, and where the steepness of the hill-side path gave
him an excuse for assisting her. It was her stout little boot
which he guided so tenderly, where the ways were niggedest
Never had a plain woman a more respectful ad?nirer — iiev»»
Wtuj beauty in her f)eerl3S8 zenith more devoutly wojahipped I
i2 Mount BoyaL
And BO the autumn days sped by, pleasantly for all : with
deepest joy — joy ever waxing, never waning — for those two who
had found the secret of perfect sympathy in thought and feeling.
It was not for Angus Hamleigh tiie first passion of a spotless
manhood ; and yet the glamour and the delight were as new
as if he had never loved before. He had never so purely, so
reverently loved. The passion was of a new quality. It
seemed to him as if he had ascended into a higher sphere in the
universe, and had given his heart to a creature of a loftier race.
* Perhaps it is the good old lineage which makes the differ-
ence,' he said to himself once, while his feelings were still suffi-
ciently novel and so far under his control as to be subject to
analysis. * The women I have cared for in days gone by have
hardly got over their early affinity with the gutter ; or when I
have admired a woman of good family she has been steeped to
the lips in worldliness and vanity.*
Mr. Hamleigh, who had told himself that he was going to be
intensely bored at Mount Royal, had been Mrs. Tregonell's guest
for three weeks, and it seemed to him as if the time were brief
and beautiful as one of those rare dreams of impossible bliss
which haunt our waking memories, and make actual life dull and
joyless by contrast with the glory of shadowland. No word had
yet been spoken — nay, at the very thought of those words which
most lovers in his position would have been eager to speak, his
soul sickened and his cheek paled ; for there would be no joyful-
ness in the revelation of his love — indeed, he doubted whether he
had the right to reveal it — whether duty and honour did not
alike constrain him to keep his converse within the strict limits
of friendship, to bid Christabel good-bye, and turn his back upon
Mount Royal, without having said one word more than a friend
might speak. Happy as Christabel had been with him — tenderly
as she loved him — she was far too innocent to have considered
lierself iU-treated in such a case. She would have blamed herself
alone for the weakness of mind which had been unable to resist
the fascination of his society— she would have blushed and wept
in secret for her folly in having loved imwooed,
* Has the eventful question been asked ? ' Jessie inquired one
night, as Christabel lingered, after her wont, by the fire in Miss
Bridgeman's bedroom. * You two were so intensely earnest to-
day as you walked ahead of the Major and me, that I said to my-
self, " now is the time — the crisis has arrived ? " '
* There was no crisis,' answered Christabel, crimsoning ; * he
has never said one word to me that can imply that I am any mora
to him than the most indifferent acquaintance.'
* What need of words when every look and tone cries * I love
Tou ? ' Why he idoHzes you, and he lets all the world see it I
Lope it may be well for you — both,'
' Tintagel, half in Sea, a/nd Ttalf on LamA* 43
Christabel waa on her knees by the fire. She laid her cheek
sgainst Jessie's waistband, and drew Jessie's arm round her
neck, holding her hand lovingly.
' Do you really think he — cares for me 1 * she faltered, with
her face hidden.
* Do I really think that I have two eyes, and something which
is at least an apology for a nose ! ' ejaculated Jessie, contemptu-
ously. ' Why, it has been patent to everybody for the last
fortnight that you two are over head and ears in love with each
other. There never was a more obvious case of mutual infatua-
tion.'
* Oh, Jessie ! surely I have not betrayed myself. I know
that I have been very weak — ^but I have taied so hard to hide
»
* And have been about as successful as the ostrich. While
those drooping lashes have been lowered to hide the love-light in
your eyes, your whole countenance has been an illuminated
calendar of your folly. Poor Belle ! to think that she has not
betrayed herself, while all Boscastle is on tiptoe to know when
the wedding is to take place. Why the parson could not see you
two sitting in the same pew without knowing that he would be
reading your banns before he was many Sundays older.'
* And you — really — like him ? ' faltered Christabel, more
shyly than before.
' Yes,' answered Jessie, with a provoking lack of enthusiasm.
* I really Uke him. I can't help feeling sorry for Mrs. Tregonell,
for I know she wanted you to marry Leonard.'
Christabel gave a little sigh, and a faint shiver.
* Poor dear Leonard ! I wonder what traveller's hardships he
is enduring while we are so snug and happy at Mount Royal ? *
«he said, kindly. * He has an excellent heai-t '
'Troublesome people always have, 1 believe,' interjected
Jessie. * It is their redeeming feature, the existence of which no
one can absolutely disprove.'
' And I am very much attached to him — ^as a cousin — or as an
adopted brother ; but as to our ever being married — that is quite
out of the question. There never were two people less suited to
each other.'
* Those are the people who usually come together,' said
Jessie ; * the Divorce Court could hardly be kept going if it were
not so.'
' Jessie, if you are going to be cynical I shall say good-night,
I hope there is no foundation for what you said just now. I
hope that Auntie has no foolish idea about Leonard and me.'
* She has — or had — one prevailing idea, and 1 fear it will go
hard with her when she has to relinquish it,' answered Jessie,
lerioasly, * I know that it has been her dearest hope to see
44 Mount BoyaX.
jrou and Leonard married, and I should be a wretcb if I were
not sorry for her disappointment, when she has been so good to
me. But she never ought to have invited Mr. Hamleigh to
Mount RoyaL That is one of those mistakes, the consequences
of which last for a lifetime.'
* I hope he likes me — just a little,' pursued Christabel, with
dreamy eyes fixed on the low wood fire ; * but sometimes I fancy
there must be some mistake — that he does not really care a
straw for me. More than once, when he has began to say some-
thing that sounded '
* Busiuess-like,' suggested Jessie, as the girl hesitated.
* He has drawn back — seeming almost anxious to recall hia
words. Once he told me — quite seriously — that he had made up
his mind never to marry. Now, that doesn't sound as if he
meant to marry wie.'
* That is not an uncommon way of breaking ground,' answered
Jessie, with her matter-of-fact air. * A man tells a girl that he
is going to die a bachelor — which makes it seem quite a favour
on his part when he proposes. All women sigh for the unattain-
able ; and a man who distinctly states that he is not in the
market, is likely to make a better bargain when he surrender^,'
' I should be sorry to think Mr. Hamleigh capable of such
petty ideas,' said ChristabeL ' He told me once that he was like
Achilles. Why should he be like Achilles ? He is not a
soldier.'
' Perhaps, it is because he has a Grecian nose,' suggested
Miss Bridge man.
'How can you imagine him so vain and foolish,' cried
Cliristabel, deeply offended. *I begin to think you detest
»um!'
* No,fBelle, I think him charming, only too charming, and I had
rather the man you loved were made of sterner metal — not such a
man as Leonard, whose loftiest desires are centred in stable and
gun-room ; but a man of an altogether different type from Mr.
Hamleigh. He has too much of the artistic temperament, without
being an artist — he is too versatile, too soft-hearted and im-
f)ressi()nable. I am afraid for you, Christabel, I am afraid ; and
if it were not too late — if your heart were not wholly given to
him '
* It is,* answered Christjibel, tearfully, with her face hidden ;
* I hate myself for being so foolish, but I have let myself love
him. J know that I may never be his wife — I do not even
think that he has any idea of marrying me — but I shall never
marry any other man. Oh, Jessie 1 for pity's sake don't betray
me ; never let my aunt, or any one else in this world, learn what
I have told you. I can't help trusting you — you wind yourself
into my heart somehow, and find out all that is hidden there ! '
' Lwe / Thou art leading Me from Wintry Cold,' 46
* Because I love you truly and honestly, my dear,' answere<l
Jessie, tenderly ; * and now, goixl-night ; I feel sure that Mr.
Hamleigh will ask you to be hjB wife, and I only wish he were a
better mao.'
CHAPTER IV.
'LOVE ! THOU ART LEADING MB FEOM WINTRT COLD,*
After this came two or three dull and showery days, which
afforded no opportunity for long excursions or ramblings of
any kind. It was only during such rambles that Mr. Hamleigh
and Miss Courtenay ever found themselves alone. Mrs.
Tregonell's ideas of propriety were of the old-fashioned school,
and when her niece wa« not under her own wing, she expected
Miss Bridgeman to perform all the duties of a duenna — in no
wise suspecting how very loosely her instructions upon this point
were being carried out. At Mount Royal there was no possibility
of confidential talk between Angus and Christabel. If they were
in the drawing-room or library, Mrs. Tregonell was with them ;
if they played billiards, Miss Bridgeman w^as told off to mark for
them ; if they went for a constitutional walk between the showers,
or wasted half-an-hour in the stables looking at horses^ and dogs,
Miss Bridgeman was bidden to accompany them ; and though
they had arrived at the point of minding her very little, and
being sentimental and sympathetic under her very nose, still
there are limits to the love-making that can be carried on before
a third f)erson, and a man would hardly care to propose in
the j)resence of a witness. So for three days Christaoel still
remained in doubt as to Mr. Hamleigh's real feelings. That
manner of making tender little speeches, and then, aa it were,
recalling them, was noticeable many times during those three
days of domesticity. There was a hesitancy — an uncertainty in
his attentions to Christabel which Jessie interpreted iU.
* There is some entanglement, I daresay,' she told herself ; * it
is the evil of his past life which holds him in the toils. How do we
know that ho has not a wife hidden away somewhere ? He ought
to declare himself, or he ought to go away ! If this kind of shilly-
shallying goes on much longer he will break Christabel's heart.*
Mis.H Bridgeman was determined that, if it were in her power
to hjidten the crisis, the crisis should be hastened. The proprie-
ties, as observe 1 by Mrs. Tregonell, might keep matters in
abeyance till Christmas. Mr. Hamleigh gave no hint of hie
ilepartu*-**. He might stay at Mount Royal for months aenii-
46 Mount Boyal,
mentalizing with Christabel, and ride off at the last nnoom-
promiBed.
The fonrth day was the feast of St. Luke. The weather had
brightened considerably, but there was a high wind — a south-
west wind, with occasional showers.
* Of course, you are going to church this morning,* said Jessie
to Christabel, as they rose from the breakfast-table.
* Church this morning 1 ' repeated Christabel, vaguely.
For the first time since she had been old enough to understand
the services of her church, she had forgotten a Saint's Day.
* It is St. Luke's Day.'
* Yes, I remember. And the service is at Minster. We can
walk across the hills.'
' May I go with you ? ' asked Mr. Hamleigh.
*Do you like week-day services?' inquired Jessie, with
rather a mischievous sparkle in her keen grey eyes.
* I adore them,' answered Angus, who had not been inside a
church on a week-day since he was beat man at a friend's
wedding.
* Then we will all go together,' said Jessie. * May Brook
bring the pony-carriage to fetch us home, Mrs. Tregonell ? I
have an idea that Mr. Hamleigh won't be equal to the walk
home.'
* More than equal to twenty such walks ! ' answered Angus,
gaily. 'You under-estimate the severity of the training to
which I have submitted myself during the last three weeks.'
* The pony-carriage may as well meet you in any case,' said
Mrs. Tregonell. And the order was straightway given.
They started at ten o'clock, giving themselves ample leisure
for a walk of something over two miles — a walk by hill and
valley, and rushing stream, and picturesque wooden bridge —
through a deep gorge where the dark-red cattle were grouped
against a background of gorse and heather — a walk of which one
could never grow weary— so lonely, so beautiful, so perfect a
blending of all that is wildest and all that is most gracious in
Nature — ^an Alpine ramble on a small scale.
Minster Church lies in a hollow of the hill, so shut in by
the wooded ridge which shelters its grey walls, that the stranger
comes upon it as an architectural surprise.
' How is it you have never managed to finish your tower ? *
asked Mr. Hamleigh, surveying the rustic fane with a critical
air, as he descended to the churchyard by some rugged stone
iteps on the side of the grassy hilL * You cannot be a particularly
devout people, or you would hardly have allowed your parish
church to remain in this stunted and stinted condition.'
* There was a tower once,' said Christabel, naltvely ; * tho
■ton Ml are still in the churchyard ; but the monks used to bdni
*Love t Thou a/rt leading Me from Wintry Cold* 47
a light in the tower window — ^a light that shone through a cleft
in the hills, and was seen far out at sea.'
* I believe that is geographically — or geometrically impossible,*
said Angus laughing ; 'but pray go on.'
* The light was often mistaken for a beacon, and the ships
came ashore and were wrecked on the rocks.'
* Naturally— and no doubt the monks improved the occasion.
Why should a Cornish monk be better than his countrymen I
*' One and all" is your motto.*
* They were not Cornish monks/ answered Christabel, ' but a
brotherhood of French monks from the monastery of St. Sergius,
at Angers. They were established in a Priory here by William
de Bottreaux, in the reign of Eichard, Coeur de Lion ; and,
according to tradition, the townspeople resented their having
built the church so far from the town. I feel sure the monks could
have had no evil intention in burning a light ; but ,one night a
crew of wild sailors attacked the tower, and pulled the greater
part of it down.'
* And nobody in Boscastle has had public spirit enough to get
it set up again. Where is your respect for those early Christian
martyrs, St. Sergius and St. Bacchus, to whose memory your
temple is dedicated ? *
*I don't suppose it was so much want of respect for the
martyrs as want of money,' suggested Miss Bridgeman. *We
have too many chapel people in Boscastle for our churches to be
enriched or beautified. But Minster is not a bad little church
after all.'
* It is the dearest, sweetest, most innocent little church I ever
knelt in,' answered Angus; and if I could but assist at one
particular service there '
He checked himself with a sigh ; but this unfinished speech
amounted in Miss Bridgeman's mind to a declaration. She
etole a look at Christabel, whose fair face crimsoned for a
moment or so, only to grow more purely pale afterwards.
They went into the church, and joined devoutly in the brief
Samt's Day service. The congregation was not numerous. Two
or three village goodies— the school children — a tourist, who had
come to see the church, and found himself, as it were, entangled
in saintly meshes — the lady who played the harmonium, and
the incumbent who read prayers. These were all, besides the
party from Mount EoyaL There are jilenty of people in
country parishes who will be as pious as you please on Sunday,
deeming three services not too much for their devotion, but who
can hardly be persuaded to turn out of the beaten track of
week-day life to offer homage to the memory of Evangelist or
Apostle.
The poQ^-earriage was waiting in the lane when Mr. Ham-
48 Mount BoydL
loigh and thd two ladies came out of the porch. Christabel and
the gentleman looked at the equipage doubtfully.
* You slandered me, Miss Bridgeman, by your suggestion that
I should be done up after a mile or so across the hills,' said Mr.
Hamleigh ; * I never felt fresher in my life. Have you a hanker-
ing for the ribbons ? ' to Christabel ; * or will you send your
pony back to his stable and walk home ?'
* I would ever so much rather walk.*
* And so would L'
* In that case, if you don't mind, I think Til go home with
Felix,' said Jessie Bridgeman, most unexpectedly. * I am not
feeling quite myself to-day, and the walk has tired me. You
won't mind going home alone with Mr. Hamleigh, will you,
Christabel ? You might show him the seals in Pentargon Bay.'
What could Chi-istabel do ? If there had been anything in
the way of an earthquake handy, she would have felt deeply
gi-ateful for a sudden rift in the surface of the soil, which would
liave allowed her to slip mto the bosom of the hills, among the
gnomes and the pixies. That Cornish coast was undermined
with cjiverns, yet there was not one for her to drop into. Again,
Jessie Bridgeman spoke in such an easy off-hand manner, as if
it were the most natural thing in the world for Christabel and
Mr. Hamleigh to be allowed a lonely i-amble. To have refused,
or even hesitated, would have seemed affectation, mock-modesty,
seK-consciousness. Yet Christabel almost involuntary made a
step towards the carriage.
* I think I had better drive,* she said ; * Aunt Diana will be
wanting me.'
* No, she won't,' replied Jessie, resolutely. * And you shall
not make a martyr of yoiu-self for my sjike. I know you love
that walk over the hill, and Mr. Hamleigh is dying to see
Pentargon Bay '
* Positively expiring by inches ; only it is one of those easy
deaths that does not hurt one very much,' paid Angus, helping
Miss Bridgeman into her seat, giving her the reins, and arrang-
ing the rug over her knees with absolute tenderness.
* Take care of Felix,' pleaded Christabel ; * and if you trot
down the hills trot fast.'
* I shall walk him every inch of the way. The responsibility
would be too terrible otherwise.'
But Felix had hia own mind in the matter, and had no inten-
tion of walking when the way he went carried him towards hii
stable. So he trotted briskly up the lane, between tall, tangled
blackbeny hedges, leaving Christabel and Angus standing at the
churchyard gate. The rest of the little congregation fc^d dis-
persed ; the church door had been locked ; there was a grave-
digger at work in the garden-lilc« churchyard, amidst long
' Love ! Thou art leading Me from Wintry Cold.* 49
granseB and fallen leaves, and the unchanged ferns and mosses
of the bygone summer.
Mr. Hamleigh had scarcely concealed his delight at Miss
Bridgeman's departure, yet, now that she was gone, he looked
passing sad. Never a word did he speak, as they two stood idly
at the gate, listening to the dull thud of the earth which the
gravedigger threw out of his shovel on to the grass, and the
shrill sweet song of a robin, piping to himself on a ragged thorn-
bush near at hand, as if in an ecstasy of gladness about things
in generaL One sound so fraught with melancholy, the other so
full of joy ! The contrast struck sharply on Christabel's nerves,
to-day at their utmost tension, and brought sudden tears in her
eyes.
They stood for perhaps five minutes in this dreamy silence,
the robin piping all the while ; and then Mr. Hamleigh roused
himself, seemingly with an effort.
* Are you going to show me the seals at Pentargon ? * he
asked, smilingly.
* I don't know about seals — there is a local idea that seals are to
be seen playing about in the bay ; but one is n(^t often so lucky as
to find them there. People have been very cruel in killing them,
and I'm fifraid there are very few seals left on our coast now.'
* At any rate, you can show me Pentargon, if you are not
tired.'
* Tired ! * cried Christabel, laughing at such a ridiculous idea,
l)eing a damsel to whom ten miles were less than three to a
town-bred young lady. Embarrassed though she felt by being
left alone with Mr. Hamleigh, she could not even pretend that
the proposed walk was too much for her.
' I shall be very glad to take you to Pentargon,' she said, ' it
in hardly a mile out of our way ; but I fear you'll be dis-
appointed ; there is really nothing ])articular to see.'
' 1 shall not be disappointod — L hIimII be deeply grateful.'
They walked along the narrow hill-side paths, where it was
almost impossible for two to walk abreast ; yet Angus contrived
somehow to be at Christabel's side, guiding and guarding her by
ways which were so much more familiar to her than to him, that
there was a touch of humour in this pretence of protection. But
Christabel did not see things in their humorous aspect to-day
Her little hand trembled as it touched Angus Hamleigh's, when
he led her across a craggy bit of path, or over a tiny water-pool
At the stiles in the valley on the other side of the bridge, which
are civilized stiles, and by no means difficult, Christabel was too
quick and light of foot to give any opportunity for that assist-
ance which ner companion was so eager to afford. And now
they were in the depths of the valley, and had to mount another
httl, on the road to Bude, till they came to a field-g&t^ alx>vf!
50 Mount Roya^
which appeared a sign -board, and the mystic wordfl, 'ToPwft.
targon.'
' Wliat is Pentargon, that they put up its name in such big
letters?' asked Mr. Hamleigh, staring at the board. * Is it a
borough town — or a cattle market — or a cathedral city — or what 1
Them seem tremendously proud of it.'
* It is nothing — or only a shallow bay, with a waterfall and a
wonderful cave, which I am always longing lo explore. I believe
it is nearly as beautiful as the cavern in Shelley's " Alastor." But
you will see what Pentargon is like in less than five minutes.'
They crossed a ploughed field, and then, by a big five-barred
gate, entered the magic region which was said to be the paradise
of seals. A narrow walk cut in a steep and rocky bank, where
the gorse and heather grew luxuriantly above slate and spar,
described a shallow semicircle round one of the loveliest bays in
the world — a spot so exquisitely tranquil in this calm autumn
weather, so guarded and fenced in by the ma.ssive headlands that
jutted out towards the main — a peaceful haven, seemingly so re-
mote from that outer world to which belonged yonder white-
winged ship on the verge of the blue — that Angus Hamleigh
exclaimed involuntai'ily, —
* Here is peace ! Surely this must be a bay in that Ldtua
'and which Tennyson has painttid for us 1'
Hitherto their conversation had been desultory — mere frag-
mentary talk about the landscape and the loveliness of the
autumn day, with its clear bright sky and soft west wind. They
had been always in motion, and there had been a certain adven-
turousness in the way that seemed to give occupation to their
thoughts. ^ But now Mr. Hamleigh came to a dead stop, and
stood looking at the rugged amphitheatre, and the low weedy
nujka washed smooth by the sea.
' Would you mind sitting down for a few minutes ?' he asked ;
' this Pentargon of yours is a lovely spot, and I don't want to
lefive it instantly. 1 have a very slow appreciation of Nature.
It takes me a long time to grasp her beauties.'
Christabel seated herself on the bank which he had selected
for her accommodation, and Mr. Hamleigh placed himself a little
lower, almost at her feet, her face turned seaward, his half
towards her, as if that Uly face, with its wild rose bloom, were
even lovelier than the sunht of^ean in all its variety of colour.
' It is a delicious spot,' said Angus, * I wonder whether Tristan
and Iseult ever came here ! I can fancy the queen stealing away
from the Court and Court foolery, and walking across tne sunlit
liilla with her lover. It would be rather a long walk, and there
might be a difficulty about getting back in time for supper ; but
one can picture them wandering by flowery fields, or by the cliflBi
above that everlasting sea, and ooming hwe tO rent apd tal^ *^
* Love t Thou art leading Me from Wintry Cold.' 51
their sorrow and their lOve, Can you not fancj her aa Matthev
Arnold paiuts her ? —
• •*Iiet her have her youth again —
Let her be as she was then !
Let her have her proud dark eyes,
And her petulant, quick replies :
Let her sweep her dazzling hand.
With its gesture of command,
And shake back her raven hair
With the old imperious air."
I have an idea that the Hibernian Iseult must have been a tarta»,
though Matthew Arnold glosses over her peccadilloes so pleasantly,
T wonder whether she had a strong brogue, and a 8neakil^g
fondness for usquebaagh.'
* Please, don't make a joke of her,' pleaded Christabel ; 'she ia
very »eal to me. I see her as a lovely lady — tall and royal-
looking, dressed in long robes of flowered silk, fringed with gold.
And Tristan '
* What of Tristan t Is his imago aa clear in your mind 1
How do you depict the doomed knight, bom to suffer and to sin,
destined to sorrow from the time of his forest-birth — motherless
beset with enemies, consumed by hopeless passion. I hope you
feel sorry for Tristan V
* Who could help being sorry for him V
* Albeit he was a sinner 1 I assure you, in the old romance
which you have not read — which you would hardly care to read —
neither Tristan nor Iseult are spotless.*
* I have never thought of their wrong-doing. Their fate was ao
iad, and they loved each other so truly.'
*And, again, you can believe, perhaj^s — you who are so
innocent and confiding — that a man who has sinned may foi-siike
the old evil ways and lead a good life, until every stain of that
bygone sin is purified. You can believe, as the Greeks believed,
in atonement and purification.'
* I believe, aa I hope aU Christians do, that repentance can
wash away sin.*
* Even the accusing memory of wrong-doing, and make a
man's soul white and fair again 1 That is a beautiful creed.'
'I think the Gospel gives us warrant for believing as much—
not as some of the Dissenters teach, that one elibi't of faith, an
hour of prayer and ejaculation, can transfoim a murderer into a
saint ; but that earnest, sustained regret for wrong-doing, and b
■teady determination to live a uetter life '
'Yea — that ia real repentance,' exclaimed Angus, interrupting
her. * Common sense, even without Gospel light, tells one that
it must be good. Christabel — may I call you ChrLdtabel 9 — iu^
12 Mount Boyah
for this one isolated half -hour of life — here in Pentargou Bay)
You shall be Miss Oourtenay directly we leave this spot.*
* Call me what you please. I don't tliink it matters veff
much,' faltered Christabel, blushing deeply.
* But it makes all the ditlerence to me. Chriatabel, I can't
tell you how sweet it is to me just to pronounce your name. If —
if — I could call you by that name always, or by a name still
nearer and dearer. But you must judge. Give me half-an-hour
— half-an-hour of heartfelt earnest truth on my side, and pitying
j)atience on yoiii-s. Christabel, my past life h<is not been
what a stainless Christian would call a good life. I h&v«
not been so bad as Tristan. I have violated no Siicred charge —
betrayed no kinsman. I suppose I have been hardly worse than
the common run of young men, who have the means of leading
an utterly useless life. I have lived selftslily, unthinkingly-
caring for my own pleasure — with little thought of anything thai
was to come afterwards, either on earth or in heaven. But all
that is pjist and done Avith. My wild oats are sown ; I have had
enough of youth and folly. When I came to Cornwall the other
day 1 thought that I was on the threshold of middle age, and
that middle age could give me nothing but a few years of pain
and weariness. But — behold a miracle ! — you have given me
oack my youth — youth and hope, and a desire for length of days,
and a passionate yearning to lead a new, bright, stainless life.
You have done all this, Christabel. I love you as I never
thought it possible to love ! I believe in you as I never before
believed in woman — and yet — and yet '
He paused, with a long heart-broken sigh, clasped the girl's
hand, which had been straying idly among the faded heather, and
pressed it to his lips.
* And yet I dare not ask you to be my wife. Shall I tell you
why i '
'Yes, teU me,' she faltered, her cheeks deadly pale, hei
lowered eyelids heavy with tears
* I told you I was like Achillea, doomed to an early death. Yoa
remember with what pathetic tendreness Thetis speaks of her sou,
• *• Few years are thine, and not a lengthened term ;
At once to early death and sorrows doomed
Beyond the lot of man I "
ITie Fates have spoken about me quite as plainly as ever the sea-
nymph foretold the doom of her son. He was given the choi(K<
of length of days or glory, and he deemed fame better than long
life. But my life has been as inglorious as it must be biief.
Three months ago, one of the wisest of physicians pronounced
my doom. The heroditiiry malady which fo)- the hu-t tlffy years
liiti Iwen tlie ciu-ae of my family ali»»-»s itswll' by tlie cieai eat indi-
♦ L(yo6 f Thou art leading Me from Wintry GoW 63
cations in my case. I could have told the doctor this just as well
as he told me ; but it is best to have official information. I may
die before I am a year older ; I may crawl on for the next teu
fears — a fragile hot-house plant, sent to winter under southern
Bkies.'
* And you may recover, and be strong and well again! * cried
Christabel, in a voice choked with sobs. She made no pretence
of hiding her pity or her love. * Who can tell ? Grod is so good.
What prayer will He not grant us if we only believe in Him %
Faith will remove mountains.'
* I have never seen it done,' said Angus. * Fm afraid that no
effort of faith in this degenerate age will give a man a new lung.
No, Christabel, there is no chance of long life for me. If hope —
if love could give length of days, my new hopes, bom of you —
my new love felt for you, might work that miracle. But I am
the child of my century : I only believe in the possible. And
knowing that my years are so few, and that during that poor
remnant of life I may be a chronic invalid, how can L— how dare
I be so seltiah as to ask any girl — young, fresh, and bright, with
all the joys of life untasted — to be the companion of my decline?
The better she loved me, the sadder would be her life — the
keener would be the anguish of watching my decay 1 '
' But it would be a life spent with you, her days would be
devoted to you ; if she really loved you, she would not hesitate,'
pursued Christabel, her hands clasped passionately, tears stream-
ing down her pale cheeks, for this moment to her was the
supreme crisis of fate. * She would be unhappy, but there
would be sweetness even in her sorrow if she could believe that
she was a comfort to you ! '
* Christabel, don't tempt me 1 Ah, my darling ! you don't
know how selfish a man's love is, how sweet it would be to me to
snatch such bliss, even on the brink of the dark gulf — on the
threshold of the eternal night, the eternal silence 1 Consider what
you would take upon yourself — you who perhaps have never
known what sickness means — have never seen the horrors of
mortal disease.*
* Yes, I have sat with some of our poor people when they
were dying. I have seen how painful disease is, how cruel
Nature seems, and how hard it is for a poor creature racked with
pain to believe in God's beneficence ; but even then there has
been comfort in being able to help them and cheer them a little.
I have thought more of that than of the actual misery of the
scene.*
*But to give allyour young life — all your days and thoughts and
hopes to a doomed man 1 Think of that, Christabel 1 When you
are happy with him to see Death grimiing behind his shvmhJer —
to watch that spectacle which is of all Nature's miseries the mo&t
64 Mount BoydL
awful— the slow decay of human life — a man dying by inches—
not death, but dissolution ? If my malady were heart-disease, and
you knew that at some moment — undreamt of — uidooked for —
death would come, swift as an arrow from Hecate's bow, brief,
with no loathsome or revolting detail — then I might say, " Let
ns spend my remnant of life together." But consumption, you
cannot tell what a painful ending that is ! Poets and novelists
have described it as a kind of euthanasia ; but the poetical
mind is rarely strong in scientific knowledge. I want you to
understand all the horror of a life spent with a chronic sufferer,
about whom the cleverest physician in London has made up his
mind.'
' Answer me one question,' said Christabel, drying her tears,
and trying to steady her voice. * Would your life be any happier
if we were together — till the end ? '
* Happier T It would be a life spent in Paradise. Pain and
sickness could hardly touch me with their sting.'
* Then let me be your wife.'
* Christabel, are you in earnest ? have you considered ? '
* I consider nothing, except that it may be in my power to
make your life a little happier than it would be without me. I
want only to be sure of that. If the doom were more dreadful
than it is — if there were but a few short months of life left for
you, I would ask you to let me share them ; I would ask to
mirse you and watch you in sickness. There would be no other
fate on earth so full of sweetness for me. Yes, even with death
and everlasting mourning waiting for me at the end.'
* My Chi'istabel, my beloved ! my angel, my comforter ! I
begin to believe in miracles. I almost feel as if you could give
me length of years, as well as bliss beyond all thought or hope
of mine. Christabel, Christabel, God forgive me if i am asking
you to wed sorrow ; but you have made this hour of my life an
unspeakable ecstasy. Yet I will not take you quite at your
word, love. You shall have time to consider what you are going
to do — time to talk to your, aunt.'
' I want no time for consideration. I will be guided by no
one. I think God meant me to love you — and cure you.*
* I will believe anything you say ; yes, even if you promise
me a new lung. God bless you, my beloved 1 You belong to
those whom He does everlastingly bless, who are so angelic upon
this earth that they teach us to believe in heaven. My Chris-
tabel, my own I I promised to call you Miss Courtenay when we
left Pentargon, but I suppose now you are to be Chnstabel for
the rest of my life ! '
' Yes. always.'
' And all this time we have not aeeu a single seal I ' exclaimed
Auigiut, gailj.
• The Silver Answer rangy — •* Not Death, hut Lwe,** • 50
His delicate features were radiant with happiness. Who could
at such a moment remember death and aoom % All painful
words which uee«l be said had been spoken.
CHAPTEE V.
*THB SILTBR ANSWER RANG,— "NOT DEATH, BUT LOT!.**
MRa Tregonell and her niece were alone together in the
library half-an-hour before afternoon tea, when the autumn light
was just beginning to fade, and the autumn mist to rise gliost-
like from the narrow little harbour of Boscastle. Miss Bridge-
man had contrived that it should be so, just as she had contrived
the visit to the seals that morning.
So Christabel, kneeling by her aunt's chair in the fire-glow,
just as she had knelt upon the night before Mr. Hamleigh's
coming, with faltering Hps confessed her secret.
* My dearest, I have known it for ever so long,' answered
Mrs. Tregonell, gravely, laying her slender hand, sparkling with
hereditary rin^ — never so gorgeous as the gems bought yester-
day—on the girl's sunny hair. * I cannot say that I am glad.
No, Christabel, I am selfish enough to be sorry, for Leonard's
sake, that this should have happened. It was the dream of my
life that you two should marry.'
* Dear aunt, we could never have cared for each other — as
lovers. We had been too much like brother and sister.'
* Not too much for Leonard to love you, as I know he does.
He was too confident — too secure of his power to win you. And
I, his mother, have brought a rival here — a rival who has atoleji
your love from my son.'
* Don't speak of him bitterly, dearest. Eemember he is tht
son of the mAU you loved.'
* But not my son ! Leonard must d;lways be fiirst in my mind.
I like Angus Hamleigh. He is all that his father was — yes — it
is almost a painful likeness — painful to me, who loved and
mourned his father. But I cannot help being sorry for Leonard.'
* Leonard shall be my dear br#ther, always,' said Christabel ;
yet even while she spoke it occurred to her that Leonard was not
quite the kind of person to accept the fraternal positioii
pleasantly, or, indeed, any secondary character whatever in the
drama of life.
* And when are you to be married ? ' asked Mrs. Tregonell,
looking at the fire.
' Oh, Auntie, do you suppose I have begun to think of that
yet awhile I '
66 Mount BoydL
^ • Be sure that he has, if you have not ! I hope he is not
going to be in a hurry. You were only nineteen last birthday.
* I feel tremendously old,' said ChristabeL * We — we were
talking a little about the future, this afternoon, in the billiard-
room, and Angus talked about the wedding being at the
beginning of the new year. But I told him I was sure you
would not like that.'
* No, indeed ! I must have time to get reconciled to my loss,'
Answered the dowager, with her arm drawn caressingly round
(Jhristabel's head, as the girl leaned against her aunt's chair.
* What will this house seem to me without my daughter ?
Leonard far away, putting his life in peril for some foolish sport,
and you living — Heaven knows where ; for you would have to
study your husband's taste, not mine, in the matter.'
* Why shouldn't we live near you ? Mr. Hamleigh might buy
a place. There is generally something to be had if one watches
one's opportunity.'
' Do you think he would care to sink his fortune, or any part
of it, in a Cornish estate, or to live amidst these wild hills 1 '
* He says he adores this place.'
* He is in love, and would swear as much of a worse place.
No, Belle, I am not foolish enough to suppose that you and Mr.
Hamleigh are to settle for life at the end of the world. This
house shall bo your home whenever you choose to occupy it ;
and I hope you wiU come and stay with me sometimes, for I
shall be very lonely without you.'
* Dear Auutie, you know how I love you ; you know how
completely happy I have been with you — ^how impossible it ia
that anything can ever lessen my love.'
* I believe that, dear girl ; but it is rarely nowadays that
Ruth follows Naomi. Our modern Ruths go where their lovers
go, and worship the same gods. But I don't want to be selfish
or unjust, dear. I will try to rejoice in your happiness. And if
Angus Hamleigh will only be a little patient ; if be will give
nie time to grow used to the loss of you, he shall have you with
your adopted mother's blessing,'
* He shall not have me without it,' said Christabel, looking
up at her aunt with steadfast eyes.
She had said no word of that early doom of which Angus had
told her. For worlds she could not have revealed that fatal
truth. She had tried to put away every thought of it while she
talked with her aunt. Angus had urged her beforehand to be
perfectly frank, to tell Mrs. Tregonell what a mere wreck of a
life it was which her lover offered her : but she had refused.
* Let that be our secret,' she said, in her low, sweet voice.
• We want no one's pity. We will bear our soitow together.
And, oh, Angus 1 my faith is so strong. Qod, who has mad*
• The Silver Amwer ra-ng, — •* Not Death, hut Love," ' 57
me 80 happy by the gift of your love, will not take you from
imj. If — if your life is to be brief, mine will not be long.*
* My dearest I if the gods will it so, we will know no part-
ing, but \^ translated into some new kind of life together — a
modern Baucis and Philemon. I think it would be wiser —
better, to tell your aunt everything. But if you think other-
wise'
• I will tell her nothing, except that you love me, and that,
«eith her consent, I am going to be your wife ; * and with this
Jeterminntion Christiibel had made her confession to her aunt.
The ice once broken, everybody reconciled herself or himself
to the new aspect of aflaii-s at Mount Iloyal. In less than a
week it seemed the most natural thing in life that Angus and
Chrirttabel should be engaged. There was no marLed change in
their mode of life. They i-ambled upon the hills, and went
boating on line mornings, exploring that wonderful coast where
the Hea-bird>» congregate, on rocky isles and fortresses rising sheer
out of the sea — in mighty caves, the very tradition whereof
sounds teirible — caves that seem to have no ending, but to burrow
into unknown, unexplored regions, towards the earth's centre.
With Major Bree for their skipper, and a brace of sturdy
boatmen, Angus, Christal)t!l, and Jessie Bridgeman spent several
mild Octol^er mornings on the sea — now towards Cambeak, anon
towards Trebarwith. Tintagel from tl>e beach was inlinitely
grander than Tffitagel in its landward aspect. * Here,* as Norden
says, was * that rocky and winding way up the steep sea-clitf,
under which the sea-waves wallow, and so assail the foundation
of the isle, as may astonish an unstiible brain to consider the
peril, for the least slip of the foot leads the whole body into the
devouring sea.'
To climb these perilous paths, to spring from rock to rock
upon the slippery beach, landing on some long green slimy slah
over which the sea wiishes, was Christfibere delight — and Mil
Ilamleigli showed no lack of agility or daring. His health had
improved marvellously in that invigorating air. Christabel,
notef ul of every change of hue in the beloved face, sjiw how
much more healthy a tinge cheek and brow had taken since Mr.
Hamleigh came to Mount EoyaL He had no longer the exhausted
look or the languid air of a man who had untimely squandered
his stock of life and hejilth. His eye had brightened — with no
hectic light, but with the clear sunshine of a mind at ease. He
was altered in eveiy way for the better
And now the autumn evenings were patting on a wintry air
— the lights were twinkling early in the Alpine street of Bos-
castle. The little harbour was dark at tive o'tlock. Mr.
Hamleigh li:i<i l)«-i.'ii luiiily l\v<> inouLhs at Mount Royal, and h«
koid himself thai it waj» time for leave-taking. Faiti would he
68 Mount BoyaU
have stayed on — stayed until that blissful morning whea
Cliristabel and he mi^ht kneel, side by side, before the altar in
Minster Church, and be made one for ever—one in life and death
— ^in a union a^ perfect as that which was symbolized by the plant
that grew out of Tristan's tomb and went down into the grave of
his mistress.
Unhappily, Mrs. Tregonell had made up her mind that her
niece should not be married until she was twenty years of age —
and Christabel's t^rentieth birthday would not arrive till the
following Midsummer. To a lover's impatience so long an
interval seemed an eternity ; but Mrs. Tregonell had been very
gracious in her ^oonsent to his betrotlj^, so he could not
disobey her.
* Christabel has seen so little of the world,' said the dowager.
* I should like to give her one season in London before she
marries — just to rub otf a little of the rusticity.'
* She is perfect — I would not have her changed for worlds,'
protested Angus.
* Nor I. But she ought to know a little more of society
before she has to enter it as your wife. I don't think a London
season will spoil her — and it will j)leiise me to chaperon her —
though I have no doubt I shall seem rather an old-fashioned
chaperon.'
' That is just possible,' said Angus, smiling, as he thought
how closely his divinity was guarded. * The chaperons of the
present day are very easy-going people-— or, perhaps I ought to
say, that the young ladies of the present day have a certaii.
Yankee go-a-headishness which very much lightens the chaperon's
responsibility. In point of fact, the London chaperon has
dwindled into a formula, and no doubt she will soon be improved
off the face of society.'
* So much the worse for society,' answered the lady of the
old school. And then she continued, with a friendly air, —
* I dare say you know that I have a house in Bolton Ilow. I
have not lived in it since my husband's death — but it is mine,
and I can have it made comfortable between this and the early
spring. I have been thinking that it would be better for you
and Christabel to be married in Loudon. The law business
would be easier settled— and you may have relations and friends
who would like to be at your wedding, yet who would hardly
eare to come to Boscastle.'
* It is a long way,' admitted Angus. * And people are s«
inconsistent. They think nothing of going to the Enmidine, yet
grumble consumedly at a journey of a dozen hours in their natiye
bind — as if £ngland were not worth the exertion.'
* Then I thmk we are agreed that London is the b«0t plaot
Ibt the wedding,' said Mrs. TregonaU.
* The SHoer Answer rang, — •* Not Death, but Love,^ * 69
. * T am perfectly content But if you suggested Timbuctoo I
ghould be just aa happy.'
This being settled, Mrs. Tregonell wrote at once to her agent,
with instructions to set the old house in Bolton Eow in order for
the season immediately after Easter, and Christabel and her
lover had to reconcile their minds to the idea of a long dreary
winter of severance.
Miss Courtenay had grown curiously grave and thoughtful
since her engagement — ^a change which Jessie, who watched her
closely, observed with some surprise. It seemed as if she had
passed from girlhood into womanhood in the hour in which she
pledged herself to Angus Hamleigh. She had for ever done with
the thoughtless gaiety of youtli that knows not care. She had
tiken upon herself the burden of an anxious, self-sacrificing
/ove. To no one had she spoken of her lover's precarious hold
upon life ; but the thought of by how frail a tenure she held her
happiness was ever present with her. * How can I be good
enough to him ? — how can I do enough to make his life happy ?'
she thought, ' when it may be for so short a time.'
With this ever-present consciousness of a fatal future, went
the desire to make her lover forget his doom, and the ardent
hope that the sentence might be revoked — that the doom pro-
nounced by human judgment might yet be reversed. Indeed,
Angus had himself begun to make light of his malady. Who
could tell that the famous physician was not a false prophet,
after all ? The same dire annouucement of untimely death had
been made to Leigh Hunt, who contrived somehow — not always
in the smoothest waters — to steer his frail bark into the haven
of old age. Angus spoke of this, hopefully, to Christabel, aa
they loitered within the roofless crumbling walls of the ancient
oratory above St. Nectan's Kieve, one sunny November morn-
ing. Miss Bridgeman rambling on the crest of the hill, with the
bla«k sheep-dog, Randie, under the polite fiction of blackberry
hunting, among hedges which had long been shorn of their last
berry, though the freshness of the lichens and ferns still lingered
in this sheltered nook.
* Yes, I know that cruel doctor was mistaken ! ' saia
Christabel, her lips quivering a little, her eyes wide and grave,
but tearless, aa they gazed at her lover. * I know it, I know
it!'
* I know that I am twice as strong and well as I waa when
he saw me,' answered Angus : ' you have worked as great a
miracle for me as ever was wrought at the grare of St
Mertherianain Minster Churchyard. You have mad^ me happy ;
and what can cure a man better than perfect bliss ? But, oh, my
darling ! what is to become of me when I leave you, when I
return to the beaten ways of Loudon life, and, looking back at
60 MmmtEoyal.
these delicious days, ask myself if this sweet life with you ie
not some dream which I have dreamed, and which can never
come again ? '
* You will not think anything of the kind,' said Chriatabel,
xrith a pretty little air of authority which charmed him — as all
her looks and ways charmed him. ' You know that I am sober
reality, and that our lives are to be spent together. And you
are not going back to London — at least not to stop there. You
are going to the South of France.*
* Indeed ? this is the first I have heard of any such intention.*
* Did not that doctor say you were to winter in the South ? *
*He did. But I thought we had agreed to despise that
doctor r
* We will despise him, yet be warned by him Why should
any one, who has liberty and plenty of money, spend his winter
in a smoky city, where the fog blinds and stifles him, and the
frost pinches him, and the damp makes him miserable, when he
can have blue skies, and sunshine and flowers, and ever so much
brighter stars, a few hundred miles away ? We are bound to
obey each other, are we not, Angus ? Is not that among oui
marriage vows i '
* I believe there is something about obedience — on the lady's
side — but I waive that technicality. I am prepared to become
an awful example of a henpecked husband. If you say I am to
go southwards, with the swallows, I will go — yea, verily, to
Algeria or Tmiia, if you insist ; though I would rather be on
the Riviera, whence a telegram, with the single word *Come'
would bring me to your side in forty-eight hours.'
* Yes, you will go to that lovely land on the shores of the
Mediterranean, and there you wiU be very careful of your
health, so that when we meet in London, after Easter, your
every look will gainsay that pitiless doctor. Will you do this,
for my sake, Angus l ' she pleaded, lovingly, nestling at his aide,
as they stood together on a narrow jmtli that woutuI down to
the entrance of the Kieve. They could he-ir tlie rush of the
waterfall in the deep green hollow below tJieni, and the faint
flutter of loosely hanging leaves, stirred lightly by the light
wind, and far away the joyous bark of a sheep-dog. No human
Toices, save their own, disturbed the autumnal stillness.
* This, and much more, would I do to please you, love.
Indeed, if I am not to be here, I might just aa well be in the
South ; nay, much better than in London, or Paris, both of
which cities I know by heart. But don't you think we could
make a compromise, and tliat I might spend the wintw at Tor-
quay, rumiiug over t^) Mount Lioyal for a few days occ;usionally?'
' No ; Toi'f^uay will not do, delightful ;us it would be to have
you so ne^ir. I have been residing: about the climate i<i the South
In Society, 01
of France, and I am sure, if yon aro carefnl, a "winter there will
do you worlds of good. Next year *
' Next year we can go there together, and yon "will take care
of me. Was that what you were going to say, Belle ? *
* Something like that.'
* Yes,' he said, slowly, after a thoughtful pause, * 1 shall he
glad to be away from London, and all old associations. My
past life is a worthless husk that I have done with for ever.*
CHAPTER VI.
IN SOCIETY.
The Easter recess was over. Society had returned from iti
brief holiday — its glimpse of budding hedges and primrose-
dotted banks, blue skies and blue violets, the snowy bloom of
orchards, the tender green of young cornfields. Society had
come back again, and was hard at the London treadmill — yawn-
ing at old operas, and damning new plays — sniggering at
cro'wded soirees — laying down the law, each man his j)articiilar
branch thereof, at carefully planned dinner parties — quarrelling
and making friends again — eating and drinking — spending
and wasting, and pretending to care very little about anything ;
for society is as salt that niais lost its savour if it is not cyniciil
And affected.
But there was one d^hutante at least that season for whom
town pleasures had lost none of their freshness, for whom the
old operas were all melody, and the new plays all wit — who
admired everything witli frankest wonder and enthusiasm, and
without a thought of Horace, or Pope, or Creech, or anybody,
except the lover who wfis always at her side, and who shed tho
rose-coloured light of happiness upon the commonest things.
To sit in the Green Park on a mild April morning, to see the
guard turn out by St. James's Palace after breakfast, to loiter
away an hour or two at a picture gallery — wjis to be infinitely
happy. Neither opera nor play, dinner nor dance, race-course
noT flower-show, was needed to complete the sum of Chi'istabel'a
bliss when Angus Hamleigh was "with her.
He had returned from Hydres, quietest among the southern
towns, wonderfully improved in health and strength. Even
Mrs. Tregonell and Miss Bridgeman perceived the change in
him.
* I think you must have been very HI when you came tc
Mount Royal, Mr. Hamleigh,' said Jesaie, one day. * You k)ok
IBO much better iaow.'
02 Mount Boyal.
*My life was empty then — it is full now, he answered.
• It is hope that keeps a man alive, and I had very little to hope
for when I went westward. How strange the road of life is I
and how little a man knows what is waiting for him round
the corner ! '
The house in Bolton Kow was charming ; just large enough
to be convenient, just small enough to be snug. At the bade,
the windows looked into Lord Somebody's garden — not quite
a tropical paradise — nay, even somewhat flavoured with bricka
and mortar — but still a garden, where, by sedulous art, the
gardeners kept alive ferns and flowers, and where trees,
warranted to resist smoke, put forth young leaves in the spring-
time, and only languished and sickened in untimely decay when
the London season was over, and their function as fashionable
trees had been fulfilled.
The house was furnished in a Georgian style, pleasant to
modem taste. The drawing-room was of the spindle-legged
order — satin-wood card tables ; groups of miniatures in oval
frames ; Japanese folding screen, behind which Belinda might
have played Bo-peep ; china jars, at whose fall Narcissa might
have inly suffered, while outwardly serene. The dining-room
was sombre and substantial. The bedrooms had been improved
by modem upholstery, for the sleeping apartments of our
ancestors leave .> good deal to be desired. All the windows were
full of flowers — inside and out there was the perfume and
colour of many blossoms. The three drawing-rooms, growing
smaller to a diminishing point, like a practical lesson in perspec-
tive, were altogether charming.
Major Bree had escorted the ladies to London, and was their
constant guest, camping out in a bachelor lodging in Jermyn
Street, and coming across Piccadilly every day to eat his luncheon
in Bolton Row, and to discuss the evening's engagements.
Long as he had been away from London, he acclimatized
himself very quickly — found out everything about everybody — •
what singers were beat worth hearing— what i)lays were best
worth seeing — what actoi-s should be praised — which pictures
should be looked at and talked about — what horses were likely to
win the notable races. He was a walking guide, a living hand-
book to fashionable London.
All Mi-s. Tregonell's old friends — all the Cornish people who
came to London — called in Bolton Bow ; and at every house
where the lady and her niece visited there were new introductions,
whereby the widow's visiting list widened like a circle in the
water — and cards for dances and evening parties, afternoons and
dinners were super-abundant. Christabel wanted to see every-
thing. She had ouite a country girl's taste, and cared much
for the theatre ana the opera than to be dressed in a new guwb,
In Society, 68
and to be crushed in a crowd of other young women in new
gowns — or to sit still and be admired at a stately dinner. Nor
was she particularly interested in the leaders of fashion, their
ways and manners — the newest professed or professional beauty —
the last social scandal. She wanted to see the great city of which
rihe had read in history — the Tower, the Savoy, Westminster
Hall, the Abbey, St Paul's, the Temple — the London of Elizabeth,
the still older London of the Edwards and Henries, the house in
which Milton was bom, the organ on which he played, the place
where Shakespeare's Theatre once stood, the old Inn whence
Chaucer's Pilgrims started on their journey. Even Dickeiis^s
London — the London of Pickwick and Winkle — the Saracen's
Head at which Mr. Squeers put up — had charms for her.
* Is everything gone ] ' she asked, piteously, after being told
how improvement had effaced the brick and mortar background
•f English History.
Yet there still remained enough to fill her mind with solemn
thoughts of the past. She spent long hours in the Abbey, with
Angus and Jessie, looking at the monuments, and recalling the
lives and deeds of long vanished heroes and statesmen. The
Tower, and the old Inns of Coui-t, were full of interest. Her
cmiosity about old houses and streets was insatiable.
* No one less than Macaulay could satisfy you,' said Angus,
one day, when his memory was at fault. *A man of infinite
reading, and infallible memory.'
* But you have read so much, and you remember a great deal.'
They had been prowling about the Whitehall end of the
town in the bright early morning, before Fashion had begun to
stir herself faintly among her down pillows. Christabel loved
the parks ajid streets while the freshness of sunrise was still upor
them — and these early walks were an institution.
* Where is the Decoy ? ' she asked Angus, one day, in St
James's Park ; and on being interrogated, it appeared that she
meant a cerUiin piece of water, described in * Peveril of the Peak.'
All this part of London was peopled with Scott's heroes and
heroines, or with suggestions of Goldsmith. Here Fenelia
danced before good-natured, loose-living llowley. Here Nigel
stood aside, amidst the crowd, to see Charles, Prince of Wales,
and his ill-fatetl favourite, Buckingham, go by. Here the Citizen
of the World met Beau Tibbs and the gentleman in black. For
Christabel the Park was like a scene in a stage play.
Then, after breakfast, there were long drives into fair
suburban haunts, where they escaped in some degree from
London smoke and London restraints of all kinds, where they
could charter a boat, and row up the river to a still fairei scene,
and picnic in some rushy creek, out of ken of society, ai>c* bo
almost as recklessly gay as if they had been at TintaguL
y
64 Mount BoycU.
These were the days Angus loved best. The days ap<»
which he and his betrothed turned their backs upon London
■ociety, and seemetl sua far away from the outsidv world as ever
they had been upoai tlie wild western coast. Like most men
educated at Eton and Oxford, and brought up in the neighbour-
hood of the metropolis, Angus loved the Thames with a love that
was almost a passion.
* It is my native country,* he said ; * I have no other. All
the pleasantest associations of my boyhood and youth are inter-
woven with the river. When I die, niy spirit ought to haunt
tljese shores, like that ghost of the * Scholar Gipsy/ which you
have read about in Arnold's poem.*
He knew every bend and reach of the river — every tribu-
tary, creek, and eyot — almost every row of pollard willows,
standing stunted and grim along the bank, like a line of rugged
old men. He knew where the lilies grew, and where ther«
were chances of trout. The haunts of monster pike were familijvr
to him — indeed, he declared that he knew many of these gentle-
men personally — that they were as old as the Fontainebleiiu carp,
and bore a charmed life.
* When I was at Eton I knew them all by sight,* he said.
* There was one which I set my heart u])on landing, but he was
ever so much stronger and cleverer than I. If I had caught him
I should have worn his skin ever after, in tlie pride of niy
iaeart, like Hercules with his lion. But lie still inhabits the
same creek, still sulks among the same rushes, and devours the
gentler members of the finny race by shoals. We christened
him Dr. Parr, for we knew he was preternaturally old, and
we tliou^ht he must, from mere force of association, be a pro-
found scnolar.'
Mr. TTamleigh was always finding reasons for these country
excursions, which he declared were the one sovereign antidote
for the poisoned atmosphere of crowded rooms, and the evil
eliecta of late hours.
'You wouldn't like to see Christabel fade and languish like
the flowei-s in your drawing-room,* he urged, when Mrs. Tre-
gonell wanted her niece to make a roun^ of London visits,
instead of going down to Maidenhead on the coach, to lunch
somewhere up the river. Not at Skindle's, or at any other
hotel, but in the lazy sultry quiet of some sequestered nook
below the hanging woods of Clieveden. * I'm sure you can
spare her just for to-day — such a perfect si)ring day. It would
be a crime to waste such sunlight and such balmy air in town
drawing-rooms. Could not you strain a point, dear Miu Tre.
gonell, ami come with us ? "
Aunt Diana shook hsr head. No, the latigue would be too
aauck— ah« had lived such a quiet life at Mount Koyal, thut a
In Society, 65
very little exertion tired her. Besides she had some calls to
make ; and then there was a dinner at Lady Bulteers, to which
she must take Cbristabel, and an evening party afterwai'ds,
Ohristabel shrugged her shoulders impatiently.
*1 am beginning to hate parties,' she said. *They are
amusing enough when one is in them — but they are all alike —
and it would be so much nicer for us to live O'lr own lives, and
go wherever Angus likes. Don't you think you might defer the
calls, and come with us to-day. Auntie dear?'
Auntie dear shook her head.
* Even if I were equal to the i'atigue. Belle, I coiddn't defer
my visits. Thursday is Lady Onslow's day — and Mrs. Trevan-
nioii's day — and Mrs. Vansittart's day— and when people have
been so wonderfully kind to us, it would be uncivil not to
call.'
* And you will sit in stiliiug drawing-rooms, with the curtains
lowered to shut out the sunlight — and you will drink ever so
much more tea than is good for you — and hear a lot of people
prosing about the same things over and over again — Epsom and
the Opera — and Mrs. This and Miss That — and Mrs. Somebody'i
new book, which everybody reads and talks about, just aa
if there were not another book in the world, or as if the old
book counted for nothing,' concluded Christabel, contemptuously,
liaving by this time discovered the conventional quality of
kettle-drum conversations, wherein people discourse authorita-
tively about books they have not read, plays they have not seen^
and {)eople they do not know.
Mr. Hamleigh had his own way, and carried off Cbristabel
«ind Miss Bridgemun to the White Horse Cellar, with the
fd,ithf ul Major in attendance.
* You will bring Belle home in time to dress for lisudy
liulteel's dinner,' said Mi-s, Tregonell, impressively, as they were
departing. ' Mind, Major, I hold you responsible for her return.
You are the only sober person in the party. I believe Jessie
Bridgeman is as wild as a hawk, when she gets out of my sight.'
Jessie's shrewd grey eyes twmkled at the reproof.
* I am not very sorry to get away from Bolton Row, and
the fine ladies who come to see you — and who always look at
lue as much aa to say, ** Who is she ? — what is she ? — how did
ihe come here '/ " — and who are obviously sur])rised if I say
wiything intelligent — first, at my audacity in sjwaking before
company, and next that such a thing as I fthould have any
brains.'
* Nonsense, Jessie, how thin-skinned you are ; everybody
praises yon,* said Mrs. Tregonell, while they all waited on the
threshold for Christ^ibel to iwten her eight-button gloves — 9
delicate operation, in which ahe was aataiutud by Mr. Hamluijfh.
66 Mount Hoyal.
*How clever you are at buttoning gloves,* exclaimed
Christabel ; * one would think vou had served an apprenticeship.'
* That's not the first pair he has buttoned, I'll wager,* cried
Ihe Major, in his loud, hearty voice ; and then, seeing Angus
redden ever so slightly, and remembering certain rumours which
he had heard at his elub, the kindly bachelor regretted his
speech.
Happily, Christabel was engaged at this moment in kissing
her aunt, and did not observe Mr. Hamleigh's heightened colour.
Ten minutes later they were all seated outside the coach, bowling
down Piccadilly Hill on their way westward.
* In the good old days this is how you would have started for
Cornwall,* said Angus.
' I wish we were going to Cornwall now.*
* So do I, if your aunt would let us be married at that dear
little church in the glen. Christabel, when I die, if you have
the ordering of my funeral, be sure that I am buried in Minster
Churchyard.'
* Angus, don't,* murmured Christabel, piteously.
* Pearest, " we must all die — 'tis an inevitable chance — the
first Statute in Magna Charta — it is an everlasting Act of Par-
liament " — that's what he says of death, dear, who jested at all
things, and laid his cap and bells down one day in a lodging in
Bond Street — the end of which we passed just now — sad and
lonely, and perhaps longing for the kindied whom he had
forsaken,*
* You mean Sterne,' said Christabel. * Jessie and I hunted
for that house, yesterday. I think we all feel sorrier for him
than for many a better man.*
In the early afternoon they had reached their destination — a
lovely creek shaded by chestnut and alder — a spot known to few,
and rarely visited. Here, under green leaves, they moored their
boat, and lunched on the contents of a basket which had been
got ready for them at Skindle's — dawdling over the meal — taking
their ease — full of talk and laughter. Never had Angus
looked better, or talked more gaily. Jessie, too, waa at her
brightest, and had a great deal to say.
* It is wonderful how well you two get on,' said Christabel,
smiling at her friend's prompt capping of some bitter little speech
from Angus. * You always seem to understand each other so
quickly — indeed, Jessie seems to know what Angus is going to
»ay before the words are spoken. I can see it in her face.'
* Perhaps, that is because we are both cynics,' said Mr.
Hamleigh.
* Yes, that is no doubt the reason,* said Jessie, reddening a
little ; * the bond of sympathy between us is founded on oui* verj
poor opinion of our fellow-creatures.*
In Society. 67
But after this Miss Bridgeman became more silent, and
gave way much less than nsual to those sudden impulses of sharp
speech which Christabel had noticed.
They landed presently, and went wandering away into the
inland — a strange world to Christabel, albeit very familiar to
her lover.
* Not far from here there is a dell which is the most won-
derful place in the world for bluebells,' said Angus, looking at
his watch. *I wonder whether we should have time to walk
there.'
* Let ns try, if it is not very, very far,' urged Christabel. ' I
adore bluebelfe, and skylarks, and the cuckoo, and all the dear
country flowers and birds. I have been surfeited with hot-house
flowers and caged canaries since I came to London.'
A skylark was singing in the deep blue, far aloft, over the
little wood in which they were wandering. It was the loneliest,
loveliest spot ; and Christabel felt as if it would be agony to leave
it. She and her lover seemed ever so much nearer, dearer, more
entirely united here than in London drawing-rooms, where she
hardly dared to be civil to him lest society should be amused or
contemptuous. Here she could cling to his arm — ^it seemed a
strong and helpful arm now — ^and look up at his face with
love irradiating her own countenance, and feel no more ashamed
than Eve in the Garden. Here they could talk without fear of
being heard ; for Jessie and the Major followed at a most respect-
ful distance — just keeping the lovers in view, and no more.
Christabel ran back presently to say they were going to look
for bluebells.
* You'll crjtne, won't you ? ' she pleaded ; * Angus says th€
dell is not far off.'
* I don't believe a bit in his topography,' said the Major ; ' do
you happen to know that it is three o'clock, and that you are due
at a State dinner 1 '
* At eight,' cried Christabel, * ages away. Angus says the
train goes at six. We are to have some tea at Skindle's, at five.
We have two hours in which to do what we like.'
* There is the row back to Skindle's.'
' Say half an hour for that, which gives us ninety minutes for
the bluebells.'
* Do you count life by minutes, child 1 ' asked the Major.
* Yes, Uncie Oliver, when I am utterly happy ; for then erery
minute is precious.'
And then she and her lover went rambling on, talking,
laughing, poetising under the flickering shadowa and glancing
lights ; while the other two followed at a leisurely pace, like the
dull foot of reality following the winged heel of romance,
Jeoiie Bridgamaii wa« only twenty-seven, yet in her own miix^
68 Mount Royal.
H seemed bs if she were the Major's contemporary — nay,
indeed, his senior : for he had never known that grinding poverty
which ages the eldest daughter in a large shabby genteel family.
Jessie Bridgeman had been old in care before she left off pina*
fores. Her childish pleasure in the shabbiest of dolls had been
poisoned by a precocious familiarity with poor-rates and water-
rates — a sickening dread of the shabby man in pepper-and-Balt
tweed, with the end of an oblong account-book protruding from
his breast-pocket, who came to collect money that was never
ready for him, and departed, leaving a printed notice, like the
trail of the serpent, behind him. The first twenty years of J eaaie
Bridgeman's life had been steeped in poverty, every day, every
hour flavoured with the bitter taste of deprivation and the
world's contempt, the want of common comforts, the natural
longing for fairer surroundings, the ever-present dread of a still
lower deep in which pinching should become starvation, and even
the shabby home should be no longer tenable. With a father
whose mission upon this earth was to docket and file a cei-tain
class of accounts in Somerset House, for a salary of a hundred-
and-eighty pounds a year, and a bi-annual rise of five, a hai-mlesa
man, whose only crime was to have married young and made
himself responsible for an unanticipated family — * How could a
young fellow of two-and-twenty know that God waa going to
afflict him with ten children 1 ' Mr. Bridgeman used to observe
plaintively — ^with a mother whose life was one long domestic
drudgery, who spent more of her days in a back kitchen than is
consistent with the maintenance of personal dignity, and whose
only chance of an airing was that stem necessity which impelled
her to go and interview the tax-gatherer, in the hope of obtaining
* time ' — Jessie's opportimities of tasting the pleasures of youtt
had been of the rarest. Once in six months or so, perhaps, i
ihabby-genteel friend gave her father an order for some theatre,
which was in that palpable stage of ruin when orders are freely
given to the tavern loafer and the stage-door hanger-on — and
then, oh, what rapture to trudge from Shepherd's Bush to the
West End, and to spend a long hot evening in the gassy paradise
of the Upper Boxes ! Once in a year or so Mr. Bridgeman gave
his wife and eldest girl a dinner at an Italian Restaurant near
Leicester Square — a cheap little pinchy dinner, in which the
meagre modicum of meat and poultry was eked out by much
iauce, redolent of garlic, by delicious foreign bread, and too-
odorous foreign cheese. It waa a tradition in the family that
Mr. Bridgeman had been a great dinner-giver in his bachelor
days, and knew every restaurant in London.
* They don't forget me here, you see,' he said, when the sleek
Itaiian waiter brou^t him extra knives and forks for the dvaJI
portion which was to serve for thr«e.
In Society, 69
finch had been the utmost limit of Jessie's pleasures before
she answered .'vn advertisement in the Times, which stated that
% lady, living in a retired part of Cornwall, required the service!
of a young lady who could write a good hand, keep accounts, and
had Honie knowledge of housekeeping — who was willing, active,
theerful, and good-tempered. Salary, thirty pounds per annum.
It was not the first advertisement by many that Jessie had
answered. Indeed, slie seemed, to her own mind, to have been
doing notliing but answering advertisements, and hoping against
hope for a favourable reply, since her eighteenth birthday, when
it had been borne in upon her, as the Evangelicals say, that she
ought to go out into the world, and do something for her living,
making one mouth less to be tilled from the family bread-pan.
* Tiiere's no use t-ilking, mother,' she said, when Mrs. Bridgemaa
tried to prove that the bright useful eldest daughter cost nothing ;
* I eat, and food costs money. I have a dreadfully healthy appetite,
and if I could get a decent situation I should cost you nothing,
and should be able to send you half my salary. And now that
Milly is getting a big girl '
'She hasn't an idea of making heraelf useful,' sighed tie
mother ; * only yesterday she let the milkman ring three times
and then march away without leaving us a drop of milk, because
•he was too proud or to lazy to open the door, while Sarah and I
were up to our eyes in the wash.
* Perhaps she didn't hear him,' suggested Jessie, charitably.
* She must have heard his pails if she didn't hear him, said
Mrs. Bridgeman ; ' besides he " yooped," for I heard him, and
relied upon that idle child for taking in the milk. But put not
your trust in princes.' concluded the overworked matron, rather
vaguely.
' Salary, thii*ty pounds per annum^ repeated Jessiei treading
/he Coniish lady's advertisement over and over again, as if it
had been a charm ; * wh y that would be a perfect fortune ! think
what you could do with an extra fifteen pounds a year ! '
* My dear, it would make my life heaven. But you would
want all the money for your dress : you would have to bo always
nice. There would be dinner parties, no doubt, and you would
be jwked to come into the drawing-room of an evening,' said Mrs.
Bridgeman, whose ideas of the governess's social status wer«
derived solely from * Jane Eyre,'
Jessie's reply to the advertisement was straightforward aad
succinct, and she wi-ot« a fine bold hand. These two facta
favourably impressed Mrs. Tregonell, and of the three or four
dozen answers which her advertisement brought forth, Jessie's
pleased her the most. The young lady's references to her father's
landlord and the incumbent of the nearest church, were satia*
factory. So one bleak wintry morning Miss Bridgemaa lei)
70 Mount Eoyal,
Paddin^n in one of the Great Western's almost luxurious
third-clasa caniages, and travelled straight to Launceston, whence
« carriage — the very first private carriage she had ever sat in,
and every detail of which was a wonder and a delight to her —
conveyed her to Mount Royal.
That fine old Tudor manor-house, after the shabby ten-roomed
villa at Si^pherd's Bush — badly built, badly drained, badly
situated, badly furnished, always smelling of yesterday's dinner,
always damp and oozy with yesterday's rain — was almost too
beautiful to be real. For days after her arrival Jessie felt as if
she must be walking about in a dream. The elegancies and
luxuries of life were all new to her. The perfect quiet and order
of this country home ; the beauty in every detail — from the old
silver um and Worcester china which greeted her eyes on th«
breakfast-table, to the quaint little Queen Anne candlestick which
she carried up to her bedroom at night — seemed like a revelation
of a hitherto unknown world. The face of Nature — the hills
and the moors — the sea and the cliffs — was as new to her aa
all that indoor luxury. An occasional week at Eamsgate or
Southend had been aU her previous experience of this world's
loveliness. Happily, she was not a shy or awkward young
person. She accommodated herself with wonderful ease to her
altered surroundings — was not tempted to drink out of a finger-
glass, and did not waver for a moment as to the proper use
of her fish-knife and fork — took no wine — and ate moderately
of that luxurious and plentiful fare which was as new and
wonderful to her as if she had been transported from the
barren larder of Shepherd's Bush to that fabulous land where
the roasted piglings ran about with knivea and forks in their
backs, squeaking, in pig language, * Come, eat me ; come eat me.'
Often in this paradise of pasties and clotted cream, mountain
mutton and barn-door fowls, she thought with a bitter pang of
the hungry circle at home, with whom dinner was the exception
rather than the rule, and who made believe to think tea and
bloaters an ever so much cosier meal than a formal repast of
roast and boiled.
On the very day she drew her first quarter's salary — not
for worlds would she have anticipated it by an hour— Jessie
ran oflf to a farm she knew of, and ordered a monster hamper
to be sent to Rosslyn Villa, Shepherd's Bush — a hamper full
of chickens, and goose, and cream, and butter, with a big
eaflfron-flavoured cake for its crowning glory — such a cake bm
would delight the younger members of the household !
Nor did she forget her promise to send the over-tasked
house-mother half her earning *You needn't mind taking
|he money, dearest/ she wrote m the letter which enclosed the
Post-Offioe order. ' Mra. Tregonell has given me a lovely grey
In Society, 71
Bilk gown ; and I have bought a brown merino at Laonoeston,
and a new hat and jacket. You would stare to see how splen-
didly your homely little Jessie is dressed ! Christabel found
out the date of my birthday, and gave me a dozen of the
loveliest gloves, my favourite grey, with four buttons. A whole
dozen ! Did you ever see a dozen of gloves all at once, mother 1
You have no idea how lovely they look. I quite shrink from
breaking into the packet ; but I must wear a pair at church
next Sunday, in compliment to the dear little giver. If it
were not for thoughts of you and the brood, dearest, I HhoiilJ
be intensely happy here I The house is an ideal house — the
people are ideal people ; and they treat me ever so much better
than I deserve. I think I have the knack of being useful to
them, which is a great comfort ; and I am able to get on with
the servants — old servants who had a great deal too much of
their own way before I came — which is also a comfort It ia
not easy to introduce reform without making oneself detested.
Christabel, who has been steeping herself in French history
lately, calls me Turgot in petticoats — by which you will see
she has a high opinion of my ministerial talents — if you can
remember Turgot, poor dear ! amidst all your worries, added
Jessie, bethinking herself that her mother's book-learning had
gone to seed in an atmosphere of petty domestic cares — mending
— washing — pinch i ng — contri ving.
This and much more had Jessie Bridgeman written seven
years ago, while Mount Royal was still new to her. The
place and the people — at least those two whom she first knew
there — had grown dearer as time went on. When Leonard
came home from the University, he and his mother's factotum
did not get on quite so well as Mrs. Tregonell had hoped.
Jessie waa ready to be kind and obliging to the heir of
the house ; but Leonard did not like her — in the language of
the servants' hall, he *put his back up at her.* He looked
ujK)n her as an interloper and a spy, especially suspecting her
in the latter capacity, perhaps from a lurking consciousness that
some of his actions would not bear the fierce light of un-
friendly observation. In vain did his mother plead for her
favourite.
* You have no idea how good she is ! ' said Mrs. TregonelL
* You're perfectly right there, mother ; I have not,' retorted
Leonard.
* And 80 useful te me I I should be lost without her ! '
* Of course ; thaf s exactly what she wants : creeping and
crawling — and pinching and saving — docking your tradesmen't
accounts — grinding your servants — fingering vour income — till,
by-and-by, she will contrive to finger a good deal of it into
her own pocket I That's the way they all begin— thmt'f the
73 Mount Royal
way the man in the play, Sir Giles Overreach's inaii, bet^'aii, 3*011
may he sure — till by-and-by he got Sir Ciile.s under his thumb.
And that's the way Miss Bridgeman will serve you. I wonder
you are so sliort-sighted.'
Weak i\» Mrs. Tregonell was in her love for her son, she was
too stiuincli to be set against a pennon she liked by any such
assertions as these. She was quite able to form her own opinion
about Miss Bridgeman's character, and she found the girl
straight as an arrow — candid almost to insolence, yet pleasant
withal; i ndustrious, clever — sharp as a needle in all domestic
details— able to manage pounds as carefully as she had managed
pence and sixp)ences.
' Mother used to give me the housekeeping purse,* she said,
* and I did what I liked. 1 was always Clumcellor of the Ex-
chequer. It was a very small exchequer ; but I learnt the habit
of spending and managing, and keeping acc()uiit«i.'
While active aiul busy about domestic affairs, verifying
accounts, settling supplies and expenditures with the cook-
housekeeper, making herself a verit^ible clerk of the kitchen,
and overlooking the housemaids in the finer det-ails of their
work, Miss Bridgeman still found ample leisure for the improve-
ment of her mind. In a quiet country house, where family
f)rayer8 are read at eight o'clock every morning, the days are
ong enough for all things. Jessie had no active share in
Christabel's education, which was Airs. Tregonell's delight and
care ; but she contrived to learn what Christabel learnt — tc
study with her and read with her, and often to outrun her in
the pursuit of a favourite subject. They learnt German
together, they read good French books togetJier, and were com-
panions in the best sense of the word. It was a hapjiy life —
monotonous, uneventful, but a placid, busy, all-s^itisfying life,
which Jessie Bridgeman led during those six yefirs and a half
which went before the advent of Angus Hamleigh at Mount
Royal. The companion's salary had long ago been doubled, and
Jessie, who had no caprices, and whose wants were modest, w;us
able to send forty pounds a year to Shepherd's Bush, and found
a rich reward in tne increased cheerfulness of the lettera from
home.
Just 80 much for Jessie Bridgem;ui'8 history as she walks by
Major Bree's aide in the sunlight, with a sharply cut face,
impi-essed with a gravity beyond her years, and marked with
precocious lines that were drawn there by the iron hand of
poverty before she had emerged from girlhood. Of late, even
amidst the elegant luxuries of May Fair, in a life given over to
amusement, among flowers and bright scenery, and music and
pictures, those lin»» had been growing deef)er — lines that hinted
%% » secret c^Tp,
In Society. 73
* Isn't it delightful to see them together!' said the Major,
looking after those happy lovers with a benevolent smile.
' Yes ; I suppose it is very beautiful to see such perfect
happiness, like Juan and Haidee before Lambro swooped down
upon them,' returned Miss Bridgeman, who was too outspoken
to be ashamed of having read Byron's epic.
Major Bree had old-fashioned notions about the books women
Bh«uid and should not read, and Byron, except for elegant
extracts, was in his Index expurgatoriut. If a woman was
allowed to read the * Giaour,' she would ineviUibly read ' Don
Juan,' he argued ; there would be no restraining her, after she
had tasted blood — no use in offering her another })oet, and
saying. Now you can rsad ' Tlialaba,' or * Peter Bell.'
'They were so happy!' said Jessie, dreamily, *' so young,
and one so imiocent ; and then came fear, severance, despair, and
death for the innocent sinner. It is a terrible story ! '
' Fortunately, there is no tyrannical father in this case,*
replied the cheerful Major. * Everybody is pleased with the
engagement — everything smiles upon the lovers.'
' No, it is all sunshine,' said Jessie ; * there is no shadow, if
Mr. Hamleigh is as worthy of her as we all think him. Yet
there was a time when you spoke rather disparagingly of him.'
* My gossiping old tongue shaU be cut out for repeating club
f»candals ! Hamleigh is a generous-hearted, noble-natured
fellow, and I am not afraid to ti'ust him with the fate of a girl
whom I love almost as well ;is if she were my own daughter.
I don't know whether all men love their daughters, by the bye.
There are daughters and daughters — I have seen some that it
would be tough work to love. But for Christabel my affection
Is really parental. I have seen her bud and blossom, a beautiful
tiving flower, a rone in the garden of life.'
* ioid you think Mr. Hamleigh is worthy of her?* said Miss
Bridgeman, looking at him searchingly with her shrewd grey
eyes, ' in spite of w}\at you heard at the clubs ? '
' ' A Jico for what I heard at the clubs ! ' exclaimed the
Major, blowing the slander away from the tips of his fingers aa
if it hiid been thistledown. ' Every man has a past, and every
man outlives it. The present and the future are what we have
to consider. It is not a man's history, but the man himself,
that concerns us ; and I say that Angua Hamleigh is a good
man, a right-meaning man« a brave and generous man. If a
man is to be judged by his history, where would David be, I
should like to know? and yet David was the chosen of the
Lord ! ' added the Major, conclusively.
* I hope,' said Jessie, earnestly, with vague visions of intrigue
and murder conjured up in ber mind, *that Mr. Hainlei^,'h wjw
^erer m b«id »h David.'
74 Mount Boyal,
* No, no,' murmured the Major, * the circumstances of modem
times are se different, don't you see ? — an advanced civilization —
a greater respect for human life. Napoleon the First did a
good many queer things ; but you would not get a monarcli and
a commander-in-chief to act as David and Joab acted now-a-
days. Public opinion would be too strong for them. They
would be afraid of the newspapers.*
' Was it anything very dreadful that you heard at the clubs
three years ago 1 ' asked Jessie, still hovering about a forbidden
theme, with a morbid curiosity strange in one whose acta and
thoughts were for the most part ruled by common sense.
The Major, who would not allow a woman to r<^ad * Bon
Juan,' had his own ideas of what ought and ought not to be told
to a woman.
* My dear Miss Bridgeman,' he said, * T would not for worlds
pollute your ears with the ribald trash men talk in a club
smoking-room. Let it suffice for you to know that I believe in
Angus Hamleigh, although I have taken the trouble to make
myself acquainted with the follies of his youth.'
They walked on in silence for a little while after this, and
then the Major said, in a voice full of kindness :
* I think you went to see your own people yesterday, did you
not?'
' Yes ; Mrs. Tregonell was kind enough to give me a morn-
ing, and I spent it with my mother and sisters.'
The Major had questioned her more than once about her
home in a way which indicated so kindly an interest that it could
not possibly be mistaken for idle curiosity. And she had told
him, with perfect frankness, what manner of people her family
were — in no wise hesitating to admit their narrow means, and
the necessity that she should earn her own living.
* I hope you found them well and happy.'
* I thought my mother looked thin and weary. The girls
were wonderfully well — great, hearty, overgrown creatures ! I
felt myself a wretched little shrimp among them. As for happi-
ness — well, they are as happy as people can expect to be who
are very poor ! '
* Do you really think poverty is incompatible with happiness ? *
asked the Major, with a philosophical air ; * I have had a parti-
cularly happy life, and I have never been rich.'
*Ah, that makes all the difference!' exclaimed Jessie.
* You have never been rich, but they have always been poor.
You can't conceive what a gulf lies between those two positions.
You have been obliged to deny yourself a great many of th«
mere idle luxuries of life, I dare say — hunters, the latest
improvements in guns, valuable dogs, continental travelling;
but you have had enough for all the needful things — for neat-
In Society, 75
nesB, cleanliness, an orderly household* a well-kept flower-
garden, everything spotless and bright about you ; no slipshod
maid-of -all-work printing her greasy thumb upon your dishes-
nothing out at elbows. Your house is small, but of its kind it
is perfection ; and your garden — well, if I had such a garden in
such a situation I would not envy Eve the Eden she lost.'
* Is that really your opinion 1 * cried the enraptured soldier ;
* or are you saying this just to please me — to reconcile m© to my
jog-trot life, my modest surroundings ? '
* I mean every word I say.'
' Then it is in your power to make me richer in happiness
than Eothschild or Baring. Dearest Miss Bridgeman, dearest
Jessie, I think you must know how devotedly I love you ! Till
to-day I have not dared to speak, for my limited means would
not have allowed me to maintain a wife as the woman I love
ought to be maintained; but this morning's post brought me
the news of the death of an old Admiral of the Blue, who was
my father's first cousin. He was a bachelor like myself — left
the Navy soon after the signing of Sir Henry Pottinger's treaty
at Nankin in '42 — never considered himself well enough olf to
marry, but lived in a lodging at Devonport, and hoarded and
hoarded and hoarded for the mere abstract pleasure of ac-
cumulating his surplus income ; and the result of his hoarding
— combined with a little dodging of his investments in stocks and
shares — is, that he leaves me a solid four hundred a year in Great
Westerns. It is not much from some people's point of view,
but, added to my existing income, it makes me very comfortable.
I could aflford to indulge all your simple wishes, my dearest ! I
could afford to help your family ! '
He took her hand. She did not draw it away, but pressed
his gently, with the grasp of friendship.
* Don't say one word more — you are too good — you are the
best and kindest man I have ever known ! ' she said, * and I shall
love and honour you all my life ; but I shall never marry I I
made up my mind about that, oh ! ever so long ago. Indeed, I
never expected to be asked, if the truth must be told.*
' I understand,' said the Major terribly dashed. ' I am too
old. Don't suppose that I have not thought about that. I have.
But I fancied the difficulty might be got over. You are so
different from the common run of girls — so staid, so sensible, of
Buch a contented disposition. But I was a fool to suppose that
any girl of '
* Seven-and-twenty,* interrupted Jessie ; * it is a long way up
the hill of girlhood. I shall soon be going down on the other side.'
' At any rate, you are more than twenty years my junior. I
was a fool to forget that.'
* Dear Major Bree,' said Jessie, very earnestly, * believe me,
7^ Mount BoyaU
it is not for that reason, I say No. If you were as yoang — aa
young as Mr. Hamleigh — ^the answer would be just the same^
I shall never marry. There is no one, prince or peasant, whom
I care to marry. You are much too good a man to be married
for the sake of a happy home, for status in the world, kindly
companionship — all of which you could give me. If I loved you
as you ought to be loved I would aii6 wer proudly, Yes ; but J
honour you too much to give you lialf love.*
' Perhaps you do not know with how little I could be satis-
fied,' urged the Major, opposing what he imagined to be a
romantic scruple with the shrewd common-sense of his fifty years'
experience. * I waiit a friend, a companion, a helpmat»i, and I
am sure you could be all those to me. If I could only make you
happy ! '
' You could not ! ' interrupted Jessie, with cruel decisiveness,
•pray, never s])eak of this again, dear Major Bree. Your
friendship has been very pleasant to me ; it has been one of the
many charms of my life at Mount Royal. I would not lose it
for the world. And we axn always be friends, if you will only
remember that I have made up my mind — irrevocably — never to
marry.*
* I must needs obey you,' said the Major, deeply disappointed
out too unselfish to be angry. * I will not be importunate. Yet,
jne word I must say. Your future — if you do not marry — what
is that to be 1 Of course, so long as Mrs. Tregonell lives, your
home will be at Mount Royal — but I fear that does not settle
the question for long. My dear friend does not appear to me a
long-lived woman. I have seen traces of premature decay.
When Christabel is married, and LIrs. Tregonell is dead, where
is your home to be *
* Providence will find me one,' answered Jessie, cheerfully.
Providence is wonderfully kind to plain little spinsters with a
knack of making themselves useful. I have been doing my best
to educate myself ever since I have been at Mount Royal. It in
BO easy to improve one's mind when there are no daily worries
about the tax-gatherer and the milkman — and when I am called
upon to seek a new home, I can go out as a governess— and
drink the cup of life as it is mixed for governesses — as Charlotte
Broiito says. Perhaps I shall write a novel, aa she did, although
I have not her genius.'
* I would not be sure of that,' siiid the Major. * I believe
there is some kind of internal fire burnnig you up, although you
are outwardly so quiet, I think it would have been your salvation
to accept the jog-tn)t life and peaceful home I have offered you.*
'Very likely,' replied Jessie, with a shrug and a sigh. ' But
how many jmople reject siilvation. They would rather be
nuKseiablH in their own way than happy in anybody else's way.*
In Socieiy. 77
The Major answered never a word. For him all the glory of
th« day had faded. He walked Blowly on by Jessie's side,
meditating upon her words — wondering why she had so r'^so-
hitely refused him. There had been not the least wavering —
she had not even seemed to be taken by surprise — her mind had
btjen made up long ago — not him, nor any other man, would
she wed.
' Some early disappointment, perhaps,* mused the Major — * a
curate at Shepherd's Bush — ^those young men have a great deal
to answer for.*
They came to the hyacinth dell — an earthly paradise to the
two happy lovers, who were sitting on a mossy bank, in a sheet
of azure bloom, which, seen from the distance, athwart young
trees, looked like blue, bright water.
To the Major the liazel copse and the bluebells — tlie young
oak plantation — and all the lovely details of mosses and flowering
gijusses, and stany anemones — were odious. He felt in a huiTy
t<) get back to his club, and steep himself in London pleasures.
All the benevolence seemed to h.ive been crushed out of him.
Cliristabel siiw that her old friend was out of spirits, and con-
trived to be by his side on their way back to the boat, trying to
cheer him with sweetest words and loveliest smiles.
' Have we tired you i ' she asked. ' The afternoon is very
warm.'
* Tired me ! You forget how I ramble over the hills at home.
No ; I am just a tritle put out — but it is nothing. I had news
of a death this morning — a death that makes me richer by four
hundred a year. If it were not for respect for my dead cousin
wlio so kindly made ine his heir, I think I should go to-night to
the most rowdy theatre in London, just to put myself in spirits
* Wliicli are the rowdy theatres, Uncle Oliver? '
*WelI, perhaps I ought not to use such a word. The theatres
are all good in their way — but there are theatres and theatres.
I should choose one of those to which the young men go night
after night to see the same piece — a burlesque, or an opera boulle
— plenty of smart jokes and pretty girls.'
* Why have you not tiiken me to those theatres ? '
* We have not come to them yet. You have se^n Shakespeare
and modem comedy — which is rather a weak material as com-
pared with Sheridan — or even with Colman and Morton, v^hose
t>lays were our staple entertainment when I waa a boy. You
lave heard all the opera singers ? *
* Yes, you have been very good. But I want to fee " Cupid
and Psyche" — two of my partners last night talked to me of
" Cupid and Psyche," and were astounded that I liad not seen
it. 1 felt quite ashamed of my ignorance. I asked one of my
partners, who was piuticularly enthusiastic, to tell me aull alxmt
79 Mount Boyak
the play — ^and he did— to the best of his ability, which vraa
not great — and he said that a Miss Mayne — Stella Mayiie —
wjjo plays Psyche, is simply adorable. She is the lovelieMl
woman in London, he says — and was greatly surprised that she
had not been pointed out to me in the Park. Now really.
Uncle Oliver, this is very remiss in you — you who are so clever
in showing me famous people when we are driving in the Park.'
*My dear, we have not happened to see her — that is all,'
replied the Major, without any responsive smile at the bright
young face smiling up at him.
* You have seen her, I suppose ? '
* Yes, I saw her when I was last in London.'
« Not this tune r
* Not this time.*
*You most unenthusiastic person. But, I understand your
motive. You have been waiting an opportunity to take Jessi«
and me to see this divine Psyche. Is she absolutely lovely ? '
* Loveliness is a matter of opinion. She ib generally accepted
as a particularly pretty woman.'
* When will you take me to see her ? *,
*I have no idea. You have so many engagements — your
aunt is always making new ones. I can do nothing without
her permission. Surely you like dancing better than sitting
in a theatre 1 '
* No, I do not. Dancing is delightful enough — but to be in
a theatre is to be in fairy-land. It is like going into a new
world. I leave myself, and my own life, at the doors — and go
to live and love and suifer and be glad with the people in tlie
play. To see a powerful play — really well acted — such acting
as we have seen — is to live a new life from end to end in a few
hoiii-s. It is like getting the essence of a lifetime without any
of the actual pain — for when the situation is too terriMe, one
can pinch oneself and say — it is only a dream — an acted dream.'
'If you like powerfuV plays— plays that make you tremble
and cry — you would not care twopence for " Cupid and Psyche," '
said Major Bree. * It is something between a burlesque and t.
fairy comedy — sl most frivolous kind of entertainment, I believe.*
* I don't care how frivolous it is. I have set my heart upon
seeing it. I don't want to be out of the fajshion. If you won't
get me a box at the — wliere is it I '
* The Kaleidoscope Theatre.'
' A i the Kaleidoscope ! I shall ask Angus.'
* Please don't I — I shall be seriously offended if you do.
Let me arrange the business with your aunt. If you really want
fco see the piece, I suppose you must see it — but not unless your
aunt likes.
' Dear, dearest, kindest ancle Oliver 1 ' cried Christabel,
In Socmty, 99
Bqueezing his arm. *From my childhood upwards yon have
always fostered my self-will by the blindest indulgence. I was
afraid that, all at once, you were going to be unkind and
thwart me.'
Major Bree was thoughtful and silent for the rest of the
afternoon, and although Jessie tried to be as sharp-spoken and
vivacious as usual, the effort would have been obvious to any
two people properly qualified to observe the actions and expression/i
of others. But Angus and Christabel, being completely absorbed
in each other, saw nothing amiss in their companions.
The river and the landscape were divine — a river for gods—
a wood for nymphs — altogether too lovely for mortals. Tea,
served on a little round table in the hotel garden, was perfect.
* How much nicer than the dinner to-night ! ' exclaimed
Christabel. *I wish we were not going. And yet, it will be
very pleasant, I daresay — a table decorated with the loveliest
flowers — ^well-dressed women, clever men, all talking as if there
was not a care in life — and perhaps we shall be next each
other,' added the happy girl, looking at Angus.
*What a comfort for me that I am out of it,' said Jessie.
•How nice to be an insignificant young woman whom nobody
ever dreams of asking to dinner. A powdered old dowager
did actually hint at my going to her musical evening the other
day when she called in Bolton Row. " Be sure you come early,"
she said gushingly, to Mrs. Tregonell and Christabel ; and then,
in quite another key, glancing at me, she added, and "if
Miss — er — er would like to hear my singers, I should be — er
^delighted," no doubt mentally adding, " I hope she won't have
the impertinence to take me at my word."'
* Jessie, you are the most evil-thinking person I ever knew,'
cried Christabel. * I'm sure Lady Millamont meant to be civil*
* Yob, but she did not mean me to go to her party,' retorted
Jessie.
The happy days — the society evenings— slipped by— dining
— ^music — dancing. And now came the brief bright season of
rustic entertainments — more dancing — ^more music — lawn-tennis
— archery — water parties — every device by which the summer
hours may chime in tune with pleasure. It was July — Christabel's
birthday had come and gone, bring a necklace of single diamonda
and a bajsket of June roses from Angus, and the most perfect
thing in Park hacks from Mrs. Tregonell — but Christabel's
wedding-day — more fateful than any birthday except the first —
had not yet been fixed — albeit Mr. Hamleigh pressed for a decision
i^)on this vital point.
* It was to have been at Midsummer,' he said, one day, when
he had been discussing the question tite-d-tite with Mr&
TregonelL
80 Mount Boyal,
' Indeed, Angus, I never said that. I told you that Chnstabel
would be twenty at Midsummer, and that I would not consent
to the marriage until after then.'
* Precisely, but surely that meant soon after ? I thought we
should be married early in July — ^in time to start for the Tyrol
in golden weathisr.*
* I never had any fixed date in my mind,' answered Mra.
Tregonell, with a pained look. Struggle with herself as she
might, this engagement of Christabel's waa a disappointment and
a grief to her. * I thought my son would have returned befoi-e
now. I should not like the wedding to take place in his absence,'
* And I should like him to be at the wedding,' said Angua ;
'but I think it will be rather hard if we have to wait for the ca-
price of af traveller who, from what Belle tells me of his letters ^
'Has Belle shown you any of his letters?' asked Miu
Tregonell, with a vexed look.
* No, I don't think he has written to her, has he ? '
* No, of course not ; hia letters are always addressed to mo.
He is a wretched correspondent.'
* I was going to say, that, from what Belle tells me, your son'a
movements appear most uncertain, "and it really does not seem
worth while to wait.'
* "When the wedding-day is fixed, I will send him a message
by the Atlantic cable. We must have him at the wedding.'
Mr. Hamleigh did not see the necessity ; but he was too kind
to say so. He pressed for a settlement as to the day — or week —
or at least the month in which his marriage was to take place —
and at last Mrs. Tregonell consented to the beginning of September.
They were all agreed now that the fittest marriage temple for
this particular bride and bridegroom was the little old church in
the heart of the hills — the church in which Christabel had
worshipped every Sunday, morning or afternoon, ever since she
could remember. It was Christabel's own desire to kneel before
that familiar altar on her wedding-day — in the solemn peacefulness
of that loved hill-side, with friendly honest country faces round
her — rather than in the midst of a fashionable crowd, attended
by bridesmaids after Gainsborough, and page-boys after Vandyke,
in an atmosphere heavy with the scent of Ess Bouquet.
Mr. Hamleigh ha4 no near relations — and albeit a whole
bevy of cousins and a herd of men from the clubs would have
gladly attended to witness his excision from the ranks of gilded
youth, and to bid him God-speed on his voyage to the domestie
naven — their presence at the sacrifice would have given him no
pleasure — while, on the other hand, there was one person resi-
dent in London whose presence would have c«usea him acutt
pain. Thus, each of the lovers pleading for the same favour
Mrs. Tregonell had forgoTie Iii^t" idea of a I^ondon wedding, and
In Society. 81
had come to see tiuit it would be very hard upon all the kindly
iiiiiabitunta of Fon-abury and Minster — Boscastle — Trevalga — -
Bossiney and Trevena — ^to deprive them of the pleasurable
excitement to be derived from Christabel's wedding.
Early in September, in the golden light of that lovely time,
they were to be ([uietly married in the dear old church, and then
away to Tyrolean woods and hills — scenes which, for Christabel,
seemed to be the chosen background of poetry, legend, and
romance, rather than'au actual country, provided with hotek, and
accessible by tourists. Once having consented to the naming of
an exact time, Mrs. Tregonell felt there could be no withdrawal
of her word. She telegraphed to Leonard, who was somewhere
in the Rocky Mountains, with a chosen friend, a couple of
English servants and three or four Canadians, — and who, were
he so minded, could be home in a month — [aid having desi)atched
t])is mes.-^;tge slie felL the last wrench had been endured. No-
tliing that could ever come afterwards — save death itself — could
give her sharper pain.
* Poor Leonard,' she replied ; * it will break his heai-t.*
In the years that were gone she had so identified herself with
her son's hopes and schemes, had so projected her thoughts into
his future— seeing him in her waking dreams as he would be in
the days to come, a model squire, possessed of all his father's old-
fashioned virtues, with a great deal of modern cleverness
8U{)eradded, a proud and happy husband, the father of a noble
race — she liad kej)t this vision of the future in her mind so long,
had dwelt u[)on it so fondly, had coloured it so brightly, that to
forego it now, to say to herself * This thing was but a dream
which I dreamed, and it can never be realized,' was like reliji-
quishing a part of her own life. She was a deeply religiona
woman, and if called upon to bear physical pain — to suffer the
agonies of a slow, incurable illness — she would have suffered
with the patience of a Clirlstiaii martyr, saying to herself, aa
brave Dr. Ai'nold said in the asjfony of his sudden fatal malady,
• Whom He loveth He cha.steneth,' — but she could not surrender'
the day-di'eam of her life without bitterest repining. In all her
love of Christabel, in all her careful education and moral
training of the niece to whom she had been as a mother, there
had been this leven of selfishness. She had been rearing a wife
for her son — such a wife as would be a man's better angel — a
guiding, restraining, elevating principle, so interwoven with his
life that he should never know himself in leading-striii<rs — aij
influence so gently exercised that he should never suspect that he
was influenced.
* Leonard has a noble heaii> and a fine manly character,* the
mother had often told herself ; * but he wants the a-ssociation
of a milder nature than his own. He ia just the kind of man to
83 Mount Jtcoyai,
be guided and governed by a good wife! — a wife who would
obey his lightest wish, and yet rule him always for good.'
Slie had seen how, when Leonard had been disposed to act
unkindly or illiberally by a tenant, Christftbel had been able to
persuade him to kindness or generosity — how, when he had set
his face against going to church, being minded to devote Sunday
morning to the agreeable duty of cleaning a favourite gun, or
physicking a favourite spaniel, or greasing a cherished pair of
fiahing-boots, Christabel had taken him there — how she had
softened and toned down his small social discourtesies, checked
his tendency to strong language — ^and, as itiWeffi?, expurgated,
edited, and amended liim.
And having seen and rejoiced in this Jaiaste of things, it was
very hard to be told that another had won the wife she had
moulded, after her own fashion, to be the gladness and glory of
her son's life ; all the harder because it was her own short-sighted
folly which had brought Angus Hamleigh to Mount Royal,
All through that gay London season — for Christabel a time of
unclouded gladness — carking care had been at Mrs. Tregonell'a
heart. She tried to be just to the niece whom she dearly loved,
and who had so tenderly and fully repaid her affection. Yet she
coiiM not help feeling as if Christabel's choice was a personal
injury — nay, almost treachery and ingratitude. * She must have
known that I meant her to be my son's wif^/ she said to herself ;
* yet she takes advantage of my poor boy's absence, and gives
herself to the first comer.'
* Surely September is soon enough,' she said, pettishly, when
Angus pleaded for an earlier date. * You will not have known
Christabel for a year, even then. Some men love a girl for half
a life-time before they win her.'
'But it was not my privilege to know Christabel at the
beginning of my life,' replied Angus. * I made the most of my
opportunities by loving her the moment I saw her.'
' It is impossible to be angry with you,' sighed Mrs. TregonelL
* You are so like your father.
That was one of the worst hardships of the case. Mrs.
f regonell could not help liking the man who had thwarted the
dearest desire of her heart. She could not help admiring him,
and making comparisons between him and Leonard — not to the
advantage of her son. Had not her first love been given to his
father— the girl's romantic love, ever so much more fervid and
Intense than any later passion —the love that sees ideal perfectioa
ui a lovor 9
Cupid and Psyche. 99
CHAPTER VII.
OUPID AND PSTCHB.
^N ttll the bright June weather, Christabel had been too busy
and too happy to remember her caprice about Cupid and Psyche,
But just after the Henley week — which to some thousands, and
to these two lovers, had been as a dream of bliss — a magical
mixture of simlight and balmy airs and flowery meads, fine
gowns and fine luncheons, nigger singers, stone-breaking athletes,
gipsy sorceresses, eager to read high fortunes on any hand for
half-a-crown, rowing men, racing men, artiste, actors, poets,
critics, swells — just after the wild excitement of that watery
saturnalia, Mr. Hamleigh had occasion to go to the North of
Scotland to see an ancient kinswoman of his father — ^an eccentric
maiden aunt — who had stood for him, by proxy, at the baptismaJ
font, and at the same time announced her intention of leaving
him her comfortable fortime, together with all those snuflf-mulls,
quaighs, knives and forks, spoons, and other curiosities of Cale-
donia, which had been in the family for centuries — provided
always that he grew up with a high opinion of Mary Stuart, and
religiously believed the casket letters to be the vile forgeries of
George Buchanan. The old lady, who was a kindly soul, with a
broad Scotch tongue, had an inconvenient habit of sending for
her nephew at odd times and seasons, when she imagined her-
self on the point of death — and he was too kind to turn a deaf
ear to this oft-repeated cry of ' wolf ' — lest, after making light of
her summons, he should hear that the real wolf had come and
devoured the harmless, affectionate old lady.
So now, just when London life was at its gayest and brightest,
when the moonlit city after midnight looked like fairy-land, and
the Thames Embankment, with its long chain of glittering
lamps, gleaming golden above the sapphire river, was a scene vu
dream about, Mr. Hamleigh had to order his portmanteau and
a hansom, and drive from the Albany to one of the great railway
stations in the Euston Road, and to curl himsef up in his comer
of the limited mail, scarcely to budge till he was landed at Inver-
ness. It was hard to leave Christabel, though it were only for
a week. He swore to her that his absence should not outlast a
week, unless the grisly wolf called Death did indeed claim hia
victim.
* I know I shall find the dear old soul up and hearty,' he said,
lightly, * devouring Scotch coUops, or haggis, or cock-a-leeky, or
Bomething equally loathsome, and offering me some of that extra-
ordinary soup which she always talks of in the plural " Do
84 Mount Royal.
have a few more broth, Angus ; they're very good the day." Bat
she is a sweet old woman, despite her barbarities, and one of the
happiest days of my life will be that on which I take you to see her.*
* And if— if she is not very ill, you will come back soon,
won't you, Angus,' pleaded Christabel.
* As soon as ever I can tear myself away from the collops and
the few broth. If I find the dear old impostor in rude health,
as I quite expect, I will hob and nob with her over one glass of
toddy, sleep one night under her roof, and then across the Border
^a^ fast as the express will carry me.'
So they parted ; and Angus had scarcely left Bolton Row an
hour, when Major Bree came in, and, by some random flight
of fancy, Christabel remembered ' Cupid and Psyche.'
The three ladies had just come upstairs after dinner. Mrs.
Tregonell was enjoying forty winks in a low capacious chair,
near an open window, in the first drawing-room, softly lit by
shaded Carcel lamps, scented with tea-roses and steplianotis.
Christabel and Jessie were in the tiny third room, where
there was only the faint light of a pair of wax candles on
the mantelpiece. Here the Major found them, when he
came creeping in from the front room, where he had refrained
from disturbmg Mrs. Tregonell.
* Auntie is asleep,' said Christabel. *We must talk in
Rubdued murmurs. She looked sadly tired after Mrs. Dulcimer's
garden party.'
I ought not to have come so early,* apologize<l the Major.
* Ye.s you ought ; we are very glad to have you. It is
dreadfully dull without Angus.'
* What ! you begin to miss him alreiidy ? *
* Already!' echoed Christabel. 'I missed him before the
sound of his cab wheels was out of the street. 1 have been
missing him ever since.'
* Poor little Belle 1 '
* And he is not half-way to Scotland yet,' she sighed.
* How long and slow the hours will be ! You must do all
you Ci»n to amuse me. I shall want distractions— dissipation
even. If we wore at home I should go and wander up by
Willapark, and talk to the gulls. Here there is nothing to
do. Another stupid garden party at Twickenham to-morrow,
exactly oi)])osite the one to-Hay at Kichmond — the only variety
being that we shall be on the nortli bank of the rivrr instead
of the south bank— a prosy dinner in Regent's Park the
day after. Let me see, said Christabel, suddenly animated.
' We aie quite free for to-moirow evening. We can go and see
' Cupid and Psyche,' and I can tell Angus all about it when he
X)me8 back. Please get us a nice see-oJ^le box, like a, dmr
«bUging Uncle Oliver, as you are '
CV''pid and PsycTw, 85
* Of course I am obliging,' groaned tho Major, * but the most
obliging person that ever was can't perform impossibilities. If
fOM want a box at the Kaleidoscope you must engage one for
to-morrow month — or to-morrow six weeks. It is a mere
bandbox of a theatre, and everybody in London wants to see
this farrago of nonsense illustrated by pretty women.*
* You have seen it, I suppose ? *
*Yes, I dropped in one night with an old naval friend
who had taken a stall for his wife, which she was not able to
occupy.'
* Major Bree, you are a very selfieh person,* said Christabel,
straightening her slim waist, and drawing. herself up with mock
dignity, ' You have seen this play yourself, and you are artful
enough to tell us it is not worth seeing, just to save yourself
the trouble of hunting for a box. Uncle Oliver, that is not
chivalry. I used to think you were a chivalrous person.*
' Is there anything improper in the play ? ' asked Jessie,
striking in with her usual bluntness — never afraid to put her
thoughts into speech. *Is that your reason for not wishing
Christabel to see it ? '
'No, the piece is perfectly correct,' stammered the Major,
' there is not a word '
' Then I think Belle's whim ought to be indulged,' said Jessie,
* especially as Mr. Hamleigh's absence makes her feel out of
spirits.'
The Major murmured something vague about the difficulty
of getting places with less than six weeks' notice, whereupon
Chnstabel told him, with a dignified air, that he need not
trouble himself any further.
But a young lady who has plenty of money, and who has been
accustomed, while dutiful and obedient to her elders, to have
her own way in all essentials, is not so easily satisfied as the
guileless Major supposed. As soon as the West-end shops were
open next morning, before the jewellers had set out their
dazzling wares — those diamond parurea and rividres, which are
always inviting the casual lounger to step in and buy them —
those goodly chased claret jugs, and Queen Anne tea-kettlee,
and mighty venison dishes, which seemed to say, this is an
age of luxury, and we are indispensable to a gentleman's table
— before those still more attractive shops] which deal in hundred-
guinea dressing-cases, jasper inkstands, ormolu paper-weights,
lapis lazuli blotting-books, and coral powder-boxes — had laid
themselves out for the tempter's work — Miss Courtenay and
Miss Bridgman, in their neat morning attire, were tripping from
library to libraiy, in quest of a box at the Kaleidoscope for that
very evening.
Th^y found wliat they wanted |n Bon4 Street, hsulj ^pmfV
86 Mount Boyal.
body had sent back her box by a footman, just ten minutei
ago, on account of Lord Somebody's attack of gout. Th«
librarian could have sold it were it fifty boxes, and at a fabulous
price, but he virtuously accepted four guineas, which gave him
a premium of only one guinea for his trouble — and ChristabeJ
«vent home rejoicing.
*It will be such fun to show the Major that we are cleverer
than he,' she said to Jessie.
Miss Bridgeman was thoughtful, and made no reply to this
remark. She was pondering the Major's conduct in this small
matter, and it seemed to her that he must have some hidden
reason for wishing Christabel not to see * Cupid and Psyche.*
That he, who had so faithfully waited upon all their fancies,
taking infinite trouble to give them pleasure, could in this matter
be disobliging or indifferent seemed hardly possible. There
must be a reason ; and yet what reason could there be to taboo
a piece which the Major distinctly declared to be correct, and
which all the fashionable world went to see ? * Perhaps ther*^
is something wrong with the drainage of the theatre,* Jessie
thought, speculating vaguely — a suspicion of typhoid fever, which
the Major had shrunk from mentioning, out of respect for
feminine nerves.
* Did you ever tell Mr. Hamleigh you wanted to see * Cupi4
and Psyche*? asked Miss Bridgeman at last, sorely exercised
in spirit — ^fearful lest Christabel was incurring some kind of
peril by her persistence.
* Yes, I told him ; but it was at a time when we had a good
many engagements, and I think he forgot all about it. Hardly
like Angus, was it, to forget one's wishes, when he is generally
so eager to anticipate them 1 *
* A strange coincidence ! ' thought Jessie. Mr. Hamleigh
and the Major had been unanimous in their neglect of this
particular fancy of Christabel's.
At luncheon Miss Courtenay told her aunt the whole story —
how Major Bree had been most disobliging, and how she had
circumvented him.
* And my revenge will be to make him sit out * Cupid and
Psyche * for the second time,' she said, lightly, * for he must be
our escort. You will go, of course, dearest, to please me ? '
* My pet, vou know how the heat of a theatre always exhausts
me I ' pleaded Mrs. Tregonell, whose health, long delicate, had
been considerably damaged by her duties as chaperon. * When
you are going anywhere with Angus, I like to be seen with you ;
but to-night, with the Major and Jessie, I shall not be wanted.
I can enjoy an evening's rest.'
* But do you enjoy that long, blank evening. Auntie ?' asked
Christabel, looking; anxiously at her aunt's somewhat careworn
Cupid and Psycht. 87
face. People who have one solitary care make so much of it,
nurse and fondle it, as if it were an only child. * Once or twice
when we lia\ e let you have your own way and stay at home
you have looked kSO pale and melancholy when we came back, aa
if you had been brooding upon sad thoughts all the evening.*
* Sad thoughts will come, Belle.'
* They ought not to come to you. Auntie. What cause have
you for sadness ? '
' I have a dear son far away, Belle — don't you think that is
cause enough % '
* A son who enjoys the wild sports of the West ever so much
better than he enjoys his home ; but who will settle down
by-and-by into a model country Squire.'
* I doubt that, ChristabeL I don't think he will ever settle
down — now.*
There was an emphasis — an almost angry emphasis — upon the
last word which told Chnstabel only too plainly what her aunt
meant. She could guess what disappointment it was that her
aunt sighed over in the long, lonely evenings ; and, albeit the
latent resentfulness in Mrs. Tregonell's mind was an injustice,
her niece could not help being sorry for her.
* Yes, dearest, he will — he will,' she said, resolutely. * He
will have his fill of shooting bisons, and all manner of big and
small game, out younder ; and he will come home, and maiTy
some good sweet girl, who will love you only just a little less
than I do, and he will be the last grand example of the old-
fashioned country Squire — ^a race fast dying out ; and he will be
as much respected as if the power of the Norman Botterels still
ruled in the land, and he had the right of dealing out high-handed
justice, and immuring his fellow-creatures in a dungeon imder his
drawing-room.'
* I would rather you would not talk about him,' answered the
widow, gloomily ; * you turn everything into a joke. You forget
that in my uncertainty about his fate, every thought of him ia
fraught with pain.'
Belle hung her head, and the meal ended in silence. After
luncheon came dressing, and then the drive to Twickenham, with
Major Bree in attendance. Christabel told him of her success aa
they drove through the Park to Kensington.
* I have the pleasure to invite you to a seat in my box at the
Kaleidoscope this evening,' she said.
* What box?'
* A box which Jessie and I secured this morning, before yoa
had finished your breakfast.'
* A box for this evening ? '
* For this evening.'
' I wonder you ctyre to |(o to a theatre without Hamleigh.*
S8 Mount Boyal
*It fa very cmel of you to say that!' exclaimed Chri^tabel,
hor eyea brightening with girlish teai-s, which her pride checked
before they could fall. * You ought to know that I am wretched
without him — and that I want to lose the sense of my misery in
dreamland. The theatre for me is what opium was for Coleridge
and De Quincey.'
^I understand,' said Major Bree ; * "you are'not merry, but
you do beguile the thing you are by seeming otherwise." '
* You will go with us ? '
* Of course, if Mrs. Tregonell does not object.*
* I shall be very gi-ateful to you for taking care of them,*
answered the dowager languidly, as she leant back in her carriage
— a fine example of handsome middle-age ; gracious, elegant,
bearing every mark of good birth, yet with a worn look, as of one
for whom fading beauty and decline of strength would come too
swiftly, I know I shall be tired to death when we get back to town.'
* I don't think London Society suits you so well as the
monotony of Mount Royal,' said Major Bree.
' No ; but I am glad Cliristabel has had her first season.
People have been extremely kind. I never thought we should
liave so many invitations.*
* You did not know that beauty is the ace of trumps in the
game of society.'
The garden party was as other parties of the same genus :
strawberry ices and iced coffee in a tent under a spreading
Spanish chestnut — music and recitations in a drawing-room, with
many windows looking upon the bright swift river — and the
picturesque roofs of Old Richmond — just that one little
picturesque group of bridge and old tiled-gables which still
remains — ^fine gowns, fine talk ; a dash of the aesthetic element ;
strange colours, strange forms and fashions ; pretty girls in
grandmother bonnets ; elderly women in limp Ophelia gowns,
with tumbled frills and lank hair. Christabel and the Major
walked about the pretty garden, and criticized all the eccen-
tricities, she glad to keeji aloof from her many admirers — safe
under the wing of a familiar friend.
* Five o'clock,' she said ; * that makes twenty-four hours. Do
you think he will be back to-morrow ? '
* He 1 Might I ask whom you mean by that pronoun ? *
* Angus. His telegram this morning s.-iid that his aunt was
really ill — not in any danger — but still quite an invalid, and that
he would be obliged to stay a little longer than he had hoped
might ba needful, in order to cheer her. Do you think he will
be able to come back to-morrow ? '
* Hardly, I fear. Twenty-four hours would be a very short
time for the cheering process. I think you ought to allow liixo
a week. Did you ^.nswer his tele^aij) ? '
Cupid and Psyche, 89
'A^^T, of course I I told him how mi:^.0! able T was without
him ; but that he must do whatever was right and kind for hia
aunt. I wi-ote him a long letter before luncheon to the same
effect. But, oh, I hope the dear old lady will get well very
quickly ! '
* If usquebaugh can mend her, no doubt the recovery will be
rapid, answered the Major, laughing. * I daresay that is why
you are so anxious for Hamleigh's return. You think if he
stays in the North he may become a confirmed toddy-drinker.
Sy the bye, when his return is so uncertain, do you think it is
quite safe for you to go to the theatre to-night ? He might co^e
to Bolton Eow during your absence.'
* That is hardly possible,' said Chriatabel. * But even if such
ft happy thing should occur, he would come and join us at the
Kaleidoscope.'
This wfis the Major's last feeble and futile effort to prevent a
wilful woman having her own way. They rejoined Mrs.
Tregonell, and went back to their carriage almost immediately
— were in Bolton Row in time for a seven o'clock dinner, and
were seated in the box at the Kaleidoscope a few minutes after
eight. The Kaleidoscope was one of the new theatres which
have been added to the attractions of London during the last
twenty years. It was a small house, and of exceeding elegance ;
the inspiration of the architect thereof seemingly derived rather
from the bnnhmni€res of Siraudin and Boissier than from the
severer exempljirs of high art Somebody said it was a theatre
which looked aa if it ought to be filled with glac6 chestnuts, or
crystallized violets, rather than with substantial flesh and blood.
The draperies thereof were of palest dove-coloured poplin and
cream-white satin , the fauteuils were upholstered in velvet of
the same dove colour, with a monogram in dead gold ; the
pilasters and mouldings were of the slenderest and most delicate
order — no heavy masses of gold or colour — all airy, light, grace-
ful ; the sweeping curve of the auditorium was in itself a thing
of bejiuty ; every fold of the voluniinous dove-coloured curtain,
lined with crimson satin — which flashed among the dove tints
here juid there, like a gleam of vivid colour in the breast of a
trojjical bird — was a study. The front of the house was lighted
with old-fashioned wax candles, a recurrence to obsolete fashion
which reiuinded the few survivors of the D'Orsay period of Her
Majesty's in the splendid days of Pasta and Malibran, and which
delighted the Court and Livery of the Tallow Chandlers'
Company.
' What a lovely theatre I ' cried Christabel, looking round the
house, which was crowded with a brilliant audience ; * and how
cruel of you not to bring us here ! Xt is the prettiest theftti*«
we b»ve seen yet.'
90 Mount BoydL
* Yea ; it's a nice little place,' said the Major, feebly ; * but,
you see, tiieyVe been playing the same piece all the season — no
variety.*
* What did that matter, when we had not seen the piece t
Besides, a young man I danced with told me he had been to see
it fifteen times.'
* That young man was an ass ! ' grumbled the Major.
* Well, I can't help thinking so too,' assented ChristabeL
And then the overture began — a dreamy, classical compound,
made up of reminiscences of Mozart, Beethoven, and Weber —
a melodious patchwork, dignified by scientific orchestration.
Christabel listened dreamily to the dreamy music, thinking of
Angus all the while — wondering what he was doing in the far-
away Scottish land, which she knew only from Sir Walter's
novels.
The dove-coloured curtains were drawn apart to a strain of
plaintive sweetness, and the play — half poem, half satire — began.
The scene was a palace garden, in some * unsuspected isle in far-off
seas.' The personages were Psyche, her sisters, and the jealous
goddess, whose rest had been disturbed by rumours of an
earthly beauty which surpassed her own divine charms, and
who approached the palace disguised as a crone, dealing in
philters and simples, ribbons and perfumes, a kind of female
Autolycus.
First came a dialogue between Venus and the elder sisters
— handsome women both, but of a coarse tjrpe of beauty, looking
too large for the frame in which they appeared. Christabel and
Jessie enjoyed the smartness of the dialogue, which sparkled with
Aristophanian hits at the follies of the hour, and yet had a
poetical grace which seemed the very flavour of the old Greek
world.
At last, after the interest of the fable had fairly begun,
there rose the faint melodious breathings of a strange music
within the palace — the quaint and primitive harmonies of a
three -stringed lyre — and Psyche came slowly down the marble
steps, a slen^3r, gracious figure in classic drapery — Canova's
statue incarnate.
*Very pretty face,' muttered the Major, looking at her
through his opera-glass ; * but no figure.'
The slim, willowy form, delicately and lightly moulded as a
young fawn's, was assuredly of a type widely different from
the two young women of the fleshly school who represented
Psyche's jealous sisters. In their case there seemed just enougii
mind to keep those sleek, well-favoured bodies in motion. In
Stella Mayne the soul, or, at any rate, an ethereal essence, a
vivid beauty of expression, an electric brightness, which passes
for the soul, so predominated over the sensual, that it woiild
Cupid and Psyche. 91
have scarcely surprised one if this fragile bntterfly-creature
had verily spread a pair of filmy wings and floated away into
space. The dark liquid eyes, the small chiselled features,
exquisitely Greek, were in most perfect harmony with the
character. Amongst the substantial sensuous forms of her
companions this Psyche moved like a being from the spirit
world.
' Oh I ' cried Chriatabel, almost with a gasp, * how perfectly
lovely 1'
'Yes; she's very pretty, isn't she?' muttered the Major,
tugging at his grey moustache, and glaring at the unconscious
Psyche from his lurking place at the back of the box,
' Pretty is not the word. She is the realization of a poem.'
Jessie Bridgeman said nothing. She had looked straight
from Psyche to the Major, as he grunted out his acqui-
escence, and the troubled expression of his face troubled her.
It was plain to her all in a moment that his objection to
the Kaleidoscope Theatre was really an objection to Psyche.
Yet what harm could that lovely Ijeing on the stage, even
were she the woi-st and vilest of her sex, do to any one eo
remote from her orbit as Christabel Courtenay 1
The play went on. Psyche snoke her graceful lines with a
perfect intonation. Nature had in this case not been guilty of
cruel inconsistency. The actress's voice was as sweet as her
face ; every movement was harmonious ; every look lovely. She
was not a startling actress ; nor was there any need of great
acting in the part that had been written for her. She was
Psyche — the loved, the loving, pursued by jealousy, persecuted
by women's unwomanly hatred, atilicted, despairing — yet loving
always; beautiful in every phase of her gentle life.
* Do you like the play ? ' asked the Major, grimly, when the
turtain had fallen on the first act.
' I never enjoyed anything so much ! It is so different
from all other plays we have seen,' said Christabel ; * and Psyche
— Miss Stella Mayne, is she not ? — is the loveliest creature I
ever saw in my life.'
' You must allow a wide margin for stage make-up, paint
and powder, and darkened lashes,' gi'umbled the Magor.
* But I have been studying her face through my glass. It
is hardly at all made up. Just compare it with the faces of
the two sisters, which are like china plates, badly fired. Jessie,
what are you dreaming about ? Yo\i haven't a particle of
enthusiasm 1 "Why don't you say something *? '
* I don't want to be an echo,' said Miss Bridgeman, curtly.
* I could only repeat what you are saying. I can't be original
•nough to say that Miss Mayne is ugly.'
* She is simply the loveliest creature we have seen on the
92 Mount Royal,
stage or off It/ exclaimed Christiibel, who was ^oo rustic to want
to know who Miss Mayne was, and where the manager had
discovered such a pearl, as a London playgoer might have done.
' Hark ! ' said Jessie ; ' there's a knock at the door.'
Cliristabers heart began to beat violently. Could it bft
Angus? No, it was more likely to be some officious person,
ottering ices.
It was neither ; but a young man of the languid-elegant
type — one of Christabel's devoted admirers, the very youth who
had told her of his having seen * Cupid and Psyche/ fifteen
times.
' Why this makes the sixteenth time/ she said, smiling at
him as they shook hands.
* I think it is nearer the twentieth/ he replied ; * it is quite
the jolliest piece in London ? Don't you agree with me ? '
* I think it is — remarkably — jolly ! ' answered Christabel,
laughing. * What odd words you have in London for the
expression of your ideas — and so few of them ! '
* A kind of short-hand,' said the Major, * arbitrary characters.
Jolly means anything you like — awful means anything you like.
That kind of language gives the widest scope for the exercise of
the imagination.'
* How is Mrs. Tregonell ?' asked the youth, not being given to
the disscus^iion of abstract (juestions, frivolous or solemn. He had
a mind which could only grasp life in the concrete — aji intellect
that required to deal with actualities — peo])le, coats, hats, boots,
dinner, park-hack — just as little children require actual counteis
to calculate with.
He subsided into a chair behind Miss Courtenay, and the
box being a large one, remained there for the rest of the play —
to the despair of a com))anion youth in the stalls, who looked up
ever and anon, vacuous and wondering, and who resembled his
friend as closely as a well-matched carriage-horse resembles his
fellow — gi'ooming and action precisely similar.
* What brilliant diamonds! ' said Christabel, noticing a collet
necklace which Psyche wore in the second act, and which was a
good deal out of harmony with her Greek drapery— not by any
means resembling those simple golden ornaments which patient
Dr. Schliemann and his wife dug out of the hill at Hissarlik.
' But, of course, they are only stage jewels,' continued'Christabel \
* yet they sparkle as brilliantly as diamonds of the first water.'
* Very odd, but so they do/ muttered young FitzPelhara,
behind her shoulder ; and then, sotto voce to the Major, he said
— * that's the worst of giviug these women jewels, they will wear
them.'
* And that emerald butterfly on her shoulder/ pursued
Christabel ; * one would duppa-ie it were reaL*
Cupid and Psyche, 4^3
'A real butterfly?'
' No, real emeralds.'
' It belonged to the Empress of the French, and waa sold for
three hundred and eighty guineas at Christie's,* said Fitz-
Pelham ; whereupon Major Bree's substantial boot came down
heavily on the youth's Queen Anne shoe. * At least, the
Empress had one like it,' stammered FitzPelham, saying to him-
self, in his own vernacular, that he had * hoofed it.*
' How do you like Stella Mayne V he asked by-and-by, when
the act was over.
* I am charmed with her. She is the sweetest actress I ever
saw ; not the greatest — there are two or three who far surpass
her in genius ; but there is a sweetness — a fascination. I don't
wonder she is the rage. I only wonder INIajor Bree could have
deprived me of the pleasure of seeing her all this time.'
* You could stand the piece a second time, couldn't you 1 '
* Certainly— or a third time. It is so poetical— it carries one
into anew world !'
* Pretty foot and ankle, hasn't she ? ' murmured FitzPelham—
to which frivolous comment Miss Courtenay made no reply.
Her soul waa rapt in the scene before her — the mystic wood
whither Psyche had now wandered with her divine lover. The
darkness of a summer night in the Greek Archipelago — fire-flies
flitting athwart ilex and olive bushes— a glimpse of the distant
starlit sea.
Here — goaded by her jealous sisters to a fat'il curiosity —
Psyche stole with her lamp to the couch of her sleeping lover,
gazing spell-bound upon that godlike countenance — represented
in actual flesh by a chubby round face and round brown eyes —
and in her glad surprise letting fall a drop of oil from her lamp
on Cupid's winged shoulder — whereon the god leaves her,
wounded by her want of faith. Had he not told her they
must meet only in the darkness, and that she must never seek
to know his name ? So ends the second act of the fairy drama.
Tn the third, poor Psyche is in ignoble bondage — a slave to
Venus, in the goddess's Palace at Cythern — a fashionable, fine-
lady Venus, who leads her gentle handmaiden a sorry life, till
the god of love comes to her rescue. And liere, in the tiring
chamber of the goddess, the playwright makes sport of all the
arts by which modern beauty is manufactured. Here por)r
Psyche — tearful, despairing — has to toil at the creation of the
Queen of Beauty, whose charms of face and figure are discovei^d
to be all falsehood, from the topmost curl of her toupet to the
arched instep under her jewelled buskin. Throughout this scene
Psyche alternates between smiles and tears ; and then at the
last Cupid appears — claims his mistress, defies his mother, and
the hapfsy lo>c)-s(, ]iiil-i'<l in f'..ii'>)i other'-s arms, float skv-ward on
94 Mount Boyal,
a shaft of lime-light. And so the graceful mythic drama ends —
fanciful from the first line to the last, gay and lightly touched aa
burlesque, yet with an element of poetry which burlesque for th«
most part lacks.
Christabel's interest had been maintained throughout the
performance.
' How extraordinarily silent you have been all the evening,
Jessie ! ' she said, as they were putting on their cloaks ; * surely,
you like the play ! '
* I like it pretty well. It is rather thin, I think ; but then
perhaps, that is because I have 'Twelfth Night' still in my
memory, as we heard Mr. Brandram recite it last week at
Willis's Rooms.'
* Nobody expects modem comedy to be as good as Shake-
speare,' retorted Christabel ; * you might as well find fault with
the electric light for not being quite equal to the moon. Don't
you admire that exquisite creature ? '
* Which of them ? ' asked Jessie, stolidly, buttoning her cloak.
* Which of them ! Oh, Jessie, you have generally such good
taste. Why, Miss Mayne, of course. It is almost painful to
look at the others. They are such common earthy creatures,
compared with her ! '
*I have no doubt she is very wonderful — and she is the
fashion, which goes for a great deal,' answered Miss Bridgeman ;
but never a word in praise of Stella Mayne could Christabel
extort from her. She — who, educated by Shepherd's Bush and
poverty, was much more advanced in knowledge of evil than the
maiden from beyond Tamar — suspected that some sinister in-
fluence was to be feai-ed in Stella Mayne. Why else had the
Major so doggedly opposed their visit to this particular theatre 1
Why else did he look so glum when Stella Mayne was spoken
about 1
CHAPTER VIII.
LE SECRET DE POLICHINELLB.
The next day but one was Thursday — an afternoon upon which
Mrs. Tregonell was in the habit of staying at home to receive
callers, and a day on which her small drawing-rooms were
generally filled with more or less pleasant people — chiefly of the
fairer sex — from four to six. The three rooms — small by degrees
and beautifully less — the old-fashioned furniture and profusion
of choicest flowers — lent themselves admirably to gossip and
afternoon tea, and were even conducive to mild flirtation, for
there was generally a sprinkUng of young men of the FitzPelhajpp
Ij6 Secret de PoUcMnelle. 90
type— having nothing particular to say, but always faultless in
tiieir dress, and well-meaning as to their manners.
On this afternoon— which to Christabel seemed a day of
duller hue and colder atmosphere than all previous Thursdays,
on account of Angus Hamleigh's absence— there were rather
more callers than usual. The season was ripening towards its
close. Some few came to pay their last visit, and to inform Mrs.
Tregonell and her niece about their holiday movements-
gen erally towards the Engadine or some German Spa— the one
spot of earth to which their constitution could accommodate
itself at this time of year.
' I am obliged to go to Pontresina before the end of July,'
said a ponderous middle-aged matron to Miss Courtenay. * I
can't breathe anywhere else in August and September.'
* I think you would find plenty of air at Boscastle,' said
Christabel, smiling at her earnestness ; * but I dare say the
Engadine is very nice ! *
'Five thousand feet above the level of the sea,' said the
matron, proudly.
' I like to be a little nearer the sea — to see it — and smell
it — and feel its spray upon my face,' answered Christabel.
Do you take your children with you ? '
' Oh, no, tiiey all go to Eamsgate with the governess and a maid.'
* Poor little things 1 And how sad for you to know that
there are all those mountain passes — a three days' journey —
between you and your children ! '
* Yes, it is very trying ! ' sighed the mother ; * but they
are so fond of Eamsgate ; and the Engadine is the only place
that suits me.'
* You have never been to Chagford ? '
*Chagford ! No ; what is Chagford ?*
*A village upon the edge of Dartmoor — all among the
Devonshire hills. People go there for the fine bracing air. I
can't help thinking it must do them almost as much good as
the Engadine.'
* Indeed ! I have heard that Devonshire is quite too
lovely,' said the matron, who would have despised herself had
she been familiar with her native land. 'But what have you
done with Mr. Hamleigh ? I am quite disappointed at not
seeing him this afternoon.'
' He is in Scotland,' said Christabel, and then went on to tell as
much as was necessary about her lover's journey to the North.
* How dreadfully dull you must be without him ! * said the
lady, sympathetically, and several other ladies — notably a
baronet's widow, who had been a friend of Mrs. Tregonell's
girlhood — a woman who never said a kind word of anybody,
yet was inviu-d everywhere, and who had tlie reputation of
H
0(5 Mount Boyal.
giving a better dinner, on a small scale, than any other lonely
women in London. The rest were young women, mostly of the
gushing type, who were prepared to worship Christabel because she
was pretty, an heiress, and engaged to a man of some distinction
in their particukr worid. They had all clustered round Mrs.
Tregonell and her niece, in the airy front drawing-room, while
Miss Bridgeman poured out tea at a Japanese table in the middle
room, waited upon sedulously by Major Bree, Mr. FitzPelham
and another youth, a Somerset House young man, who wrote
for the Society papers — or believed that he did, on the strength
of having had an essay on * Tame Cats ' accepted in the big
gooseberry season— and gave himself to the world as a person
ti> miliar with the undercurrents of literary and dramatic life.
The ladies made a circle round Mrs. Tregonell, and these three,
gentlemen, circulating with tea-cups, sugar-basins, and cream-
pots, joined spasmodically in the conversation.
Christabel owned to finding a certain emptiness in life
without her lover. She did not parade her devotion to him,
but was much too imaffected to pretend indifference.
* We went to the theatre on Tuesday night,* she said.
* Oh, how could you 1 ' cried the oldest and most gushing
of the three young ladies. * Without Mr. Hamleigh 1 *
* That was our chief reason for going. We knew we should
be dull without him. We went to the Kaleidoscope, and were
delighted with Psyche.'
All three young ladies gushed in chorus. Stella Mayne wai
quite too lovely — a poem, a revelation, and so on, and so on
tady Cumberbridge, the baronet's widow, pursed her lips and
elevated her eyebrows, which, on a somewhat modified form,
resembled Lord Thurlow's, but said nothing. The Somerset
House young man stole a glance at Fitz-Pelham, and smiled
meaningly ; but the amiable Fitz-Pelham was only vacuous.
* Of course you have seen this play,' said Mrs. Tregonell
turning to Lady Cumberbridge. * You see everything, I knowjl *
* Yes ; I make it my business to see everything — good, bad,
and indifferent,' answered the strong-minded dowager, in a
voice which would hardly have shamed the Lord Chancellor's
wig, which those Thurlow-like eyebrows so curiously suggested
' It is the sole condition upon which London life is worth living.
If one only saw the good things, one would spend most of
one's evening at home, and we don't leave our country
S laces for tJiat. I see a good deal that bores me, an immense
eal that disgusts me, and a little — a very little — that I can
honestly admire.'
*Then I am sure you must admire " Cupid and Psyche^**
faid Christabel.
'My dear, that piece, which I am told ha»s brought a
Le Secret de PoUcMnelle. 97
fortune to the management, is just one of the thinffs that I
don't care to talk about before young people. I look upon it
Ks the triumph of vice ; and I wonder — yes, very much wonder
— that you were allowed to see it.'
There was an awfulness about the dowager's tone as she
uttered these final sentences, which out-Thurlowed Thurlow.
Christabel shivered, hardly knowing why, but heartily wishing
there had been no such person as Lady Cumberbridge among
her aunt's London acquaintance.
* But, surely there is nothing improper in the play, dear
Lady Cumberbridge,' exclaimed the eldest gusher, too long in
wciety to shrink from sifting any question of that kind.
* There is a great d^ that is improper,' replied th«
liowager, sternly.
* Surely not in the language : that is too lovely 1 ' urged tbt,
Ifusher. * I must be very dense, I'm afraid, for I really did no\
see anything objectionable.'
*You must be very blind as well as dense, if you didn^
nee Stella Mayne's diamonds,' retorted the dowager.
*0h, of course I saw the diamonds. One could not help
•eeing them.'
'And do you think there is nothing improper in thoa»
diamonds, or their history?' demanded Lady Cumberbridge,
glaring at the damsel from under those terrific eyebrown
* If so, you must be leas expmenced in the ways of the world
than I gave you credit for being. But I think I said before
tl)at this is a question whidi I do not care to discuss before
young people — ev*)n advanoed a« young {jeopl© are in their
ways a«d opinions now-a-days.'
The maiden blushed at this reproof ; and the conversation,
uteered judiciously by Mi-s. Tregonell, glided on to safer topics.
Yet calmly as that lady bore herself, and carefully as she
managed *x> keep the talk among pleasant ways for the next
half-hour, her mind was troubled not a little by the things that
had been said about Stella Mayne. There had been a curioua
significance in the dowager's tone when she expressed surprise
at Christabel having been allowed to see this play. That
significant tone, in conjunction with Major Bree'a marked
opposition to Belle's wish upon this one matter, argued thar?
there was some special reason why Belle should not see thia
actress. Mrs. Tregonell, like all quiet people, very observant,
had seen the Somerset House yoJin^ man's meaning smile as the
play was mentioned. What wji*» m» peculiar something which
all these people had in their miiids, and of which she, Christabel'a
aunt, to whom the girl's welfare acd happiness were vital, kneri
uothing ?
She determined to take the most immediate and dijr#<A
98 Mount Eoyal,
way of knowing all that was to be known, by questioning thai
peripatetic «hronicle of fashionable scandal, Lady Cumberbridge.
This popular personage knew a great deal more than the Society
papers, and was not constrained like those prints to disguise her
knowledge in Delphic hints and dark sayings. Lady Cumber-
bridge, like John Knox, never feared the face of man, and could
be as plain-spoken and as coarse as she pleased.
* I should so like to have a few words with you by-and-by,
if you don't mind waiting till these girls are gone/ murmurea
Mrs. Tregonell.
* Very well, my dear ; get rid of them as soon as you can, for
I've some people coming to dinner, and I want an hour's sleep
before I put on my gown.'
The little assembly dispersed within the next quarter of an
hour, and Christabel joined Jessie in the smaller drawing-
room.
* You can shut the folding-doors, Belle/ said Mrs. Tregonell.
carelessly. * You and Jessie are sure to be chattering ; and 1
want a quiet talk with Lady Cumberbridge.'
Christabel obeyed, wondering a little what the quiet talk
would be about, and whether by any chance it would touch
upon the play last night. She, too, had been struck by tlie
significance of the dowager's tone ; and then it was so rarely
that she found herself excluded from any conversation in which
her aunt had part.
* Now/ said Mrs. Tregonell, directly the doors were shut, * I
want to know why Christabel should not have been allowed to
fee that play the other night ? '
* What ! ' cried Lady Cimiberbridge, * don't you know why ? '
* Indeed, no. I did not go with them, so I had no oppor-
tunity of judging as to the play.'
* My dear soul/ exclaimed the deep voice of the dowager,
* it is not the play — the play is well enough — it is the woman I
And do you really mean to tell me that you don't know ? '
* That I don't know what ? '
* Stella Mayne's history 1 '
* What should I know of her more than of any other actress 1
They are all the same to me, like pictures, which I admire or
not, from the outside. I am told that some are women of
fashion who go everywhere,''and that it is a privilege to know
them ; and that some one ought hardly to speak about, though
one may go to see them , while there are others '
*Who hover like stars between two worlds,' said Lady
Cumberbridge. *Yes, that's all true. And nobody has told
you anything about Stella Mayne ? '
'NoonoT'
•^Then I'm very sorry I mentioned her to you. I dare
La Secret de Polichinelle. 09
Bay you will hate me if I tell you the truth : people always do ;
because, in point of fact, truth is generally liateiul. We can't
afford to live up to it.'
* I shall be grateful to you if you will tell me all that there
is to be told about this actress, who seems in some way to be
concerned *
* In your] niece's happiness ? "Well, no, my dear, we will
hope not. It is all a thing of the past. Your friends have been
remarkably discreet. It is really extraordinary that you should
have heard nothing about it ; but, on reflection, I think it is
really better you should know the fact. Stella Mayne is the
young woman for whom Mr, Hamleigh nearly ruined himself
three years ago.'
Mrs. Tregonell turned white as death.
Her mind had not been educated to the acceptance of sin
and folly as a natural element in a young man's life. In her
view of mankind the good men were all Bayards — fearless,
stainless ; the bad were a race apart, to be shunned by all good
women. To be told that her niece's future husband — the man
for whose sake her whole scheme of life had been set aside, the
man whom Christabel and she had so implicitly trusted — was a
fashionable libertine — the lover of an actress — the talk of the
town — was a revelation that changed the whole colour of life.
* Are you sure that this is true ? ' she asked f alteringly.
* My dear creature, do I ever say anything that isn't true 1
There is no need to invent things. God knows the things people
do are bad enough, and wild enough, to supply conversation
for everybody. But this about Hamleigh and Stella Mayne ia
as well known as the Albert Memorial. He was positively
infatuated about her ; took her off the stage : she was in the
back row of the ballet at Drury Lane, salary seventeen and
sixpence a week. He lived with her in Italy for a year ;
then they came back to England, and he gave her a house in
St. John's "Wood ; squandered his money upon her ; had her
educated ; worshipped her, in fact ; and, I am told, would have
married her, if she had only behaved herself. Fortunately, these
women never do behave themselves : they show the cloven-foot
too soon ; owr people only go wrong after marriage. But I hope,
my dear, you will not allow yourself to be worried by this
business. It is all a thing of the past, and Hamleigh will make
just as good a husband as if it had never happened ; better,
perhaps, for he will be all the more able to appreciate a pure-
minded girl like your niece.'
Mrs. Tregonell listened with a stony visage. She was
thinking of Leonard — Leonard who had never done wrong, in
this way, within his mother's knowledge — who had been cheated
out of his future wife by a flashy trickster— a man who talked
100 Mount BoyaX.
like a poet, and who yet had given his first passionate love, and
the best and brightest years of his life to a stage-dancer.
* Hovir long is it since Mr. Hauileigh has ceased to be devoted
lo Miss Mayne % * she asked, in a cold, dull voice.
* I cannot say exactly : one hears so many different stories ;
there were paragraphs in the Society papers last season : * A
certain young sprig of fashion, a general favourite, whose infatua-
tion for a well-known actress has been a matter of regret among
the fiaute voleCy is said to have broken his bonds. The lady keeps
her diamonds, and tlu-eatens to publish his letters,' and bo on,
and so forth. You know the kind of thing?'
* I do not,* said Mrs. Tregonell. ' I have never taken any
interest in such paragraphs.*
* Ah I that is the consequence of vegetating at the fag-end of
England : all the pungency is taken out of life for you.*
Mrs. Tregonell asked no further questions. She had made
up her mind that any more detailed information, which she might
require, must be obtained from another channel. She did not
want this battered woman of the world to know how hard she
«ras hit. Yes — albeit there was a far-off gleam of light amidst
Miis darkness — she was profoundly hurt by the knowledge of
Angus Hamleigh's wrong-doing. He had made himself very
dear to her — dear from the tender association of the past — dear
for his own sake. She had believed him a man of scrupulous
honour, of pure and spotless life. Perhaps she had taken all this
for granted, in her rustic simplicity, seeing that all his ideas and
inatmcts were those of a gentleman. She nad made no allowance
for the fact that the will-o'-the-wisp, passionate love, may lure
even a gentleman into swampy ground ; and that his sole
auperioritjr over profligates of coarser clay will be to behave
himself like a gentleman in those morasses whither an errant
fancy has beguiled him.
* I hope you will not let this influence your feelings towards
Mr. Hamleigh,* said Lady Cumberbridge ; * if you did so, I should
really feel sorry for having told you. But you must inevitably
have heard the story from somebody else before long.'
* No doubt. I suppose eveiybody knows it.'
* Why yes, it was tolerably notorioua They used to be seen
everywhere together. Mr. Hamleigh seemed proud of his in-
tatuation, and there were plenty of men in his own set to
incourage him. Modem society has adopted Danton's motto,
don't you know ? — de Vaudace, encore de Vavdace et toujour s de
Vaudace ! And now I must go and get my siesta, or I shall be
as stupid as an owl all the evening. Good-bye.'
Mrs. Tregonell sat like a statue, absorbed in thought, for a
consiflerable time after Lady Cumberbridge's departure. What
w«u she to dp ? This horrid story was true, no doubt. Major
Le Secret de PoUcMnellb, 101
Bree would be able to confirm it presently, when he came back
to dinner, aa he had promised to come. What was she to do 1
A^llow the engagement to go on ?— allow an innocent and pure-
minded girl U> marry a man whose infatuation for an actress had
been town talk ; who had come to Mount Eoyal fi-esh from that
evil association — wounded to the core, perhaps, by the base
creature's infidelity — and seeking consolation wherever it might
offer ; bringing his second-hand feelings, with all the bloom woni
off them, to the shrine of innocent young beauty ! — dedicating
the mepe ashes of burned-out tires to the woman who was to be
his wife ; perhaps even making scornful compaiisons between
her simple rustic chai-nu and the educated fascinations of the
actress ; bringing her the leavings of a life — ^the mere dregs of
youth's wine-cup ! Was Christabel to be pennitted to continue
under this shameful delusion — to believe that she was receiving
all when she was getting nothing ? No I — ten thousand times,
no ! It was womanhood's stern duty to come to the rescue of
guileless, too-ti*usting girlhood. Bitter as the ordeal must needs
be for both, Christabel must be told the whole cruel truth. Then
it would be for her own heart to decide. She would still be a
free agent. But surely her own purity of feeling would teach
her to decide rightly — to renounce the lover who had so fooled
and cheated her — and, perhaps, later to reward the devotion of
that other adorer who had loved her from boyhood upwards with
% steady unwavering afiection — chiefly demonstrated by the calm
self-assured manner in which he had written of Christabel — in
his letters to his mother — as his future wife, the possibility of
her rejection of that honour never having occmTed to his rustic
intelligence.
Christabel peeped in through the half-opened door.
* Well, A unt Bi, is your coiiference over I Has her ladyship
gone ? '
* Yes, dear ; I am trying to coax myself to sleep,* answered
Mrs. Tregonell from the depths of her arm-chair.
' Then I'll go and dress for dinner. Ah, how T only wish
there were a chance of Angus coming back to-night I ' sighed
Christabel, softly closing the door.
Major Bree came in ten minutes afterwards.
* Come here, and sit by my side,' said Mrs. TregonelL * 1
want to tiilk to you seriously.'
The Major complied, feeling far from easy in his mind.
* How pale you look ! * he said ; * is there anything wrong I *
* Yes — everything is wrong ! You have treated me very
badly. You have been false to me and to Christabel ! '
' That \n father a wide accusation,' said the Major, calmly
He knew perfectly well what was coming, and thiit he should
require all his patience — all that sweetness of temper which hnd
102 Mount Royal.
been his distinction through life— in order to leaven the widow'i
wrath agaiust the absent. * Perhaps, you won't think it to«
much trouble to explain the exact nature of my offence 1 *
Mrs. Tregonell told him Lady Cumberbridge's story.
*Did you, or did you not, know this last October?* she
asked.
* I had heard something about it when I was in LoD''on two
years before.'
' And you did not consider it your duty to tell me 1 '
* Certainly not. I told you at the time, when I came back
from town, that your young prot6g^'s life had been a trifle wild
Miss Bridgeman remembered the fact, and spoke of it the night
Hamleigh came to Mount Koyal. When I saw how matters
were going with Belle and Hamleigh, I made it my business to
question him, considering myself Belle's next friend ; and he
assured me, as between man and man, that the affair with Stella
Mayne was over — that he had broken with her formally and
finally. From first to last I believe he acted wonderfully well
ill the business.'
* Acted well 1 — acted well, to be the avowed lover of such a
woman ! — to advertise his devotion to her — associate his name
with hers irrevocably — for you know that the world never for-
gets these alliances — and then to come to Mount Royal, and
practise upon our provincial ignorance, and offer his battered
life to my niece ? "Was that well ? '
You could hardly wish him to have told your niece the
whole story. Besides, it is a thing of the past. No man can go
through life with the burden of his youthful follies hanging
round his neck, and strangling him.'
* The past is as much a part of a man's life as the present. I
want my niece's husband to be a man of an unstained past.'
* Then you will have to wait a long time for him. My dear
Mrs. Tiegonell, pray be reasonable, just commonly reasonable !
There is not a family in England into which Angus Hamleigh
would not be received with open arms, if he offered himself as
a suitor. Why should you draw a hard-and-fast line, sacrifice
Belle's happiness to a chimerical idea of manly virtue? You
canf have King Arthur for your niece's husband, and if you
could, perhaps you wouldn't care about him. Why not be
content with Lancelot, who has sinned, and is sorry for his sin ;
and of whom may be spoken praise almost as noble as those
famous words Sir Bohcsrt spoke over his friend's dead body.'
*I shall not sacrifice Belle's happiness. If she were my
daughter I should take upon myself to judge for her, and while
I lived she should never see Angus Hamieigh's face again. But
■he is my sister's child, and I shall give her the liberty of
judgment'
Le Secret de PoUchinetls. 103
' Yoii don't mean that you wfll tell her this story ? *
Most decidedly.'
* For God's sake, don't ! — you will spoil her happiness for
ever. To you and me, who must have some knowledge of
the world, it ought to be a small thing that a man has made
a fool of himself about an actress. We ought to know for
how little that kind of folly counts in a lifetime. But for a girl
brought up like Christabel it will mean disenchantment— doubt
— perhaps a lifetime of jealousy and self -torment. For mercy's
sake, be reasonable in this matter ! I am talking to you as if I
were Christabel's father, remember. I suppose that old harridan,
Lady Cumberbridge, told you this precious story. Such women
ought to be put down by Act of Parliament. Yes, there should
be a law restricting every unattached female over five-and-forty
to a twenty-mile radius of her country-house. After that age
their tongues are dangerous.*
*My friend Lady Cumberbridge told me facts which seem
to be within everybody's knowledge ; and she told them at
my partioular request. Your rudeness about her does not make
the case any better for Mr. Hamleigh, or for you.'
* I think I had better go and dine at my club,' said the Major,
perfectly placid.
*No, stay, please. You have proved yourself a broken
reed to lean upon ; but still you are a reed.'
*If I stay it will be to persuade you to spare Belle the
knowledge of this wretched story.*
*I suppose he has almost ruined himself for the creature,*
said Mrs. Tregonell, glancing at the subject for the first time
from a practical point of view.
*He spent a good many thousands, but as he had no
other vices — did not race or gamble— his fortune survived the
shock. Hia long majority allowed for considerable accumulations,
you see. He began life with a handsome capital in hand. I
dare say M iss Mayne sweated that down for him ! '
* I don't want to go into details — I only want to know
how far he deceived us Y '
* There was no deception as to his means — wMch are ample —
nor as to the fact that he is entirely free from the entanglement we
have been talking about. Every one in London knows that the
affair was over and done with more than a year ago.*
The two girls oame down to the drawing-room, and dinner
WaA announced. It was a very dismal dinner — the dreariest that
had ever been eaten in that house, Christabel thought. Mrs.
Tregonell was absorbed in her own thoughts, absent, automatic
in sdl she said and did. The Major maintained a forced hilarity,
which was more painful than silence. Jessie looked anxious.
* I'll tell you what, girls,' said Major Bree, as the mournfuJ
104 Mount Boyal.
meal languished towards its melancholy close, * we seem all very
doleful without Hamieigh. I'll run round to Bond Street dii-ectly
after dinner, and see if I can get three stalls for " Lohengi-in."
They are often to be had at the last moment.'
* Please don't,' said Christal>el, earnestly ; *I would not go to
a theatre again without Angus. I am sorry I went the oilier
night. It was obstinate and foolish of me to insist upon seeing
th.it play, and I was punished for it by that horrid old womau
this afternoon.'
* But you liked the pla^ ?
* Yes — while I was seeing it ; but now I have taken a dislike
to Miss Mayne. I feel as if I had seen a snake — all grace and
lovely colour — and had caught hold of it, only to find that it was
a snake.'
The Major stared and looked alarmed. Was this an example
of instinct superior to reason ?
* Let me try for the opera,' he said. * I'm sure it would do
you good to go. You will sit in the front drawing-room listening
for hansoms all the evening, fancying that every pair of wheek
you hear is bringing Angus back to you.'
* I would rather be doing that than bo sitting at the opera,
thinking of him. But I'm afraid there's no chance of his coming
to-night. His letter to-day told nie that his aunt insists upon
his staying two or three days longer, and that she ia ill enough to
make him anxious to oblige her.
The evening passed in placid dreaiiness. Mrs. Tregonell aat
brooding in her arm-chair — pondering whether she should or
should not tell Christabel eveiything — knowing but too well how
the girl's happiness was dependent upon her undisturbed belief
in her lover, yet repeating to herself again and again that it was
right and fair that Christabel should know the truth — nay, ever
80 much better that she should be told it now, when she was still
free to shape her own future, than that she should make the dis-
covery later, when she was Angus Hamleigh's wife. This last
consideration — the thought, that a secret which was everybody'ii
secret must inevit;ibly, sooner or later, become known to
Christabel — ^weighed heavily with Mrs. Tregonell ; and through
all her meditations there was interwoven the thought of her
absent son, and how his future welfare might depend upon the
course to be taken now.
Christabel played and sang, while the Major and Jessie
Bridgeman sat at bezique. The friendship of these two had
been in no wise disturbed hj the Major's ofi'er, and the IdAy'tk
rejection. It was the habit of both to take life pleasantly.
Jeasie took pains to show the Major how sincerely she valued
his esteem — how completely she appreciated the fine points of
Inw character ; and he was too much a gentleman to remind her
Le Secret de Polichinelle. 105
by one word or tone of Lis disappointniwnt that day in the wood
above Maidenhead.
The evening came to its quiet end at last. Christabel had
Bcarcely left her piano in the dim little third room — she had sat
there in the faint light, playing slow sleepy nocturnes and lieder,
and musing, musing sadly, with a faint sick dread of coming
soiTOw. She had seen it in her aunt's face. When the old buhl
&lock chimed the half-hour after ten the Major got up and took
his leave, bending over Mi*3. Tregonell as he pressed her hand at
parting to murmur : * Remember,' with an accent as solemn as
Charles the Martyr's when he spoke to Juxon.
Mrs. Tregonell answered never a word. She had been pon-
dering and wavering all the evening, but had come to no fixed
conclusion.
She bade the two girls good-night directly the Major was
gone. She told herself that she had the long tranquil night
before her for the resolution of her doubts. She would sleep
upon this vexed question. But before she had been ten minutes
in her room there came a gentle knock at the doo», and Christabel
stole softly to her side.
* Auntie, dear, I want to talk to you before you go to bed, if
you are not very tired. May Dormer go for a little while 1 '
Dormer, gravest and most discreet of handmaids, whose
name seemed to have been made on purpose for her, looked at
her mistress, and receiving a little nod, took up her work and crept
away. Dormer was never seen without her needlework. She
complained that there was so little to do for Mrs. Tregonell that
unless she had plenty of plain sewing she must expire for want
©f occupation, having long outlived such frivolity as sweethearts
and afternoons out.
"When Dormer was gone, Christabel came to her aunt's chair,
and knelt down beside it, just as she had done at Mount Royal,
when she told her of Angus Hamleigh's offer.
* Aunt Diana, what has happened, what is wrong ? ' slie
asked, coming at the heart of the question at once. There was
no shadow of doubt in her mind that something was sorely
amiss.
' How do you know that there is anything wrong 1 '
* I have known it ever since that horrible old woman —
Medusa in a bonnet all over flowers — pansies instead of snakes
— talked about Cupid and Psyche. And you knew it, and made
her stop to tell you all about it. There is some cruel mystery —
something that involves my fate with that of the actress I saw
the other night.'
Mrs. Tregonell sat with her hands tightly clasped, her brow»
bent. She felt herself taken by storm, as it were, surprised iuU
decision before she had time to make up her mind.
106 Mount Eoyal.
* Since you know so much, perhaps you had better know all/
she said, gloomily ; and then she told the story, shaping it aa
delicately as she could for a girl's ear.
Christabel covered her face with her clasped hands, and
Kstened without a sigh or a tear. The pain she felt was too
dull and vague as yet for the relief of tears. The horrible
surprise, the sudden darkening of the dream of her young life, the
clouding over of every hope, these were shapeless horrors which
she could hardly realize at first. Little by little this serpent
would unfold its coils ; drop by drop this poison would steal
through her veins, until its venom filled her heart. He, whom
she had supposed all her own, with whose every thought she
had fancied herself familiar, he, of whose heart she had believed
herself the sole and sovereign mistress, had been one little year
ago the slave of another — ^loving with so passionate a love that
he had not shrunk from letting all the world know his idolatry.
Yes, all those people who had smiled at her, and said sweet
things to her, and congratulated her on her engagement, had
known all the while that this lover, of whom she was so proud,
was only the cast-off idolator of an actress; had come to her
only when life's master-passion was worn threadbare, and had
become a stale and common thing for him. At the first,
womanly pride felt the blow as keenly as womanly love. To
be made a mock of by the man she had so loved !
Kneeling there in dumb misery at her aunt's feet, answering
never a word to that wretched record of her lover's folly,
Christabel's thoughts flew back to that still grey autumn noontide
at Pentargon Bay, and the words then spoken. Words, which
then had only vaguest meaning, now rose out of the dimness
of the past, and stood up in her mind as if they had been living
creatures. He had compared himself to Tristran — to one who
had sinned and repented — he had spoken of himself as a man
whose life had been more than half-lived already. He had
offered himself to her with no fervid passion — with no assured
belief in her power to make him happy. Nay, he had rather
forced from her the confession of her love by his piteous repre-
Bentation of himself as a man doomed to early death. He nad
wrung from her the offer of a life's devotion. She had given
herself to him almost unwooed. Never before had her
betrothal appeared to her in this humiliating aspect ; but now,
enlightened by the knowledge of that former love, a love
BO reckless and self-sacrificing, it seemed to her that the homage
offered her had been of the coldest — ^that her affection had been
placidly accepted, rather than passionately demanded of her.
* Fool, fool, fool,' she said within herself, bowed to the dust
by this deep hvuniliation.
* My darling, why don't you speak to me ? ' said Mrs. Trcgonell
Le Secret de Polichinelle, 107
fcenderly, with her arm round the girl's neck, her face leaning
down to touch *hat drooping head.
* What can i say 1 I feel as if my life had suddenly come to
an end, and there were nothing left for me to do, except just to sit
still and remember what has been.*
* You mean to break with him 1 '
* Break with him ! Why he has never been mine. There ia
nothing to be broken. It was aU a delusion and a dream. I
thought he loved me — loved me exactly as I loved him — with
the one great and perfect love of a lifetime — and now I know
that he never loved me — how could he after having only just
left off loving this other woman ? — if he had left oflf loving
her. And how could he when she is so perfectly lovely ? Why
should he have ever ceased to care for. her ? She had been like
his wife, you say — his wife in all but the name — and all the world
knew it. What must people have thought of me for steaUng
away another woman's misband ■? '
* My dear, the world does not see it in that light. She never
was really his wife.*
'She ougiit to have been,' answered Christabel, resolutely,
yet with quivering lips. * If he cared for her so much as to
make himself the world's wonder for her sake he should have
married her : a man should not play fast and loose with love.*
* It is difficult for us to judge,' said Mrs. Tregonell, believing
herself moved by the very spirit of justice, ' we are not women
of the world — we cannot see this matter as the world sees it.'
'God forbid that I should judge as the world judges!'
exclaimed Christabel, lifting her head for the first time since
that story had been told her. ' That would be a sorry end of your
teaching. What ought I to do *? '
' Your own heart must be the arbiter, Christabel. I made
up my mind this afternoon that I would not seek to influence you
one way or the other. Your own heart must decide.'
' My own heart ? No ; my heart is too entirely his — too
weakly, fondly, foolishly, devoted to him. No, I must think ot
something beyond my foolish love for him. His honour and
mine are at stake. We must be true to ourselves, he and I. But
I want to know what you think. Auntie. I want to know what
you would have done in such a case. If, when you were engaged
to his father, you had discovered that he had been within only a
little while '—these last words were spoken with inexpressible
pathos, as if here the heart- wound were deepest—' the lover of
another woman — bound to her by ties which a man of honour
fehould hold sacred — what would you have done 1 Would you
have shut your eyes resolutely upon that past history 1 Would
vou have made up your mind to forget everything, and to try t'^
be happy with him 1 *
108 Mount Boyal.
* I don't Know, Eelle,' Mrs. Tregonell answered, helplessly,
very anxious to be true and conscientious, and if she must neeaa
be guide, to guide the girl aright through this perilous passage
in her life. *It is so difficult at my age to know what one
would have done in one's girlhood. The fires are all burnt out ;
tlie springs that moved one then are all broken. Judging now,
with the dull deliberation of middle age, I should say it would
be a dangerous thing for any girl to marry a man who had beei.
notoriously devoted to another woman — that woman still living.
still having power to charm him. How can you ever be secure
of his love ] how be sure that he would not be lured back to the
old madness ? These women are so full of craft — it is theii
profession to tempt men to destruction. You remember what
the Bible says'of such ] " They are more bitter than death : their
feet go down to death : their steps take hold on hell." *
* Don't, Auntie,' faltered Christabel. *Yes, I understand.
Yes, he would tire of me, and go back to her very likely. I am
not half so lovely, nor half so fascinating. Or, if he were true
to honour and duty, he would regret her all his hfe. He
would be always lepenting that he had not broken down all
barriers and married her. He would see her sometimes on the
stage, or in the Park, and just the sight of her face flashing past
him would spoil his happiness. Happiness,' she repeated,
bitterly, * what happiness? what peace could there be for either
of us, knowing of that fatal love. I have decided. Auntie, I shall
love Angus all the days of my life, but I will never marry him.'
Mrs. Tregonell clasped the girl in her arms, and they wept
together, one with the slow silent tears of life that was well-
nigh worn out, the other with youth's passionate sobs — sobs that
shook the slender frame.
* My beloved, you have chosen wisely, and well,' said the
widow, her heart tlirobbing with new hopes— it was not of
Angus Hamleigh'a -certain loss she thought, but of her son
Leonard's probable gain — 'you have chosen wisely. I do not
Delieve that you couid ever have been really happy with him.
Your heart woiiij have been consumed with jealous fears — ■
suspicion would have haunted your life — that evil woman'i
influence would have darkened all your days.'
' Don't say another word,' pleaded Christabel, in low hoarse
tones ; ' I have quite made up my mind. Nothing can change it
She did not want to be encouraged or praised ; she did
not want comfort or consolation. Even her aunt's sympathy
jarred upon her fretted nerves. She felt that she must stand
alone in her misery, aloof from all human succour.
'Good-night,' she said, bending down to touch her aunt's
forehead, with tremulous lips.
' Won't you ^tay, dear ? Sleep with me to-night,*
Le Secret de Polichinelle. lOS
* Sleep V echoed the girL * No, Auntie dear ; I would rathei
/»e in my own room !'
She went away without another word, and went slowly back
to her own room, the pretty little London bedchjimber, bright
with new satin-wood furniture and pale blue cretoime hangings,
tlouded with creamy Indian muslin, a bower-like room, with
flowers and books, and a miniature piano in a convenient
recess by the fire-place. Here she sat gravely down before
her davenport and unlocked one particular drawer, a so-called
secret drawer, but as obvious as a secret panel in a melodrama —
and took out Angus ilamleigh's letters. The long animated
letters written on thin paper, letters which were a journal of
his thoughts and feelings, almost as fully recorded as in those
volumnious epistles which Wertlier despatched to his friend —
letters which had bridged over the distance between Cornwall and
Southern France, and had been the chief delight of Christabel's
life through the long slow winter, making her lover her daily
companion.
Slowly, slowly, with tears dropping unnoticed every now and
then, she turned over the letters, one by one — now pausing to
read a few lines — now a whole letter. There is no loving folly of
which she had not been guilty with regard to these cherished
letters : she had slept with them under her pillow, she had read
them over and over again, had garnered them in a perfumed
desk, and gone back to them after the lapse of time, had com-
pared them in her own mind with aU the cleverest letters
that ever were given to the world — with Walpole, with Beckford,
with Byron, with Deffimd, and Espina-sse, Sevign^, Cai-ter—
and found in them a grace and a charm that surpassed all these.
She had read elegant extracts to her aunt, who confessed
that Mr. Hamleigh wrote cleverly, wittily, picturesquely,
poetically, but did not perceive that immeasurable superiority to
all previous letter- writers. Then came briefer letters, dated from
the Albany — notes dashed off hastily in those happy days when
^heir lives were spent for the most part together. Notes con-
taining suggestions for some newpleasure— appointments— sweet
nothings, hardly worth setting down except as an excuse
for writing — with here and there a longer letter, written after
midnight ; a letter in which the writer poured out his soul to his
beloved, enlarging on their conversation of the day — that happy
talk about themselves and love.
' Who wudld think, reading these, that he never really cared
for me, th:it I wjis only an after-thought in his life,' she said
to herself, bitterly.
* Did he write just such letters to Stella Mayne, I wonder I
Ko ; there w;i,«j no need for writing— they were always together.'
. T)ie candles o?} \&f (Jt^k had burnt low by the time her tax^i
Mount JRoyal,
«ras done. Faint gleams of morning stole through the striped
blinds, as she sealed the packet in which she had folded thai
lengthy history of Angus Hamleigh's courtship — a large squarf
packet, tied with stout red tape, and sealed in several placea
Her hand hardly faltered as she set her seal upon the wax ; her
purpose was so strong.
* Yes,' she said to herself, * I will do what is best and safest
for his honour and for mine.' And then she knelt by her bed
and prayed long and fervently ; and remained upon her knees
reading the Gospel as the night melted away and the morning
sun flooded her room with light.
She did not even attempt to sleep, trusting to her cold bath
for strength against the day's ordeal. She thought all the time
she was dressing of the task that lay before her — the calm
deliberate cancelment of her engagement, with the least possible
pain for the man she loved, and for his ultimate gain in this
world and the next. Was it not for the welfare of a man's soul
that he should do his duty and repair the wrong that he had
done ; rather than that he should conform to the world's idea of
the fitness of things and make an eminently respectable
marriage ?
Christabel contemplated herself critically in the glass as she
brushed her hair. Her eyelids were swollen with weeping— her
cheeks pallid, her eyes lustreless, and at this disadvantage sh»
compared herself with that vivid and sylph-like beauty she had
seen at the Kaleidoscope.
* How could he ever forget her for my sake?* she thought,
looking at that sad colourless face, and falling into the common
error that only the most beautiful women are loved with perfect
love, that perfection of feeling answers to perfection of form —
forgetting how the history of life shows that upon the unlovely
also there have been poured treasures of deepest, purest love —
that, while beauty charms and wins all, there is often one, best
worth the winning, who is to be vanquished by some sub tit/
charm, held by some less obvious chai<i than Aphrodite's roa/
garlands. Perhaps, if Miss Courtenay nad been a plain woman,
skilled in the art of making the most of small advantages, she
would have had more faith in her own power ; but being a
lovely woman who had been so trained and taught as to think
very little of her own beauty, she was all the more ready to
acknowledge the superior loveliness of a rival.
* Having worshipped that other fairer face, how could ho
care for me ? ' she asked herself ; and then, brooding upon every
detail of their betrothal, she came to the bitter conclusion that
Angus had offered himself to her out of pity — ^touched by her
too obvious atfectibn for him — |ove which she had hardly tried
to hide from him, when once he had tol^ \a^ ^* S@ early doon^
Le Secret de PoUchirieUe, 111
That storm of pity and regret which had swept over her heart
had annihilated her womanly pride : she forgot all that was due
to her own dignity, and was only too eager to offer herself as the
companion and consoler of his brief days. She looked back and
remembered her folly — thinking of herself as a creature caught
in a trap.
No, assuredly, there was but one remedy.
One doubt — one frail straw of hope to which she might cling
—yet remained. That tried, all was decided. Was this story
true— completely and positively a fact ? She had heard so much
in society about baseless scandals— she had been told so many
versions of the same story — aa unlike as black to white or false
to true— and she was not going to take this one bitter fact for
granted upon the strength of any fashionable Medusa who might
try to turn her waim beating heart to stone. Before she accepted
Medusa's sentence she would discover for herself how far this
etory was true,
* I will give no one any trouble,' she thought : * I will act for
myself, and judge for myself. It will be the making or marring
of three lives.'
In her wide charity, in that power to think and feel for
others, which was the highest gift of her rich sweet soul, Stella
Majme seemed to Christabel as important a factor in this life-
problem as herself or Angus. She thought of her tenderly,
picturing her as a modem Gretchen, tempted by an early and
intense love, much more than by the devil's lure of splendour
and jewels — a poor little Gretchen at seventeen and sixpei^co a
week, living in a London garret, with no mother to watcit and
warn,and with wicked old Marthas in|plenty to whisper bad advice.
Christabel went down to breakfast as usual. Her quiet face
and manner astonished Mrs. Tregonell, who had slept very little
better than her niece ; but when the servant came in to ask if
she would ride she refused.
* Do, dear,' pleaded her aunt ; * a nice long country ride by
Finchley and Hendon would do you good.'
* No, Aunt Di — I would rather be at home this morning,'
answered Christabel ; so the man departed, with an order for
the carriage at the usual hour in the afternoon.
There was a letter from Angus — Christabel only glanced at
the opening lines, which told her that he was to stay at Hillside
a few days longer, and then put the letter in her pocket. Jessie
Bridgeman looked at her curiously — knowing very well tha*^
there was something sorely amiss— but waiting to be told what
this sudden cloud of sorrow meant
Christabel went back to her own room directly after break-
fast. Her aunt forebore any attempt at consolation, knowing it
wim bewt to lei the girl bear her grief in her own wav
I
112 Mount BoyaL
* You will go with me for a drive after luncheon, dear?* Rha
asked.
* Yes, Auntie— but I would rather we Vrent a little way in
the country, if you don't mind, instead of to the Park V
* With all my heart : I have had quite enough of the Park.'
* The " booing, and booing, and booing," ' said Jessie, * and the
straining one's every nerve to see the Princess drive by — only to
discover the humiliating fact that she is one of the very few
respectable-looking women in the Park — perhaps the only one
who can look absolutely respectable without being a dowdy.*
* Shall I go to her room and try if I can be of any comfort
to her ? ' mused Jessie, as she went up to her own snug little den
on the thii'd floor. * Better not, ])erhap8. I like to hug my sor-
rows. I should hate any one who thought their prattle could
lessen my pain. She will bear hers best alone, I dare say. But
what can it be? Not any quarrel with him. They could
liaidly quarrel by telegraph or post— they who are all honey
when they are together. It is some scandal— something that
old demon with the eyebrows said yesterday. I am sm-e of it
— a talk between two elderly women with closed doors always
means Satan's own mischief/
All three ladies went out in the carriage after luncheon — a
dreary, dusty drive, towards Edgware — past everlasting bricks
and mortar, as it seemed to Christabel's tired eyes, which gazed
at the houses as if they had been phantoms, so little human
meaning had they for her — so little did she realize that in each
of those biick and plaster packing-cases human beings lived, and.
in their turn, suffered some such heart-agony as this which she
was endming to-day.
' That is St. John's Wood up yonder, isn't it ? ' she asked,
aa they passed Carlton Hill, speaking for almost the first time
since they left Mayfair.
' Yes.'
' Isn't it somewhere about there Miss Stella Mayne lives, th«
actress we saw the other night ? ' asked Christabel, carelessly.
Her aunt looked at her with intense surprise, — how could
she pronounce that name, and to ask a frivolous question ?
* Yes ; she has a lovely house called the Rosary. Mr. Fitz-
Pelham told me about it,' answered Jessie.
Christabel said never a word more as the caniage rolled on
by Oicklowood and the two Welsh Harps, and turned into the
quiet lanes about Hendon, and so home by the Finchley Boad.
She had found out what she wanted to know.
When afternoon tea was served in the little third drawing-
room, where Mrs. Tregonell sat resting herself after the dual
and wearineas of the drive, Christabel was missing. Dormei
brought a little note for her mistreat.
'Love ii Love for JBvermord.* 118
^Misa Courtenaj gave me this just before she went out,
ma'am.'
* Out I Has Miss Courtenay gone out V
* Yes, ma'am ; Daniel got her a cab five minutes ago.'
* To her dressmaker, I suppose,' said Mrs. TregoneU, trying to
look indifferent.
* Don't be uneasy about me, Auntie,' wrote Christabel : * I
am going on an errand about which I made up my mind last
night. I may be a little late for dinner, but as I shall go and
return in the same cab, you may feel sure that I shall be quite
safe. Don't wait dinner for me.'
CHAPTEK IX
'lovj: is love for evbrmork.*
The Eosary, St John's Wood : that was the address which
Christabel had given the cabman. Had any less distinguished
person than Stella Mayne lived at the Eosary it might have
taken the cabman all the evening to find that particular house,
with no more detailed address as to road and number. But a
brother whip on a rank near Hamilton Terrace was able to tell
Christabel's cabman the way to the Eosary. It was a house at
which hansoms were often wanted at unholy hours between mid-
night and sunrise — a house whose chief hospitality took the form
of chablis and oysters after tlie play — a house which seldom
questioned poor cabby's claim or went closely into mileage — ^a
house which deserved and commanded respectful mantion on
the rank.
■*The Eosary — yes, thafs where Miss Mayne lives. Beech
Tree Eoad — a low 'ouse with veranders all round — ^yer can't
miss it.*
The cabman rattled away to Grove End Eoad, and thence to
the superior quietude and seclusion of Beech Tree Eoad, where
he drew up at a house with a glazed entrance. He rang the beU,
and Christabel ahghted before the summons was answered.
'Is Miss Mayne at home?' she asked a servant in plain
clothes — a servant of unquestionable respectability.
* Yes, ma'am,' he repHed, and preceded her along a corridor,
glass-roofed, richly carpeted, and with a bank of hothouse flowers
on either side.
Only at this ultimate moment did Christabel's courage begu.
to falter. She felt as if she were perhaps entering a den of vice.
Innocent, guileless as she was, she bad her own vague ideas about
^ce — exaggerated as all ignorant ideas are apt to be. She began
?l4 Moimt Boyal.
to shiver as she walked over the dark subdued velvet pile of that
shadowy corridor. If she had found Miss Mayne engaged in
giving a masked ball — or last night's sapper party only just
finishing— or a party of young men playing blind hookey, she
would hardly have been surprised — not that she knew anything
about masked balls— or late suppers — or gambling — ^but that all
these would have come within her vague notions of an evil life.
* ffe loved her,' she said to herself, arguing against this new
terror, ' and he could not love a thoroughly wicked woman.'
No, the Gretchen idea — ^purity fallen, simplicity led astray —
was more natural — ^but one could hardly imagine Gretchen in a
house of this kind — ^this subdued splendour — this all-pervading
air of wealth and luxury.
Miss Courtenay was shown into a small morning-room — h
room which on one side was all window — opening on to a garden,
where some fine old trees gave an idea of space — and where the
foreground showed a mass of flowers — roses — ^roses — proses every-
where — trailing over arches — clustering round taU iron rods —
bush roses — standard roses — dwarf roses — all shining in the
golden light of a westering sun.
The room was elegantly simple — an escritoire in the Sherraton
Btyle — two or three book-tables crowded with small volumes in
exquisite binding, vellum, creamy calf, brown Russia, red edges,
gold edges, painted edges, all the prettinesses of bookbinding —
half a dozen low chairs — downy nests covered with soft tawny
Indian silk, with here and there a brighter patch of colour in the
shape of a plush pillow or an old brocade antimacassar —
voluminous curtains of the same soft tawny silk, embroidered
with poppies and cornflowers — a few choice flowers in old
Venetian vases — a large peacock-feather fan thrown beside an
open book, upon a low pillow-shaped ottoman.
Christabel gazed round the room in blank surprise — nothing
gaudy — nothing vulgar — nothing that indicated sudden promo-
tion from the garret to the drawing-room — an air of elegant
luxury, of supreme fashion in all things — but no glare of gilding,
no discords in form or colour.
* Your name, if you please, madam 1 ' said the servant, a
model of decorum in well-brushed black.
' Perhaps you had better take my card. I am not personally
known to Miss Mayne,' answered Christabel, opening her card-
case. * Oh ! ' she exclaimed suddenly, as with a cry of pain.
* I beg your pardon,' said the servant, alarmed.
*It*8 nothing. A picture startled me — that was all. Be
good enough to tell Miss Mayne that I shaU be very much
obliged to her if she will see me.'
' Certainly, madam ! said the man, as he retired with the
enrd, wondering how a young lady of such distinguished appear-
* Love M Love for Evermore.* 115
ftiice happened to call upon his mistress, whose feminine visitom
were usually of a more marked type.
* I dare say she's coUectin' funds for one of their everiastin*
churches,' thought the butler, "igh, low, or Jack, as I call
'em — 'igh church, low church, or John Wesley — ever so many
predominations, and all of 'em equally keen after money. But
why did she almost s'riek when she clapt her eyes on Mr.
'Amleigh's portrait, I wonder, just as if she had seen a scorpiont.*
Christabel stood motionless where the man left her, looking
at a photograph on a brass easel upon an old ebony table in the
middle of the room. A cluster of stephanotis in a low Tenetian
vase stood in front of that portrait, like flowers before a shrine.
It was an exquisitely painted photograph of An^^nis Hamleigh —
Angus at his best and brightest, before the flush and glory of
youth had faded from eyes and brow — ^Angus with a vivacity
of expression which she had never seen in his face — she who had
known him only since the fatal hereditary disease had set its
mark upon him.
* Ah ! ' she sighed, * he was happier when he loved her than
he ever was with me.'
She stood gazing at that pictured face, her hands clasped, her
heart beating heavily. Everything confirmed her in her despair —
in her iron resolv*-^. At last with a long-drawn sigh, she with-
drew her eyes from the picture, and began to explore the room.
No, there was no trace of vulgarity — no ugly indication of
a vicious mind. Christabel glanced at the open book od
the ottoman, half expecting to find the trail of the serpent
there — in some shameful French novel, the very name of wnidi
she had not been allowed to hear. But the book was only the
last Contemporary Review, open at an article of Gladstone's.
Then, with faintly tremulous hand, she took one of the vellum-
bound duodecimos from a shelf of the revolving book-table—
* Selections from Shelley' — and on the title-page, * Angus to
Stella, Rome,' and the date, just three years old, in the hand she
knew so well. She looked in other books — all choicest flowera
of literature — and in each there was the same familiar penman-
ship, sometimes with a brief sentence that made the book a
souvenir — sometimes with a passionate line from Shakespeare or
Dante, Heine or De Musset. Christabel remembered, with a
sharp pang of jealousy, that her lover had never so written in
any book he had given her. She ignored the change which a
year or two may make in a man's character, when he has reached
one of the turning^ points of life; and how a graver deeper
phase of feeling, less eager to express itself in other people's
flowery language, succeeds youth's fervid sentiment. Had
Wefther lived and loved a second Charlotte, assuredly he woulu
b^ive If^ved her after * wiser and graver fashion. But ChristabeJ
116 Mount Royat.
had believed herswlf her lover's first and only love, and finding
that she was but the second volume in his life, abandoneq
herself at once to despair.
She sank into one of the low luxurious chairs, just as the
door opened, and Miss Mayne came into the room.
If she had looked lovely as Psyche, in her classic drapery,
with the em<5rald butterfly on her shoulder, she looked no less
beautiful in the costly-simplicity of her home toilet. She wore
a sacque-shaped tea-gown o£ soft French-grey silk, lined with
palest pink satin, over a petticoat that seemed a mass of cream-
coloured lace. Her only ornaments were three half -hoop rings —
rubies, diamonds, and sapphires — too large for the slender third
finger of her left hand, and half concealing a thin wedding-ring —
and a star-shaped broach — one large cat's-eye with diamond
rays, which fastened the lace handkerchief at her throat.
Christabel, quick to obsei-ve the woman whose existence had
ruined her life, noted everything, from the small perfectly-shaped
head — shaped for beauty rather than mental power — to the
little arched foot in its pearl-coloured silk stocking, and grey
satin slipper. For the first time in her life she beheld a woman
whose chief business in this world was to look her loveliest, at
all times and seasons, for friend or foe — for whom the perfectiox'
of costume was the study and delight of life — ^who lived ana
reigned by the divine right of beauty.
* Pray sit down ! ' said Miss Mayne, with a careless wave of
her hand — so small — so delicate and fragile-looking under the
lace ruffle ; * I am quite at a loss to guess to what I am indebted
for the honour of this visit.'
She looked at her visitor scmtinizingly with those dark, too
Fustrous eyes. A hectic? flush burned in her hollo w cheeks. She
had heard a good deal about this Miss Courtenay, of Mount
Eoyal and Mayf air, and she came prepared to do battle.
For some moments Christabel was dumb. It was one thing
to have come into this young lioness's den, and another thing to
know what to say to the lioness. But the straightness and
purity of the girl's purpose upheld her — and her courage hardly
faltered.
' I have come to you. Miss Mayne, because I wiU not consent
to be governed by common report. I want to know the truth —
the whole truth — however bitter it may be forme — in order that
\ may know how to act.'
Miss Mayne had expected a much sharper mode of attack.
She had been prepared to hear heraelf called scorpion — or viper
— the pest of society — a form of address to which she would
have been able to replv with a startling sharpness. But to be
Bpoken to thus — gravely, gently, pleadingly, and with that sweet
girlish face looking at her in unspeakable eormw — wa« something
tor which she Ivad noi. -nrepared herself-
' Love is Love for Evermore: 117
'You speak to me like a lady — like a good woman,* she said,
falteringly. * What is it you want to know 1 '
* I have been told that Mr. Hamleigh — Angus Hamleigh —
was once your lover. Is that true ? '
'True as the stars in heaven — the stars by which we swore
to love each other to the end of oiu* lives — looking up at them,
with our hands clasped, as we stood on the deck of the steamer
between Dover and Calais. That was our marriage. I used to
think that God saw it, and accepted it — just as if we had beeii
in church : only it did not hold water, you see,' she added, with
a cynical laugh, which ended in a hard little cough.
* lie loved you dearly. I can see that by the lines that he
wrote in your books. I ventured to look at them while I waited
for you. Why did he not marry you 1 '
Stella Mayne shrugged her shoulders, and played with tht
8oft lace of her^Aw.
* It is not the fashion to marry a girl who dances in short
petticoats, and lives in an attic," she answered. ' Perhaps such
% girl might make a good wife, if a man had the courage to try
the experiment. Such things have been done, I believe ; but
most men prefer the safjT (bourse. If I had been clever, I dare-
say Mr. Hamleigh would have married me ; but I was an
ignorant little fool — and when he came across my path he
seemwd like an angel of light. I simply worshipped him.
You've no idea how innocent I was in those days. Not a care-
fully educated, lady-like innocence, like yours, don't you know,
but .absolute ignorance. I didti't know any wrong ; but then I
didn't know any right. Vou see I am quite candid with you.'
' I thank you witli all my heart for your truthfulness. Every-
thing — for you, for me, for Angu^ — depends upon our perfect
truthfulness. I want to do what i.^ best — what is wisest — what
is right — not for myself o«ly,but for Angus, for you.*
Thoi^e lo^V»y liquid eye^ looked at her incredulously.
'What,' cried Stella Mavne, with her mocking little laugh
— a musical little laugh trained for comedy, and unconsciously
fikTtificial— * do you mean to tell me that you care a straw what
Ix^comes of me — that it matters to you whether I die in the
gutter where I was bom, or pitch myself into the Kegent's
Canal some night when I have a j&t of the blue devils 1 '
' I care very much what becomes of you. I should not be
here if I did not wisn to do what is beat for you.'
' Then you come as my friend, and not as my enemy I * said
Stella.
* Yes, I am here aa your friend,' answered Christabel, with
an effort
The actress — a creature all impulse and emotion — fell on hm
knees at Miss Courtenay's feet, and pressed her lips upon the
lacly's gloved hand.
lit Mount Royal.
* How good you are,' she exclaimed — * how good— how gooa.
I have read of such women — they swarm in the novels I ged
from Mudie — they and fiends. There's no middle distance.
But I never believed in them. When the man brought me your
card I thought you had come to blackguard me.'
Christabel shuddered at the coarse word, so out of harmouj
fnth that vellum-bound Shelley, and all the graciousness oi
Miss Mayne's surroundings.
* Forgive me/ said Stella, seeing her disgust, * I am horribly
vulgar. I never was like that while — while Angus cared for
me.*
' Why did he leave off caring for you V asked Christabel,
looking gravely down at the lovely upturned face, so exquisite
in its fragile sensitive beauty.
Now Stella Mayne was one of those complex creatures, quite
out of the range of a truthful woman's understanding — a crea-
ture who could be candour itself — could gush and prattle with
the innocent expansiveness of a child, so long as there waa
nothing she particularly desired to conceal — ^yet who could lie
with the same sweet air of child-like simplicity when it served
her purpose —lie with the calm stolidity, the invincible assurance,
of an untruthful child. She did not answer Christabel's question
immediately, but looked at lier thoughfully for a few seconds,
wondering how much of her history this young lady knew, and
to what extent lying might serve. She had slipped from her
knees to a sitting position on the Persian hearthrug, her thin,
semi-transparent hands clasped upon her knee, the triple circlet
of gems flashing in the low sunlight.
* Why did we part 1 ' she asked, shrugging her shoulders.
*I hardly know. Temper, I suppose. He has not too good a
temper, and I — well, I am a demon when I am ill — and I am
often ill.'
* You keep his portrait on your table,* said Christabel.
* Kpep it ? Yes — and round my neck,' answered Stella,
"jerking a gold locket out of her loose gown, and opening it to
show the miniature inside. * I have worn his picture against
my heart ever since he gave it me — during our first Italian tour,
I shall wear it so when I am dead. Yes— when he is married,
and happy with you, and I am lying in my grave in Hendon
Churchyard. Do you know I have bought and jiaid for my
grave?'
* Why did you do that ? '
'Because I wanted to make sure of not being buried in a
cemetery — a city of the dead — streets and squares and alleys of
gravestones. I have chosen a spot under a great sureiuling
cedar, in a churchyard that might be a hun(&ed miles from
London —and yet it is quite near here, and hfr ^Y for those wh«
* Love i? Love for Evemwre* 118
will ha ve to take me. I shall not give any one too much trouble.
Perhaps, if you will let him, Angus may come to my funeral,
and drop a bunch of violets on my coffin.*
* Why do you talk like that ? '
* Because the end cannot be very far off. Do you think I
look as if I should live to be a grandmother ! *
The hectic bloom, the unnatural light in those lovely eyes,
the transparent hands, and purple-tinted nails, did not, indeed,
point to such a conclusion.
*If you are really ill why do you go on acting?' asked
Christabel, gently. * Surely the fatigue and excitement must be
very bad for yoj^.'
* I hardly know. The fatigue may be killing me, but the
excitement is the only thing that keeps me alive. Besides, I
must live — thirty pounds a week is a consideration.'
* But — ^you are not in want of money % ' exclaimed Christabel
* Mr. Hamleigh would never '
' Leave me to starve,' interrupted Stella, hurriedly ; * no I
have plenty of money. While — while we were happy — Mr.
Hamleigh lavished his money upon me — he was always absurdly
generous — and if I wanted money now I should have but to
hold out my hand. I have never known the want of money
Bince I left my attic — four and sixpence a week, with the use of
the kitchen fire, to boil a kettle, or cook a chop — when my
resources rose to a chop — it was oftener a bloater. Do you
know, the other day, when I was dreadfully ill and they had
been worrying me with invalid turtle, jellies, oysters, caviare,
all kinds of loathsome daintinesses — and the doctor said I should
die if I didn't eat — I thought perhaps I might get back the old
appetite for bloater and bread and butter — I used to enjoy a
bloater tea so in those old days — but it was no use — the very
smell of the thing almost killed me— the whole house wa«
poisoned with it.'
She prattled on, looking up at Christabel with a confiding
unrile. The visit had taken quite a pleasant turn. She had no
idea that anything serious was to come of it. Her quondam
lover's affianced wife had taken it into her head to come and see
what kind of stufi" Mr. Hamleigh's former idol was made of —
that was all — and the lady's amiability was making the interview
altogether agreeable.
Yet, in another moment, the pain and sorrow in Christabel's
face showed her that there was something stronger than f rivoloua
cui-iosity in the lady's mind.
* Pray be serious with me,* said Christabel. * Remember that
the welfare of three people depends upon my resolution in thii
matter. It would be easy for me to say — I will shut my eyes to
the past : he haa told me that he loves me — and I will believe
V20 Mount Boyal,
him. Bat I trill not do that. I will not live a life of suepicioa
and unrest, just for the sweet privilege of bearing him company,
and being called by his name — dear as that thought is to me.
No, it shall be all or nothing. If I cannot have his whole heart
I will have none of it. You confess that you wear hia picture
next your heart. Do you still love him V
*Yes — always — always — always,' answered the actress, fer-
vently. This at least was no bold-faced lie — there was truth's
divine accent here. * There is no man like him on this earth.
And then in low impassioned tones she quoted those passionate
lines of Mrs. Browning's : —
* There is no one beside thee, and no one above thee ;
Thou standest alone as the nightingale sings ;
And my words, that would praise thee, are impotent things.*
* And do you believe that he has qaite left off loving you 1 *
* No,' answered the actress, looking up at her with flashing
eyes. * I don't believe it. I don't believe he could after all we
have been to each other. It isn't in human nature to forget such
love as ours.'
* And you believe — if he were fre'3 — if he had not engaged
himself to me — perhaps hardly intending it— he would come
back to you Y
* Yes, if he knew how ill I am — if he knew what the doctor
■ayg about me — I believe he would come back.'
* And marry you 1 ' asked Christabel, deadly pale.
* That's as may be,' retorted the other, with her Parisian shrug.
Christabel stood up, and laid her clenched hand on the low
draperied mantelpiece, almost as if she were laying it on an altar
to give emphasis to an oath. * Then he shall come back — then he
shall marry you,' she said in a grave, earnest voice. * I will rob
no woman of her husband. I will doom no fellow-creature to
hfe-long shame !'
* What,' cried Stella Mayne, with almost a shriek, * you will
give him up — for me 1'
* Yes. He has never belonged to me as he has belonged to
you — it is no shame for me to renounce him — grief and pain
— ^yes, grief i~? pain unspeakable — but no disgrace. He has
sinned, aj^d hz nmst atone for his sin. I will not be the impedi-
ment to youi marriage.'
* But if you were to give him up he might not marry me :
men are so difficult to manage,' faltered the actreas, aghast at
the idea of such a sacrifice, seeing the whole business in the
iight of circumstances unknown to Miss Courtenay.
* Not men with conscience and honour,' answered Christabel,
ith unsliaken firmness. * I feel very sure that if Mr. Hamleigh
were free he would do what is right It is onl^ his engagement
' djove M Love for Evermore,* 121
to me tha« hinders his making atonement to you He has lived
among worldly people who have never reminded him of his duty
^who have blunted his finer feelings with their hideous word-
liness — oh, I know how worldly women talk— as if there were
neither hell nor heaven, only Belgravia and Mayfair — and no
doubt worldly men are still worse. But he — he whom I have so
loved and honoured— cannot be without honour and "t. i science
He shall do what is just and right.*
She looked almost inspired as she stood there with pale
cheeks and kindling eyes, thinking far more of that broad prin-
ciple of justice than of the fragile emotional creature trembling
before her. This comes of feeding a girl's mind with Shake-
speare and Bacon, Carlyle and Plato, to say nothing of that
still broader and safer guide, the Gospel.
Just then there was the sound of footsteps approaching the
door — ^a measured masculine footfall. The emotional creature
fiCW to the door, opened it, murmured a few words to some
Eerson without, and closed it, but not before a whiff of Latakia
ad been wafted into the flower-scented room. The footsteps
moved away in another direction, and Christabel was much too
absorbed to notice that faint breath of tobacco.
* There's not the least use in your giving him up,' said Stella,
resolutely : ' he would never marry me. You don't know him aii
well as 1 do.'
* Do I not 1 I have lived only to study his character for the
best part of a year. I know he will do what is just.'
Stella Mayue suddenly clasped her hands before her face and
sobbed aloud.
' Oh, if I were only gowl and innocent like you ! * she cried,
piteously ; *how I detest myself as I stand here before you ! —
now loathsome — how hateful I am !*
* No, no,' murmured Christabel, soothingly, * you are not
hateful : it is only impenitent sin that is hateful. You were led
into wrong-doing because you were ignorant of light — there was
no one to teach you — no one to uphold you. And he who
tempted you is in duty bound to make amends. Trusb me —
trust me — it is better for my peace as well as for yours that he
should do his duty. And now good-bye — I have stayed too long
already.' '^ .
Again Stella Mayne fell on her knees and clasped this divine
visitant's hand. It seemed to this weak yet fervid soul almost
as if some angel guest had crossed her threshold. Christabel
stooped and would have kissed the actress's forehead.
* No,' she cried, histerically, * don't kiss me— don't— you don't
know. I should feel like Jud;is.'
* Good-bye, then. Trust me.* And so they parted.
A tall man, with an iron-grey moustache and a soldier-like
122 Mount Boyal.
bearing, came out of a little study, cigarette in hand, as the
outer door closed on Christabel. * Who the deuce is that
thoroughbred-looking girl 1 * asked this gentleman. * Have you
got some of the neighbouring swells to call upon you, at last 1
Why, what's the row, Fishky, you've been ci» ng 1 *
Fishky was the stage-carpenters', dressers', and super-
numeraries' pronunciation of the character which Miss Ma5^e
acted nightly, and had been sportively adopted by her inti-
mates as a pet name for herself.
* That lady is Miss Courtenay.*
* The lady Hamleigh is going to marry 1 What the devil is
she doing in this gaUre f I hope she hasn't been making herself
unpleasant ? '
* She is an angeL*
* With all my heart. Hamleigh is very welcome to her, so
long as he leaves me my dear little demon,' answered the soldier,
smiling down from his altitude of six feet two at the sylph-like
form in the Watteau gown.
* Oh, how I wish I had never seen your face,' said Stella : * I
should be almost a good woman, if there were no such person as
you in the world.'
CHAPTER X.
*LBT ME AND MT PASSIONATE LOVE GO BY.*
That second week of July was not altogether peerless
weather. It contained within the brief span of its seven days one
of those sudden and withering changes which try humanity more
than the hardest winter, with which every Transatlantic weather-
prophet threatened our island. The sidtry heat of a tropical
Tuesday was followed by the blighting east wind of a chilly
Wednesday ; and in the teeth of that keen east wind, blowing
across the German Ocean, and gathering force among the Pent-
lands, Angus Hamleigh set forth from the cosy shelter of Hillside,
upon a long day's salmon fishing.
His old kinswoman's health had considerably improved since
his airival ; but she was not yet so entirely restored to her normal
condition as w be willing that he should go back to London, Sha
pleaded with him for a few days more, and in order that the days
should not hang heavily on his hands, she urged him to make th«
most of his Scottish holiday by enjoying a day or two's salmon
fishing. The first floods, which did not usually begin tiU August,
had a&eady swollen the river, and the grilse and early autimin
salmon were running up ; according to Donald, the handy man
who helped in the gardens, and who was a first-rate fisherman.
* Let Me and my Passionate Love go by* 123
* There's all your ain tackle upstairs in one o' the presses,' said
the old lady ; *ye'll just find it ready to your hand.'
The offer was tempting — Angus had found the long summer
days pass but slowly in house and garden — albeit there was a
library of good old classics. He so longed to be hastening back
to Christabel — found the hours so empty and joyless without her.
He was an ardent fisherman — loving that leisurely face-to-face
contemplation of Nature which goes with rod and line. The
huntsman sees the landscape flash past him like a dream of grey
Wintry beauty — it is no more to him than a picture in a gallery —
he has rarely time to feel Nature's tranquil charms. Even when
he must needs stand still for a while, he is devoured by impatience
to be scampering off again, and to see the world in motion. But
the angler has leisure to steep himself in the atmosphere of hill
and streamlet — to take Nature's colours into his soul. Every
angler ought to blossom into a landscape painter. But this
salmon fishing was not altogether a dreamy and contemplative
business. Quickness, presence of mind, and energetic action
were needed at some stages of the sport. The moment came
when Angus found his rod bending under the weight of a mag-
nificent salmon, and when it seemed a toss up between landing
his fish and being dragged under water by him.
* Jump in,' cried Donald, excitedly, when the angler's line was
nearly expended, ' it's only up to your neck.* So Angus jumped
in, and followed the lightning-swift rush of the salmon down
stream, and then, turning him after some difliculty, had to follow
his prey up stream again, back to the original pool, where he
captured him, and broke the top of his eighteen-foot rod
Angus clad himself thinly, because the almanack told him
It was summer — he walked far and fast — overheated himself —
waded for hours knee-deep in the river — his fishing-boots of
three seasons ago far from watertight — ate nothing all day — aad
went back to Hillside at dusk, carrying the seeds of pneumonia
under his oilskin jacket Next day he contrived to crawl about
the gardens, reading * Burton ' in an idle desultory way that
suited so desultory a book, longing for a letter from Christabel,
and sorely tired of his Scottish seclusion. On the day after he
was laid up with a sharp attack of inflammation of the lungs,
attended by his aunt's experienced old doctor — a shrewd hard-
headed Scotchman, contemporary with Simpson, Sibson, Fergusson
—all the brightest lights in the Caledonian galaxy — and nursed
by one of his aunf s old servants.
'V^Tiile he was in this condition there came a letter from
Christabel, a long letter, which he unfolded with eager trembling
hands, looking for joy and comfort in its pages. But, as he read,
his palL'd cheek flushed with angry feverish carmine, uud hia
•hort hard breath «ug grew shorter aud liartLar
124i Mount BoyaL
Yet the letter expressed only tenderness. In tenderest words
his betrothed reminded him of past wrong-doing, and iirged upon
him the duty of atonement. If this girl whom he had so
passionately loved a little while ago was from society's standpoint
toworthy to be his wife — it was he who had made her unworthi-
-ftess — he who alone could redeem her from absolute shame and
disgnvce. * All the world knows that you wronged her, let aU the
world know that you are glad to make such poor amends as may be
made for that wrong/ wrote Christabel. * I forgive you all the
sorrow you have brought upon me : it was in a great measure my
own fault I was too eager to link my life with yours. I almost
thrust myself upon you. I will revere and honour you all the
days of my life, if you will do right in this hard crisis of our fate.
Knowing what I>know I could never be happy as your wife : my
soul would be wrung with jealous fears ; I should never feel
secure of your love ; my life would be one long seK-torment. It
is with this conviction that I tell you our engagement is ended,
Angus, loving you with all my heart I have not come hurriedly
to this resolution. It is not of anybody's prompting. I have
E rayed to my God for guidance. I have questioned my own
eart, and I believe that I have decided wisely and well. And
so farewell, dear love. May God and your conscience inspire
you to do right.
'Your ever constant friend,
* Christabel Courtenay.'
Angus Hamleigh's first impulse was anger. Then came a
softer feeling, and he saw all the nobleness of the womanly instinct
that had prompted this letter: a good woman's profound pity for
a fallen sister ; an innocent woman's readiness to see only the
poetical aspect of a guilty love ; an unselfish woman's desire that
right should be done, at any cost to herself.
* God bless her r he murmured, and kissed the letCer before
he laid it under his pillow.
His next thought was to telegraph immediately to ChristabeL
He asked his nurse to bring him a telegraph form and a pencil,
and with a shaking hand began to write : —
* No 1 a thousand times no. I owe no allegiance to any one
but to you. There can be no question of broken faith witih the
person of whom you write. I hold you to your promise.*
Scarcely liad his feeble fingers scrawled the lines than he
tore up the paper.
* I will see the doctor first,' he thought. * AmT a man to
claim the fulfilment of a bright girl's promise of marriage % No^
I'll get the doctor's verdict before I send her a word.'
When the old family practitioner had finished his soundingi
Mid questionings, Angus asked him to stop for a few minute#
longer.
'Liet Me and my Passionate Love go by.* 125
* You say I'm better this afternoon, and that you'll get me
^'cr this bout/ he said, * and I believe you. But I want you If
go a little furtb<jr and tell me what you think of my case from a
reneral point of view.'
* Humph,' muttered the doctor, *it isn't easy to say what
proportion of your seemptoms may? be temporary, and vnat
pairmeneut ; but ye've a vairy shabby pair of lungs at thia
praisent writing. What's your family heeatory 1'
* My father died of consumption at thirty,*
* Humph 1 ainy other relative V
* My aunt, a girl of nineteen ; my father's mother, at seven-
and-twenty.*
* Dear, dear, thaf s no vairy lively retrospaict. la this yomr
fairst attack of heemorrage V
* Not by three or four.'
The good old doctor shook his head.
* Ye'll need to take extreme care of yourself,' he said : * and
ye'll no be for spending much of your life in thees country. Ye
might do vairy weel in September and October at Rothsay or in
the Isle of Arran, but I'd recomraaind ye to winter in the South.*
* Do you think I shall be a long-lived man V
* My dear sir, that'll depend on care and circuuLstances beyond
human foresight.. I couldn't conscientiously recommaind your
life to an Insurance Office.*
'Do you think that a man in my condition is justified in
marrying?'
* Do ye want a plain answer ? *
* The plainest that you can give me.'
* Then I tell you frankly that I think the marriage of a man
with a marked consumptive tendency, like yours, is a crime — ^a
crying sin, which is inexcusable in the face of modern science
and modem enlightermient, and our advanced knowledge of the
mainsprings of life and death. What, sir, can it be less than a
crime to bring into this world children burdened with an
iieredi:ary curse, destined to a heritage of weakness and pain —
bright young minds fettered by diseased bodies — bom to perish
untimely? Mr. Hamleigh, did ye ever read a book called
"EcceHomo?"'
* Yes, it is a book of books. I know it by heart*
* Then ye'll may be remaimber the writer's simiming up of
pi-actical Chreestianity as a seestem of ethics which in its ultimata
perfection will result in the happiness of the human race — even
that last enemy. Death, if not subdued, may be made to keep hia
distance, seemply by a due observance of natural laws — by an
unselfish forethought and regard in each member of the human
•necies for the welfare of the multitude. The man who become*
lae father of a race of puny children, can be no friend it
126 Mount BoyaL
humanity. He predooms future suffering to the innocent by a
reckless indulgence of his own inclination in the present.*
* Yes, I believe you are right,' said Angus, with a despairing
iigh. * It seems a hard thing for a man who loves, and is be-
loved by, the sweetest among women, to forego even for a few
brief years of perfect bliss, and go down lonely to the grave — to
accept this doctrine of renunciation, and count himself as one dead
in life. Yet a year ago I told myself pretty much what you have
told me to-day. I was tempted from my resolve by a woman's
loving devotion — and now — a crucial point has come — and I must
decide whether to marry or not.*
* If you love humanity better than you love yourself, ye'U die
a bachelor,' said the Scotchman, gravely, but with iniSnite pity
in his shrewd old face ; * ye've asked me for the truth, and I've
geeven it ye. Truth is often hard.'
Angus gave his thin hot hand to the doctor in token of friendly
feehng, and then silently turned his face to the wall, whereupon
the doctor gently patted him upon the shoulder and left him.
Yes, it was hard. In the bright spring time, his health won-
drously restored by that quiet restful winter on the shores of the
Mediterranean, Angus had almost believed that he had given his
enemy the slip — that Death's dominion over him was henceforth
to be no more than over the common ruck of humanity, who,
knowing not when or how the fatal lot may fall from the urn,
drop into a habit of considering themselves immortal, and death
a calamity of which one reads in the newspapers with only
a kindly interest in other people's mortality. AH through the
gay London season he had been so utterly happy, so wonderfully
well, that the insidious disease, which had declared itself in the
past by so many unmistakable symptoms, seemed to have relaxed
its grip upon him. He began to have faith in an advanced
medical science — the power to cure maladies hitherto considered
incurable. That long interval of languid empty days and nights
of placid sleep — the heavy sweetness of southern air breathing
over the fields of orange flowers and violets, February roses and
carnations, had brought strength and healing. The foe had been
bafQed by the new care which his victim haS taken of an exist-
ence that had suddenly become precious.
This was the hope that had buoyed up Angus Hamleigh'a
spirits all through the happy spring-time and summer which he
Lad spent in the company of his betrothed. He had seen the
physician who less than a year before had pronounced his sentence
of doom, and the famous physician, taking the thing in the light-
hearted way of a man ror whom humanity is a collection of
* cases,' was jocose and congratulatory, full of wonder at his
patient's restoration, and taking credit to himself for having
recommended Hydros. And now the eiv^m^r had him by the
'Let Me and my Passionate Love go by.* 127
ihroat TliG foe, uo longer insidiously hinting at his deadly
meaning, held him in the tierce grip of pain and fever. Such an
littack as this, following upon one summer day's imprudence,
showed but too plainly by how frail a tie he clung to life — how
brief and how prone to malady must be the remnant of his days.
Before the post went out he re-read Christabel's letter,
•smiling mournfully as he read.
* Poor child ! ' he murmured to himself, * Grod bless her for
her innocence — God bless her for her unselfish desire to do right.
If she only knew the truth — but, better that she should be spared
the knowledge of evil. What good end would it serve if I were
to enter upon painful explanations ? '
He had himself propped up with pillows, and wrote, in a
hand which he strove to keep from shaking, the following
lines : —
' Dearest ! I accept your decree : not for the reasons which you
allege, which are no reasons ; but for other motives which it
would pain me too much to explain. I have loved you, 1 do love
you, better than my own joy or comfort, better than my own
life : and it is simply and wholly on that account I can resign
myself to say, let us in the future be friends — and friends only.
' Your ever afl'ectionate
'Angus Hamleigh.'
He was so much better next day as to be able to sit up for an
hour or two in the afternoon ; and during that time he wrote at
length to Mrs. Tregonell, telling her of his illness, and of his
conversation with the Scotch doctor, and the decision at which
he had arrived on the strength of that medical opinion, and
leaving her at liberty to tell Ckristabel as much, or as little of
this, as she thought tit.
* I know you will do what is best for my darling's happiness,'
he said. ' If I did not believe this renunciation a sacred duty,
and the only means of saving her from infinite pain in the future,
nothing that she or even you could say about my past fr«licr
would induce me to renounce her. I would fight that question
to the uttermost. But the other fatal fact is not to be faced,
except by a blind and cowardly selfishness which I dare not
practise.'
After this day, the invalid mended slowly, and old Miss
MacPherson, his aunt, being soon quite restored, Mr. Hamleigh
telegraphed to his valet to bring books and other necessaries from
his chambers in the Albany, and to meet him in the Isle of Arran,
where he meant to vegetate for the next month or two, chartering
n yacht of some kind, and living half on land and half on faea.
ISM Mount Boyai,
CHAPTER XL
*ALAS FOR ME IHBN, MT GOOD DATS ARC DON&
Angus Hamleioh's letter came upon Cliristabel like a toirent
of cold water, as if that bright silveiy arc whicli pierces the rock
at St. Nectan's Kieve had struck upon her heait with its icj
stream, and chilled it into stone. All through that long sunnrief
tlay upon which her letter must arrive at Hillside, she had lived
in neivous expectation of a telegram expressing indignation,
remonstrance, pleading, anger — a savage denial of her right to
renounce her lover — to break her engagement. She had made
up her mind in all good faith. She meant to go on to the bitter
end, in the teeth of her lover's opposition, to complete her renun-
ciation in favour of that frail creaturo who had so solemn a
claim upon Angus Hamleigh's honour. She meant to light thia
good fight — but she expected that the struggle would be hard
Oh, how long and dismal those summer hours heemed, which sha
spent in her own room, trying to read, trying to comfort herself
with the saddest strains of classic melody, and always and through
all listening for the telegraph boy^s knock at the hall door, or for
the sudden stopping of a hansom against the kerb, bringing home
her lover to remonstrate in person, in defiance of all calculationi
of time and space.
There was no telegram. She had to wait nearly twenty-four
hours for the slow transit of the mails from the high latitude of
Inverness. And when she read Angus Hamleigh's letter — those
few placid words which so quietly left her free to take her own
way — her heart sank with a dull despair that was infinitely
worse than the keen agonies of the hist few days. The finality
of that brief letter — the willingness to surrender her— the cold
indifference, as it seemed, to her future fate — was the hardest
blow of alL Too surely it confirmed all those humiliating
doubts which had tortured her since her discovery of that
wretched pafjt. He had never really cared for her. It was she
who had forced him into an avowal of atFection by her uncon-
scious revelation of love — she who, unmaidenly in her ignorance
of life and mankind, had been the wooer rather than the wooed,
* Thank God that my pride and my duty helped me to decide,*
she said to herself : * what should I have done if I had married
him and found out afterwards how weak a hold I had upon his
heart — if he had told me one day that he had married me out of
pity.'
Christabel told Mrs. Iregonell she had written to Mr.
Hamleigh— slie spoke of him only aa Mr. Hamleigh now— and
bad received his reply, and that all waa now over between them.
'dtas for Me then, my Good Dayt are Done.* 129
*I want you to return his presents for me, Auntie,' she said.
'They are too valuable to be sent to his chambera while he in
away — the diamond necklace which he gave me on my birthday
— ^just like that one I saw on the stage — I suppose he thinks all
women have exactly the same ideas and fancies — the books
U>o — I will put them all together for you to return.*
* He has given you a small library,' said Mrs. Tregonell. * I
will take the things in the carriage, and see that they are
properly delivered. Don't be afraid, darling. You shall have
no trouble about them. My own dear girl— -how brave and good
vou are — how v/ise too. Yes, Belle, I am convinced that you
Lave chosen wisely,' said the widow, with the glow of honest
conviction, for the woof of self-interest is so cunningly inter-
woven with the warp of righteous feeling that very few of us
can tell where the threads cross.
Slie drew her niece to her heart, and kissed her, and cried
prith her a little ; and then said cheeringly, * And now tell me,
darling, what you would like to do ? We have ever so many
engagements for this week and the next fortnight — but you
know that they have been made only for your sake, and if you
don't care about them '
* Care about them I Oh, Auntie, do you think I could go into
society with this duU aching pain at my heart ; I feel as if I
•hould never care to see my fellow-creatures again — except vo^-
jQd Jessie.'
And I^eouard,' said the mother. *Poor Leonard, whfe
iX)uld go through fire and water for you.*
Christabel winced, feehng fretfully that she did not want au^
one to go through fire and water ; a kind of acrobatic perform-
ance continually being volunteered by people who would hesitate
at the loan of five pounds.
* Were shall we go, dear 1 Would you not like to go abroad
for the Autumn — Switzerland, or Italy, for instance V suggested
Mrs. Tregonell, with an idea that three months on the Continent
was a specific in such cases.
* No,' said Christabel, shudderingly, remembering how Angus
and his frail first love had been happy together in Italy — oh,
those books, those books, with their passionate record of past
joys, those burning lines from Byron and Heine, which expressed
such a world of feeling in ten syllables— * No, I would ever so
much rather go back to Moxmt Royal.*
* My poor child, the place is so associated with Mr. Hamleigh,
Vou would be thinking of him every hour of the day,'
* I shall do that anywhere.'
'Change of soene would be so much better for you — ^travelling
•^Vttiiety.'
Auntie, ymi are not strong enough to travel witJi comfort ir
iSO Mount Royal.
yourself. I am not going to drag you about for a fanciful allevia-
tion of my sorrow. The landscape may change but not the
mind — I should think of — the past — just as much on Mont Blanc
as on Willapark. No, dearest, let us go home ; let me go back
to ihe old, old life, as it v/na before I saw Mr. Hamleigh. Oh,
what a child I was in those dear days, how happy, how happy.'
She burst into tears, melted by the memory of those placid
days, the first tears she had shed since she received her Jover's
answer.
* And you will be happy again, dear. Don't you remember
that passage I read to you in " The Caxtons " a few days ago,
in which the wise tender-hearted father telb his son how small a
space one great sorrow takes in a life, and how triumphantly th€
life soars on beyond it ? '
* Yes, I remember ; but I didn't believe him then, and I be-
lieve him still less now,* answered Christabel, doggedly.
Major Bree called that afternoon, and found Mrs. Tregonell
alone in the drawing-room.
* Where is Belle ? ' he asked.
* She has gone for a long country ride — I insisted upon it.'
*You were quite right. She was looking as white as
a ghost yesterday when I just caught a glimpse of her in the
next room. She ran away like a guilty thing when she saw me.
Well, has this cloud blown over ? Is Hamleigh back ? '
' No ; Christabel's engagement is broken off. It has been a
great blow, a severe trial ; but now it is over 1 am glad ; she
never could have been happy with him.'
* How do you know that 1 ' asked the Major, sharply.
' I judge him by his antecedents. What could be expected
from a man who had led that kind of life — a man who so grossly
deceived her ? '
* Deceived her 1 Did she ask him if he had ever been in love
with an actress ? Did she or you ever interrogate him as to hia
past life ? Why you did not even question me, or I should have
been obliged to tell you aU I knew of his relations with Miss
Mayne.'
* You ought to have told me of your own accord. You should
mot have waited to be questioned,' said Mrs. Tregonell, indig
nantly.
* Why should I stir dirty water ? Do you suppose that every
nan who makes a good husband and lives happily with his wife
has been spotless up to the hour of his marriage ? There is a
Sturm UTM Brana period in every man's life, depend upon it
Far better that the tempest should rage before marriage than
•fter.'
' I can't accept your philosophy, nor could ChristabeL She
took the business into her own hands, bravely, nobly. She lias
* Gruf a fixed Star, and Joy a Vane tJiat veers, 131
cancelled her engagement, and left Mr. Hamleigh free to make
8ome kind of reparation to this actress person.*
* Keparation ! — ^to Stella Mayne 1 Why don't you know
that she is the mistress of Colonel Luscomb, who has ruined hia
social and professional prospects for her sake. Do you mean to
say that old harpy who gave you your information about Angus
did not give you the epilogue to the play ? *
* Not a word,' said IV&s. Tregonell, considerably dashed by
this intelligence. * But I don't see that this fact alters the case —
much. Christabel could never have been happy or at peace with
a man who had once been devoted to a creature of that class.'
* Would you be surprised to hear that creatures of that class
are flesh and blood ; and that they love us and leave us, and
cleave to us and forsake us, just like the women in society 1
asked the Major, surveying her with mild scorn.
She was a good woman, no doubt, and acted honestly accord-
ing to her lights ; yet he was angry with her, believing that she
had spoiled two lives by her incapacity to take a wide an<^
liberal view of Hie human comedy.
CHAPTER XIL
'grief a fixed star, and jot a vane that veers.'
They went back to the Cornish moors, and the good old manor-
house on the hill above the sea ; went back to the old life, just
the same, in all outward seeming, as it had been before that
fatal visit which had brought love and sorrow to Christabel.
How lovely the hills looked in the soft summer light ; how un-
speakably fair the sea in all its glory of sapphire and emerald,
and those deep garnet-coloured patches which show where the
red sea-weed lurks below, with its pinnacles of rock and colonies
of wild living creatures, gull and cormorant, basking in the sun.
Little Boscastle, too, gay with the coming and going of many
tourists, the merry music of the guard's horn, as the omnibus
came jolting down the hill from Bodmin, or the coach wound up
the hilt to Bude ; busy with the bustle of tremendous experi-
ments with rockets and life-saving apparatus in the soft July
darkness ; noisy with the lowing of cattle and plaintive tremolo
of sheep in the market-place, and all the rude pleasures of a
rural fair ; alive with all manner of sound and movement, and
having a general air of making money too fast for the capability
of investment. The whole place was gorged with visitors — not
the inn only, but every available bed-chamber at post-olfice, shop,
*^<i cottage was ^ed with humanity ; and the half-dozeji of a/o
132 Mount Boyal.
available pony-carriages were making the jonmey to Tintagel
and back three times a day ; while the patient investigators who
tramped to St. Nectan's Kieve, without the faintest idea of who
St. Nectan was, or what a kieve was, or what manner of local
curiosity they were going to see, were legion j all coming back
ravenous to the same cozy iim to elbow one another in friendly
contiguity at the homely table dPhStey in the yellow light of many
candles.
Chrislabel avoided the village as much as possible during this
gay season. Slie would have avoided it just as much had itbeen
the duU season : the people she shrank from meeting were not
the strange tourists, Dut the old gaffers and goodies who had
known her all their lives — the * uncles' and 'aunts' — (in
Cornwall uncle and aunt are a kind of patriarchal title given to
honoured age) — and who might consider themselves privileged
to ask why her wedding was de|erred, and when it was to be.
She went with Jessie on long lonely expeditions by sea and
land. She had half a dozen old sailors who were her slaves,
always ready to take her out in good weather, deeming it their
highest privilege to obey so fair a captain, and one who always
paid them handsomely for their labour. They went often to
Trebarwith Sands, and sat there in eome sheltered nook, working
and reading at peace, resigned to a life that had lost all its
brightness and colour.
' Do you know, Jessie, that I feel like an old maid of fifty ? '
said Belle on one of those rare occasions when she spoke of her
own feelings. * It seems to me as if it weie ages since I made
up my mind to live and die unmarried, and to make life, some-
how or other, self-sufficing — as if Randie and I were both
getting old and grey together. For he is ever so much greyer,
the dear thing,' she said, laying her hand lovingly on the honest
black head and grey muzzle. * What a pity that dogs should
grow old so soon, when we are so dependent on their love. Why
are they not like elephants, in whose lives a decade hardly
counts ? '
* Oh, Belle, Belle, as if a beautiful woman of twenty could be
dependent on a sheep-dog's affection — when she hius all her life
before her and all the world to choose from.'
* Perhaps you think 1 could change ray lover as some people
change their dogs,' si^iid Belle, bitterly, * be deeply attached to a
coUey this year and next year be just as devoted to a spaniel
My affections are not so easily transferable.'
Mrs. Tregonell had told her niece nothing of Angus
Hamleigh's final letter to herself. He had given her freedom to
communicate as much or as little of that letter as she liked to
Christabel — and she had taken the utmost license, and had been
^together silt^^t about it. ^Vljat ^^'»otl coukl it dp fp:*Chrisfc*b«l
Qrief a Fixed Star, and Joy a Vane that tteers.* 183
to hear of his illness. The knowledge might inspirv) her to some
wild quixotic act ; she might insist upon devoting herself to him
— to be his wife in order that she might be his nurse — and surely
this would be to ruin her life without helping him to prolong his.
The blow had fallen — the sharpest pain of this sudden sorrow had
been suffered. Time and youth, and Leonard's faithful love would
bring swift healing. * How I loved and grieved for his father,*
thought Mrs. Tregonell, * Yet I survived his loss, and had a
peaceful happy lif^ with the best and kindest of men.'
A peaceful happy life, yes — the English matron's calm content
in a handsome house and a well organized household — a good
stable — velvet gowns — family diamonds — the world's respect.
But that first passionate love of youth — the love that is eager for
self-sacrifice, that would welcome beggary — the love which sees
a lover independent of all surrounding circumstances, worship-
ping and deifying the man himself — that sacred flame had been
for ever extinguished in Diana Champernowne's heart before she
met burly broad-shouldered Squire Tregonell at the county ball.
She wrote to Leonard telling him what had happened, and
that he might now count on the fulfilment of that hope which
they both had cherished years ago. She asked him to come
home at once, but to be careful that he approached Christabel
only in a friendly and cousinly character, until there had been
ample time for these new wounds to heal.
' She beai*s her trouble beautifully, and is all goodness and
devotion to me — for I have been weak and ailing ever since I
came from London — but I know the trial is very hard for her.
The house would be more cheerful if you were at home. You
might ask one or two of your Oxford friends. No one goes into
the billiard-room now. Mount Eoyal is as quiet as a prison.
If you do not come soon, dear boy, I think we shall die of
melancholy.'
Mr. Tregonell did not put himself out of the way to comply
with his loving mother's request. By the time the widow's letter
reached him he had made his plans for the winter, and was not
disposed *o set them aside in order to oblige a lady who was
only a necessary detail in his life. A man must needs have a
mother ; and, as mothers go, Mrs. Tregonell had been harmless
and inoffensive ; but she was not the kind of person for whom
Ijoonard would throw over elaborate sporting arrangements,
hired guides, horses, carts, and all the paraphernalia needful for
Red River explorations. As for Christabel, Mr. Tregonell had
not forgiven her for having set another u lan in the place which
he, her cousin and boyish loyish lover in a rough tryannical way,
had long made up his mind to occupy. The fact that she had
broken with the man was a redeeming feature in the case ; but
.ti3 wfw not goinii i"to (uptiutjs about it ; nor wa» he disposed to
184 Mount ttoyaH,
return to Mount Boyal while she was still moping and regretting
the discarded lover.
* Let her get over the doldrums, and then she and I may be
friends again,' said Leonard to his boon companion. Jack
Vandeleur, not a friend of his University days, but an acquain-
tance picked up on board a Cunard steamer — son of a half -pay
uaval captain, a man who had begun life in a line regiment,
fought in Afghanistan, sold out, and lived by his wits and upon
his friends for the last five years. He had made himself so use-
ful to Mr. Tregonell by his superior experience as a traveller, his
pluck and knowledge of all kinds of sport, that he had been able
to live at free (juarters with that gentleman from an early stage
of their acquaintance.
Thus it was that Christabel was allowed to end the year ia
quietness and peace. Every one was tender and gentle with her,
knowing how keenly she must have sujffered. There was much
disappointment among her country friends at the sorry ending
of her engagement ; more especially among those who had been
in London during the season, and had seen the lovely Cornish
dihutante in her brief day of gladness. No one hinted a question
to Christabel herself. The subject of marrying and giving in
marriage was judiciously avoided in her presence. But Mrs.
Tregonell had been questioned, and had explained briefly that
certain painful revelations concerning Mr. Hamleigh's antecedents
had constrained Christabel to give him up. Every one said it
was a pity. Poor Miss Courtenay looked Ul and unhappy.
Surely it would have been wiser to waive all question of ante-
cedents, and to trust to that sweet girl's influence for keeping
Mr. Hamleigh straight in the future. * Antecedents, indeed,*
exclaimed a strong-minded matron, with five marriageable
daughters. *It is all very well for a young woman like Miss
Courtenay — an only child, with fifteen hundred a year in her own
right — to make a fuss about a young man's antecedents. But
what would become of my five girls if I were to look at things
80 closely.' Christabel looked at the first column of the Times
supplement daily to see if there were the ad vertisement of Angus
Hamleigh's marriage with Stella Mayne. She was quite prepared
to read such an announcement. Surely, now that she had set
him free, he would make this act of atonement, he, in all whose
sentiments she had perceived so nice a sense of honour. But no
such advertisement appeared. It was possible, however, that the
marriage had taken place without any public notification. Mr,
Hamleigh might not care to call the world to witness his repara-
tion. She prayed for him daily and niglitly, praying that he
might be led to do that which was best for his soul's welfare
— for his peace here and hereafter — praying that his days, whethef
few or many, should be made happy.
• Chief a Fixed Star^ and Joy a Vane that veers.' 135
There were times when that delicate reticence which made
Angus Hamleigh's name a forbidden sound upon the lips of her
friends, was a source of keenest pain to ChristabeL It would
have been painful to her to hear that name lightly spoken, no
doubt ; but this dull dead silence was worse. One day it flashed
upon her that if he were to die nobody would tell her of hia
death. KLindred and friends woidd conspire to keep her un-
informed. After this she read the list of deaths in the Times
as eagerly as she r»^ad the marriages, but with an agony of
fear lest that name, if written in fire, should leap out upon the
page.
At last this painful sense of uncertainty as to the fate of
one who, a few months ago, had been a part of her life, became
unendm-able. Pride withheld her from questioning her aunt
or Jessie. She shrank from seeming small and mean in the sight
of her own sex. She had made her sacrifice of her own accord,
and there was a poverty of character in not being able to
maintain the same Spartan courage to the end. But from Major
Bree, the friend and playfellow of her childhood, the indulgent
companion of her youth, she could better bear to accept pity —
so, one mild afternoon in the beginning of October, when the
Major dropped in at his usual hour for tea and gossip, she took
him to see the chrysanthemums, in a house on the further side
of the lawn ; and here, having assured herself there was no
gardener within hearing, she took courage to question him.
* Uncle Oliver,* she began, falteringly, trifling with the
fringed petals of a snowy blossom, * I want to ask you some-
thing.'
* My dear, I think you must know that there is nothing in
the world I would not do for you.*
' I am sure of that ; but this is not very diflficult. It is only
to answer one or two questions. Every one here is very good to
me — but they make one mistake: they think because,I have broken
for ever — with — Mr. Hamleigh, that it can do me no good to know
an3rthing about him — that I can go on living and being happy,
while I am as ignorant of his fate as if we were inhal>itants of
different planets. But they forget that after having been all
tlie world to me he cannot all at once become nothing. I have
still some faint interest in bis fate. It hurts me like an actual
pain not to know whether he is alive or dead,' she said, with a
sudden sob.
* Mv poor pet 1 ' murmured the Major, taking her hand in
both his own. ^ Have you heard nothing about nim since you
left London V
* Not one word. People make believe that there was nevei
viy such persen in this world.'
' They think it wiser to do no, in the hope you will forijet him.'
136 Mount Eoyal,
* They might as well hope that I shall become a blackamoor,'
said Chi'iatabel, scornfully. * You have more knowledge of the
human heart, Uncle Oliver — and you must know that I shall
always remember him. Tell me the truth about him just
this once, and I will not mention his name again for a long,
long time. He is not dead, is he ? *
* Dead 1 no, Belle. What put such a noticm into your head ? '
* Silence always seems like death ; and every one has kept
silence about him.'
* He was ill while he was in Scotland — a touch of the old
complaint. I heard of him at Plymouth the other day, from a
yachting man who met him in the Isle of Arran, after his
illness — he was all right then, T believe.'
* 111 — and I never knew of it — dangerously ill, perhaps.*
* I don't suppose it was anything very bad. He had been
yachting when my Plymouth acquaintance met him.'
* He has not married — that person,' faltered ChristabeL
* What person?'
'Miss Mayne.'
'Good heavens, no, my dear— nor ever wiJJL*
* But he oufi^ht — it is his duty.'
* My dear child, that is a question which I can hardly discuss
with you. But I may tell you, at least, that there is an all-
sufficient reason why Angus Hamleigh would never make such
an idiot of himself.'
* Do you mean that she could never be worthy of him — that
she is irredeemably wicked ?' asked Christabel.
* She is not good enough to be any honest man's wife.'
* And yet she did not seem wicked ; she spoke of him with
such intense feeling.'
' She seemed — she spoke ! ' repeated the Major aghast * Do
you mean to tell me that you have seen — that you have conversed
with her?'
* Yes : when my aunt told me the story which she heard
from Lady Cumber oridge I could not bring myself to believe it
until it was confirmed by Miss Mayne's own lips. I made up
my mind that I would go and see her — and I went. Was that
wrong V "
* Very wrong. You ought not to have gone near her. If
you wanted to know more than common rumour could tell you,
you should have sent me — your friend. It was a most unwise
act*
*I thought I was doing my duty. I think so still,' said
Christabel, looking at him with frank steadfast eyes. * We are
both women. If we stand far apart it is because Providence
has given me many blessings which were withheld from her.
It is Ml-. HamleigU's duty to repair the wrong he has done, if
' Chrief a Fixed Sta/r^ and Joy a Vane that veers.' 137
he does not he must be answerable to his Maker for the
eternal ruin of a souL'
* I tell you again, my dear, that you do not understand
the circumstances, and cannot fairly judge the case. You
would have done better to take an old soldier's advice before
you let the venomous gossip of that malevolent harridan spoil
two lives.'
* I did not allow myself to be governed by Lady Cumber-
bridge's gossip, Uncle Oliver. I took nothing for granted. It
was not till I had heard the truth from Miss Mayne's hps that
I took any decisive step. Mr. Hamleigh accepted my resolve so
readily that I can but think it was a welcome release.'
* My dear, you went to a queer shop for truth. If you had
only known your way about town a little better you would have
thought twice before yon sacrificed your own happiness in the
hope of making Miss Mayne a respectable member of society.
But what's done cannot be undone. There's no use in crying
over spilt milk. I daresay you and Mr. Hamleigh will meet again
and make up your quarrel before we are a year older. In the
meantime don't fret, Belle — and don't be afraid that he will ever
marry any one but you. Ill be answerable for his constancy.'
The anniversary of Christabel's betrothal came round, St.
Luke's Day — a grey October day — with a drizzling West-country
rain. She went to church alone, for her aunt was far from well,
and Miss Bridgeman stayed at home to keep the invalid com-
pany — to read to her and cheer her through the long dull
morning. Perhaps they both felt that Cltristabel would rather
be alone on this day. She put on her waterproof coat, took
her dog with her, and started upon that wild lonely walk to
the church in the hollow of the hills. Kandie was a beast of
perfect manners, and would lie quietly in the porch all through
the service, waiting for his mistress.
She knelt alone just where they two had knelt together.
There was the humble altar before which they were to have
been married ; the rustic shrine of which they had so often
spoken as the fittest place for a loving union— fuller of tender
meaning than splendid St. George's, with its fine oaken panel-
ling, painted windows, and Hogarthian architecture. Never at
that altar nor at any other were they two to kneel. A little
year had held all — her hopes and fears — her triumphant love —
joy beyond expression — ^and sadness too deep for tears. She
went over the record as she knelt in the familiar pew — her
lips moving automatically, repeating the responses — her eyes
fixed and tearless.
Then when the service was over she went slowly wandering
In and out among the graves, looking at the grey slate tablets,
with the names of those whom Hhe had known in life, all at
138 Mount Boyal,
rest now — old people who had suffered long and patiently befor*
they died — a fair young girl who had died of consumption, and
whose sufferings had been sharper than those of age — a sailor
who had gone out to a ship with a rope one desperate night,
and had given his life to save others — all at rest now.
There was no grave being dug to-day. She remembered
how, as she and Angus lingered at the gate, the dull sound of
the earth thrown from the gravedigger's spade had mixed with
the joyous song of the robin perched on the gate. To-day there
«vas neither gravedigger nor robin — only the soft drip, drip of
the rain on dock and thistle, fern and briony. She had the
churchyard all to herself, the dog following her about meekly,
crawling over grassy mounds, winding in and out among the
long wet grass.
'When I die, if you have the ordering of my fimeral, be
sure I am buried in Minster Churchyard.'
That is what Angus had said to her one summer morning,
when they were sitting on the Maidenhead coach ; and even
West-End London, and a London Park, looked lovely in the
olear June light. Little chance now that she would be called
upon to choose his resting-place — that her hands would fold his
in their last meek attitude of submission to the universal
conqueror.
* Perhaps he will spend his life in Italy, where no one will
know his wife's history,' thought Christabel, always believing,
in spite of Major Bree's protest, that her old lover would sooner
or later make the one possible atonement for an old sin
Nobody except the Major had told her how little the lady
deserved that such atonement should be made. It was Mrs.
Tregonell's theory that a well-brought up young woman should
be left in darkest ignorance of the darker problems of life.
Christabel walked across the hill, and down by narrow
winding ways into the valley, where the river, swollen and
turbid after the late rains, tumbled noisily over rock and root
and bent the long leeds upon its margin. She crossed the
narrow footbridge, and went slowly through the level fields
between two long lines of hills — a gorge through which, in bleak
weather, the winds blew fiercely. There was another hill to
ascend before she reached the field that led to Pentargon Bay
— half a mile or so of high road between steep banks and tail
unkempt hedges. How short and easy to climb that hill had
seemed to her in Angus Hamleigh's company ! Now she
walked wearily and slowly under the softly falling rain, won-
dering where he was, and whether he remembered this day.
She could recall every word that he had spoken, and the
memory was fuU of pain ; for in the light of her new knowledge
H seemed to her tUut all he had saM about his early doom liad
* Grief a Fixed Sta/r, and Joy a Vane tnat veers.' IH9
been au argument intended to demonstrate to her why be dared
not and must not ask her to be his wife — an apology and an
explanation as it were — and this apology, this explanation had
been made necessary by her own foolishness — by that fatal for-
getfulness of self-respect which had allowed her love to reveal
itself. And yet, surely that look of rapture which had shone in
his eyes as he clasped her to his heart, as he accepted the dedica-
tion of her young life, those tender tones, and all the love that
had come afterwards could not have been entirely falsehood.
* I cannot believe that he was a hypocrite,' she said, standing
where they two had sat side by side in the sunlight of that
lovely day, gazing at the grey sea, smooth as a lake under the
low grey sky. * I think he must have loved me — im willingly,
perhaps — but it was true love while it lasted. He gave his first
and best love to that other — but he loved me too. If I had
dared to believe him — to trust in my power to keep him. But
no ; that would have been to confirm him in wrong-doing. It
was his duty to marry the girl he wronged.'
The thought that her sacrifice had been made to principle
rather than to feeling sustained her in this hour as nothing else
could have done. If she could only know where he was, and
how he fared, and what he meant to do with his future life, she
could be happier, she thought.
Luncheon was over when Christabel went back to Mount
Royal ; but as Mrs. Tregonell was too ill to take anything
beyond a cup of beef tea in her own room, this fact was of no
consequence. The mistress of Mount Royal had been declining
visibly since her return to Cornwall ; Mr. Treherne, the family
doctor, told Christabel there was no cause for alarm, but he
hinted also that her aunt was not likely to be a long-lived woman
* I'm afraid she worries herself,' he said ; ' she is too anxious
about that scapegrace son of hers.'
'Leonard is very cruel,' answered Christabel ; * he lets weeks
and even months go by without writing, and that makes his poor
mother miserable. She is perpetually worrying herself about
imaginary evils — storm and shipwreck, runaway horses, ex-
plosions on steamboats.'
' If she would but remember a vulgar adage, that " Nought
is never in danger," muttered the doctor, with whom Leonard had
been no favourite.
*And then she has frightful dreams about him,' said
Christabel.
* My dear Miss Courtenay, I know all about it,' answered Mr.
Treherne ; *your dear aunt is just in that comfortable position
of life in which a woman must worry herself about something or
other. " Man was bom to trouble," don't you know, my dear t
The people who haven't real cares are constrained to invent sham
140 M(mnt Boyal.
ones. Look at King Solomon — did you ever read any book that
breathes such intense melancholy in every lino as that little
work of his called Ecclesiastes ? Solomon was living in the lap of
luxury when he wrote that little book, and very likely hadn't a
trouble in this world. However, imaginary cares can kill as
well as the hardest realities, so you must try to keep up your
aunt's spirits, and at the same time be sure that she doesn't over-
exert herself. She has a weak heart — what we call a tired heart.'
' Does that mean heart-disease V faltered Christabel, with a
despairing look
* Well, my dear, it doesn't mean a healthy heart. It is not
organic disease — nothing wrong with the valves — no fear of
excruciating pains — but it's a rather risky condition of life, and
needs care.'
* I will be careful,' murmured the girl, with white lips, as the
awful shadow of a grief, hardly thought of till this moment,
fell darkly across her joyless horizon.
Her aunt, her adopted mother — mother in all sweetest care
and love and thoughtful culture — might too soon be taken from
her. Then indeed, and then only, could she know what it was
to be alone. Keenly, bitterly, she thought how little during the
last dismal months she had valued that love — almost as old as
her life — and how the loss of a newer love had made the world
desolate for her, life without meaning or purpose. She re-
membered how little more than a year ago — before the coming
of Angus Hamleigh — her aunt and she had been all the world
to each other> that tender mother-love all sufficing to fill her life
with interest and delight.
In the face of this new fear that sacred love resumed its old
place in her mind. Not for an hour, not for a moment of the
days to come, should her care or her aflection slacken. Not for
a moment should the image of him whom she had loved and
renounced come between her and her duty to her aunt.
CHAPTER XIII.
•love will have his DAT.*
From this time Christabel brightened and grew more like
her old self. Mrs. Tregonell told herself that the sharp
aorrow was gradually wearing itself out. No girl with
■uch happy surroundings as Christabel'a could go on being
unhappy for ever. Her own spirits improved with ChristabePa
increasing brightness, and the old house began to lose its dismal
air. Until now the widow's conscience had been ill at ease —
she had been pei*petually arguing with heraelf that she had done
right — trying to stifle doubts mat continually renewed them-
*Love will ha/oe Ms day J 141
selves. But now she told herself that the time of sorrow wa«
past, and that her wisdom would be justified by its fruits. She
fiad no suspicion that her niece was striving of set pui-pose to be
cheerful — that these smiles and this bright girlish talk were the
lesult of painful efFort, duty triumphing over sorrow.
Mount Royal that winter seemed one of the brightest, most
hospitable houses in the neighbourhood. There Vere no parties ;
Mrs. Tregoneil's delicate health was a reason against that. But
there was generally some one staying in the house — some nice
girl, whose vivacious talk and whose new music helped to beguile
the mother from sad thoughts about her absent son — ^from
wearying doubts as to the fulfilment of her plana for the future.
There were people coming and going ; old friends driving
twenty miles to luncheon, and sometimes persuaded to stay to
dinner ; nearer neighbours walking three miles or so to afternoon
tea. The cheery rector of Trevalga and his family, friends of
twenty yeai-s' standing, were frequent guests. Mrs. Tregonell was
not allowed to excite herself, but she was never allowed to be
dull. Christabe! and Jessie watched her with unwavering
attention — anticipating every wish, preventing every fatigue. A
weak and tired heart might hold out for a long time under such
tender treatment.
But early in March there came an unexpected trial, in the
shap"^ of a sudden and great joy. Leonard, who had never
learnt the rudiments of forethought and consideration for others,
drove up to the house one afternoon in an hired chaise from
Launceston, just as twilight was creeping over the hills, and
dashed unannounced into the room where his mother and the
two girls were sitting at tea.
* Who is this?' gasped Mrs. Tregonell, starting up from
her low easy ^hair, as the tall broad-shouldered man, beai'ded,
bronzed, clad in a thick gi'ey coat and big white muffler, stood
before her ; and then with a shriek she crier? My son 1 My
son ! ' and fell upon his breast.
When he placed her in a chair a minute later she was almost
fainting, and it was some moments befor e she recovered speech.
Ohiistabel and Jessie thought the shock would have killed her.
' Oh, Leonard I how could you 1 ' murmured Christabel,
reproachfully.
* How could I do what ? '
'Come home without one word of notice, knowing youi
mother's delicate health.'
' I thought it would be a pleasant surprise for her. Besides
I hadn't made up my mind to come straight home till two
o'clock to day. I had lialf a mind to take a week in town first,
before I came to this God-forsaken hole. You stare at me um if
1 had no right to be here at all. Belle.*
142 Mount RoyaL
* Leoiiai 11, my lxj.y, tliy boy,' faliered the raother, with pale h'pft,
looking up adoringly at the bearded face, so weather-beaten, so
hardened and altered from the fresh lines of youth. 'If you
knew how I have longed for this hour. I have had such fears. You
have been in such perilous places — among savages — in all kinds
of danger. Often and often I have dreamt that I saw you dead.
' Upon my soul, this is a lively welcome,' said Leonard.
* My dearest, I don't want to be dismal,' said Mrs. Tregonell,
with a faint hysterical laugh. Her heart was beating tumul-
tuously, the hands that clasped her son's were cold and damp.
' My soul is full of joy. How changed you are dear I You
look as if you had gone through great hardships.*
* Life in the Rockies isn't all child's play, mother, but we've
had a jolly time of it, on the whole. America is a magnificent
country. I feel deuced sorry to come home — except for the
pleasure of seeing you and Belle. Let's have a look at you
Belle, and see if you are as much changed as I am. Step into
tihe light, young lady.'
He drew her into the full broad light of a heaped-up wood
and coal fire. There was very little daylight in the room. The
tapestry curtains fell low over the heavily muUioned Tudor win-
dows, and inside the tapestry there was a screen of soft muslin.
* I have not been shooting moose and skunk, or living in a
tent,' said Christabel, with a forced laugh. She wanted to be
amiable to her cousin — wished even to like him, but it went
against the grain. She wondered if he had always been as
hateful as this. * You can't expect to find much difference in
me after three years' vegetation in ComwalL*
* But you've not been vegetating all the time, said Leonard,
looking her over as coolly as if she had been a horse. 'You
have had a season in London. I saw your name in some of the
gossiping journals, when I was last at Montreal. You wore a
pink gown at Sandown. You were one of the prettiest girls at
the Royal Fancy fair. You wore white and tea roses at the
Marlborough House garden party. You have been shining in
high places. Mistress Bella I hope it has not spoiled you for a
country life.'
' I love the country better than ever. I can vouch for that*
* And you have grown ever so nmch handsomer since I sav?
you last. I can vouch for that,' answered her cousin with hi*
tree and easy air. ' How d'ye do. Miss Bridgeman ? ' he said,
holding out two fingers to his mother's companion, whose
presence he had until this moment ignored.
Jessie remembered Thackeray's advice, and gave the squire
one finger in return for his two.
' Tmiire not altered ,' he said, looking at her with a steady
•tare. * You're the hard-wearing sort, warranted fast colour,*
* Love will have his day,* 143
* Give Leonard some tea, Jessie,' said Mrs. TregonelL * I*m
mire you would like some tea?* looking lovingly at the tall
figure, the hard handsome face.
'I'd rather have a brandy-and-soda,* answered Leonard,
carelessly, * but I don't mind a cup of tea presently, when I've
been and had a look round the stables and kennels.
* Oh, Leonard ! surely not yet ? ' said Mrs. Tregonell.
* Not yet 1 Why, I've been in the house ten minutes, and
you may suppose I want to know how my hunters have been
getting on in the last three years, and whether the colt Nicholls
bred is good for anything. I'll just take a hurried look round
and be back again slick.'
Mrs. Tregonell sighed and submitted. What could she do
but submit to a son who had had his own way and followed his
own pleasure ever since he could run alone ; nay, had roared
and protested loudly at every attack upon his liberty when he
was still in the invertebrate jelly-fish stage of existence, carried
at full length in his nurse's arms, with his face turned to the
ceiling, perpetually contemplating that flat white view of indoor
existence which must needs have a depressing influence upon
the meditations of infancy. The mothers of spirited youths
have to fulfil their mission, which is for the most part submission.
' How well he looks ! ' she said, fondly, when the squire
had hurried out of the room ; * and how he has broadened and
filled out,'
Jessie Bridgeman thought within herself that he was quite
broad enough before he went to America, and that this filling-
out process had hardly improved him, but she held her peace.
* He looks very strong,* said Christabel. * I could fancy
Hercules just such a man. I wonder whether he has brought
home any lions' hides, and if he will have one made into a
shooting jacket. Dear, dearest Auntie,' she went on, kneeling
by the widow's chair, *I hope you aid quite happy now. I
hope your cup of bliss is full.'
* I am very happy, sweet one ; but the cup is not full yet.
I hope it may be before I die — ^full to overflowing, and that I
shall be able to say, " Lord, let me depart in peace," with a
glatl and grateful heart.'
Leonard came back from the stables in a rather gloomy
mood. His hunters did not look as well as he expected, and
the new colt was weak and weedy. * Nicholls ought to have
known better than to breed such a thing, but I suppose he'd
say, like the man in Tristram Shandy, that it wasn't his fault,'
grumbled Mr. Tregonell, as he seated himself in front of the
fire, with his feet on the brass fender. He wore clump-soled
boots and a rough heather-mixture shooting suit, with knicker-
bockers and coarse stockings, and his whole aspect waa ' spart-
L
144 Mount Boyal,
ing* Christabftl thought of some one else who had sat before
the same hearth m the peaceful twilight hour, and wondered
if the spiritual differences between these two men were as wide
as those of manner and outward seeming. She recalled the
exquisite refinement of that other man, the refinement of the man
who is a bom dandy, who, under the most adverse circumstances,
compelled to wear old clothes and to defy fashion, would yet be
always elegant and refined of aspect. She remembered that
outward grace which seemed the natural indication of a poetical
mind — a grace which never degenerated into effeminacy, a
refinement which never approached the feeble or the lacka-
daisical.
Mr. Tregonell stretched his large limbs before the blaze,
and made himself comfortable in the spacious plush-covered
chair, throwing back his dark head upon a crewel anti-macassar,
which was a work of art almost as worthy of notice as a water-
colour painting, so exquisitely had the flowers been copied from
Nature by the patient needlewoman.
* This is rather more comfortable than the Rookies,* he said,
as he stirred his tea, with highroad hands, scratched and scarred
with hard service. * Mount Royal isn't half a bad place for two
or three months in the year. But I suppose you mean to go to
London after Easter ? Now Belle has tasted blood she'll be all
agog for a second plunge. Sandown will be uncommonly jolly
this year.'
* No, we are not going to town this season.'
* Why not ? Hard up — spent all the dollars ? '
* No, but I don't think Belle would care about it.*
* That's bosh. Come, now, Belle, you want to go of oourse,
said Mr. Tregonell, turning to his cousin.
* No, Leonard, that kind of thing is all very well for once in
a lifetime. I suppose every woman wants to know what the
great world is like — ^but one season must resemble another, I
should think : just like Boscastle Fair, which I used to fancy so
lovely when I was a child, till I began to understand that it was
exactly the same every year, and that it was just possible for
one to outgrow the idea of its delightf ulness.'
*That isn't true about London though. There is always
something new — new clubs, new theatres, new actors, new race-
meetings, new horses, new people. I vote for May and June in
Bolton Row.'
* I don't think your dear mother's health would be equal to
London, this year, Leonard,' said Christabel, gravely.
She was angry with this beloved and only son for not having
seen the change in his mother's appearance — for talking so loudly
and so lightly, as if there were nothing to be thought of in lifo
expect his own i>l»»<'u=5ure.
'Love will hcwe Ms day,' 145
* What;> old lady, are you under the weather ? * he asked,
turning to survey his mother with a critical air.
This was his American manner of inquiring after her health
Mrs. Tregonell, when the meaning of the phrase had beei
explained to her, confessed herself an invalid, for whom the
placid monotony of rui'al life was much safer than the dissipation
it a London season.
* Oh, very well,' said Leonard with a shrug ; then you and
Helle mast stop at home and take care of each other — and I can
>ave six weeks in London en gargon. It won't be woith wliile
10 open the house in Bolton RtAv — I'd rather stop at an hotel.'
* But you won't leave me directly after yourreturn, Leonard ? '
* No, no, of course not. Not till after Ejister. Easter's tliret-
n'eeks ahead of us. You'll be tired enough of me by that time.'
' Tired of you ! After three years' absence ? "
* Well, you must have got accustomed to doing without me,
ion't you know,' said Leonard with charming frankness.
' When a man haa been three years away he can't hurt his friends'
feelings much if he dies abroad. They've learnt how easy it ia
to get along without him.'
* Leonard ! how can you say such cruel things 1 ' expostulated
his mother, with tears in her eyes. The very mention of death,
la among the possibilities of existence, scared her.
* There's nothing cruel in it, ma'am ; it's only common sense.'
answered Leonard. * Three years. Well, it's a jolly long time,
isn't it ? and I dare say to you, in this sleepy hollow of a place,
it seemed precious long. But for fellows who are knocking'
about the world — as Poker Vandeleur and I were — time spins
by pretty fast, I can tell you. I'll hoist in some more saj) —
another cup of tea, if you please. Miss Bridgenian,' added
Leonai'd, handing in his empty cup. * It's uncommonly good
Btulf. Oh 1 here's old llandie — come here, Randie.'
Randie, clutclied unceremoniously by the tail, and drawn ovei
the earthrug, like any inanimate chattel, remonstrated with a
growl and a snap. lie had never been over-fond of the master
of Mount lloyal, and absence had not made his heart grow
fonder.
'His temper hasn't improved,' muttered Leonard, pushing
the dog away with his foot.
* His temper is always lovely when he's kindly treated,' said
Christabel, making room for the dog in her low arm chair, v/here-
upon Handle insinuated himself into that soft silken nest, and
k>oktd fondly up at his mistress with his honest brown eyes.
* You should let me give you a Pomeranian instead of thiit
mgninly bea.st,' said Leonard.
'No, thanks. Never any other dog while Randie lives.
^<aiidi« ig a person, and he and I hav« a hundied ideftd m
146 Mount Royal.
common. I don't want a toy dog — a dog that is only meant for
show.'
* Pomeranians are clever enough for anybody, and they are
worth looking at. I wouldn't waste my affection upon an ugly
dog any more than I would on an ugly woman.'
' Eandie is handsome in my eyes,' said Christabel, caressing
the sheep-dog's grey muzzle.
* I'm through,' said Mr. Tregonell, putting down his cup.
He affected Yankee phrases, and spoke with a Yankee twang.
America and the Americans had suited him, 'down to the
ground,' as he called it. Their decisive rapidity, that go-a-head
spirit which charged life with a kind of mental electricity — made
life ever so much better worth living than in the dull sleepy old
world where every one was content with the existing condition
of thiiigv*!, and only desired to retain present advantages.
Leonard loved sport and adventure, action, variety. He was a
tyrant, and yet a democrat. He was quite willing to live on
familiar term with grooms and gamekeepers — but not on equal
terms. He must al ways be master. As much good fellowship
as they pleased — but they must all knuckle under to him. He
had been the noisy young autocrat of the stable-yard and the
saddle-room when he was still in Eton jackets. He lived on the
easiest terms with the guides and assistants of his American
travels, but he took care to make them feel that he was their
employer, and, in his own language, * the biggest boss they were
ever likely to have to deal with.' He paid them lavishly, and
gave himself the airs of a Prince — Prince Henry in the wild
FalstaflSan days, before the charge of a kingdom taught him to
be grave, yet with but too little of Henry's gallant spirit and
generous instincts.
Three years' travel, in Australia and America, had not
exercised a refining influence upon Leonard Tregonell's character
or manners. Blind as the mother's love might be, she had
insight enough to perceive this, and she acknowledged the fact
to herself sadly. There are travellei-s and travellers : some in
whon» a wild free life awakens the very spirit of poetry itself —
whom unrestramed intercourse with Nature elevates to Nature's
grander level — some whose mental power deepens and widens in
the solitude of forest or mountain, whose noblest instincts are
awakened by loneliness that seems to biing them nearer Goi.
But Leonard Tregonell was not a traveller of this type. Away
h-om the restraints of civilization — the conventional refinements
fcnd smoothings down of a rough character — his nature coarsened
and hardened. His love of killing wild and beautiful things
grew into a passion. He lived chiefly to hunt and to slay, and
had no touch of pity for those gracious creatures which looked at
their filanghterer reproachfuUy, with dim pathetic eyes — wide
*Love will have his day,' 147
with a wild surprise at man's cruelty. Constant intercourse with
men coarser and more ignorant than himself dragged him down
little by little to a lower grade than he had been born to occupy.
In all the time that he had been away he had hardly ever opened
a book. Great books had been written. Poets, historians,
philosophers, theologians had given the fruits of their medita-
tions and their researches to the world, but never an hour had
Mr. Tregonell devoted to the study of human progress, to the
onward march of human thought. When he was within reach
of newspapers he read them industriously, and learnt from a
stray paragraph how some great scientific discovery in science,
some brilliant success in art, had been the talk of the hour ; but
neither art nor science interested him. The only papers which
he cared about were the sporting papers.
His travels for the most part had been in wild lonely regions,
but even in the short intervals that he had spent in cities he had
shunned all intellectual amusements. He had heard neither
concerts nor lectures, and had only affected the lowest forms of
dramatic art Most of his nights had been spent in bar-roon»«
or groceries, playing faro, monte, poker, euchre, and falling in
pleasantly with whatever might be the most popular form of
gambling in that particular city.
And now he had come back to Mount Royal, having sown
his wild oats, and improved himself mentally and physically, as
it was supposed by the outside world, by extensive travel ; and
he was henceforward to reign in his father's place, a popular
country gentleman, honourable and honoured, useful in his
generation, a friend to rich and poor.
Nobody had any cause for complaint against him during the
first few weeks after his return. If his manners were rough and
coarse, his language larded with American slang, his conduct was
unobjectionable. He was affectionate to his mother, att'jntive U
his free and easy way to Christabel, civil to the old servants, an(\
friendly to old friends. He made considerable alterations in the
Btables, bought and sold and swopped horses, engaged new under-
lings, acted in all out-of-door arrangements as if the place were
entirely his own, albeit his mother's life-interest in the estate
gave her the custody of everything. But his mother was too full
of gladness at his return to object to anything that he did. She
opened her purse-strings freely, although his tour had been a
costly business. Her income had accumulated in the less ex-
pensive period of his boyhood, and she could afford to indulge
Lis fancies.
He went about with Major Bree, looking up old acquaintancea,
riding over every acre of the estate — ^lands which stretched far
away towards Launceston on one side, towards Boilmin on the
«yther. He held forth largely to the Major on the pettiness and
ykS Mrunt Boyal.
narrowiieps of an English landscape as compared wHli that vast
co))tii)ent in wliich the rivers are ai? seas and the forests rank
and gloomy wildernesses reaching to the trackless and unknown.
Sometimes Christabel was their companion in these long rides,
mounted on the thoroughbred which Mrs. Tregonell gave her on
that last too-hapi)y birthday. The long rides in the sweet soft
April air brought health and brightness back to her pale cheeks.
She was so anxious to look well and happy for her aunt's sake,
to cheer the widow's fading life ; but, oh ! the unutterable sad-
ness of that ever-present thought of the aftertime, that un-
answerable question as to what was to become of her own empty
days when this dear friend was gone.
Happy as Leonard seemed at Mount Eoyal in the society of
his mother and his cousin, he did not forego his idea of a month
or so in London. Ho went up to town soon after Easter, took
rooms at an hotel near the Haymarket, and gave himself up to
a round of metropolitan pleasures under the guidance of Captain
Vandeleur, who had made the initiation of provincial and inex-
perienced youth a kind of profession. He had a neat way of
finding out exactly how much money a young man had to dispose
of, present or contingent, and put him through it in the quickest
possible time and at the pleasantest pace ; but h% knew by ex-
perience that Leonard had his own ideas about money, and was
as keen as experience itself. He would pay the current rate for
his pleasures, and no more ; and he had a prudential horror of
Jews, post-obits, and all engagements likely to damage his future
enjoyment of his estate. He was fond of play, but he did not go
in |he way of losing large sums — * ponies' not ' monkies' were hia
favourite animals — and he did not care about playing against his
chosen friend.
* I like to have you on my side. Poker,' he said amiably, when
the captain proposed a devilled bone and a hand at ecarto after
the play. ' You're a good deal too clever for a conjfortable
antagonist. You play ecarte with your other young friends,
Poker, and I'll be your partner at whist.'
C^aptain Vandeleur, who by this time was tolerably familiar
with the workings of his friend's mind, never again suggested
those quiet encounters of skill which must inevitably have
resulted to his advantage, liad Leonard been weak enough to
accept the challenge. To have pressed the question would have
been to avow himself a .sharper. He had won money from his
friend at blind hookey ; but then at blind hookey ail men are
equal — and Leonard had accepted the decree of fate ; but he was
not the kind of man to let another man get the better of him in
a series of transactions. He was not brilliant, but he was shrewd
and keen, and had long ago made up his mind to get fair ralue
for his money. If be aJlowed Jack Vandfcleur to travel a.t \m
'Love will h(we Ms day,' 149
expense, oi dine and drink daily at his hotel, it was not because
Leonard was weakly generous, but because Jack's company was
worth the money. He would not have paid for a pint of wine
for a man who was dull, or a boi*e. At Mount Royal, of cc»urse,
he was obliged now and th«n to entertain bores. It was an
incident in his position as a leading man in the county — but
here in London ne was free to please himself, and to give the
cold shoulder to uncongenial acquaintance.
Gay as town was, Mr. Tregonell soon tired of it upon this
particular occasion. After Epsom and Ascot his enjoyment
began to wane. He had made a round of the theatres — he had
dined and supped, and played a good many nights at those clubs
which he and his friends most affected. He had spent three
evenings watching a great billiard match, and he found that his
thoughts went back to Mount Eoyal, and to those he had left
there— to Christabel, who had been very kind and sweet to him
since his home-coming ; who had done much to make home
delightful to him — riding with him, playing and singing to him,
playing billiards with him, listening to his stories of travel —
interested or seeming interested, in every detail of that wild
free life. Leonard did not know that Cluistabel had done all
this for her aunt's sake, in the endeavour to keep the prodigal at
home, knowing how the mother's peace and gladness depended
on the conduct of her son.
And now, in the midst of London dissipations, Leonard
yearned for that girlish companionship. It was dull enough, no
doubt, that calm and domestic life under the old roof-tree ; but
it had been pleasant to him, and he had not wearied of it half so
quickly as of this fret and fume, and wear and toar of London
amusements. Leonard began to think that his natural bent was
towards domesticity, and that, as Belle's husband — ^there could
be no doubt that she would accept him when the time came for
asking her — ^he would shine as a very estimable character, just
as his father had shone before him. He had questioned his
mother searchingly as to Belle's engagement to Mr. Angus
Hamleigh, and was inclined to be retrospectively jealous, and to
hate that unknown rival with a fierce hatred ; nor did he fail to
blame his mother for her folly in bringing such a man to Mount
Eoyal.
*How could I suppose that Belle would fall in love with
him ? ' asked Mrs. Tregonell, meekly. * I knew how attached
she was to you.*
* Attached 1 yes ; but that kind of attachment means so little.
She had known me all her life. I was nobody in her estimation
— no more than the chairs and tables — and this man was a
novelty ; and again, what has a girl to do in such an out-of-the-
way place as this but fall in love with the first comer; it is
150 Mount Boyah
almost the only amusement open to her. You ought to ha\'B
known better than to have invited that fellow here, mother ;
you knew ohat I meant to marry Belle. You ought to have
guarded her for me — kept off dangerous rivals. Instead of that
you must needs go out of your way to get that fellow here.*
* You ought to have come home sooner, Leonard.'
* That's nonsense. I was enjoying my life where I was. How
could I suppose you would be such a fool 1 '
* Don't say such hard things, Leonard. Think how lonely my
life was. The invitation to Mr. Hamleigh was not a new idea ;
I had asked him half a dozen times before. I wanted to see
him and know him for his father's sake.'
'His father's sake I — a man whom you loved better than ever
you loved my father, I dare say.*
* No, Leonard, that is not true.'
* You think not, perhaps, now my father is dead ; but I dare
say while he was alive you were always regretting that other
man. Nothing exalts a man so much in a woman's mind as
his dying. Look at the affection of widows as compared with
that of wives.'
Mrs. Tregonell strove her hardest to convince her son that
his cousin's affections were now free — that itiwas his business to
win her heart ; but Leonard complained that his mother had
spoiled his chances— that all the freshness of Christabel's feelings
must have been worn off in an engagement that had lasted
nearly a year.
* She'll have me fast enough, I daresay,' he said, with hia
easy, confident air — that calm masculine consciousness of
superiority, as of one who talks of an altogether inferior
creature ; * all the faster, perhaps, on account of having made
2k fiasco of her first engagement. A girl doesn't like to be pointed
at as jilt or jilted. But I shall always feel uncomfortable about
this fellow, Hamleigh. I shall never be able quite to believe in
my wife.'
* Leonard, how can you talk like that, you who know
Christabel's high principles.'
* Yes, but I wanted to be sure that she had never cared for
any one but me ; and you have spoiled my chances of that'
He stayed little more than a month in London, going back to
Mount Royal soon after Ascot, and while the June roses were
still in their glory. Brief as his absence had been, even hi«
careless eye could see that his mother had changed for the worse
since their parting. The hollow cheek had grown hollo wer, the
languid eye more languid, the hand that clung so fondly to his
broad, brown palm, was thinner, and more wnsen of hue.
His mother welcomed him with warmest love.
* }A.^ dearest one/ she sai(|t tenderly, * this is aii unexpected
'Love will have his day* 161
delight It is so good of you to come back to me so soon. I
want to have you with me, dear, as much as possible — now.'
*Why, mother T he asked, kindly, for a dull pain in hia
breast seemed to answer to these words of hers.
* Because I do not think it will be for long. I am very weak,
dear. Life seems to be slipping away from me ; but there is no
pain, no terror. I feel as if I were being gently carried along a
slow gliding stream to some sheltered haven, which I can picture
to myself, although I have never seen it. I have only one care,
Leonard, one anxiety, and that is for your future happiness. I
want your life to be full of joy, dearest, and I want it to be a
good life, like your father's.'
* Yes, he was a good old buffer, wasn't he 1 ' said Leonard.
' Everybody about here speaks well of him ; but, then, I daresay
that's because he had plenty of money, and wasn't afraid to spend
it, and was an easy master, and all that sort of thing, don't you
know. That's a kind of goodness which isn't very difficult for a
man to practise.'
' Your father was a Christian, Leonard — a sound, practical,
Christian, and he did his duty in every phase of life,' anawered
the widow, half proudly, half reproachfully.
*No doubt. All I say is, that's it's uncommonly easy to be a
Christian under such circumstances.'
* Your circumstances will be as easy, I trust, Leonard, and
your surroundings no less happy, if you win your cousin for
your wife. And I feel sure you will win her. Ask her soon,
dear — ^ask her very soon — that I may see you married to her
before I die.'
* You think she'll say yes, if I do ? I don't want to precipitate
matters, and get snubbed for my pains.'
* I think she will say yes. She must know how my heart ia
set upon this marriage. It has been the dream of my life.'
Despite his self-assurance — his fixed opinion as to his own
personal and social value — Leonard Tregonell hesitated a little at
asking that question which must certainly be one of the most
rolemn inquiries of a man's life. His cousin had been all kind-
JLiss and sweetneas to him since his return ; yet in his inmost
heart he knew that her regard for him was at best of a calm,
cousinly quality. He knew this, but he told himself that if she
were only willing to accept him as her husband, the rest must
follow. It would be his business to see that she was a good wife,
and in time she would grow fonder of him, no doubt. He meant
to be an indulgent husband. He would be very proud of her
beauty, grace, accomplishments. There was ao man among hit
acquain^nce who could boast of such a charming wife. Sh«
should have her own way in everything : of course, so long as
her wa^ did not run counter to hia She would be mistress of
162 Mount BoycH,
one of the finest places in Cornwall, the house in tvhich she had
been reared, and wliich she loved with that foolish affection
which cats, women, and other inferior animals feel for familiar
habitations. Altogether, as Mr. Tregonell told himself, in his
simple and expressive language, she would have a very good
time, and it would be hard lines if she were not grateful, and
did not take kindly to him. Yet he hesitated consideiably before
putting the crucial question ; and at last took the leap hurriedly,
and not too judiciously, one lovely June morning, when he and
Christabel had gone for a long ride alone. They were not in the
habit of riding alone, and Major Bree was to have been their
companion upon this particular morning, but he had sent at the
last moment to excuse himself, on account of a touch of sciatica.
They rode early, leaving Mount Koyal soon after eight, so as to
escape the meridian sun. The world was still fresh and dewy as
(liey rode slowly up the hill, and then down again into the lanes
leading towards Camelford ; and there was that exquisite feeling
of purity in the atmosphere which wears off as the day grows
older.
* My mother is looking rather seedy, Belle, don't you think,'
he began.
* She is looking very ill, Leonard. She has been ill for a long
time. God grant we may keep her with us a few years yet, but
I am full of fear about her. I go to her room every morning
with an aching heart, dreading what the night may have brought.
Thank God, you came home when you did. It would have been
cruel to stay away loDger.'
* That's very good in you, Belle — uncommonly good — ^to talk
about cruelty, when you must know that it was your fault I
stayed away so long.'
* My fault ? What had I do do with it ? *
* Everything. I should have been home a year and a half
ago — home last Christmas twelvemonth. I had made all my
plans with that intention, for I was slightly home-sick in those
days — didn't relish the idea of three thousand miles of ever-
lasting wet between me and those I loved— and I was coming
across the Big Drink as fast as a Canard could bring me, when
I got mother's letter telling me of your engagement. Then I
coded up, and made up my mind to stay in America till I'd done
some big licks in the sporting line.*
*Why should that have influenced you?' Christabel asked,
coldly.
* Why ? Confound it 1 Belle, vou know that without asking.
You must know that it wouldn't be over-pleaaant for me to be
living at Mount Eoyal while you and your lever were spooninff
about the place. You don't suppose I could quite have stomached
that, do you — to aee another loan making love to the g\x^ I
*Love ttnll Time his day* 153
alwnys meant to marry? For you know, Belle, I always did
mean it. When you were in pinafores I made up my mind that
you were the future Mrs. Tregonell.'
* You did me a great honour,' said Belle, with an icy smile,
and I suppose I ou^ht to be very proud to hear it — now. Per-
hapH, if you had told me your intentions while I wna in pinafores
I might have grown up with a due appreciation of your goodness.
But you see, as you never said anything about it, my life took
another bent.'
* Don't chaff, Belle,' exclaimed Leonard. * I'm in earnest. I
was hideously savage when I heard that you had got yourself
engaged to a man whom you'd only known a week or two — a
man who had led a racketty life in London and Paris '
'Stop, cried Christabel, turning upon him with flashing eyes,
* I forbid you to speak of him. What right have you to mention
his name to me ? I have suffered enough, but that is an im-
pertinence I will not endure. If you are going to say another
word about him I'll ride back to Mount Eoyal as fast as my
horse can carry me.'
* And get spilt on the way. Wliy, what a spitfire you are
Belle. I had no idea there was such a spice of the devil in you,'
said Leonard, somewhat abashed by this rebuff. Well, I'll hold
my tongue about him in future. I'd much rather talk about
you and me, and our prospects. What is to become of you.
Belle, when the poor mother goes 1 You and the doctor have
both made up your minds that she's not long for this world.
For my own part, I'm not such a croaker, and I've known
many a creaking door hanging a precious long time on its
hinges. Still, it's well to be [)repared for the worst. Where is
your life to be spent, Belle, when the mater has sent in her
checks 1 '
* Heaven knows ! ' answered Christabel, tears welling up in
hor eyes, as she turned her head from the questioner. ' My life
will be little worth living when she is gone — but I daresay I
shall go on living all the same. Sorrow takes such a long tima
to kill any one. I suppose Jessie and I will go on the Continent,
and travel from place to place, trying to forget the old dear
life among new scenes and new people.'
* And nicely you will get yourselves talked about,' said
Leonard, with that unhesitating brutality which his friends
called frankness — ' a young and handsome woman without any
male relative, wandering about the Continent.'
* I shall have Jessie.
* A paid companion — ^a vast protection she would be to you
— ^about as much as a Pomerani.'in dog, or a poll parrot.'
* Then I can stay in England,' answered Christabel, indif-
fwejitly. * It will matter very little where I live.'
154 Momit Boyal.
*Come, Belle,' said Leonard, in a friendly, comfortable tone,
laying his broad strong hand on her horse's neck, as they rode
slowly side by side up the narrow road, between hedges filled
with honeysuckle and eglantine, * this is flying in the face of
Providence, which has made you young and handsome, and an
heiress, in order that you might get the most out of life. Is a
young woman's life to come to an end all at once because an
elderly woman dies ? That's rank nonsense. That's the kind of
way widows talk in their first edition of crape and caps. But
they don't mean it, my dear ; or, say they think they mean it,
they never hold by it. That kind of widow is always a w^ife
again before the second year of her widowhood is over. A.nd
to hear you — not quite oue-and-twenty, and as fit as a fid — in
the very zenith of your beauty,' said Leonard, hastily correctiflrg
the horsey turn of his compliment, — ' to hear you talk in that
despairing way is too provoking. Came, Belle, be rational. Why
should you go wandering about Switzerland and Italy with
a shrewish little old maid like Jessie Bridgeman — when —
when you can stay at Mount Royal and be its mistress. I
always meant you to be my wife, Belle, and I still mean it — in
spite of bygones.'
You are very good — very forgiviiig,' said Christabel, with
most irritating placidity, * but unfortunately I never, meant to
be your wife then — and I don't mean it now.'
* In plain words, you reject me ? *
* If you intend this for an offer, most decidedly,' answered
Christabel, as firm as a rock. * Come, Leonard, don't look so
angry ; let us be friends and cousins — almost brother and sister
— as we have been in all the years that are gone. Let us unite
in the endeavour to make your dear mother's life happy — so
happy, that she may grow strong and well again — restored by
perfect freedom from care. If you and I were to quarrel she
would be miserable. We must be good friends always — if it
were only for her sake.*
* That's all very well, Christabel, but a man's feelings are
not BO entirely within his control as you seem to suppose. Do
you think I shall ever forget how you threw me over for a
fellow you had only known a week or so — and now, when I tell
you how, from my boyhood, I have relied upon your being my
wife — always kept you in my mind as the one only woman
who was to bear my name, and sit at the head of my table,
you coolly inform me that it can never be 1 You would
rather go wandering about the world with a hired com-
panion *
* Jessie is not a hired companion — she is my very deal
friend.'
* y* u choose to call her so — ^but she came to Mount Boyal
'But here ts One who Loves you as of Old.' 155
in answer to an advertisement, and my mother jays her wages,
just like the housemaids. You would rather roam about with
Jessie Bridgeman, getting yourself talked about at every table
(Thote in Europe — a prey for every Captain Deuceace, or
Loosefish, on the Continent — than you would be my wife, and
mistress of Mount Eoyal'
' Because nearly a year ago I made up my mind never to be
any man's wife, Leonard,' answered Christabel, gi-avely. *I
ghould hate myself if I were to depart from that resolve.*
* You mean that when you broke with Mr. Hamleigh you
did not think there was any one in the world good enough to
stand in his shoes,* said Leonard, savagely. ' And for the sake
of a maa who turned out so badly that you were obliged to chuck
him up, you refuse a fellow who has loved you all his life.'
Christabel turned her horse's head, and went homewards at
a sharp trot, leaving Leonard, discomfited, in the middle of the
lane. He had nothing to do but to trot meekly after her, afraid
to go too fast, lest he should urge her horse to a bolt, and
managing at last to overtake her at the bottom of a hill.
* Do find some grass somewhere, so that we may get a canter,'
ehe said ; and her cousin knew that there was to be no more
conversation that morning.
CHAPTER XIV.
•but here is one wno loves you as of old.*
After tliis Leonard sulked, and the aspect of home life at
Mount Royal became cloudy and troubled. He was not abso-
lutely uncivil to his cousin, but he was deeply resentful, and he
showed his resentment in various petty ways — descending so
low as to give an occasional sly kick to Ilandie. He was grumpy
in his intercourse with his mother ; he took every opportunity
of being rude to Miss Bridgeman ; he sneered at all their
womanly occupations, their charities, their church-going. That
domestic sunshine which had so gladdened the widow's heart,
was gone for ever, as it seemed. Her son now snatched at every
occasion for getting away from home. He dined at Bodmin one
night — at Launceston, another. He had friends to meet at
Plymouth, and dined and slept at the * Duke of Cornwall.' He
came home bringing worse devils — in the way of ill-temper and
rudeness — than those which he had taken away with him. He no
longer pretended the faintest interest in Christabera playing —
confessing frankly that all classical compositions, especially those
of Beethoven, suggested to him that far-famed melody which was
iS6 M(mnt BoydL
fatal to the traditional cow. He no longer oflfered to make he?
a fine billiard player. *No woman ever could play billiards/
he said, contemptuously * they have neither eye nor wrist ;
they know nothing about strengths ; and always handle their
cue as if it was Moses's rod, and was going to turn into a snalce
and bite 'em.'
Mrs. Tregonell was not slow to guess the cause of her son's
changed humour. She was too intensely anxious for the fulfil-
ment of this chief desire of her soul not to be painfully conscioua
of failure. She had urged Leonard to speak soon — and he iiad
spoken — with disastrous restilt. She had seen the angry cloud
upon her son's brow when he came home from that lete-a-t6te
ride with Christabel. She feared to question him, for it w.-is
her rash counsel, perhaps, which had brought this evil result to
pass. Yet she could not hold her peace for ever. 5o one
evening, when Jessie and Christabel were dining at 1 revalga
Rectory, and Mrs. Tregonell was enjoying the sole privilege of
her son's company, she ventured to approach the subject.
* How altered you have been lately ' — lately, meaning for at
least a month — ' in your manner to your cousin, Leonard,* she
said, with a feeble attempt to si)eak lightly, her voice tremulous
with suppressed emotion. * Has she oifonded you in any way I
You and she used to be so very sweet to each other.*
* Yes, she was all honey when I first came home, wasn't slie,
mother 1 ' returned Leonard, nursing his boot, and frowning at
the lamp on the low table by Mrs. Tregonell's chair. * All hypo-
crisy—rank humbug — that's what it was. She is still bewailing
that fellow whom you brought here — and, mark my words, she'll
marry him sooner or later. She threw him over in a fit of
temper, and pride, and jealousy ; and when she finds she can't
live without him she'll take some means of bringing him back to
her. It was all your doing mother. You spoiled my chances
when you brought your old sweetheart's son into this house. I
don't think you could have had much respect for my dead father
when you invited that man to Mount Royal.'
Mrs. Tregonell's mild look of reproach might have touched
the hardest heart ; but it was lost on Leonard, who sat scowling
at the lamp, and did not once meet bis mother's eyes.
* It is not kind of you to say that Leonard,' she said, gently ;
*you ought to know that I was a true and loving wife to yonr
father, and that I have always honoured his menioiy, as a true
wife should He knew that I was interested in Angus
Hamleigh's career, and he never resented that feeling. I am
aoiTy your cousin has rejected you — more sorry tlian even you
yourself can be, I believe, for your man-iage has been tlie
dream of my life. Bat we cannot control fate. Are you really
fond of her, deal 1 *
^ But here is One who Loves you as of Old,* 157
'Fond of her? A great deal too fond — ^foolishly — igno-
miniously fond of her — bo fond that I am beginning to detect
her.'
* Don't despair then, Leonard. Let this first refusal count
for nothing. Only be patient, and gentle with her — not cold and
rude, as you have been lately.'
* It's easy to talk,' said Leonard, contemptuously. * But do
you suppose I can feel very kindly towards a girl who refused
me as coolly as if I had been asking her to dance, and who let
me see at the same time that she is still pfissionateiy in love
with Angus Hamleigh. You should have seen how she blazed
out at me when I mentioned his name — her eyes flaming — her
cheeks first crimson and then deadly pale. That's what lovo
means. And, even if she were willing to be my wife to-morrow,
she would never give me such love as that. Curse her,'
muttered the lover between his clenched teeth ; ' I didn't know
how fond I was of her till she refused me ; and now, I could
crawl at her feet, and sue to her as a palavering Irish beggar
sues for alms, cringing and fawning, and flattering and lying —
and yet in my heart of hearts I should be savage with her all tlie
time, knowing that she will never care for me as she cared for
that other fellow.'
' Leonard, if you knew how it pains me to hear you talk like
that,' said Mrs. Tregonell. * It makes me fearful of your
impetuous, self-willed nature.'
* Self-will be ! somethinged ! ' growled Leonard. * Did
you ever know a man who cultivated anybody else's willl
Would you have me pretend to be better than I am — tell you
that I can feel all alfection for the girl who preferred the first
stranger who came in her way to the playfellow and companion
of her childhood ? '
' If you had been a little less tormenting, a little less exacting
with her in those days, Leonard, I think she would have remem-
bered you more tenderly,' said Mrs. Tregonell.
* If you are going to lecture me about what I was as a boy
we'd better cut the conversation,' ret orted Leonard. * I'll go and
practice the spot-stroke for half an hour, while you take your
after-dinner nap.'
* No, dear, don't go away. I don't feel in the least inclined
for sleep. I had no idea of lecturing you, Leonard, believe me ;
only I cannot help regretting, as you do, that Christabel should
not be more attached to you. But t feel very sure that, if you
are patient, she will come to think differently by-and-by.'
* Didn't you tell me to ask her — and quickly ? '
*Yes, that was because I was impatient. Life seemed
clipping away from me — «.nd I wns sio eager to be secure of my
deal- boy'M happiueaa. Let us try different tactics, Leo, Takii
15« Mount Boyat.
things quietly for a little — behave to your cousin just as if there
had been nothing of this kind between you, and who knows
what may happen.'
'I know of one thing that may and will happen next
October, unless the lady changes her tune,' answered Leonard,
lulkily.
* What is thai 1 *
* I shall go to South America — do a little mountaineering in
the Equatotial Andes — enjoy a little life in Valparaiso, Truxillo
— Lord knows where ! I've done North America, from Canada
to Frisco, and now 1 shall do the South.*
* Leonard, you would not be so cruel as to leave me to die in
my loneliness ; for 1 think, deai', you must know that I have
aot long to live.*
' Come, mother, I believe you fancy yourself ever so much
worse than you really are. This jog-trot, monotonous life of
yours would breed vapours in the liveliest person. Besides, if
you should be ill while I am away, you'll have your niece, whom
you love as a daughter — and perhaps your niece's husband, this
dear Angus of yours — to take care of you.*
'You are very hard upon me, Leonard — and yet, I went
against my conscience for your sake. I let Christabel break
with her lover. I said never one word in his favour, although
I must have known in my heart that they would both be
miserable. I had your interest at heart more than theirs — I
thought, " here is a chance for my boy." '
'You were very considerate — a day after the fair. Don't
you think it would have been better to be wise before the event,
and not to have invited that coxcomb to Mount Eoyal?'
He came again and again to the charge, always with fresh
bitterness. He could not forgive his mother for this involuntary
wrong which she had done to him.
After this he went off to the solitude of the billiard-room,
and a leisurely series of experiments upon the spot-stroke. It
was his only idea of a contemplative evening.
He was no less sullen and gloomy in his manner to Christabel
next morning at breakfast, for all his mother had said to him
overnight. He answered his cousin in monosyllables, and was
rude to Randie — wondered that his mother should allow dogs in
her dining-room — albeit Randie's manners were far superior to
his own.
Later in the morning, when Christabel and her aunt were
alone, the girl crept to her favourite place beside Mrs. Tregonell'a
chair, and with her folded arms resting on the cushioned elbow,
looked up lovingly at the widow's grave, sad face.
' Auntie, dearest, you know so well how fondly I love you,
that I am sure you won't thii>k me afiy less loving and true, if I
* But hers is One who Loves you as of OW 159
» you to let me leave you for a little while. Let me go away
«)mewhere with Jessie, to some quiet German town, where I
can improve myself in music, and where she and I can lead a
fiard-working, studious life, just like a couple of Girton girls.
You remember, last year you suggested that we should travel,
and I refused your offer, thinking that I should be happier at
home ; but now I feel the need of a change.'
* And you would leave me, now that my health is broken,
and that I am so dependent on your love ? ' said Mrs. Tregonell,
with mild reproachfulness.
Christabel bent down to kiss the thin, white hand that lay
on the cushion near her — anxious to hide the tears that sprang
quickly to her eyes.
' You have Leonard,' she faltered. * You are happy, are you
not, dearest, now Leonard is at home again.'
* At home — yes, I thank God that my son is under my roof
once more. But how long may he stay at home? How much
do I have of his company — in and out all day — anywhere but at
my side — making every possible excuse for leaving me ? He
has begun, already, to talk of going to South America in the
autumn. Poor boy, he is restless and unhappy ; and I know the
reason. You must know it too, Belle. It is your fault. Yoa
have spoiled the dream of my life.'
* Auntie, is this generous, is this fair 1 ' pleaded Christabel,
with her head still bent over the pale wasted hand.
* It is natural at least,' answered the widow, impetuously.
* Why cannot you care for my boy, why cannot you understand
and value his devotion ? It is not an idle fancy — born of a few
weeks' acquaintance — not the last new caprice of a battered rovJ^
who offers his worn-out heart to you when other women have done
with it. Leonard's is the love of long years — the love of a fresh
unspoiled nature. I know that he has not Angus Hamleigh's
refinement of manner — he is not so clever — so imaginative — but
of what value is such surface refinement when the man's inner
nature is coarse and profligate. A man who has lived among
impure women must have become coarse ; there must be deteri-
oration, ruin, for a man's nature in such a life as that,' continued
Mrs. Tregonell, passionately, her resentment against Angus
Hamleigh kindhng as she thought how he had ousted her son.
' Why should you not value my boy's love ? ' she asked again.
' "What is there wanting in him that you should treat him so
contemptuously? He is young, handsome, brave — owner of this
Elace of which you are so fond. Your marriage with him would
ring the Champernowne estate together again. Everybody
was sorry to see it divided. It would bring together two of the
oldest and best names in the county. You might call youf
ctidest soji Champernowne Tregonelh' M
160 Mount Boyal,
* Don't, Aimtie, don't go on like that,* entreated ClirlGtabel,
pi teously : if you only knew how little such arguments influence
me : * the glories of our rank and state are shadows, not substan-
tial things.' What difference do names and lands make in tho
happiness of a life ] If Angus Hamleigh had been a ploughman's
flon, like Bums — nameless — penniless — only just himself, I
should have loved him exactly th« same. Dearest, these are the
things in which we cannot be governed by other people's wisdom.
Our hearts choose for us ; in spite of us. I have been obliged to
think seriously of life since Leonard and I had that unlucky con-
versation the other day. He told you about it, perhaps 1 '
* He told me that you refused him.'
* As I would have refusexi any other man, Auntie. I have
made up my mind to live and die unmarried. It is the only
tribute I can offer to one I loved so well.'
*And who proved so unworthy of your love,* said Mrs.
Tregonell, moodily.
* Do not speak of him, if you cannot speak kindly. You once
loved his father, but you seem to have forgotten that. Let me
go away for a little while. Auntie — a few months only, if you
like. My presence in this house only does harm. Leonard ia
angry with me — and you are angry for his sake. "We are all
unhappy now — nobody talks freely — or laughs — or takes life
pleasantly. We all feel constrained and miserable. Let me go,
dear. When I am gone you and Leonard can be happy
together.'
*No, Belle, we cannot. You have spoiled his life. You
have broken his heart.'
Christabel smiled a little contemptuously at the mother's
wailing. * Hearts are not so easily broken,' she said, * Leonard's
least of all. He is angry because for the first time in his life
he finds himself thwarted. He wants to marry me, and I don't
want to marry him. Do you remember how angry h« was when
he wanted to go out shooting, at eleven years of ag^, and you
refused him a gun. He moped and fretted for a week, and
you were quite as unhappy as he was. It is almost the first
thing I remember about him. When he found you were quite
lirm in your refusal, he left off sulking, and reconciled him-
self to the inevitable. He will do just the same about this
refusal of mine — when I am out of his sight. But my pre-
sence here irritates him.'
* Christabel, if you leave me I shall know that you have
never loved me,' said Mrs. Tregonell, with sudden vehemence.'
'You must know that I am dying — very slowly, perhaps —
a wearisome decay for those who can only watch and wait,
Mid bear witil me till I am dead. But I know and feel
tliat 1 am dying. This trouble wiR hasten my end, an^
v; '
'But here is One wfw Loves you as of Oid.' 161
iDstead of dying in peace, with the assurance of my boy*8
happy future — with the knowledge that he will have a virtuous
and loving wife, a wife of my own training, to guide him
and influence him for good — I shall die miserable, fearing
that he may fall into evil hands, and that evil days may
come upon him. I know how impetuous, how impulsive he
is; how easily governed through his feelings, how little able
to rule himself by hard common-sense. And you, who have
known him all your life — who know the best and worst of him
— you can be so indifferent to his happiness, Christabel. How
can I believe, in the face of this, that you ever loved me, hia
mother ?
* I have loved you as m^ mother,* replied the girl, with her
arms round her aunt's neck, her lips pressed against that pale
thin cheek. * I love you better than any one in this world. If
God would spare you for years to come, and we could live
always together, and be all and all to each other as we have
been, I think I could be quite happy. Yes, I could feel as if
there were nothing wanting in this life. But I cannot many a
man I do not love, whom I never can love.'
*He would take you on trust. Belle,' murmured the mother,
imploringly ; 'he would be content with duty and good faith.
I know how true and loyal you are, dearest, and that you would
be a perfect wife. Love would come afterwards.'
*Will it make you happier if I don't go away, Auntie 1*
asked Christabel, gently.
' Much hapyjier.'
* Then I will stay ; and Leonard may be as rude to me aa he
likes : he may do anything disagreeable, except kick Handle ;
and I will not murmur. But you and I must never talk of
him as we have talked to-day : it can do no good.*
After this came much kissing and hugging, and a few tears ;
and it was agreed that Christabel should forego her idea of six
months' study of classical music at the famous conservatoire at
Leipsic.
She and Jessie had made all their plans before she spoke to
her aunt; and when she informed Miss Bridgeman that she
had given way to Mrs. Tregonell's wish, and had abandoned all
idea of Germany, that strong-minded young woman expressed
herself most unreservedly.
* You are a tool ! * she exclaimed. * No doubt that's to,
outrageous remark from a person in my position to an heiress
like you ; but I can't help it. You are a fool- a yielding, self,
abnegating fool ! If you stay here yoa will marry that man.
There is no escape possible for you. Your aunt has made up her
mind about it She will worry you till you give your consent,
a,ud then you wiii be miserable ever afterwards.*
162 Mount Royat
'I sbi^ do nothing of the kind. I wonder that you cau
think me so weak.*
* If you are weak enough to stay, you will be weak enough
to do the other thing/ retorted Jessie.
* How can I go when my aunt looks at me with those sad
eyes, dying eyes — they are so changed since last year — ^aod
implores me to stop ? I thought you loved her, Jessie 1 '
* I do love her, with a fond and grateful affection. She was
my first friend outside my own home ; she is my benefactress.
But I have to think of your welfare, Christabel— your welfare
in this world and the world to come. Both will be in danger
if you stay here and marry Leonard Tregonell.'
* I am going to stay here ; and I am not going to marry
Leonard. Will that assurance satisfy you ? One would think
I had no will of my own.'
* You have not the will to withstand your aunt. She parted
you and Mr. Hamleigh ; and she will marry you to her son,'
* The parting was my act, ' said Christabel.
* It was your aunt who brought it about. Had she been
true and loyal there would have been no such parting. If you
had only trusted to me in that crisis, I think I might have
saved you some sorrow ; but what's done cannot be undone.'
' There are some cases in which a woman must judge for
herself,' Christabel replied, coldly.
* A woman, yes — a woman who has had some experience of
life ; but not a girl, who knows nothing of the hard real
world and its temptations, difficulties, struggles. Don't let us
talk of it any more. I cannot trust myself to speak when I
remember how shamefully he was treated.'
Christabel stared in amazement. The calm, practical Mis«
Biidgeman spoke with a passionate vehemence which took the
girl's breath away ; and yet, in her heart of hearts, Christabel
was grateful to her for this sudden flash of anger.
' I did not know you liked him so much — ^that you were so
Borry for him,* she faltered.
* Then you ought to have known, if you ever took the trouble
to remember how good he always was to me, how sympathetic,
how tolerant of my company when it was foreed upon him day
After day, how seemingly unconscious of my plainness and dow.
diness. Why there was net a present he gave me which did not
show the most thoughtful study of my tastes and fancies. I
never look *^ one of his gifts — I was not obliged to fling hia
offerings bacK in his face as you were — without wondering that
ft fine gentleman could be so full of small charities and delicate
courtesy. He was like one of those wits and courtiers one reads
of in Burnet — not spotless, ^'.ke Tennyson's Arthur — but the very
issence of retintmeut and good feeling. God bless him 1 wheio-
ever he is.'
*But here is One who Loves you as of Old J 163
* You are very odd sometimes, Jessie,' said Christabel, kissing
her friend, ' but you have a noble heart.'
There was a marked change in Leonard's conduct when he
and his cousin met in the drawing-room before dinner. He had
been absent at luncheon, on a trout-fishing expedition ; but
there had been time since his return for a long conversation
between him and his mother. She had told him how his sullen
temper had almost driven Christabel from the house, and how
ghe had been only induced to stay by an appeal to her affection.
This evening he was all amiability, and tried to make his peace
with Handle, who received his caresses with a stolid forbearance
rather than with gratification. It was easier to make friends
with Christabel than with the dog, for she wished to be kind to
her cousin on his mother's account.
That evening the reign of domestic peace seemed to b#
renewed. There were no thunder-clouds in the atmospherq
Leonard strolled about the lawn with his mother and Christabel,
looking at the roses, and planning where a few more choice trees
might yet be added to the collection. Mrs. Tregonell's walks
now rarely went beyond this broad velvet laM^n, or the shrubberies
that bordered it. She drove to church on Sundays, but she had
left off visiting that involved long drives, though she professed
herself delighted to see her friends. She did not want the house
to become dull and gloomy for Leonard. She even insisted that
there should be a garden party on Christabel's twenty-first birth-
day ; and she was delighted when some of the old friends who
came to Mount Royal that day insinuated their congratulations,
in a tentative manner, upon Miss Courtenay's impending engage-
ment to her cousin.
' There is nothing definitely settled,* she told Mrs. St Aubyn^
•but I have every hope that it will be so. Leonard adores her.'
* And it would be a much more suitable match for her than
the other,' said Mrs. St. Aubyn, a commonplace matron of irre-
proachable lineage : * it would be so nice for you to have her
settled near you. Would they live at Mount Royal ? *
* Of course. Where else should my son live but in his father's
house 1 '
* But it is your house.'
* Do yon think I should allow my life-interest in the place to
stand in the way of Leonard's enjoyment of it ? ' exclaimed Mrs.
TregonelL * I should be proud to take the second place in his
house — proud to see his young wife at the head of his table.'
* That is all very well in theory, but I have never seen it
work out well in fact,' said the Rector of Trevalga, who made a
third in the little g roup seated on the edge of the wide lawn,
where sportive yout h was playing tennis, in lialf a dozen courtii,
to the enlivening strains of a military band from Bodmio
164 Mount Boyal,
* How thoiioughly liappy Christabel looks,' observed another
friendly matron to Mrs. Tregonell, a little later in the afternoon :
*she seems to have quite got over her trouble about Mr-.
Hamleigh.'
* Yes, I hope that is forgotten,* answered Mrs. Tregonell
This garden party was an occasion of unspeakable pain to
Christabel Her aunt had insisted upon sending out the in-
vitations. There must be some kind of festival upon her
adopted daughter's coming of age. The inheritor of lands and
money was a person whose twenty-first birthday could not be
permitted to slip by unmarked, like any other day in the
calendar.
" If we were to have no garden party this summer people
would say you were broken-hearted at the sad end of last year's
engagement, darling,' said Mrs. Tregonell, when Christabel had
pleaded against the contemplated assembly, * and I know your
pride would revolt at that.*
* Dear Auntie, my pride has been levelled to the dust, if I
ever had any ; it will not raise its head on account of a garden
party.'
Mrs. Tregonell insisted, albeit even her small share of the
preparations, the mere revision of the list of guests — the dis-
cussion and acceptance of Jessie Bridgeman's arrangements-—
was a fatigue to the jaded mind and enfeebled body. When
the day came the mistress of Mount Royal carried herself with
the old air of qaiet dignity which her friends knew so well.
People saw that she was aged, that she had grown pale and thin
and wan ; and they ascribed this change in her to anxiety about
her niece's engagement. There were vague ideas as to the
cause of Mr. Hamleigh's dismissal— dim notions of terrible
iniquities, startling revelations, occurring on the very brink of
marriage. That section of county society which did not go to
London knew a great deal more about the details of the story
than the people who had been in town at the time and had seen
Miss Coui'tenay and her lover almost daily. Tor those daughters
of the soil who but rarely crossed the Tamar the story of Miss
Courtenay's engagement was a social mystery of so dark a com-
plexion that it afforded inexhaustible material for tea-table
gossip. A story, of which no one seemed to know the exact
details, gave wide ground for speculation, and could always be
looked at from new points of view.
* And now here was the same Miss Courtenay smiling upon
her friends, fair and radiant, showing no traces of last year's
tragedy in her looks or manners ; being, indeed, one of those
women who do not wear their hearts upon their sleeves fcr dawa
to peck at. The local mind, therefore, arrived at the conclusion
that Miss Courtenay had consoled hei-self for Uie loss of ou«
*But here is Oiie who Loves you as of Old,' 165
lover by the gain of another, and was now engaged to her
cousin.
Clara St. Aubyn ventured to congratulate her upon this
happy issue out of bygone griefs.
* I am so glad,' she said, squeezing Christabel's hand, during
an inspection of the hot-houses. * I like hira so much.'
*I don't quite understand,' replied Christabel, with a freezing
look : * who is it whom you like 'i The new Curate ? '
* No, dear, don't pretend to misunderstand me. I ^ara so
pleased to think that you and your cousin are going to make a
match of it. He is so handsome — such a fine, frank, open-
hearted manner — so altogether nice.'
*I am pleased to hear you praise him,* said Christabel, still
supremely cold ; * but my cousin is my cousin, and will never
be anything more.'
* You don't mean that V
* I do — without the smallest reservation.*
Clara became thoughtful. Leonard Tregonell was one of the
best matches in the county, and he had always been civil to
her. They had tastes in common, were both horsey and doggy,
and plain-spoken to brusqueness. "Why should not she be
mistress of Mount Koyal, by-and-bye, if Christabel despised hei
opportunities ?
At half-past seven, the last carriage had driven away from
the porch ; and Mrs. Tregonell, thoroughly exhausted by the
exertions of the afternoon, reclined languidly in her favourite
chair, moved from its winter-place by the hearth, to a deep
embayed window looking on to the rose-garden. Christabel sat
on a stool at her aunt's feet, her fair head resting against the
cushioned elbow of Mrs. Tregonell's chair.
'Well, Auntie, the people are gone and the birthday is over.
Isn't that a blessing ? ' she said, lightly.
* Yes, dear, it is over, and you are of age — your own mistresi.
My guardianship expires to-day. I wonder whether I shall lind
any dilference in my darling now she is out of leading-strings.'
* I don't think you will. Auntie. I have not much inclina-
tion for desperate llights of any kind. What can freedom or
the unrestricted use of my fortune give me, which your indulg-
ence has not already given? What whim or fancy of mine have
you ever thwarted ? No, aunt Di, I don't think there is any
scope for rebellion on my part.'
* And you will not leave me, dear, till the end V pleaded the
widow. * Your bondage cannot be for very long.'
* Auntie ! how can you speak like that, when you know-
when you must know that I have no one in the world but you
now — no one, dearest,' said Christabel, on her knees at her aunt's
(eet, clasping and kissing the pale transparent hands. ' I hav«
168 Mount Boyal.
not the knaok of loving many people. Jessie is very good to me,
and I am fond of her as my friend and companion. Uncle
Oliver is all goodness, and I am fond of him in just the same
way. But I never loved any one but you and Angus. Angus ia
gone from me, and if God takes you, Auntie, my prayer ia that 1
may speedily follow you.'
* My love, that is a blasphemous prayer : it implies doubt in
God's goodness. He means the young and innocent to be happy
in this world — happy and a source of happiness to others. You
will form new ties ; a husband and children will console you for
all you have lost in the past'
* No, aunt, I shall never marry. Put that idea out of your
mind. You will think less badly of me for refusing Leonard if
you understand that I have made up my mind to live and die
unman-ied.'
' But I cannot and will not believe that. Belle : whatever you
may think now, a year hence your ideas will have entirely
altered. Remember my own history. When George Hamleigh
died I thought the world — so far as it concerned me — ^had come
to an end, thatrl had only to wait for death. My fondest hope
was that I should die within the year, and be buried in a grave
near his — ^yet five years afterwards I was a happy wife and
mother.'
' God was good to you,' said Christabel, quietly, thinking aU
the while that her aunt must have been made of a different clay
from herself. There was a degradation in being able to forget :
it implied a lower kind of organism than that fiinely strung nature
u hich loves once and once only.
CHAPTER XV.
'•PHAT LIP AND VOICE ARE MUTE FOR EVER,*
Having pledged herself to remain with her aunt to the end,
Christabel was fain to make the best of her life at Mount Eoyal,
and in order to do this she must needs keep on good terms with
her cousin. Leonard's conduct of late had been irreproachable :
he was attentive to his mother, all amiability to Christabel, and
almost civil to Misa Bridgeman. He contrived to make his peace
with Bandie, and he made such a good impression upon Major
Bree that be won the warm praises of that gentleman.
The cross country rides were resumed, the Major always in
attendance ; and Leonard and his cousdn were seen so often
together, riding, driving, or walking, that the idea of an engage-
tteiit between them became a fixture in the local mind, which
• Tliat Lip and Voice are Mute for Ever,* 167
held that when one was off with the old love it was well to be oik
with the new.
And so the summer ripened and waned. Mrs. Tregonell'a
health seemed to improve in the calm happiness of a domestic
life in which there was no indication of disunion. She had never
surrendered her hope of Christabel's relenting. Leonard's frank
and generous character — his good looks — his local popularity —
must ultimately prevail over the memory of another — that other
having so completely given up his chances. Mrs. Tregonell waa
half inclined to recognize the nobleness of that renunciation ;
half disposed to accept it as a proof that Angus Hamleigh'a
heart still hankered after the actress who had been his tirst
infatuation. In eitlier case no one could doubt th.it it was well
for Ckristabel to be released from such an engagement. To wed
Angus would have been to tie herself to sickness and death — ta
take upon herself the burden of early widowhood, to put on sack-
cloth and ashes as a wedding garment.
It was winter, and there were patches of snow upon the hills,
and sea and sky were of one chiU slatey hue, before Leonard
ventured to repeat that question which he had asked with such
ill effect in the sweet summer morning, between hedgerows
flushed with roses. But through all the changes of the waning
year there had been one purpose in his mind, and every act of
his life had tended to one resiilt. He had sworn to himself that
his cousin should be his wife. Whatever barriere of disinclina-
tion, direct antagonism even, there might be on her side must be
broken down by dogged patience, unyielding determination on
his side. He had the spirit of the hunter, to whom that prey is
most precious which costs the longest chase. He loved his cousin
more passionately to-day, after keeping his feelings in check for
six months, than he had loved her when he asked her to be his
wife. Every day of delay had increased his ardour and strength-
ened his resolve.
It was New Year's day. Christabel and Miss Bridgeman
had been to church in the morning, and had taken a long walk
"vith Leonard, who contrived to waylay them at the church door
After church. Then had come a rather late luncheon, after which
Christabel spent an hour in her aunt's room reading to her, and
talking a little in a subdued way. It was one of Mrs. Tregonell'a
bad days, a day upon which she could hardly leave her sofa, and
Christabel came away from the invalid's room full of sadness.
She waa sitting by the fire in the library, alone in the dusl^
save for Handle's company, when her cousin came in and found
her.
' Why, Belle, what are you doing all alone in the dark? ' h€
exclaimed. *I almost thought the room was empty.'
* I have been thinking,' ahe aaid, with a sigh.
168 Mount Boyal,
* Your thoughts could not have been over-J)lea^'•Mut, I should
think, by that sigh,* said Leonard, coming over to the hearth
and drawing the logs together. * There's a cheerful blaze for you
Don't give way to sad thoughts on the first day of the yeai
Belle : it's a bad beginning.'
* I have been thinking of your dear mother, Leonard : my
mother, for she has been more to' me than one mother in a
hundred is to her daughter. She is with us to-day — a part of
our lives — very frail and feeble, but still our own. Where will
she be next New Year's day ?'
* Ah, Belle, that's a bad look out for both of us,* answei-ed
Leonard, seating himself in his mother's empty chair. * I'm
afraid she won't last out the year that begins to-day. But she
has seemed brighter and happier lately, hasn't she ? '
* Yes, I think she hiis been happier,' said Christabel.
* Do you know why ? '
His cousin did not answer him. She sat with her face bent
over her dog, hiding her teai-s on Randie's sleek black head.
* I think I know why the mother has been so tranquil in
her mind lately. Belle,* said Leonard, with unusual earnestness,
'and I think you know just as well as I do. She has seeu
you and me more friendly together — more cousinly — and she
has looked forward to the fulfilment of an old wish and dream of
liers. She has looked for the speedy realization of that wish.
Belle, although six months ago it seemed hopeless. She wants
to see the two people she loves best on earth united, before she
is taken away. It would make the close of her life happy, if she
could see my happiness secure. I believe you know th:iU
Belle.'
* Yes, I know that it is so. But that can never be.'
* That is a hard saying, ChristabeL Half a year ago I asked
you a question, and you said no. Many a man in my positiow
would have been too proud to run the risk of a second refusal.
He would have gone away in a huff, and found comfort some-
where else. But I knew that there was only ono woman in the
the world who could make me happy, and I waited for her.
You mast own that I have been patient, have I not, Belle ? '
* You have been very devoted to your dear mother — very good
to me. I cannot deny that, Leonai'd,' Chi-istabel answered,
gi-avely.
She had dried her tears, and lifted her head from the dog's
neck, and sat looking straight at the fire, self-possessed and
«ad. It seemed to her aa if sdl possibility of happiness had gone
•ut of her life.
' Am I to have no reward 1 * asked Leonard. ' You know
with what hope I have waited — you know that our man-iage
would make my mother happy, that it would make the end of
* That Lip and Voice are Mute for Ever. 169
her life a festival. You owe me nothing, but you owe ner some*
thing. That is sueing in formd paziperis, isn't it, "Belle 1 But 1
have no pride where you are concerned.'
* You ask me to be your wife ; you don't even ask if I love
you,' said Christabel, bitterly. * What if I were to say yes, and
then tell you afterwards that my heart still belongs to ^gua
Hamleigh.'
* You had better tell me 'that now, if it is ao,' said Leonard,
his face darkening in the firelight.
* Then I will tell you that it is so. I gave him up because I
thought it my duty to give him up. I believed that in honour
he belonged to another woman. I believe so still. But I have
never left off loving him. That is why I have made up my
mind never to marry.'
* You are wise,' retorted Leonard, ' such a cohf ession as that
would settle for most men. But it does not settle for me,
Belle. I am too far gone. If you are a fool about Hamleigh,
I am a fool about you. Only say you will marry me, and I will
take my chance of all the rest. I know you will be a good
wife ; and I will be a good husband to you. And I suppose
in the end you will get to care for me a little. One thing is
certain, that I can't be happy without you ; so I would gladly
run the risk of an occasional taste of misery with you. Come,
Belle, is it a bargain,' he pleaded, taking her unresisting hands.
* Say that it is, dearest. Let me kiss the future mistress of
Mount Koyal.'
He bent over her and kissed her — kissed those lips which
had once been sacred to Angus Hamleigh, which she had sworn
in her heart should be kissed by no other man upon earth. She
recoiled from him with a shiver of disgust — no good omen for
their wedded bhss.
*This will make our mother very happy,' said Leonard.
Come to her now. Belle, and let us tell her.'
Christabel went with slow, reluctant steps, ashamed of the
weakness wnich had yielded to persuasion and not to duty. But
when ]VIrs. Tregonell heard the news from the triumphant
lover, the light of happiness that shone upon the wan face waa
almost an all-sufficing reward for this last sacrifice.
* My love, my love,' cried the widow, clasping her niece to
her breast. *You have made my last earthly days happy. I
have thought you cold and iiard. I feared that I should die
before you relented ; but now you have made me glad and
gKLteful. I reared you for this, I taught you for this, I have
prayed for this ever since you were a child. I have prayed that
my son might have a pure and perfect wife, and God has
granted my prayer.'
After this ciimo a period ©f «uch perfect content and traa-
170 Mount Royal.
quility for the invalid, that Christabel forgot her own sorrowa.
She lived in an atmosphere of gladness ; congratulations, gifts,
were pouring in upon her every day ; her aunt petted and
cherished her, was never weary of praising and caressing her.
Leonard was all submission as a lover. Major Bree was
delighted at the security which this engagement promised for
the carrying on of the line of Champemownes and Tregonells —
the union of two fine estates. He had looked forward to a
dismal period when the widow would be laid in her grave, her
son a wanderer, and Christabel a resident at Plymouth or Bath ;
while spiders wove their webs in shadowy comers of the good
old Manor house, and mice, to all appearance self-sustaining,
scampered and scurried behind the panelling.
Jessie Bridgeman was the only member of Christabers
circle who refrained from any expression of approval.
* Did I not tell you that you must end by marrying him ? *
she exclaimed. *Did I not say that if you stayed here the thing
was inevitable ? Continual dropping will wear away a stone ;
the stone is a fixture and can't help being dropped upon ; but
if you had stuck to your colours and gone to Leipsic to stud^,
the piano, you would have escaped the dropping.'
As there was no possible reason for delay, while there was
a powerful motive for a speedy marriage, in the fact of Mrs.
Tregonell's precarious health, and her ardent desire to see her
son and her niece united before her fading eyes closed for ever
upon earth and earthly cares, Christabel was fain to consent
to the early date which her aunt and her lover proposed, and to
allow all arrangements to be hurried on with that view.
So in the dawning of the year, when Proserpine's returning
footsteps were only faintly indicated by pale snowdrops and
early violets lurking in sheltered hedges, and by the gold and
purple of crocuses in all the cottage gardens, Christabel put on
her wedding gown, and whiter than the pale ivory tint of the
soft sheeny satin, took her seat in the carriage beside her adopted
mother, to be driven down into the valley, and up the hilly
street, where all the inhabitants of Boscastle — save those who
had gone on before to congregate by the lich-gate — ^were on the
alert to see the bride go by.
Mrs. Tregonell was paler than her niece, the fine regular
features blanched with that awful pallor which tells of disease
— but her eyes were shining with the light of gladness.
*My darling,' die murmured, as they drove down to the
harbour bridge, * I have loved you all your life, but never as I love
you to-day. My dearest, you have filled my soul with content'
* I thank God that it should be so,' faltered ChiistabeL
' K I could only see you smile, dear,' said her aunt. * Your
expression is too sad for a bride.'
*That Lip and Voice are Mute for Ever' 171
* Is it, Auntie ? But marriage is a serious thing, dear. It
means the dedication of a life to duty.'
* Duty which affection will make very light, I hope,* said Mrs.
Tregonell, chilled by the cold statuesque face, wrapped in its
cloudy veil * Christabel, my love, tell me that you are not
unhappy — that this marriage is not against your inclination.
It is of your own free will that you give yourself to my boy 1 '
* Yes, of my own free will,' answered Christabel, firmly.
As she spoke, it flashed upon her that Iphigenia would have
given the same answer before they led her to the altar of offended
Artemis. There are sacrifices offered with the victim's free con-
gent, which are not the less sacrifices.
* Look, dear,' cried her aunt, as the children, clustering at the
Bchool-house gate — dismissed from school an hour before their
time — waved their sturdy arms, and broke into a shrill trebl«
cheer, * everybody is pleased at this marriage.*
* If you are glad, dearest, I am content,' murmured her niece.
It was a very quiet wedding — or a wedding which rank?
among quiet weddings now-a-days, when nuptial ceremonies are
for the most part splendid. No train of bridesmaids in aesthetic
colours, Duchess of Devonshire hats, and long mittens — no page-
boys, staggering under gigantic baskets of flowers — no fuss or
fashion, to make that solemn ceremony a raree'-show for the
gaping crowd. The Kector of Trevalga's two little girls were
the only bridesmaids — dressed after Sir Joshua, in short-waisted
^V0-coloured frocks and pink sashes, mob caps and mittens,
with big bunches of primroses and violets in their chubby
hands.
Mrs. Tregonell looked superb in a dark ruby velvet gown,
and long mantle of the same rich stuff, bordered with darkest
sable. It was she who gave her niece away, while Major Bree
acted as best man for Leonard. There were no guests at thia
winter wedding. Mrs. Tregonell's frail health was a sufficient
reason for the avoidance of all pomp and show ; and Christabel
had pleaded earnestly for a very quiet wedding.
So before that altar where she had hoped to pledge herself
for life and till death to Angus Hamleigh, Christabel gave her
submissive hand to Leonard Tregonell, while the fatal words
were spoken which have changed and blighted some few lives,
to set against the many they have blessed and glorified. Still
deadly pale, the bride went with the bridegroom to the vestry,
to sign that book of fate, the register, Mrs. Tregonell followirig
on Major Bree's arm. Miss Bridgeman — a neat little figure in
silver grey poplin — and the child bride-maids crowding in after
them, until the small vestry was filled with a gracious group, all
glow of colour and sheen of silk and satin, in the glad <^pring
sunshine.
173 Mount Boy at,
*No\v, ]\rrs. Tregonell,' said the Major, cheerily, when the
bride and bridegroom had signed, * let us have yonr name next,
rf you please ; for I don't think there is any of ua who more
rejoices in this union than you do.*
The widow took the pen, and wrote her name below that of
Christabel, with a hand that never faltered. The incumbent of
Minster used to say afterwards that this autograph was the
grandest in the register. But the pen dropped suddenly from
the hand that had guided it so firmly. Mrs. Tregonell looked
round at the circle of faces with a strange wild look in her own.
She gave a faint half-stifled cry, and fell upon her son's breast,
her arms groping about his shoulders feebly, as if they would
fain have wound themselves round his neck, but could not,
encumbered by the heavy mantle.
Leonard put his arm round her, and held her firmly to his
* Dear mother, are you ill ? * he asked, alarmed by that
strange look in the haggard face.
' It is the end,' she faltered. 'Don't be sorry, dear. I am so
happy.'
And thus, with a shivering sigh, the weary heart throbbed
its last dull beat, the faded eyes grew dim, the limbs were dumb
for ever.
The Rector tried to get Christabel out of the vestry before
she could know what had happened — but the bride was clinging
t-o her aunt's lifeless figure, half sustained in Leonard's arms,
half resting on the chair which had been pushed forward to
support her as she sank upon her son's breast. Vain to seek to
delay the knowledge of sorrow. All was known to Christabel
already, as she bent over that marble face which was scarcely
whiter than her own.
• CHAPTER XVI.
•not the gods can shake the past.
There was a sad silent week of waiting before the bride set
forth upon her biidal tour, robed in deepest mourning. For six
days the windows of Mount Royal were darkened, and Leonard
and his newly wedded wife kept within the shadow of that house
of death, almost as strictly as if they had been Jewish mourners,
bound by ancient ceremonial laws, whereof the close observance
is a kind of patriotism among a people who have no fatherland.
All the hot-houses at Mount Royal gave out their treasures-
white hyacinths, and rose-flushed cyclamen, gardenia, waxen
Not the Gods can shaJce the Fast* 17'i
camellias, fnint Dijon roi^es — for the adornment of the death
chamber. The corridor outside that darkened room had an
odour of hot-house flowers. Tiie house, folded in silence and
darkness, felt like some splendid sepulchre. Leonard was deeply
Aiepie.ssed by his mother's death ; more shocked by ita sudden-
ness, by this discoi'dant note in his triumphant marriage song,
than by the actual fact ; this loss having been long discounted in
his own mind among the evils of the future.
Christabers grief was terrible, albeit slie had lived for the
last year in constant fear of this affliction. Its bitterness was in
no wise lessened because it had been long expected. Never even
m her saddest moments had she realized the agony of that parting,
the cnld dull sense of loneliness, of dismal abandonment, in a
loveless, joyless world, when that one beloved friend was taken
from her. Leonard tried his best to console her, putting aside
his own sorrow, in the endeavour to comfort his bride ; but his
eflorts at consolation were not happy, for the most part taking
the form of philosophical truisms which may be very good in an
almanack, or as padding for a country newspaper, but which
sound dull and meaningless to the ear of the mourner who saya
in his heart there was never any sorrow like unto my soitow.
In the low sunliglit of the March afternoon they laid Mrs.
Tregonell's coffin in the family vault, beside the niche where her
faithful husband of ten years' wedded life took his last long rest^
There, in the darkness, the perfume of many flowers mixing with
the cold earthly odours of the tomb, they left her who had for so
long been the despocic mistress of Mount Royal ; and then they
drove back to tlie empty house, where the afternoon light that
streamed in through newly opened windows had a garish look, as
if it had no right tol)e there.
Tlie widow's will wsxs of the simplest. She left legacies to the
old servants ; her wardrobe, with tlie exc«pti(»n of laces and furs, to
l)ormer ; mementoes to a few old friends ; two thousand pounds
in trust for certain small local charities ; to Christabel all her
lewels and books ; and to her son everything else of which she
Wied poL^s(!ssed. lie was now l)y inheiitMuce from his mother,
mid in right of his wife, maai'er of the Champernowne estate,
which, united to the Tiegontill property, made him one of the
largest landowners in the West of England. Christabel's
fortune had been strictly settled on herself before her marriage,
with reversion to Leonard in the failure of children ; but the
fact of this settlement, to which he had readily agreed, did not
lessen Leonards sense of imijortance as representative of the
Tregonells and Champernownes.
Christabel and her husband started for the Continent oa
the day after the funeral, Leonard fervently hoping that change
of scene and constant movement would help his wife to forget
174 Mount Boyal,
her grief. It was a dreary departure for a honeymoon tour—
the sombre dress of bride and bridegroom, the doleful visage of
Dormer, the late Mrs. Tregonell's faithful maid, whom the
Present Mrs. Tregonell retained for her own service, glad to
have a person about her who had so dearly loved the dead.
They travelled to "Weymouth, crossed to Che'-bourg, and thence
to Paris, and on without stopping to Bordeaux , then, following
the line southward, they visited all the most interesting towns
of southern France — Albi, Montauban, Toulouse, Carcassonne,
Narbonne, Montpellier, Nismes, and so to the fair^'-Uke shores
of the Mediterranean, lingering on their way to look at mediaeval
cathedrals, Roman baths and amphitheatres, citadels, prisons,
palaces, aqueducts, all somewhat dry as dust and tiresome to
Leonard, but full of interest to Christabel, who forgot her own
griefs as she pored over these relics of pagan and Christian history.
Nice was in all its glory of late spring when, after a lingering
progress, they arrived at that Brighton of the south. It was
nearly six weeks since that March sunset which had lighted the
funeral procession in Minster Churchyard, and Christabel was
beginning to grow accustomed to the idea of her aunt's death —
nay, had begun to look back with a dim sense of wonder at the
happy time in which they two had been together, their love
unclouded by any fear of doom and parting. That last year of
Mrs. Tregonell's life had been Christabel's apprenticeship to
grief. All the gladness and thoughtlessness of youth had been
blighted by the knowledge of an inevitable parting — a farewell
that must soon be spoken — a dear hand clasped fondly to-day,
but which must be let go to-morrow.
Under that soft southern sky a faint bloom came back to
Christabel's cheeks, which had not until now lost the wan
whiteness they had worn on her wedding-day. She grew more
cheerful, talked brightly and pleasantly to her husband, and put
off the aspect of gloom with the heavy crape- shrouded gown
which marked the first period of her mourning. She came
down to dinner one evening in a gown of rich lustreless black
silk, with a cluster of Cape jasmine among the folds of her
white crape fichu, whereat Leonard rejoiced exceedingly, his
being one of those philosophic minds which believe that the too
brief days of the living should never be frittered away upon
lamentations for the dead.
* You're looking uncommonly jolly, BeUe,' said Leonard, as
his wife took her seat at the little table in front of an open
window overlooking the blue water and the amphitheatre of
hills, glorified by the sunset. They were dining at a private
table in the public room of the hotel, Leonard having a fancy
tor the life and bustle of the table d'hSte rather than the
seclusion of his own apartments. Cliristabel liated sitting dow9
*No$ he Gods can shake the PmV 175
with a herd of strangers ; so, by way of compromise, they dintHi
at their own particular table, and looked on at the public
banquet, as at a stage-play enacted for their amusement.
There were others who preferred tiie exclusivenesa of a
separate table ; among these two middle-aged men — one milit^irv,
both new arrivals— who sat within eai^ot of Mr. and Mrs.
Tregonell.
* That's a fascinating get-up. Belle,' pursued Leonard, proud
of his wife's beauty, and not displeased at a few respeetful
glances from the men at the neighbouring table whicn that
beauty had elicited. *By-the-by, why shouldn't we go to the
opera to-night 1 They do " Traviata ;" none of your Wagner
stuff, but one of the few operas a fellow can understand. It will
cheer you up a bit.'
* Thank you, Leonard. You are very good to think of it ;
but I had rather not go to any place of amusement — this year.'
'That's rank rubbish, Belle. What can it matter — here,
where nobody knows us ? And do you suppose it can make any
difference to my poor mother 1 Her sleep will be none the less
tranquil.'
* I know that ; but it pleases me to honour her memory. I
will go to the opera as often as you like next year, Leonard.'
' You may go or stay away, so far as I'm concerned,' answered
Leonard, with a sulky air. * I only suggested the thing on your
account. 1 hate their squalling.'
This was not the first time that Mr. Tregonell had shown the
cloven foot during that prolonged honeymoon. He was not
actually unkind to his wife. He indulged her fancies for the
most part, even when they went counter to his ; he would have
loaded her with gifts, had she been willing to accept them ; he
was the kind of spouse who, in the estimation of the outside
world, passes as a j>erfect husband — proud, fond, indulgent,
lavish — just the kind of husband whom a sensuous, selfish woman
would consider absolutely adorable from a practical standpoint ;
supplementing him, perhaps, with the ideal, in the person of a
lover.
So far, Christabel's wedded life had gone smoothly ; for in
the measure of her sacrifice she had included obedience and duty
after n)arriage. Vet there wasi not an hour in which she did not
feel the utter want of sympathy between her and the man she
had married — not a day in which she did not discover hia
inability to understand her, to think as she thought, to see as she
Bsiw. Religion, conscience, honour — for all these husband and
wife had a different standard. That which was right to one waa
wrong to the other. Their sense of the beautiful, their estimation
of art, were as vviiie apart :ls earth and hcHveii. TIovv could any
union prove liappy — how could there be evou tliat siuooih veac***
176 Mount BoyaX,
fulness which blesses sonic passionlegs unions — when the husband
and wife were of so ditforent a clay ? Long as Leonard had
known and loved his cousin, he was no more at home with her
than he would have been with Undine, or with that ivory image
which Aphrodite warmed into life at the prayer of Pygmalion
the sculptor.
More than once during these six weeks of matrimony Leonard
had betrayed a jealous temper, which threatened evil in the
future. His courtship had been one long struggle at self-
repression. Marriage gave him back his liberty, and he used it
on more than one occasion to sneer at his wife's former lover, or
at her fidelity to a cancelled vow. Christabel had understood
his meaning only too well ; but she had heard him in a scornful
eilence which was more humiliating than any other form of
reproof.
After that offer of the opera, Mr. ' Tregonell lapsed into
eilence. His subjects for conversation were not widely varied,
and his present position, aloof from all sporting pursuits, and
poorly provdded with the London papers, reduced him almost to
dumbness. Just now he was silent from temper, and went on
sulkily with his dinner, pretending to be absorbed by consider-
ation of tba wines and dishes, most of which he pronounced
abominable.
When he had finished his dinner, he took out hia cigarette
case, and went out on the balcony to smoke, leaving Chiistabel
sitting alone at her little table.
The two Englishmen at the table m che next window were
talking in a comfortable, genial kind of way, and in voices quite
loud enough to be overheaid by their immediate neighbours.
The soldier-like man sat back to back with Christabel, and she
could not avoid hearing the greater part of his conversiition.
She he^ard with listless ears, neither understanding nor
interested in understanding the drift of his talk — her mind far
away in the home she had left, a desolate and ruined home, as it
seemed to her, now that her aunt was dead. But by-and-by the
sound of a too familiar name ri vetted her attention.
* Angus Hamlcigh, yes ! I saw his name in the visitoi-'s
book. He wiis heie last month — gone on to Itidy,' said the
Boldier.
' You knew him ? ' asked the other.
* Dans le t&inps. I saw a good deal of him when he wso
•bout town.'
* Went a mucker, didr'. he ?'
*I believe he spent x good deal of money — but he never
belonged to an out-and-out fast lot. Went in for art and
and literature, and that kind of thin^'-. don't yon know ? Gai rick
Glub« behind the scenea at tiie swell theatres — Kichmoud and
•Not the Gods com shake the Past: 17V
Greenwich dinners — Maidenhead — Henley — lived in a house-
boat one summer, men used to go down by the last train to
moonlit suppers after the play. He had some very good ideas,
and carried them out on a large scale — but he never dropped
money on cards, or racing — rather looked down upon the
amusements of the million. By-the-by, I was at a rather curious
wedding just before I left London.*
* Whose?'
* Little Fishky's. The Colonel came up to time at last.'
*rishky,' interrogated the civilian, vaguely.
* Don't you know Pishky, alias Psyche, the name by which
Stella Mayne condescended to be known by her intimate friends
during the run of " Cupid and Psyche.' Colonel Luscomb
married her last week at St. George's, and I was at the
v/inidin^.'
* Rather feeble of him, wasn't it ? ' asked the civilkiu.
* Well, you see, he could hardly sink himself lower than h«
had done already by his infatuation for the lady. He knew
that all his chances at the Horse Guards were gone ; so if a plain
gold ring could gratify a young person who had been surfeited
with diamonds, why should our friend withhold that simple and
inexpensive ornament ? Whether the lady and gentleman will
be any the happier for this rehabilitation of their domestic
circumstances, is a question that can only be answered in the
future. The wedding was decidedly queer.'
* In what way ] ' ~
* It was a case of vaulting ambition which o'er-leaps itself.
The Colonel wanted a quiet wedding. I think he would have
preferred the registrar's office — no church-going, or fuss of any
kind — but the Sidy, to whom matrimony was a new idea,
willed otherwise. So she decided that the nest in St. John's
Wood was not spacious enough to accommodate the wedding
guests. She sent her invitations far and wide, and ordered a
recherchJ brealdast at an hotel in Brook Street. Of the sixty
people she expected about fifteen appeared, and there was a
rowdy air about those select few, male and female, which was
by no means congenial to the broad glare of day. Night
birds, every one — painted cheeks — dyed moustachios — tremulous
hands — a foreshadowing of del. trem. in the very way some
of them swallowed their champagne. I was sorry for Fishky,
who looked lovely in her white satin frock and orange-blossoms,
but who had a piteous droop about the corners of her lips,
like a child whose birthday feast has gone wrong. I felt
still sorrier for the Colonel — a proud man debased by lo\»
surroundings.'
' He srill take hei- oflF the stage, I suppose,' suggested thf
other.
178 Mount Boyal.
* Naturally, he will try to do so. Hell make a good fight
for it, I dare say ; but whether he can keep Fishky from the
footlights is an open question. I know he's in debt, and I
don't very clearly see how they are to live.'
* She is very fond of him, isn't she 1 '
* Yes, I believe so. She jilted Hamleigh, a man who wor-
shipped her, to take up with Luscomb, so I suppose it was a
case of real affection.'
' I was told that she was in very bad health — consumptive ? '
*That sort of little person is always dying,' answered the
other carelessly. It is a part of the mJtier — the Marguerite
Oauthier, drooping lily kind of young woman. But I believe
this one is sickly.'
* Christabel heard every word of this conversation, heard
and understood for the first time that her renunciation of
her lover had been useless — that the reparation she had deemed
it his duty to make, was past making — that the woman to
whose wounded character she had sacrificed her own happiness
was false and unworthy. She had been fooled — ^betrayed by
her own generous instincts — her own emotional impulses. It
would have been better for her and for Angus if she had been
more wwldly-minded — less innocent of the knowledge of evil.
She had blighted her own life, and perhaps his, for an imaginary
good. Nothing had been gained to any one living by her
sacrifice.
* I thought I was doing my duty,' she told herself helplessly,
as she sat looking out at the dai k water, above which the moon
was rising in the cloudless purple of a southern night. * Oh !
how wicked that woman was to hide the truth from me — to let
me sacrifice my love and my lover — knowing her own falsehood
all the time. And now she is the wife of another man 1 How
she must have laughed at my folly ! I thought it was Angua
who had deserted her, and that if I gave him up, his own
honourable feeling would lead him to atone for that past wrong.
And now I know that no good has been done — only infinite
evU.'
She thought of Angus, a lonely wanderer on the face of the
earth ; jilted by the first woman he had loved, renounced by
the second, with no close ties of kindred — uncared for and
alone. It was hard for her to think of this, whose dearest hope
had once been to devote her life to caring for him and cherishing
him — prolonging that frail existence by the tender ministrations
of a boundless love. She pictured him in his loneliness, careless
of his he^alth, wasting his brief remnant of life — reckless, hope-
less, indifferent.
* God grant he may fall in love with some good woman, who
trill cherish him as I would have done,' was her unselfish praye** •
'Not the Gods can shake the Past' 179
for she knew that domestic affection is the only spell that can
prolong a fragile life.
It was a weak thing no doubt next morning, when she was
passing through the hall of the hotel, to stop at the desk on
which the visitors' book was kept, and to look back through the
signatures of the last three weeks for that one familiar auto-
graph which she had such faint chance of ever seeing again in
the future. How boldly that one name seemed to stand out
from the page ; and even coming upon it after a deliberate
search, what a thrill it sent through her veins ! The signature
was as firm as of old. She tried to think that this was an indi-
cation of health and strength — ^but later in the same day, when
she was alone in her sitting-room, and her tea was brought to
her by a German waiter — one of those superior men whom
it is hard to think of as a menial — she ventured to ask a
question.
* There was an English gentleman staying here about three
weeks ago : a Mr. Hamleigh. Do you remember him ? * she
asked.
The waiter interrogated himself silently for half a minute,
and then replied in the affirmative.
* Was he an invalid ? '
'Not quite an. invalid, Madame. He went out a little — ^but
he did not seem robust. He never went to the opera— or to any
public entertainment He rode a little — and drove a little — and
read a great deal. He was much fonder of books than nuwt
English gentlemen.*
* Do you know where he went when he left here t *
* He was going to the Italian lakea'
Christabel asked no further question. It seemed to her a
great privilege to have heard even so much as this. There waa
very little hope that in her road of life she would often come
BO nearly on her lost lover's footsteps. She was too wise to
desire that they should ever meet face to face — that she,
Leonard's wife, should ever again be moved by the magic of
that voice, thrilled by the pathos of those dreamy eyes ; but
it was a privilege to hear something about him she had lost,
to know what spot of earth held him, what ski^s looked dowq
upon him*
180 M<yimi Boyal
CHAPTEBXVIL
*I HAYB PUT MY DATS AKD DREAMS OUT OF IflVlX'
It was the end of May, when Christabel and her husband went
back to England and to Mount Eoyal. Leonard wanted to stay
in London for the season, and to participate in the amusements
lind dissipation of that golden time ; but this his wife most
iteadfastly refused. She would be guilty of no act which could
imply want of respect for her beloved dead. She would
Hot make her curtsey to her sovereign in her new character of a
matron, or go into society, within the year of her aunt's death.
*You will be horribly moped in Cornwall,' remonstrated
Xjeonard, * Everything &baut the place will remind you of my
poor mother. We shall be in the dolef uls all the year.'
* I would rather grieve for her than forget her,' answered
Christabel * It is too easy to forget.'
'Well, you must have your own way, I suppose. You
generally do,' retorted Leonard, churlishly ; * and, alter having
dicigged me about a lot of mouldy old French towns, and made
me look at churches, and Koman baths, and the sites of ancient
circuses, until I hated the very name of antiquity, you will expect
me to vegetate at Mount Eoyal for the next six months.'
*I don't see any reason why a quiet life should be mere
vegetation,' said Christabel ; * but if you would prefer to spend
part of the year in London I can stay at Mount Royal.'
* And get on uncommonly well without me,' cried Leonard.
* I perfectly comprehend your meaning. But I am not going in
for that kind of thing. You and I must not offer the world
another example of the semi-attached couple ; or else people
might begin to say you had married a man you did not care for.'
' I will try and make your life as agreeable as I can at the
Manor, Leonard,' Christabel answered, with supreme equanimity
— ^it was an aggravation to her husband that she so rarely lost
her temper — ' so iCong as you do not ask me to fill the house with
visitors, or to do anything that might look like wan* of reverence
for your mother's memory.'
Look I' ejaculated Leonard. What does it matter how
things look ? We both know that we are sorry for having lost
her — ^that we shall miss her more or less every day of our lives
— visitors or no visitors. However, you needn't invite any
people. I can rub on with a little fishin' and boatin'.'
They went back to Mount Royal, where all things had gone
as if by clockwork during their absence, under Miss Bridgeman'a
sajje administration. To relieve her loneliness, Christabel had
•J have Put rrvy Days and Dreams <mt of Miird* 181
invited two of the younger sisters from Shepherd's Bnsh to spend
tlie spring moutlis at the Manor llouse — and tlieso damsels —
tall, vigorous, active — had revelled exceedingly in all the luxuries
and pleasures of a niral life under the most advantageous cir-
tunistances. They had scoured the hills — had rilled the hedgtf
of their abundant wild flowers — had made friends witli aft
Christabel's chosen families in the suiTounding cottages — had
fallen in love with the curate who was doing duty at I^Iinsterand
Forrabury — had been buffeted by the wiuds and tossed by the
waves in many a delightful boating excursion — had climbed the
rocky steeps of Tintagel so often that they seemed to know every
stone of that ruined citadel — and now had gone home to Shepherd's
Bush, their cheelcs bright with country bloom, and their meagre
trunks oversliadowed by a gigantic hamper of country produce.
Christabel felt a bitter i)ang as the carnage drew up to the
porch, and she saw the neat little figure in a black gown waiting
to receive her — thinking of that tall and noble form which shoiUd
have stood there — the welcoming arms which should have receivcxl
her, rewarding and blessing her for her self-sacrifice. The sacrifi je
had been made, but death had swallowed up the blessing arid
reward ; and in that intermediate land of slumber wheie the
widow lay there could be no knowledge of gain — no satisfactix'U
in the thought of her son's happiness : even granting that Leonard
was supremely hapjjy in his marriage, a fact which Christal el
deemed open to doubt. No, there had been nothing gained,
except that Diana Tregonell's last days had been full of peace --
her one cherished hope realized on the very threshold of the
tomb. Christabel tried to take comfort from this knowledge.
' If I had denied her to the last, if she h.ad died with her
wish ungratified, I think I should be still more sorry for her loss,'
she told herself.
There was bitter pain in the return to a home where that one
familiar figure had been the central point, the very ax)-* of life.
Jessie led the now Mrs. Tregonell into the panelled parlour,
where every object was arranged just as in the old days ; the
toa-tjible on the loft of the wide fireplace, the large low arm-chair
anel the book-table on the right. The room was bright with
white and crimson may, azaleas, tea-roses.
* I thought it was best for you to get accustomed to the
rooms without her,' said Jessie, in a low voice, as she placed
Christal)el in the widow's old chair, and helped to take off her
hat and mantle, ' and I thought you would not Uke anything
changed.'
* Not for worlds. The house is a part of her, in my mind.
It was she who planned everything as it now is — ^just adding
as many new things as were needful to brighten the old. I wiB
never alter a detail unless I am absolutely obliged.'
182 Mount Boyal
* I am so thankful to hear you say that. Major Bree ia
eoming to dinner. He wanted to be among the first to welcome
you. I hope you don't mind my having told him he might
come.'
* I shall be very glad to see him : he is a part of my old life
here. 1 hope he ia very well.'
* Splendid — the soid of activity and good temper. I can't
tell you how good he was to my sisters — taking them about
everywhere. I believe they both went away deeply in love with
him ; or at least, with their affections divided between him and
Mr. Ponsonby.
Mr. Ponsonby was the curate, a bachelor, and of pleasing
appearance,
Leonard had submitted reluctantly to the continued resi-
dence of Miss Uridgeman at Mount Iloyal. He had been for
dismissing her, as a natural consequence of his mother's death ;
but here again Christabel had been firm.
* Jessie is my only intimate friend,' she said, * and she is
associated with every year of my girlhood. She will be no
trouble to you, Leonard, and she will help me to save your
money.*
This last argument had a softening effect, Mr. Tregonell
knew that Jessie Bridgeman was a good manager. He had
affected to despise her economies while it was his mother's purse
which was spared ; but now that the supplies were drawn from
his own resources he was less disposed to he contemptuous of
care in the administrator of his household.
Major Bree was in the drawing-room when Christabel came
down dressed for dinner, looking delicately lovely in her flowing
gown of soft dull black, with white flowers and white crape
about her neck. The Major's cheerful presence did much to
help Mr. Tregonell and his wife through that first dinner at
Mount Eoyal. He had so many small local events to tell them
about, news too insignificant to be recorded in Jessie's letters,
but not without interest for Christabel, who loved place and
people. Then after dinner he begged his hostess to play,
declaring that he had not heard any good music during her
absence, and Christabel, who had cultivated her musical talents
assiduously in every interval of loneliness and leisure which had
occurred in the course of her bridal tour, was delighted to play
to a listener who could understand and appreciate the loftiest
flights in harmony.
The Major was struck with the improvement in her style
She had always played sweetly, but not with this breadth and
/fower.
' Vou must have worked very hard i» these last few months,'
be said.
•I have Put my Days and Dreams out of Mina.' i8S
• Yes, I made the best of every opportunity. I had soma
lessons from a very clever German professor at Nice. Music
kept me from brooding on my loss,' she added, in a low voice.
*I hope you will not grow less industrious now you have
eome home,' said the Major. *Most women give Mozart and
Beethoven to the winds when they marry, shut up their piano
altogether, or at most aspire to play a waltz for their children'!
dancing.
* I shall not be on« of those. Music will be my chief pur-
suit — now.'
The Major felt that although this was a very proper state
of things from an artistic point of view, it argued hardly so
well for the chances of matrimonial bliss. That need of a
pursuit after marriage indicated a certain emptiness in the
existence of the wife. A life closed and rounded in the narrow
circle of a wedding ring hardly leaves room for the assiduous
study of art.
And now began for Christabel a life which seemed to her to
be in some wise a piece of mechanism, an automatic performance
of daily recurring duties, an hourly submission to society which
had no charm for her — a life which would have hung as heavily
upon her spirit as the joyless monotony of a convict prison, had
it not been for the richness of her own mental resources, and
her love of the country in which she lived. She could not be
altogether unhappy roaming with her old friend Jessie over
those wild romantic hills, or facing the might of that tremendous
ocean, grand and somewhat awful even in its calmest aspect.
Nor was she unhappy, seated in her own snug morning-room
among the books she loved — books which wero always opening
new worlds of thought and wonder, books of such inexhaustible
interest that she was often inclined to give way to absolute
despair at the idea of how much of this world's wisdom must
remain unexplored even at the end of a long life. De Quincey
has shown by figures that not the hardest reader can read half
the good old books that are worth reading ; to say nothing of
those new books daily claiming to be read.
No, for a thoroughly intellectual woman, loving music, loving
the country, tender and benevolent to the poor, such a life as
Christabel was called upon to lead in this fiist year of marriage
could not be altogether unhappy. Here were two people joined
by the strongest of all human ties, and yet utterly unsym-
pathetic ; but they were not always in each other's company^
and when they were together the wife did her best to appeal
contented with her lot, and to make life agreeable to her hus-
band. She was more punctilious in the performance of every
duty she owed him than she would have been had she loved
bim better. She never forgot that his welfare was a charge
184 Mount Boyal,
which she had taken upon herself to please the kinswonirta lo
whom she owed so much. The debt was all the more sacred
since she to whom it was due had passed away to the lan^
where there is no knowledge of earthly conduct.
The glory of summer grew and faded, the everlasting hillf
changed with all the varying lights and shadows of autumj
and winter ; and in the tender early spring, when all the tree
were budding, and the hawthorn hedges were unfolding crinkij
green leaves among the brown, Christabel's lieail melted with
the new strange emotion of maternal love. A son was bom to
the lord of the manor ; and while all Boscastle rejoiced at this
important addition to the population, Christabel's pale face
shone with a new radiance, as the baby-face looked up at her
from the pillow by her side — eyes clear and star-like, with a
dreamy, far-away gaze, which was almost mote lovely than the
recognizing looks of older eyes — a being hardly sentient of the
things of earth, but bright with memories of the spirit world.
The advent of this baby-boy gave a new impulse to Chris-
tabel's life. She gave herself up to these new cares and duties
with intense devotion ; and for the next six mouths of her life
was so entirely engrossed by her child that Leonard considered
himself neglected. She deferred her presentation at Court till
the next season, and Leonard was compelled to be satisfied with
an occasional brief holiday in London, during which he naturally
relapsed into the habits of his bachelor days — dined and gamed
at the old clubs, and went about everywhere with his friend and
ally, Jack Vandeleur.
Christabel had been married two years, and her boy was a
year old, when she went back to the old house in Bolton Row
with her husband, to enjoy her second season of fashionable
pleasures. How hard it was to return, under such altered
circumstances, to the rooms in which she had been so happy — to
see everything unchanged except her own life. The very chairs
and tables seemed to be associated with old joys, old griefs.
All the sharp agony of that bitter day on which she had made
up her mind to renounce Angus Hamleigh came back to her as
she looked round the room in which the pain had been suffered.
The flavour of old memories was mixed with all the enjoyments
of the present. The music she heaid this year was the same
music they two had heard together. And here was this smiling
Park, all green leaves and sunlight filled with this seeming
frivolous crowd ; in almost every detail the scene they two had
contemplated, amused and philosophical, four years ago.
The friends who called on her and invited her now, were the
same people among whom she had visited during her first season.
People who had been enraptured at her engagement to Mr.
Hamleigh were equally deUj^hted at her marriage with her
'And Pale from the Past we draw nigh Thee.' 185
csousin, or at least said so ; albeit, more than one astute matron
drove away from Bolton Row sighing over the folly of marriage
between first cousins, and marvelling that Christabers baby waa
not deaf, blind, or idiotic.
Among other old acquaintances, young Mrs. Tregonell met the
Dowager Lady Cumberbridge, at a ^eat dinner, more Medusa-
like than ever, in a curly auburn wig after Madame de Mon-
tespan, and a diamond coronet. Christabel shrank from the too-
well-remembered figure with a faint shudder ; but Lady Cum-
berbridge swooped upon her like an elderly hawk, when tlie
ladies were on their way back to the drawing-room, and insisted
upon being friendly.
'My dear child, where have you been hiding yourself all
these years V she exclaimed, in her fine baritone. ' I saw your
marriage in the papers, and your poor aunf s death ; and I was
expecting to meet you and your husband in society last season.
You didn't come to town ? A baby, I suppose ? Just so ! Those
horrid babies ! In the coming century there will be some better
arrangement for carrying on the species. How well you are
looking, and your husband is positively charming. He sat next
me at dinner, and we were friends in a moment. How proud he
is of you ! It is quite touching to see a man so devoted to^ his
wife ; and now' — they were in the subdued light of the drawing-
room by this time, light judiciously tempered by ruby-coloured
Venetian glass — 'now tell me all about my poor friend. Was
she long Ul ?'
And, with a ghoulish interest in horrors, the dowager pre-
pared herself for a detailed narration of Mrs. Tregonell's last
illness ; but Christabel could only falter out a few brief sentences.
Even now she could hardly speak of her aunt without tears ; and
it was painful to talk of her to this worldly dowager, with keen
eyes glittering under penthouse brows, and a hard, eager mouth.
In all that London season, Christabel only once heard her old
lover's name, carelessly mentioned at a dinner party. He was
talked of as a guest at some diplomatic dinner at St. Petersburg,
•jarly in the year.
CHAPTER XVIIL
'and pale from the past wa draw nigh thee.'
It waa October, and the chestnut leaves were falling slowly and
heavily in the park at Mount Royal, the oaks upon the hill side
were faintly tinged with bronze and gold, while the purpl» bloom
186 Mount Eoyal
of the heather and the yellow flower of the gorze were seen ^n
rarer patches amidst the sober tints of autumn. It was the tiae
at which to some eyes this Cornish coast was most lovely, with a
subdued poetic loveliness — a dreamy beauty touched with tender
melancholy.
Mount Royal was delightful at this season. Liberal fires in
all the rooms filled the old oak-panelled house with a glow of
colour, and a sense of ever-present warmth that was very com-
fortable after the sharpness of October breezes. Those green-
houses and hothouses, which had been for so many years Mrs.
Tregonell's perpetual care, now disgorged their choicest contents.
Fragile white and yellow asters, fairy-like ferns, Dijon roses,
lilies of the valley, stephanotis, mignonette, and Cape jasmine
filled the rooms with perfume. Modern blinds of diapered
crimson and grey subdued the light of those heavily mullioned
windows which had been originally designed with a view to
strength and architectual effect, rather than to the admission of
the greatest possible amount of daylight. The house at this
season of the year seemed made for warmth, so thick the walls,
so heavily curtained the windows ; just as in the height of
summer it seemed made for coolness. Christabel had respected
all her aunt's ideas and prejudices : nothing had been changed
since Mrs. Tregonell's death — save for that one sad fact that she
vraa gone. The noble matronly figure, the handsome face, the
kindly smile were missing from the house where the widow had
so long reigned, an imperious but a beneficent mistress — having
her own way in all things, but always considerate of other
people's happiness and comfort.
Mr. Tregonell was inclined to be angry with his wife some-
tim(;8 for her religious adherence to her aunt's principles and
opinions in things great and small.
* You are given over body and soul to my poor mother's fads,'
he said. ' If it had not been for you I should have turned the
house out of windows when she was gone— got rid of all the
worm-eat^in furniture, broken out new windows, aadlet in more
light. Ono feels half asleep in a house where there is nothing
but shadow and the scent of hothouse flowers. I should have
given, carte blanche to some London man — the fellow who writes
verses and who invented the storks and sunflower style of
decoration — and have let him refurnish the saloon and music-
room, pitch out a Ubrary which nobody reads, and substitute
half a dozen dwarf book-cases m gold and ebony, filled with
brightly bound books, and with Japanese jars and bottles on the
top of them to give life and colour to the oak panelling. I hate
a gloomy house.'
* Oh, Leomir4| you surely would not call Mount Boya?
gloomy.'
*And Pale from the Past w& draw nigh Thee.' 187
* But I do : I hate a house that smells of one's anceestors.'
* Just now you objected to the scent of the flowers.'
•You are always catching me up — there was never such a
woman to argue — but I mean what I say. The smeU is a com-
bination of stephanotis and old bones. I wish you would let me
build you a villa at Torquay or Dartmouth. I think I should
prefer Dartmouth : it's a better place for yachting.'
* You are very kind, but I would rather live at Mount Koyal
than anywhere else. Eemember I was brought up here.'
* A reason for your being heartily sick of the house — as I am.
But I suppose in your case there are associations — sentimental
associations.'
* The house is filled with memories of my second mother ! '
* Yes — and there are other memories — associations which you
love to nurse and brood upon. I think I know all about it--can
read up your feelings to a nicety.'
*You can think and say what you please, Leonard,' she
answered, looking at him with unaltered calmness, *but you
will never make me disown my love of this place and its sur-
roundings. You will never make me ashamed of being fond of
the home in which I have spent my life.'
* 1 begin to think there is very little shame in you,' Leonard
muttered to himself, as he walked away.
He had said many bitter words to his wife — had aimed many
a venomed arrow at her breast — but he had never made her
blush, and he had never made her cry. There were times when
dull hopeless anger consumed him — anger against her — against
nature — against Fate — and wh-'u his only relief was to be found
in harsh and bitter speech, in dark and sullen looks. It would
have been a greater relief to him if his shots had gone home — if
his brutality had elicited any sign of distress. But in this
respect Christabel was hercic. She who had never harboured
an ungenerous thought was moved only to a cold calm scorn by
the unjust and ungenerous conduct of her husband. Her con-
tempt was too thorough for the possibility of resentment.
Once, and once oi»ly,she attempted to reason with a fool in his folly.
*Why do you make these unkind speeches, Leonard?' she
asked, looking at him with those calm eyes before which his
were apt to waver and look downward, hardly able to endure
that steady gaze. * Why are you always harping upon the past
— as if it were an offence against you. Is tliere anything that
you have to complain of in my conduct — have I given you any
cause for anger ? '
* Oh, no, none. Ycu are simply perfect as a wife— everybody
Bays so — and in the multitude of counsellora, you know. But it
is just possible for perfection to be a trifle cold and unapproach-
able— to keep a man at arm's length — and to have au •ver-
188 Mount Boyat,
present air of living in the past which is galling to a husband
who would like — well — a little less amiability, and a little mow
UFection. By Heaven, I wouldn't mind my wife being a devil,
tf I knew she was fond of me. A spitfire, who would kiss me
one minute and claw me the next, would be better than the
calm superiority which is always looking over my head.'
* Leonard, I don't think I have been wanting in affection.
You have done a great deal to repel my liking — yes — since you
force me to apeak plainly — you have made my duty as a wife
more difficult than it need have been. But, have I ever for-
gotten that you are my husband, and the father of my child %
Is there any act of my life which has denied or made light of
your authority ? When you asked me to marry you I kept no
secrets from you : I was perfectly frank.'
* Devilish frank,' muttered Leonard.
* You knew that I could not feel , for you as I had felt for
another. These things can come only once in a lifetime. You
were content to accept my affection — my obedience — knowing
this. Why do you make what I told you then a reproach
against me now ! '
He could not dispute the justice of this reproof.
* Well, Christabel, I was wrong, I suppose. It would have
been more gentlemanlike to hold my tongue. I ought to know
that your first girlish fancy is a thing of the past — altogether
gone and done with. It was idiotic to harp upon that worn-out
string, wasn't if?' he asked, laughing awkwardly: but when
a man feels savage he must hit out at some one,'
This was the only occasion on v/hioh husband and wife had
ever spoken plainly of the past ; but Leonard let fly those venomed
arrows of his on the smallest provocation. He could not forget
that his wife had loved another man better than she had ever
loved or even pretended to love him. It was her candour which
lie felt most keenly. Had she been willing to play the hypocrite,
to pretend a little, he would have been ever so much better
pleased. To the outside world, even to that narrow world which
encircles an old family seat in the depths of the country, Mr.
and Mrs. Tiegonell appeared a happy couple, whose union was
the most natural thing in the world, yet not without a touch of
that romance which elevates and idealizes a marriage.
Were they not brought up under the same roof, boy and giil
together, like, and yet not like, brother and sister. How inevit-
able that they must become devotedly attached. That little
episode of Christabel's engagement to another man counted foi
nothing. She was so young — luid never questioned her own
heart. Her true love was away — and she w^is flattered by the
attention of a man of the world like Angus Hamleigh — and so, and
-almost mia wares, perhaps, she allowed herself to be engaged
'And Pale from the Past we d/rcm nigh Thee' 18i
«o him, little knowing the real bent of his character and the
gulf into which she was about to plunge : for in the neighbour-
hood of Mount Koyal it was believed that a man who Imd once
lived as Mr. Hamleigh had lived was a soul lost for ever, a
creature given over to ruin in this world and the next. There
was no hopefulness in the local mind for the after career of such
pi offender.
At this autumn season, when Mount Royal was filled with
visitors, all intent upon taking life pleasantly, it would have been
impossible for a life to seem more prosperous and happy to the
outward eye than that of Christabel Tregonell. The centre of
a friendly circle, the ornament of a picturesque and perfectly
appointed house, the mother of a lovely boy whom she worshij)-
iM-d. with the overweening love of ayouncj mother for her firstbof i-,
ud mired, beloved by all her little world, with a husband who
\va,s proud of her and indulgent to her — who could deny that
Mrs Tregonell was a person to be envied.
i\l.rs. Fairfax Torriugton, a widow, with a troublesome son,
r.r.'i a :iu;iiea mconie — an income whose narrow boundary aho
ys&ii continually overstepping — told her hostess as much one
morning when the men were all out on the hills in the rain, and
the women made a wide circle round the library fire, some of
them intent upon crewel work, others not even pretending to be
industrious, the faithful Randie lying at his mistress's feet, as she
sat in her favourite chair by the old carved chimney-piece — the
chair which had been her aunt Diana's for so many peaceful years.
' There is a calnmess — an assured tranquility about your life
which makes me hideously envious,' said Mrs. Fairfax Torrington,
waving the Society paper which she had been using as a screen
against the fire, after having read the i-aciest of its paragraplip
aloud, and pretended to be sorry for the dear friends at whom
the censor's airy shafts were aimed. *I have stayed with
duchesses and with millionaires — but I never envied either.
The duclicbs is always dragged to death by the innumeral;le
claims ui)on her time, her money, and her atttention. Her life
is very little better than the fate of that unfortunate person
who stabbed one of the French Kings — forty wild horses pulling
forty different ways. It doesn't make it much better because
the horses are called by pretty names, don't you know. Court,
friends, flower-shows, balls, church, opera. Ascot, fancy faii>?,
seat in Scotland, place in Yorkshire, Baden, Monaco. It
is the pull that wears one out, the dreadful longing to be allowed
to sit in one's own room by one's own fire, and rest. I know
what it is in my small way, so I have slvrsiya rather pitied
duchesses. At a millionaire's house one is inevitably bored.
There is an insufferable glare and glitter of money in everything,
unj)leaHantly accentuated by an occasional blot of absolute mean-
190 Mount Royal.
neas. No, Mrs. Tregonell,* pursued the agreeable rattle, 1 don*!
envy duchesses or millionaires' wives : but your existence seema
to me utterly enviable, so tranquil and easy a life, in such a per-
fect house, with the ability to take a plunge into the London
vortex whenever you like, or to stay at home if you prefer it, a
charming husband, and an ideal baby, and above all that sweet
equable temperament of yours, which would make life easy under
much harder circumstances. Don't you agree with me, now,
Miss Bridgeman?*
* I always agree with clever people,' answered Jessie, calmly.
Christabel went on with her work, a quiet smile upon her
beautiful lips.
Mrs. Torrington was one of those gushing persons to whom
there was no higher bliss, after eating and drinking, than the
indulgence in that lively monologue which slie called conver-
(lation, and a happy facility for which rendered her, in her own
opinion, an acquisition in any country-house.
* The general run «f people are so dull,' she would remark in
ner contldential moments; 'there are so few who can talk,
without being disgustingly egotistical. Most people's idea of
conversation is autobiography in instalments. I have always
been liked for my high spirits and flow of conversation.'
High spirits at forty-five are apt to pall, unless accompanied
by the rare gift of wit. Mrs. Torrington was not witty, but
she had read a good deal of light literature, kept a common-
place book, and had gone through life believing herself a
Sheridan or a Sidney Smith, in petticoats.
* A woman's wit is like dancing in fetters,' she complained
sometimes : * there are so ipany things one must not say ! '
Christabel was more than content that her acquaintance
should envy her. She wished to be thought happy. She had
never for a moment posed as victim or martyr. In good faith,
and with steady purpose of well-doing, she had taken upon
herself the duties of a wife, and she meant to fulfil them to the
uttermost.
'There shall be no shortcoming on my side,* she said to
hf»rself. ' If we cannot live peaceably and happily together i»
shall not be my fault. If Leonard will not let me respect him
as a husband, I can still honour him as my boy's father.
In these days of fashionable agnosticism and hysterical devo-
tion — when there is hardly any middle path between life spent
in church and church-work and the open avowal of unbelief
— something must be said in favour of that old-fashioned sober
religious feeling which enabled Christabel Tregonell to walk
steadfastly along the difficult way, her mind possessed with the
ever-present belief in a Righteoua Judge who saw all her acta
and knew all her thou^'its.
• And Pale from the Past we draw nigh Thee* 191
She studied her husband's pleasure in all things — yielding to
him upon every point in which principle was not at stake. The
house was full of friends of his choosing — not one among
those guests, in spite of their surface pleasantness, being
congenial to a mind so simple and unworldly, so straight and
thorough, as that of Christabel Tregonell. "Without Jessie
Bridgeman, Mrs. Tregonell would have been companionless in a
house full of people. The vivacious widow, the slangy yoimg
ladies, with a marked taste for billiards and shootmg parties, and
an undisguised preference for masculine society, thought their
hostess behind the age. It was obvious that she was better
informed than they, had been more carefully educated, played
better, sang better, was more elegant and relined in every
thought, and look, and gesture ; but in spite of [all these advan-
tages, or perhaps on account of them, she was * slow : ' not
an easy person to get on with. Her gowns were simply perfect
— but she had no chic. Nous autres, with ever so much less
money to spend on our toilettes, look more striking — stand out
better from the ruck. An artificial rose here — a rag of old
lace — a fan — a vivid ribbon in the maze of our hair — and the
effect catches every eye — while poor Mrs. Tregonell, with her
lovely complexion, and a gown that is obviously Parisian, is
comparatively nowhere.
This is what the Miss Vandeleurs — old campaignei-s—
told each other as they dressed for dinner, on the
second day after their arrival at Mount Eoyal. Captain
Vandeleur — otherwise Poker Vandeleur, from a supposed
natural genius for that intellectual game — was Mr. Tregonell'g
old friend and travelling companion. They had shared a
good deal of sport, and not a little hardship in the Eockiea
— had fished, and shot, and toboggined in Canada — had played
euchre in San Francisco, and monte in Mexico — ^and, in a
word, were bound together by memories and tastes in common.
Captain Vandeleur, like Byron's Corsair, had one virtue amidst
many shortcomings. He was an affectionate brother, always
glad to do a good turn to his sisters — who lived with a shabby
wd half -pay father, in one of the shabbiest streets in the debat-
able land between Pimlico and Chelsea — by courtesy. South
Eelgravia. Captain Vandeleur rarely had it in his power to do
much for his sisters himself — a five-poimd note at Christmas or a
bonnet at Midsummer was perhaps the furthest stretch of hia
personal benevolence — but he was piously fraternal m his readi-
ness to victimize his dearest friend for the benefit of Dopsy and
Mopsy — these being the poetic pet names devised to mitigate
the dignity of the baptismal Adolphine and Margaret. When
Jack Vandeleur had a pigeon to pluck, he always contrived that
^psy and Mopay should ^ct a few o^* *^« feathers. He did not
192 Mount Boyal,
take his friends home to the shabby little ten-roomed house in
South Belgravia — such a nest would have too obviously indicated
his affinity to the hawk tribe — but he devised some means of
bringing Mopsy and Dopsy and his married friends together
A box at the Opera — stalls for the last burlesque — ^a drag foi
Epsom or Ascot — or even afternoon tea at Hurlingham — and the
thing was done. The Miss Vandeleurs never failed to improve
the occasion. They had a genius for making their little wants
known, and getting them supplied. The number of their gloves —
the only shop in London at which wearable gloves could bo
bought— how naively these favourite themes for girlish converse
dix)pped from their cherry Dps. Sunshades, fans, lace, flowers,
pejrfymery— all these luxuries of the toilet were for the most part
supplied to Dopsy and Mopsy from this fortuitous source.
Some pigeons lent themselves more kindly to the plucking
than others ; and the Miss Vandeleurs had long ago discovered
that it was not the wealthiest men who were most lavish. Given
a gentleman with a settled estate of fourteen thousand a year,
and the probabilities were that he would not rise above a dozen
gloves or a couple of bouquets. It was the simple youth who had
just come into five or ten thousand, and had nothing but the
workhouse ahead of him when that was gone, who spent his
money most freely. It is only tke man who is .steadfiistiy uittjuo
upon ruining himself, who ever quite comes up to the fendniiia
idea of generosity. The spendthrift, during his brief season of
fortune, leads a charmed life. For him it is hardly a question
whether gloves cost five or ten shillings a pair — whether stepha-
notis Ls in or out of season. He oilers his tribute to beauty
without any base scruples of economy. What does it matter to
him whether ruin comes a few months earlier by reason of this
lavish liberality, seeing that tho ultimate result is inevitable.
With the Miss Vandeleurs Leonard Tregonell ranked as an
old friend. They had met him at theatres and races ; they had
been invited to little dinners at which he was host. Jack Van-
deleur had a special genius for ordering a dinner, and for acting
as guide to a man who liked dining in the highways and byways
of London ; it being an understood thing that Captain Vande-
leur's professional position as counsellor exempted him for any
share in the reckoning. Under his fraternal protection, Dopsy
and Mopsy had dined snugly in all manner of foreign restaurants,
and had eaten and drunk their fill at Mr. Tregonell's expense.
They were both gourmands, and they were not ashamed ot
enjoying the pleasures of the table. It seemed to them that the
class of ineu who could not endure to see a woman eat had de-
parted with Byron, and Bulwer, and D'Orsay, and De Musset. A
new race had {irisen, which likes a ' jolly * girl who can appreciate a
recharchJ dinner, and knows tb«^ ''liiTorenpe between good and bad
*Jnd Pale from ihe Past we draw nigh Thee* lOJ?
IMr. TregoTiell did not yield himself up a victim to the fasci-
nations of either Dopsy or JNlopsy. He had seen too inucli of
that class of beauty during his London experiences, to bo ciiught
by the auricomous tangles of one or the tlaxen fringe of tho
other. He talked of them to their brother as nice girls, with no
nonsense about them ; he gave them gloves, and dinners, and
stalls for * Madame Angot ; ' but his appreciation took no higher
form.
* It would have been a fine thing for one of you if you coulcl
have hooked him,' said their brother, as he smoked a final pipe^
between midnight and morning, in the untidy little drawing-
room in South Belgravia, after an eveair)<T with Chaumont.
He's a heavy swell in Cornwall, I can tell you. Plenty of
money— fine old place. But there's a girl down there he's sweet
upon — a cousin. He's very close ; but I cauglit him kissing and
crying over her photograph one night in the Rockies — when our
rations had run short, and two of our horses gone dead, and our
best guide was down with ague, and there was an idea that we'd
lost our track, and should never see England again. That's tlvo
only time I ever saw Tregonell sentimental. " I'm not afraid of
death," he said, " but I sliould like to live to see home again, for
her sake ;" and he showed me the photo — a sweet, fresh, youiii;'
face, smiling at us with a look of home and home-att'ection, and
we poor beggars not knowing if we she should ever see a woman's
face again.
• If you knew he wns in love with his cousin, what's the use of
talking about his marryingua?' asked Mopsy i)etulantly, speaking
of hei-sclf and her sister as if they wiue a firm.
* Uh, there's no knowing, answered Jack, coolly as he pufTod
at his meerschaum. 'A man may change his mind. Girls with
your experience ought to be able to twist a fellow round your
little finger. But tnough you'i*e deuced keen at getting things
out of men, you're unconnnonly slow at bringing down your bird.'
' Look at our surroundings,' said Dopay bitterly. ' Could we
ever dare to bring a man here ; and it is in her orvn home that a
man gets fond of a girl.*
' Well, a fellow would have to be very far gone to stand this,'
Captain Vandeleur admitted, with a shrug of his shoulders, as he
glanced round the room, with its blotchy paper, and smoky
ceiling, its tawdry chandelier, and dilapidated furniture, flabby
faded covers to chairs and sofa, side-table piled with sliabby books
and accumulated newspapers, the half-pay fathers canea and
umbrellas in the comer, his ancient slippers by the fender, his
easy-chair, with its morocco cove indentc^d with the greasy
imprint of his venerable shoulders, and over all the rank odou«
oi yesterday's dinner and stale tobacco-smoke
• A man in the last stage of spt>ojiiness will stand anything—
194 Mount Boyal
you remember the opening chapter of " Wilhelm Meiater f *• said
Captain Jack, meditatively — ' but he'd need be very far gone to
stand this,* he repeated, with conviction.
Six months after this conversation, Mopsy read to Dopsy th<
announcementof Mr. Tregonell's marriage with the CJomish cousin
* We shall never see any more of him, you may depend,' said
Dopsy, with the air of pronouncing an elegy on the ingratitude
of man- But she was wrong, for two years later Leonard
Tregonell was knocking about town again, in the height of the
season, with Poker Vandeleur, and the course of his diversions
included a little dinner given to Dopsy and Mopsy at a choice
Italian restaurateur's not very far from South Belgravia.
They both made themselves as agreeable as in them lay. He
was married. All matrimonial hopes in that quarter were
blighted. But marriage need not prevent his giving them dinners
and stalls for the play, or being a serviiieable friend to their
brother.
* Poor Jack's friends are his only reliable income,' said Mopsy.
* He had need hold them fast.'
Mopsy put on her lively Madame Chaumont manner, and
tried to amuse the Benedict. Dopsy was graver, and talked to
him about his wife.
* She must be very sweet,' she said, 'from Jack's account of her.'
* Why, he's never seen her,' exclaimed Mr. Tregonell, looking
puzzled.
* No ; but you showed him her photograph once in the
Rockies. Jack never forgot it'
Leonard was pleased at this tribute to his good taste.
' She's the loveliest woman I ever saw, though she is my wife,
he said ; 'and I'm not ashamed to say I think so.'
* How I should like to know her,* sighed Dopsy ; * but Fin
afraid she seldom comes to London.'
* That makes no difference,* answered Leonard, warmed into
exceptional good humour by the soft influences of Italian cookery
and Italian wines. * Why should not you both come to Mount
P«oyal ? I want Jack to come for the shooting. He can bring
you, and you'll be able to anmse my wife, while he and I are
out on the hills.'
' It would be quite too lovely, and we should like it of all
things ; but do you think Mrs. "Tregonell would be to get on
with us ? * asked Do]>ay, diffidently.
It was not often she and her sister were asked to country
houses. They were both fluttered at the ide.i, and turned their
thoughts inward for a mental review of their wanirobi-<
'We could do it,* decided Mopsy, 'with a little help from
Jack.*
Nothing more was stud about the visit limK niQ^bt. hnl a
^And Pale from the Past we draw nigh Thee.* 195
month later, when Leonard had gone back to Mount Royal, a
courteous letter from Mrs. Tregonell to Miss Vandeleur con-
firmed the Squire's invitation, and the two set out for the West
of England under their brother's wing, rejoicing at this stroke
of good luck. Christabel had been told that they were nice girls,
just the kind of girls to be useful in a country-liouae — girls who
had very few opportunities of enjo} ing life, and to whom any
kindness would be charity — and she had done her husband's
bidding without an objection of any kind. But when the two
damsels appeared at Mount Royal tightly sheathed in sage-green
merino, with limp little capes on their shoulders, and picturesque
hats upon picturesque heads of hair, Mrs. Tregonell's heart
failed her at the idea of a month spent in such company. "With-
out caring a straw for art, without knowing more of modern
poetry than the names of the poets and the covei-s of their books,
Mopsy and Dopsy had been shrewd enough to discover that tot
young women with narrow means the aesthetic style of dress wa»
by far the safest fashion. Stutf might do duty for silk — a s'^"^*
flower, if it were only big enough, might make as startttng an
eflFect as a blaze of diamonds — a rag of limp tulle or muslin serve
instead of costly lace — hair worn after the ideal suffice instead
>f BKH^eusive headgear, atod home dressmaking pass current for
aigiuality. Chiutabel speedily found, however, tliat these
damsels were not exacting in the matter of attention from her-
self. So long as they were allowed to be with the men they
were happy. In the billiard-room, or the tennis-court, in the
old Tudor hall, which was Leonard's f a\ ourite tahagiej in the
saddle-room, or the stable-yard, on the hills, or on the sea, wher-
ever the men would sufier their presence, Dopsy and Mopsy
were charmed to be. On those rare occasions when the out-of-
door party was made up without them they sat about tlie drawing-
room in hopeless, helpless idleness — tumii^ over yesterday's
Loudon papers, or stumbling through German waltzes on the
iron-framed Kirkman grand, which had been Leonanl's birthday
gift to his wife. At their worst the Miss Vandeleurs gave
Christabel very little trouble, for they felt curiously shy in her
society. She was not of their world. They had not one thought
or one taste in common. Mrs. Torrington, who insisted upon
taking her hostess under her wing, was a much more troublesome
Ejrson. The Vandeleur girls helped to amuse Leonard, who
ughed at their slang and their mannishness, and who liked the
■ound of girlish voices in the. house — albeit those voices were
loud and vulvar. They made themselves particularly agreeable
to Jessie Bridgeman, who declared that she took tlie keenest
interest in them — as natural curiosities.
* Why should we pore over moths and zooT)hytes, and puzzto
oar brains with long Greek and Latin names, demanded Jessie,
196 Mount Boyai,
* when <mr own species afforda an inexhaustible variety of crea-
tures, all infinitely interesting % These Vandeleur girls are aa
new to me as if they had dropped from Mai-a or Saturn.'
Life, therefore, to all outward seeming, went very pleasantly
at Mount Royal. A perfectly appointed house in which money
is spent lavishly can hardly fail to be agreeable to those casual
inmates who have nothing to do with its maintenance. To Dopsy
and Mopsy Mount Royal was a terrestrial paradise. They had
never imagined an existence so entirely blissful. This perfumed
atmosphere — this unfailing procession of luxurious meala — no
cold nmtton to hang on hand — no beggarly mutation from bacon
to bloater and bloater to bacon at breakfast-time — no wolf at the
door.
* To think that money can make all this difference,' exclaimed
Mopsy, as she sat with Dopsy on a lieather-covered knoll waiting
for the shooters to join them at luncheon, while the servants
grouped themselves respectfully a little way off with the break
and horses. 'Won't it be too di-eadfui to have to go home
a^ain?'
' Loathsome ! ' said Dopsy, whose conversational strength con-
sisted in the liberal use of about half-a-dozen vigorous epithets.
* I wish there were some rich young men staying here, that
one might get a chance of promotion.'
*Rich men never marry poor gii'ls,' answered Mopsy, de-
jectedly, ' unless the girl is a famous beauty or a favourite
actress. You and I are nothing. Heaven only knows what is t<j
become of us when the jiater dies. Jack will never be able to
give us free quarters. We shall have to go out as shop girls.
We're a great deal too ignorant for governesses.'
* I shall go on the stage,' said Dopsy, with decision. * I mny
not be handsome — but I can sing in tune, and my feet and ankles
have ahvays been my strong point. All the rest is leather and
prunella, aa Shakespeare says.'
* I shall engage myself to Spiers and Pond,' said Mopsy. * It
must be a more lively life, and doesn't recpiire either voice oi-
ankles — which I ' — rather vindictively — ' do not possess. Of
coui-se Jack won't like it — but I can't help that.'
Thus, in the face of all that is loveliest and most poetical in
Natuie — the dreamy moorUmd — the distant sea — the Lion-rock
with the afternoon sunshine on it — the blue boundless sky — and
one far-away sail, silvered with light, standing out against the
low dark line of Lundy Inland — debated Mo})sy and Dojxsy,
waiting with keen ap])etites for the game pasty, and the welcome
bottle or two of Moet, which they were to shiire with the sports-
men.
While these damsels thus beguiled the autumn afternoon,
Clirifitabel and Jessie had sallied out alone for one of their oW
*And Pale from the Past we draw nigh Thee,' 197
rambles ; such a solitary walk as had been their delight in the
careless long ago, before ever passionate love, and sorrow, his
liandmaiden, came to Mount Royal.
Mrs. Torrington and three other guests had left that morning ;
the Vandeleurs, and Eegiiwdd Montagu, a free and easy little
War-office clerk, were now the only visitors at Mount Royal,
and Mrs. Tregonell was free to lead her own life — so with Jessie
and Randie for company, she started at noontide for TintageL
She could never weary of the walk by the cliffs — or even of the
quiet country road with its blossoming hedgerows and boundless
outlook. Every step of the way, every tint on field or meadow,
every change in sky and sea was familiar to her, but she loved
them all.
They had loitered in their ramble by the cliffs, talking a good
deal of the past, for Jessie was now the only listener to whom
Christabel could freely open her heart, and she loved to talk with
her of the days that were gone, and of her first lover. Of their
love and of their parting she never spoke — to talk of those things
might have seemed treason in the wedded wife — but she loved ta
talk of the man himself — of his opinions, his ideas, the stories
he had told them in their many rambles — his creed, his dreams
— speaking of him always as * Mr. Hamleigh,' and just as she
might have spoken of any clever and intimate friend, lost to
her, through adverse circumstance, for ever. It is hardly likely,
ifiince they talked of him so often when they were alone ; that
they spoke of him more on this day than usual : but it seemed
to them afterwards as if they had done so — and as if their con-
versation in somewise forecast that which was to happen before
yonder sun had dipped behind the wave.
They climbed the castle hill, and seated themselves on a low
fragment of wall with their faces seaward. There was a lovely
light on the sea, scarcely a breath of wind to curl the edges of
the long waves which rolled slowly in and slid over the dark
rocks in shining slabs of emerald-tinted water. Here and there
deep purple patches showed where the sea- weed grew tluckest,
and here and there the dark outline of a convocation of shags
stood out sharply above the crest of a rock.
' It was on just such a day that we first brought Mr.
Hamleigh to this place,' said Christabel
' Yes, our Cornish autumns are almost always lovely, and this
year the weather is particularly mild,' answered Jessie, in her
maUter-of-fact way. She always put on this air when she saw
Christabel drifting into dangerous feeling. * I shouldn't wonder
tf we were to have a second crop of strawberries this year.*
' D(. y^ou remember how we talked of Tristan and Lseult— *
poor Iseult?'
* Poor Marc, I think,'
198 Mount Boyd.
*Marct One can't pity him. He was an ingrate and a
coward.'
* He was a man and a husband,' retorted Jessie ; ' and he
seems to have been badly treated all round.'
* Whither does he wander now ? ' said Christabel, softly
repeating lines learnt long ago.
* Haply in his dreams the wind
Waits him here and lets him find
The lovely orphan child again,
In her castle by the coast ;
The youngest fairest chatelaine,
That this realm of France can boast,
Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea,
Iseult of Brittany.'
* Poor Iseult of the White Hand,' said a voice at Christabel's
shoulder, * after all was not her lot the saddest — had not she the
best claim to our pity ? '
Christabel started, turned, and she and Angus Hamleigh
looked in each other's faces in the clear bright light. It was
over four years since they had parted, tenderly, fondly, as
plighted husband and wife, locked in each other's arms, promising
each other speedy reunion, ineffably happy in their assurance of
a future to be spent together : and now they met with pale
cheeks, and lips dressed in a society smile — eyes — to which tears
would have been a glad relief — assuming a careless astonishment.
* You here, Mr. Hamleigh ! ' cried Jessie, seeing Christabel's
lips quiver dimibly, as if in the vain attempt at words, and
rushing to the rescue. * We were told you were in Eussia.'
* I have been in Russia. I spent last winter at Petersburg
— ^the only place where caviare and Adelina Patti are to be
enjoyed in perfection — and I spent a good deal of this summer
that is just gone in the Caucasus.'
* How nice ! ' exclaimed Jessie, as 'if he had been talking of
Buxton or Malvern. * And did you really enjoy it ? '
* Immensely. All I ever saw in Switzerland is as nothing
compared with the gloomy grandeur of that mighty semicircle
of mountain peaks, of which Elburz, the shining mountain, the
throne of Ormuzd, occupies the centre.'
* And how do you happen to be here — on this insignificant
mound?' asked Jessie.
* Tintagel's surge-beat hill can never seem insignificant to
me. National poetry has peopled it — ^while the Caucasus is only
a desert'
* Are you touring ? '
^ * No, I am staying with the Yica^of Trevena. He is an old
friend of my fathbr^ : they were college chums ; and Mr. Carlyon
'« always kind to me.'
* And Pale from the Past we draw nigh Thee* 199
Mr. Carlyon was a new vicar, who had come to Tuevena
within the last two years.
' Shall you stay long 1 ' asked Christabel, in tones which had
% curiously flat sound, as of a voice produced by mechanism.
* I think not. It is a delicious place to stay at, but *
* A little of it goes a long way,' said Jessie.
* You have not quite anticipated my sentiments. Miss Bridge-
man. I was going k) say that unfortunately for me I have
engagements in London which will prevent my staying here
much longer.'
* You are not looking over robust,' said Jessie, touched with
pity by the sad forecast which she saw in his faded eyes, his
hollow cheeks, faintly tinged with hectic bloom. ' I'm afraid
the Caucasus was rather too severe a training for you.'
* A little harder than the ordeal to which you submitted my
locomotive powers some years ago,' answered Ang\is, smiling ;
* but how can a man spend the strength of his manhood better
than in beholding the wonders of creation ? It is the best pre-
paration for those still grander scenes which one faintly hopes
to see by-and-by among the stars. According to the Platonic
theory a man must train himself for immortality. He who goes
straight from earthly feasts and junkettings will get a bad time
in the under world, or may have to work out his purgation in
some debased brute form.'
* Poor fellow,' thought Jessie, with a sigh, * I suppose that
kind of feeling is his nearest approach to religion.'
Christabel sat very still, looking steadily towards Lundy, as
if the only desire in her mind were to identify yonder vague
streak of purplish brown or brownish purple with the level strip
of land chiefly given over to rabbits. Yet her heart was achiu^'
and throbbing passionately all the while ; and the face at which
she dared scarce look was vividly before her mental sight-—
sorely altered from the day she had last seen it smile upon her in
love and confidf^nce. But mixed with the heartache there was
joy. To see him again, to hear his voice again — what could that
be but happiness ?
She knew that there was delight in being with him, and she
told herself that she had no right to linger. She rose with an
automatic air. * Come, Jessie,' she said : and then she turned
with an efi'ort to the man whose love she had renoimced, whose
heart she had broken.
' Good-bye !' she said, holding out her hand, and looking at
him with calm, grave eyes. ' I am very glad to have seen you
again. I hope you always think of me as your friend V
' Yes, Mrs. Tregonell, I can afford now to think of vou as a
friend,' he answered, gravely, gently, holding her hand with m
lingering grasp, and looking solemnly into the sweet pale face.
200 Motmt Boyal.
He shook hands cordially with Jessie Bridgeman, and they
'eft him standing amidst the low grass-hidden graves of the
Unknown dead — a lonely figure looking seaward.
' Oh ! Jessie, do you remember the day we first came here
with him V cried Christabel, as they went slowly down the steep
winding path. The exclamation sounded almost like a cry of pain.
' Am I ever likely to forget it — or anything connected with
him? You have given me no chance of that,' retorted Miss
Bridgeman, sharply.
' How bitterly you say that 1'
* Can I help being bitter when I see you nursing morbid
feelings? Am I to encourage you to dwell upon dangerous
thoughts?'
* They are not dangerous. I have taught myself to think of
Angus as a friend — and a friend only. If I could see him now
and then — even as briefly as we saw him to-day — I think it
would make me quite happy.*
* You don't know what you are talking about ! ' said Jessie,
angrily. * Certainly, you are not much like other women. You
h re a piece of icy propriety — your love is a kind of milk-and-
"vz-atery sentiment, which would never lead you very far astray.
I can fancy you behaving somewhat in the style of WerthePs
Charlotte — who is, to my mind, one of the most detestable
women in fiction. Yes ! Goethe has created two women who
are the opposite poles of feeling — Gretchen and Lottie — and I
would stake my faith that Gretchen the fallen has a higher place
in heaven than Lottie the impeccable. I hate such dull purity,
which is always lined with selfishness. The lover may slay
himself in his anguish — ^but she — yes — Thackeray has said it —
she goes on cutting bread and butter ! '
Jessie gave a little hysterical laugh, which she accentuated by
a leap from the narrow path where she had been walking to a
boulder four or five feet below.
•How madly you talk, Jessie. You remind me of Scott's
Fenella — and I believe you are almost as wild a creature,' said
(Christabel.
* Yes ! I suspect there is a spice of gipsy blood in my veins.
I am subject to these occasional outbreaks — these revolts against
Philistinism. Life is so steeped in respectability — tfie dull level
morality which prompts every man to do what his neighbour
thinks he ought to do, rather than to be set in motion by the fire
that bunv within him. This dread of one's neighbour — this
sLavish respect for public opinion — reduces life to mere mechanism
• — society to a stage play.'
*But it Sufficeth, that the Day will End,* 201
CHAPTEE XIX
•but it bufficeth, that the day will end.*
Christabel said no word to her husband about that unexpected
meeting with Angus Hamleigh. She knew that the name was
obnoxious to Leonard, and she slirank from a statement which
might provoke unj)leas<'mt speech on his part. Mr. Hamleigh
would doubtless have left Trevena in a few days — there was no
likelihood of any further meeting.
The next day was a blank day for the Miss Vandeleurs, who
found themselves reduced to the joyless society of their own sex.
The harriers met at Trevena at teu o'clock, and thither, after
an eaily breakfast, rode Mr. Tregonell, Captain Vandeleur, and
three or four other kindred spirits. The morning was showery
and blustery, and it was in vain that Dopsy and Mopsy hinted
their desire to be driven to the meet. They were not horse-
women — from no want of pluck or ardour for the chase — but
simply from the lack of that material part of the business, horses.
Many and many a weary summer day had they paced tlie path
beside Rotten Kow, wistfully regarding the riders, and thinking
what a seat and what hands they would have had, if Providence
IkuI only given them a mount. The people who do not ride are
the keenest critics of horsemanship.
Compelled to tind their amusements within doors, Dopsy and
Mopay sat in the morning-room for half an hour, as a sacrifice to
good manners, paid a duty visit to the nurseries to admire Chris-
tabel's baby- boy, and then straggled off to the billiard-room, to
play each other, and improve their skill at that delightfully
masculine game. Then came luncheon — at which meal, the
gentlemen being all away, and the party reduced to four, the
baby-boy was allowed to sit on his mother's lap, and make
occasional raids upon the table furniture, while the Miss Vande-
leurs made believe to worship him. He was a lovely boy, with
big blue eyes, wide with wonder at a world which was stili full
of delight and novelty.
After luncheon, Mopsy and Dopsy retired to their cliamber,
to concoct, by an ingenious process of re-organization of the same
atoms, a new costume for the evening ; and as they sat at their
work, twisting and undoing bows and lace, and straightening the
leaves of artificial flowers, they again discoursed somewhat
dejectedly of their return to South Belgravia, which could haxdly
be sUived olF much longer.
• We have had a quite too dehcious time,' sighed Mopsy.
adjusting the stalk of a suKflower ; * but its rather a {Aty that all
202 Mount Royal,
the men stajdng here have been detrimentals — ^not one woi U
catching.'
* What does it matter I ' ejaculated Dopsy. * If there had
been one worth catching, he wouldn't have consented to be
caught. He would have behaved like that big jack Mr. Tregonell
was trying for the other morning ; eaten up all our bait and gone
and sulked among the weeds.'
*Well, I'd have had a try for him, anyhow,* said Mopsy,
defiantly, leaning her elbow on the dressing-table, and contem-
plating herself deliberately in the glass. ' Oh, Dop, how old I'm
getting. I almost hate the daylight : it znakes one look so
hideous.'
Yet neither Dopsy nor Mopsy thought herself hideous at
afternoon tea-time, when, with complexions improved by the
powder puff, eyebrows pi(^uantly accentuated with Indian ink,
and loose flowing tea-gowns of old gold sateen, and older black
silk, they descended to the library, eager to do execution even on
detrimentals. The men's voices sounded loud in the hall, as the
two girls came downstairs.
' Hope you have had a good time ? ' cried Mopsy, in cheerful
soprano tones.
' Splendid. I'm afraid Tregonell has lamed a couple of his
horses,' said Captain Vandeleur.
*And I've a shrewd suspicion that you've lamed a third,*
interjected Leonard in his strident tones. * You galloped Betsy
Baker at a murderous rate.'
* Nothing like taking them fast down hill,* retorted Jack.
* B. B. is as sound as a roach — and quite as ugly.*
'Never siiw such break-neck work in my life,* said Mr.
Montagu, a small dandified person who was always called ' little
Monty.' * I'd rather ride a horse with the Quom for a week than
in this country for a day.'
' Our country is as God made it,' answered Leonard.
* I think Sataii must have split it about a bit afterwards,' said
Mr. Monta^
' Well, Mop,' asked Leonard, * how did you and Dop get rid
of your day without us ? '
* Oh, we were very happy. It was quite a relief to have a
nice homey day with dear Mrs. Tregonell,' answered Mopsy,
nothing offended by the free and easy curtailment of her pet
name. Leonard was her benefactor, and a privileged person.
* I've got some glorious news for you two girls,' said Mr.
Tregonell, as they all swarmed into the library, where Christabel
was sitting in the widow's old place, while Jessie Bridgeman
filled her accustomed position before the tea-table, the red glo^
of a liberal wood fire conten.ling with the pale light of one low
moderator lamp, imder a dark velvet shade.
*But it Sufficeth, that the Day will End* 203
* What is it 1 Please, please tell.'
* I give it you in ten — a thousand — a million I * cried Leonard,
flinging himself into the chair next his wife, and with his eyea
upon her face. * You'll never guess. I have found you an
eligible bachelor — a swell of the first water. He's a gentleman
whom a good many girls have tried for in their time, I've no
doubt. Handsome, accomplished, plenty of coin. He has had
what the French call a stormy youth, I believe ; but that
doesn't matter. He's getting on in years, and no doubt he's
ready to sober down, and take to domesticity. I've asked him
here for fortnight to shoot woodcock, and to offer his own uncon-
scious breast as a mark for the arrows of Cupid ; and I shall
have a very poor opinion of you two girls if you can't bring him
to your feet in half the time.'
* At any rate I'll try my hand at it,' said Mopsy. *Not that
I care a straw for the gentleman, but just to show you what I
can do,' she added, by way of maintaining her maidenly dignity.
*0f course you'll go in for the conquest as high art, without
any arrihe 'pensie^ said Jack Vandeleur. * There never were
such audacious flirts as my sisters ; but there's no malice in
them.'
* You haven't told us your friend's name,' said Dopsy.
* Mr. Hamleigh,' answered Leonard, with his eyes slill on hia
wife's face.
Christabel gave a little start, and looked at him in undisguised
astonishment.
* Surely you have not asked him — here 1 ' she exclaimed.
* Why not % He was out with us to-day. He is a jolly
fellow ; rides uncommonly straight, though he dosen't look as if
there were much life in him. He tailed off early in the afternoon ;
but while he did go, he went dooced welL He rode a dooced
fine horse, too.'
* I thought you were prejudiced against him,' said Christabel,
very slowly.
' Why, so I was, till I saw him,' answered Leonard, with the
friendliest air. * I fancied he was one of your sickly, sentimental
twaddlers, with long hair, and a tafite for poetry ; but I find he
is a fine, manly feUow, with no nonsense about him. So I asked
him here, and insisted upon his saying yes. He didn't seem to
want to come, which is odd, for he thaxie himself very much at
home here in my mother's time, I've heard. However, he gave in
when I pressed him ; and he'll be here by dinner-time to-morrow.'
' By dinner-time,' thought Mopsy, delighted. * Then he'll see
us first by candleliglit, and first impressions may do so much.*
* Isn't it almost like a fairy tale ?' said Dopsy, as they were
dressing for dinner, with a vague recollection of ha zing cultivated
^er imaginatiop in childhood. She had never done ho since tliat
204 Mount Boyal
juvenile age. * Just as we were sighing for the prince he comes/
* True,' saitl Mopsy ; 'and he will go, just as all the other fairy
princes have gone, leaving us alone upon the dreary high road,
and riding olf to the fairy princesses who have good homes, aiij
good clothes, and plenty of money.'
The high-art toilets were postponed for the following evening,
so that the panoply of woman's war mi<:,^ht be fresh ; and on that
evening Mopsy and Dopsy, their long limbs sheathed in sea-green
velveteen, Toby-frills round their necks, and sunflowers on their
shoulders, were gracefully grouped near the fireplace in the pink
and white panelled drawing-room, waiting for Mr. Hamleigh's
arrival.
* I wonder why all the girls make themselves walking adver-
tisements of the San Fire Ollice,' speculated Mr. Montagu, taking
a prosaic view of the Vandeleur sunflowers, as he sat by Miss
Bridgeman's Wf)rk-basket.
' Don't you know that sunflowers are so beautifully Greek V
asked Jessie. ' They have been the only flower in fashion since
Alma Tadema took to painting them — ^fountains, and marble
balustrades, and Italian skies, and beautiful women, and
sunflowers.'
' Yes ; but we get only the sunflowers.*
* Mr. Hamleigh I' said the butler at the open door, and Angua
came in, and went straight to Christabel, who waij sitting opposite
the group of sea-green Vandelem-s, slowly fanning herself with a
big black fan.
Nothing could be calmer than their meeting. This ti'iie there
was no surprise, no sudden shock, no dear familiar scene, no
Bolemn grandeur of Nature to make all effort at simulation
unnatural. The atmosphere to-night was as conventional as the
men's swallowed-tailed coats and white ties. Yet in Angus
Hamleigh's mind there was the picture of his first arrival at
Mount Royal — the firelitroom, Chiistabel's girlish figure kneeling
on the hearth. The figine was a shade more matronly now, the
carrit«,ge and manner were more dignified ; but the face had lost
none of its beauty, or of its divine candour.
*I am very glad my husband [persuaded you to alter your
plans, and to stay a little longer in the West,' she said, with an
imf altering voice ; and then, seeing Mopsy and Dopsy looking at
Mr. Hamleigh with admiring ex|)ectant eyes, she added, * Let me
introduce you to these young ladies who ai'e staying with us — Mr.
Hamleigh,* Miss Vandeleur, Miss Margaret Vandeleur.'
Dopsy and Mopsy smiled their sweetest smiles, and gave just
the most aesthetic inclination of each towzled head.
* I suppose you have not long come from London V murmured
Dopsy, determined not to lose a moment. ' Have you seen aU
ihe new things at the theatres ? I hope you ^re an Irvingite V
'But it Sufficethf that the Day mil End.* 205
* I regret to say that my religious opinions have not yet taken
that bent. It is a spiritual height which 1 feel myself too weak
to climb. I have never been able to believe in the unknown
tongues.'
* Ah, now you are going to criticize his pronunciation, instead
of admiring his genius,' said Dopsy, who had never heard of Edward
Irving and the Latter Day Saints.
' If you mean Henry Irving the tragedian, I admire him
immensely,' said Mr. Hamleigh.
' Then we aie suie to get on. I felt that you must be simpatica^*
replied Dopsy, not particular as to a gender in a language which
she only knew by sight, as Bannister knew Greek.
Dinner was announced at this moment, and Mrs. Tregonell
won Dopsy's gratitude by asking Mr. Hamleigh to t;ike her
into dinner. Mr, Montague gave his arm to Miss Bridgemari,
Leonard took Mopsy, and Christabel followed with Majoi
Bree, who felt for her keenly, wondering how she managed to
bear herself so bravely, reproaching the dead woman in his mind
for having parted two faithful hearts.
He was shocked by the change in Angus, obvious even to-
night, albeit the soft lamplight and evening dress wereflattering
to his appearance ; but he said no word of that change to
Christabel.
* I have been having a romp with my godson,' he said when
they were seated, knowing that this was the one topic likely
to cheer and interest his hostess.
* I am so glad,' she answered, lighting up at once, and uncon-
scious that Angus was trying to see her face under the low lamp-
light, which made it necessary to bend one's head a little to see
one's opposite neighbour. * And do you think he is grown 1 It i.'
nearly ten days since you saw him, and he grows so fast.'
' He is a young Hereides. If there were any snakes in
Cornwall he would be capable of strangling a brace of them. I
suppose Leonard is tremendously proud of him.'
* Yes,' she answered with a faint sigh. ' I think Leonard is
proud of him.'
'But not quite so fond of him as you are,' replied Major
Bree, interpreting her emphasis. * That is only natural. Infant-
olatry is a feminine attribute. Wait till the boy is old enough ^^:^
go out fishin' and shootin'— ' the Major was too much a gentle-
man to pronounce a final g — *and then see if his father don't
dot 3 upon him.'
' I dare say he will be very fond of him then. But I shall be
miserable every hour he is out.'
' Of com^e. Women ought to have only girls for children.
There should be a race of man-mothers to rear the boys. I
wonder Plato didn't suggest that in his Republic'
206 Mount lioyal,
Mr. Hamleigh, with bis head gently bent over his soup-plate»
had contrived to watch Christabel'a face while politely replying
to a good deal of gush on the part of the fair Dopsy. He 8a\r
that expressive face light up with smiles, and then grow earnest.
She was full of interest and anianation, and her candid loolf
showed that the conversation was one which all the world might
have heard.
* She has forgotten nie. She is happy in her married life,'
he said to himself, and tlien he looked to the other end of the
table where Leonard sat, burly, florid, black-haired, mutton-chop
whiskered, the very essence of Philistinism — ' happy — with him.*
*And I am sure you must adore Ellen Terry,' said Dopsy,
whose society-conversation was not a many -stringed instrument.
*Who could live and not worship hevV ejaculated Mr
Hamleigh.
'Irving as Shylock !' sighed Dopsy.
* Miss Terry as Portia,' retorted A iigus.
* Unutterably sweet, was she not ] '
*Her movements were like a sonata by Beethoven — hei
gowns were the essence of all that Kubens and Vandyck ever
painted.'
* I knew you would agree with me,' exclaimed Dopsy. 'And
do you think her pretty Y '
' Pretty is not the word. She is simply divine. Greuze might
have painted her — there is no living painter whose palette holds
the tint of those blue eyes.'
Dopsy began to giggle softly to herself, and to flutter her fan
with maiden modesty.
* I hardly like to mention it after what you have said,' she
murmured, ' but '
' Pray be explicit'
*I have been told that I am rather '—another faint giggle
and another flutter — ' like Miss Terry.'
* I never met a fair-haired girl yet who had not been told as
much,' answered Mr. Hamleigh, coolly.
Dopsy turned crimson, and felt that this particular arrow had
missed the gold. Mr. Hamleigh was not quite so tuny to get on
with as her hopeful fancy had painted him.
After dinner there was some music, in which art neither of
the Miss VandeleuiB excelled. Indeed, their time had been too
closely absorbed by the ever pressing necessity for cutting and
contriving to allow of the study of art and hteratura They
knew the names of writei-s, and the outsidea of books, and they
adored the opera, and enjoyed a ballad concert, if the singers
were popular, and the audience well dressed ; and this was the
limit of their artistic proclivities. They sat stifling their yawns,
Bud loiiiiing for an adj(¥iniment to the billiard-room — whither
• But it Sufficethf that the Day will End,* 207
Jack Vandeleur and Mr. Montagu had departed — while Christ-
libel played a capriccio by Mendelssohn. Mr. Hamleigh sat by
the piano listening to every note. Leonard and Major Bree
^unged by the fireplace, Jessie Bridgeman sitting near them,
absorbed in her crewel work.
It was what Mopsy and Dopsy called a very * alow evening,
despite the new interest afforded by Mr. Hamleigh's presence.
He was very handsome, very elegant, with an inexpressible
something in his style and air which Mopsy thought poetical.
But it was weary work to sit and gaze at him as if he were a
statue, and that long capriccio, with a little Beethoven to follow,
and a good deal of Mozart after that^ occupied the best part of
the evening. To the ears of Mop and Dop it was all tweeledum
and tweediedee. They would have been refreshed by one of
those lively melodies in which Miss Farren so excels ; they
would have welcomed a familiar strain from Chilperic or Madame
Aiigot. Yet they gushed and said, *too delicious — quite too
utterly lovely,' when Mrs. Tregonell rose from the piano.
* I only hope I have not wearied everybody,' she said.
Leonard and Major Bree had been talking local politics all
the time, and both expressed themselves much gratified by the
music. Mr. Hamleigh murmured his thanks.
Christabel went to her room wondering that the evening had
passed so calmly — that her heart — though it had ached at the
change in Angus Hamleigh's looks, had been in no wise tumul-
tuously Btirred by his presence. There had been a peaceful
feeling in her mind rather than agitation. She had been soothed,
and made happy by his society. If love still lingered in her
breast it was love purified of every earthly thought and hojje.
She told herself sorrowfully that for him the sand ran low in the
glass of earthly time, and it was sweet to have bim near her for
ft little while towards the end ; to be able to talk to him of
serious things — to inspire hope in a soul whose natural bent was
despondency. It would be sadly, unutterably sweet to tallrto
him of that spiritual world whose unearthly light already shone
in the too brilliant eye, and coloured the hollow cheek. She had
found Mr. Hamleigh despondent and sceptical, but never in-
diff"erent to rehgion. He was not one of that eminently practical
school which, in the words of Matthew Arnold, thinks it more
important to learn how buttons and papier-mdche are made than
to search the depths of conscience, or fathom the mysteries of a
Divine Providence.
Christabel's first sentiment when Leonard announced Mr.
Hamleigh's intended visit had been horror. How could they two
who had loved so deeply, parted so sadly, live together under the
same roof as if they were every-day friends ? The thing seemed
fraught with danger, impossible for peace. But vmen b'
208 Mount BoyaX,
remembered that calm, almost solemn look with which he had
Bhaken hands with her among the graves at Tintagel, it seemed
to her that friendship — calmest, purest, most unselfish attachment
— was still possible between them. She thought so even more
hopefully on the morning after Mr. Hamleigh's arrival, when ha
took her boy in his axms, and pressed his lips lovingly upon the
oright baby brow.
* You are fond of children,* exclaimed Mopsy, prepared to gush.
* Very fond of some children,' he answered gravely. * I shall
be very fond of this boy, if he will let me.*
*Leo is such a darling — and he takes to you already,* said
Mopsy, seeing that the child graciously accepted Mr. Hamleigh'a
attentions, and even murmured an approving * gur ' — followed by
a simple one-part melody of gurgling noises — but whether in
approval of the gentleman himself or of his watch-chain, about
which the pink flexible fingers had wound themselves, was an
open question.
This was in the hall after breakfast, on a bright sunshiny
morning — doors and windows open, and the gardens outside all
abloom with chrysanthemums and scarlet geraniums ; the gentle-
men of the party standing about with their guns ready to start.
Mopsy and Dopsy were dressed in home-made gowns of dark
brown serge which simulated the masculine simplicity of tailor-
made garments. They wore coquettish little toques of the same
dark brown stuff, also home-made — and surely, if a virtuous man
contending with calamity is a spectacle meet for the gods to
admire a needy young woman making her own raiment is at least
worthy of human approval.
* You are coming with us, .iren't you, Hamleigh ? * asked
Leonard, seeing Angus still occupied with the child.
' No, thanks ; I don't feel in good form for woodcock shooting.
My cough was rather troublesome last night.'
Mopsy and Dopsy looked at each other despairingly. Here
was a golden opportunity lost. If it were only possible to spraiii
an ankle on the instant.
Jiick Vandeleur was a good brother — so long as fraternal
Kindness did not cost money — and he caw that look of blank
despair in poor Dopsy's eyes and lips.
'I think Mr. Hamleigh is wise,' he said. *This bright
morning will end in broken weather. Hadn't you two girls
iv^tter stay at home ? The rain will spoil your gowns.'
* Our gowns won't hurt,' said Mopsy brightening. * But do
you really think there will be rain ? We had so set our hearts on
going with you ; but it is rather miserable to be out on those
hills in a blinding rain. One might walk over the edge of a cliff.'
' Keepjon the safe side and stay at home,' said Leonard, with
that air u| rough good nature whicli is such an excellent excuse
^But it Sufflceth, that the Day wttt SnS* 209
for bad manners. *Come Ponto, come Juno, hi Delia,' this to
the lovely lemon and white spaniels, fawning upon him with
mute aflfection.
* I think we may as well give it up,' said Dopsy, * we shall be
a nuisance to the shooters if it rains.'
So they stayed, and beguiled Mr. Hamleigh to the billiard-
room, where they both played against him, and were beaten —
after which Mopsy entreated him to give her a lesson in the
art, declaring that he played divinely — in such a quiet style — so
very superior to Jack's or Mr. Tregonell'a, though both those
gentlemen were good players. Angus consented, kindly enough,
and gave both ladies the most aireful iustinictipn in the art of
making pockets and cannons; but he was wondering all the
while how Christiibel was spending her morning, and thinking
liow sweet it would have been to have strolled with her across
the hills to the quiet little church in the dingle where he had
once dreamed they two might be marriod.
* I was a fool to submit to delay,' he tJiou{;hl r^raembering
all the pain and madness of the past. * If I had insisted on being
married here — and at once — how happy— -oh God ! — how happy
we might have been. Well, it matters little, now that the road
is so near the end. I suppose the dismal close would have come
just as soon if my way of life had been strewed with flowers.'
It was luncheon-time before the Miss Vandeleurs consented to
release him. Once having got him in their clutch he was as
firmly held as if he had been caught by an octopus. Christabel
won(lered<a little that Angus Hamleigh should find amusement
for his morning in the billiard-room, and in such society,
' Perhaps, after all, the Miss Vandeleurs are the kind of girl a
whom all gentlemen admire,' she said to Jessie. * I know I
tJiought it odd that Leonard should admire them ; but you see
Mr. Hamleigh is equally pleased with them.'
* Mr. Hamleigh is nothing of the kind,' answered Jessie, in
her usual decided way. 'But Dop is setting her cap at him in a
positively disgraceful man uer— even for Dop.'
* Pray don't call her by that horrid name.'
* Why not ; it is what her brother and sister call her, and
it expresses her so exactly.'
Mr. Hamleigh and the two damsels now appeared, summoned
by the gong, and they all went into the dining-room. It wua
quite a merry luncheon party. Care seemed to have no part in
that cheery circle. Angus had made up his mind to be happy,
and Christabel was as much at ease with him as she hjul been
in those innocent unconscious days when he first came to Mount
Iloyul. Dopsy was in high spirits, thinking that she was fast
Ktlvaucing towards victory. Mr. Hamleigh had been so kind,
%o attentive, had done exactly what she had asked him to do,
810 Mount Boyah
and how vx)uld she doubt that he had consulted his own pleaanr*
in 80 doing. Poor Dopsy was accustomed to be treated with
scant ceremony by her brother's acquaintance, and it did not
enter into her mind that a man might be bored by her society,
and not betray his weariness.
After luncheon Jessie, who was always energetic, suggested a
walk.
The threatened bad weather had not come : it was a greyish
afternoon, sunless but mild.
* If we walk towards St. Nectan*s Kieve, we may meet the
shooters,' said'Christabeh * That is a great place for woodcock.'
* That will be delicious ! ' exclaimed Dopsy. * I worship St.
Nectan's Kieve. Such a lovely ferny, rocky, wild, watery spot.'
And away she and her sister skipped, to put on the brown
toques, and to refresh themselves with a powder puff.
They started for their ramble with Randie, and a favourite
Clumber spaniel, degraded from his proud position as a sporting
dog, to the ignoble luxury of a house pet, on account of an
incorrigible desultoriness in his conduct with birds.
These affectionate creatures frisked round Christabel, while
Miss Vandeleur and her sister seemed almost as friskily to
surround Mr. Hamleigh with their South Belgravian blandish-
ments.
* You look as if you were not very strong,' hazarded Dopsy,
sympathetically. * Are you not afraid of a long walk ?'
* Not at all ; I never feel better than when walking on these
hills,* answered Angus. ' It is almost my native air, you see.
I came here to get a stock of rude health before I go to winter
in the South.*
* And you are really going to be abroad all the winter 1 '
sighed Dopsy, as if she would have said, * How shall I bear
my life in your absence^'
* Yes, it is five years since I spent a winter in England. I
hold my life on that condition. I am never to know the luxury
of a London fog, or see a Drury Lane Pantomime, or skate upon
the Serpentine. A case of real distress, is it not ? '
* Very «ad — for your f lienda,' said Dopsy ; * but I can quite
imagine that you love the sunny south. How I long to see the
Mediterranean — the mountains — the pine-trees — the border-
land of Italy.'
' No doi»H you will go there some day — and be disappointed.
People generally *re when they indulge in day-dreams about h
place.'
' My dreams will always be dreams,' answered Dopsy, with
a profound sigh : * we are not rich enough to travel.*
Christabel walked on in front with Jessie and the dogs. Mr.
Hamleigh was longing to be by her side— to talk as they had
• But it Sufficeth, that the Day will End.' 211
talked of old — of a thousand things which could be safely dis-
cussed without any personal feeling. They had so many
sympathies, so many ideas in common. All the world of sense
and sentiment was theii-s wherein to range at will.. But Dopsy
and Mopsy stuck to him like burs ; plying him w'^h idle ques-
tions, and stereotyped remarks, looking at him with languishing
eyes.
He was too much a gentleman, had too much good feeling to
be rude to them — but he was bored excessively.
They went by the cliffs — a wild grand walk. The wida
Atlantic spread its dull leaden-coloured waves before them
under the grey sky — touched with none of those translucent
azui&s and carmines which so often beautify that western sea.
They crossed a bit of hillocky common, and then went down to
look at a slate quarry under the cliff — a scene of uncanny
grandeur — grey and wild and desolate.
Dopsy and Mopsy gushed and laughed, and declared that it
was just the scene for a murder, or a duel, or something dreadful
and dramatic. The dogs ran into all manner of perilous places,
and had to be called away from the verge of instant death.
*Are you fond of aristocratic society, Miss Vandeleur?*
asked Angus.
Mopsy pleaded guilty to a prejudice in favour of the Upper
Ten.
* Then allow me to tell you that you were never in the company
of so many duchesses and countesses in your life as you are at
this moment.*
Mopsy looked mystified, until Miss Bridgeman explained that
these were the names given to slates of particular sizes, great
stacks of which stood on either side of them ready for shipment.
* How absurd 1 ' exclaimed Mopsy.
* Everything must have a name, even the slate that roofs your
scullery.'
From the quarry they strolled across the fields to the high
road, and the gate of the farm which contains within its boundary
the wonderful waterfall called St. Nectan's Kieve.
They met the sportsmen coming out of the hollow with well-
filled game-bags.
Leonard was in high spirits.
* So you've all come to meet us,' he said, looking at his wife,
and from his wife to Angus Hamleigh, with a keen, quick glance,
too swift to be remarkable. * Uncommonly good of you. We
we going to have a grand year for woodcock, I believe— like the
season of 1855, when a farmer of St. Buryan shot fifty-four in one
week.'
'Poor dear little birds!* sighed Mopsy j *I feel so sorry fur
them.'
219 Mount BoyoA,
* But that doesn't prevent your eating them, with breadcrumb!
and gravy,* said Leonard, laughing.
'When they are once roasted, it can make no difference who
eats them,' replied Mopsy ; *but I am intensely sorry for them
all the same/
They all went home together, a cheery procession, with the
dogs at their heels. Mr. Hamleigh's efforts to escape from the
two damsels who had marked him for their own, were futile :
nothing less than sheer brutality would have set him free. They
trudged along gaily, one on each side of him ! they flattered him,
they made much of him — a man must have been stony-hearted
to remain untouched by such attentions. Angus was marble,
but he could not be uncivil. It was his nature to be gentle to
women. Mop and Dop were the kind of girls he most detested
— indeed, it seemed to him that no other form of girlhood could
be so detestable. Tliey had all the pertness of Bohemia without
any of its wit — they had all the audacity of the demi-monde^ with
far inferior attractions. Everything about them was spurious
and «epond-hand — every air and look and tone was put on, like a
ribbon or a flower, to attract attention. And could it be tliat
one of these meretricious creatures was angling for him — for
him, the Lauzun, the d'Eckmiihl, the Prince de Belgioso, of his
day— the born dandy, with whom fastidiousness was a sixth
sense ? Intolerable as the idea of being so pursued was to him,
Angus Hamleigh could not bring himself to be rude to a woman
It happened, therefore, that from the beginning to the end of
that long ramble, he was never in Mrs. Tregonell's society. Slie
and Jessie walked steadily ahead with their dogs, while the
spoiiamen tramped slowly behind Mr. Hamleigh and the two girls
* Our friend seems to be very much taken by your sisters,' said
Leonard to Captain Vandeleur.
*My sisters are deuced fciking girls,' answered Jack, puifing
at his seventeenth cigarette ; * though I suppose it isn't luy
business to say so^ Theie's nothing of the professional beauty
about either of 'em.'
•Distinctly not I * said Leonard.
* But they've plenty of chic — plenty of go — sa/voir faire — and
all that kind of thing, don't you know. They're the most com-
panionable girls I ever met with ! *
* They're uncommonly jolly little buffers!* said Leonard,
kindly meaning it for the highest praise.
* TheyVe no fool's flesh about them,* said Jack ; * and they
can make a fiver go further than any one I know. A man might
do worse than marry one of them.*
•Hardly !' thought Leonard, 'unless he married both.' ,-;
' It would be a line thing for Dop if Mr. Hamleigh were iA
ovM to the scratch,' mused Jack.
• But it Sufficethf that the Day will End,* 213
* I wonder what was Leonard's motive in asking Mr. Ham-
leigh to stay at Mount Eoyal V said Christabel, suddenly, after
she and Jessie had been talking of diflFerent subjects.
* I hope he had not any motive, but that the invitation was
the impulse of the moment, without rhyme or reason,' answered
Miss Bridgeman.
'Why?'
' Because if he had a motive, I don't think it oould be a good
one.'
* Might he not think it just possible that he was finding a
husband for one of his friend's sisters ? ' speculated ChristabeL
* Nonsense, my dear ! Leonard is not quite a fooL If he had
a motive, it was something very different from any concern for
the interests of Dop or Mop — I will call them Dop and Mop :
they are so like it.'
In spite of Mopsy and Dopsy, there were hours in which
Angus Hamleigh was able to enjoy the society which had once
been so sweet to him, almost as freely as in the happy dajrs that
were gone. Brazen as the two damsels were the feeling of self-
respect was not altogether extinct in their natures. Their minds
were like grass-plots which had been trodden into mere clay,
but where a lingering green blade here and there shows that the
soil had once been verdant. Before Mr. Hamleigh came to
Mount Royal, it had been their habit to spend their evenings in
the billiard-room with the gentlemen, albeit Mrs. Tregonell very
rarely left the drawing-room after dinner, preferring the perfect
tranquillity of that almost deserted apartment, the inexhaustible
delight of her piano or her books, with Jessie for her sole com-
panion — nay, sometimes, quite alone, while Jessie joined the
revellers at pool or shell-out. Dopsy and Mopsy could not al-
together alter their habits because Mr. Hamleigh spent his
evenings in the drawing-room : the motive for such a change
would have been too obvious. The boldest huntress would
scarce thus openly pursue her prey. So the Miss Vandeleurs
went regretfully with their brother and his host, and marked, or
played an occasional four-game, and made themselves conver-
sationally agreeable all the evening ; while Angus Hamleigh sat
by the piano, and gave himself up to dreamy thought, soothed
by the music of the great composers, played with a level per-
fection which only years of careful study can achieve. Jessie
Bridgeman never left the drawing-room now of an evening.
Faithful and devoted to her duty of companion and friend, she
seemed almost Christabel's second seK. There was no restraint,
no embarrassment, caused by her presence. What she had been
to these two in their day of joy, she was to them in their day of
sorrow, wholly and completely one of themselves. She was no
stony guardian of the proprieties; no baj* between their soul?
214 Moimt BoyaL
and daDgfcfous memories or allusions. She was their friend,
reading and understanding the minds of both.
It has been finely said by Matthew Arnold that there are
times when a man feels, in this life, the sense of immortality ;
and that feeling must surely be strongest with him who knows
that his race is nearly run — who feels the rosy light of life's sun-
set warm upon his face — who knows himself near the lifting of
the veil — the awful, fateful experiment called death. Angus
Hamleigh knew that for him the end was not far off — it might
be less than a year — more than a year — but he felt very sure
that this time there would be no reprieve. Not again would the
physician's sentence be reversed — the physician's theories gain-
sayed by facts. For the last four years he had lived as a man
lives who has ceased to value his life. He has exposed himself
to the hardships of mountain climbing — he had sat late in
gaming saloons — not gambling himself, but interested in a
cynical way, as Balzac might have been, in the hopes and fears
of others — seeking amusement wherever and however it was to
be found. At his worst he had never been a man utterly with-
out religion ; not a man who could willingly forego the hope in
a future life — but that hope, until of late, had been clouded and
dim, Rabelais' great perhaps, rather than the Christian's assured
belief. As the cold shade of death drew nearer, the horizon
cleared, and he was able to rest his hopes in a fair future beyond
the grave — an existence in which a man's happiness should not
be dependent on the condition of his lungs, nor his career marred
by an hereditary taint in the blood — an existence in which spirit
should be divorced from clay, yet not become so entirely abstract
as to be incapable of such pleasures as are sweetest and purest
among the joys of humanity — a life in which friendship and love
might still be known in fullest measure. And now, with the
knowledge that for him there remained but a brief remnant of
this earthly existence, that were the circumstances of his life
ever so full of joy, that life itself could not be lengthened, it wtis
very sweet to him to spend a few quiet hours with her who, for
the last five years, had been the pole-star of his thoughts. For
him there could be no arrOre pe7is/e — no tending towards for-
bidden hopes, forbidden dreams. Death had purified life. It
was almost as if he were an immortal spirit, already belonging to
another world, yet permitted to revisit the old dead-and-gone
love below. For such a man, and perhaps for such a man only,
was such a super-mundane love as poets and idealists have
imagined, all satisfying and all sweet. He was not even jealous
of his happier rival ; his only regret was the too evident un-
worthiness of that rival.
* If I had seen her married to a man I could respect ; if I
could know that she was completely happy ; that the life befori
*But it Sufficethf that the Day tuill End,* 215
her ^/vt!re secure from all pain aiul evil, I should have nothing to
regret,' he told himself ; but the thought of Leonard's coarse
nature was a perpetual grief. ' When I am lying in the loHg
peaceful sleep, she will be miserable with that man,' he thought.
One day when Jessie and he were alone togeVher, he spoke
freely of Leonard.
* I don't want to malign a man who has treated me with
exceptional kindness and cordiality,' he said, ' above all a man
whose mother I once loved, and always respected — yes, although
she was hard and cruel to me — but I cannot help wishing that
Christabel's husband had a more sympathetic nature. Now that
my own future is reduced to a very short span I find myself
given to forecasting the future of those I love — and it
grieves me to think of Cliristabel in the years to come — linked
with a man who has no power to appreciate or understand her
— tied to the mill-wheel of domestic duty.'
* Yes, it is a hard case,' answered Jessie, bitterly, * one of
those hard cases that so often come out of people acting for the
best, as they call it. No doubt Mrs. Tregonell thought she
acted for the best with regard to you and Christabel. She
did not know how much selfishness — a selfish idolatry of her
own cub— was at the bottom of her over-righteousness. She
was a good woman — generous, benevolent — a true friend to me
— yet there are times when I feel angry with her — even in her
grave — for her treatment of you and Christabel. Yet she died
happy in the belief in her own wisdom. She thought Christabel's
marriage with Leonard ought to mean bliss for both. Because
she adored her Cornish gladiator, forsooth, she must needs think
everybody else ought to dote upon him.'
'You don't seem warmly attached to Mr. Tregonell,' said
Angus.
* I am not — and he knows that I am not. I never liked him,
and he never liked me, and neither of us have ever pretended to
like each other. We are quits, I assure you. Perhaps you think
it rather horrid of me to live in a man's house — eat his bread
and drink his wine — one glass of claret every day at dinner —
and dislike him openly all the time. But I am here because
Christabel is here — just as I would be with her in the dominions
of Orcus. She is — well — almost the only creature I love in this
world, and it would take a good deal more than my dislike of
her husband to part us. If she had married a galley-slave I
would have taken my turn at the oar.'
* You are as true as steel,' said Angus : * and I am glad to
think Christabel has such a friend.'
To all the rest of the world he spoke of her as Mrs. Tregonell.
nor did he ever address her by any other name. But to Jessie
Bridgeman who had been with them in the halcyon days of
216 Mount BoyaX,
their lovemaking, she was still Christabel. To Jessie, and to
none otherj could he speak of her with perfect freedom.
CHAPTER XX.
•who knows not cirobI*
The autumn days crept by, sometimes grey and sad of aspect,
sometimes radiant and sunny, as if summer had risen from her
grave amidst fallen leaves and faded heather. It was altogether
a lovely autumn, like that beauteous season of five years ago,
and Christabel and Angus wandered about the hills, and lingered
by the trout stream in the warm green valley, almost as freely
as they had done in the past. They were never alone — Jessie
Bridgeman was always with them — very often Dopsy and Mopsy
— and sometimes Mr. Tregonell with Captain Vandeleur and half
a dozen dogs. One day they all went up the hill, and crossed
the ploughed field to the path among the gorse and heather
above Pentargon Bay — and Dopsy and Mopsy climbed crags and
knolls, and screamed afFrightedly, and made a large dis^ilay of
boots, and were generally fascinating after their manner.
* If any place could tempt me to smoke it would be this,*
flaid Dopsy, gazing seaward. All the men except Angus were
smoking. * I think it must be utterly lovely to sit dreaming
over a cigarette in such a place as this.'
*What would you dream about,' asked Angus. 'A new
bonnet ? '
* Don't be cynical. You think I am awfully shallow, because
I am not a perambulating book-shelf like Mrs. Tregonell, who
Boe.>ns to have read all the books that ever were printed.'
* There you are wrong. She has read a few — non multa sed
multum — but they are the very best, and she bas read them well
enough to remember them,' answered Angus, quietly.
* And Mop and I often read three volumes in a day, and
seldom remember a line of what we read,' sighed Dopsy.
* Indeed, we are awfully ignorant. Of course we learnt things
at school — French and German — Italian — natural history —
physical geography — geology — and all the onomies. Indeed, I
shudder when I remember what a lot of learning was poured
into our poor little heads, and how soon it all ran out again.*
Dopsy gave her nu^st fascinating giggle, and sat in an
BBsthetic attitude idly plucking up faded heather blossoms with
a tightly gloved hand, and wondering whether Mr. Hamleigh
noticed how small the bard was. She thought she was going
ge1
his
Who knows not Circe f* 217
Ktraight to his heart with these naXve confessions ; she had
always heard that men hated learned women, and no doubt Mr.
Hanileigh's habit of prosing about books with Mrs. Tregonell
was merely the homage he payed to his hostess.
* You and Mrs. Tregonell are so dreadfully grave when you
ret together,' pursued Bopsy, seeing that her companion held
lis peace. She had contrived to be by Mr. Hamleighs side
when he crossed the field, and had in a manner got possessed of
him for the rest of the afternoon, barring some violent struggle
for emancipation on his part. * I always wonder what you can
find to say to each other.'
* I don't think there is much cause for wonder. We have
many tastes in common. "We are both fond of music — of Nature
— and of books. There is a wide field for conversation.'
* Why won't you talk with me of books. There are some
books I adore. Let us talk about Dickens.'
* With all my heart. I admire every line he wrote — I think
him the greatest genius of this age. We have had great writers
— ^great thinkers — great masters of style — but Scott and Dickens
were the Creators — they made new worlds and peopled them. I
am quite ready to talk about Dickens.'
* I don't think I could say a single word after that outburst
of yours,' said Dopsy ; * you go too fast for me.'
He had talked eagerly, willing to talk just now even to Miss
Vandeleur, trying not too vividly to remember that other day —
that unforgotten hour — in which, on this spot, face to face with
that ever changing, ever changeless sea, he had submitted hia
fate to Christabol, not daring to ask for her love, warning her
rather against the misery that might come to her from loving
him. And misery had come, but not as he presaged. It had
come from his youthful sin, that one fatal turn upon the road of
life which he had taken so lightly, tripping with joyous com-
panions along a path strewn with roses. He, like so many, had
gathered his roses while he might, and had found that he had to
bear the sting of their thorns when he must.
Leonard came up behind them as they talked, Mr. Hamleigh
Btanding by Miss Vandeleur's side, digging his stick into the
heather and staring idly at the sea.
* What are you two talking about so earnestly?' he asked ;
•you are always together. I begin to understand why Hamleigh
is so indiflFerent to sport.*
The remark struck Angus as strange, as well as underbred,
Dopsy had contrived to inflict a good deal of her society upoii
him at odd times ; but he had taken particular care that nothing
in his bearing or discourse should compromise either himself or
the young lady.
yo^>^y giggled faintly, and looked modestly at the heathen
218 Mount Boyah
It was still early in the afternoon, and the western light shone
full upon a face which might have been pretty if Nature's bloom
had not long given place to the poetic pallor of the powder-puff.
* We were talking about Dickens,' said Dopsy, witli an elabo-
rate air of struggling with the tumult of her feelings. * Don't
you adore him t '
* If you mean the man who wrote books, I never read 'em,'
answered Leonard ; * life isn't long enough for books that don't
teach you anything. I've read pretty nearly every book that
was ever written upon horses and dogs and guns, and a good
many on mechanics ; that's enough for me. I don't care for
bool«( that only titillate one's imagination. Why should one
read books to make oneself cry and to make oneself laugh. It's
as idiotic a habit as taking snufF to make oneself sneeze.'
* That's rather a severe way of looking at the subject,' said
Angus.
' It's a practical way, that's alL My wife surfeits herself with
poetry. She is stuffed with Tennyson and Browning, loaded to
the very muzzle with Byron and Shelley. She reads Shakespeare
as devoutly as she reads her Bible. But I don't see that it helps
to make her pleasant company for her husband or her friends.
She is never so happy as when she has her nose in a book ; give
her a bundle of books and a candle and she would be happy in
the little house on the top of Wiilapark.'
* Not without you and her boy,' said Dopsy, gushingly.
* She could never exist without you two.'
Mr. Tregonell lit himself another cigar, and strolled off with-
out a word.
' He has not lovable manners has he ? ' inquired Dopsy, with
her childish air ; * but he is so good-hearted.'
* No doubt. You have known him some time, haven't you 1 '
inquired Angus, who had been struggling with an uncomfortable
yearning to kick the Squire into the Bay.
The scene offered such temptations. They were standing on
the edge of the amphitheatre, the ground shelving iteeply down-
ward in front of them, rocks and water below. And to think
that she — his dearest, she, all gentleness and refinement, was
mated to this coarse clay ! Was King Marc such an one as this
he wondered, and if he were, who could be angry with Tristan —
Tristan who died longing to see his lost love — struck to death
by his wife's cruel lie — Tristan whose passionate soul passed by
metempsychosis into briar and leaf, and crept across the arid
rock to meet and mingle with the beloved dead. Oh, how sweet
and sad the old legend seemed to Angus to-day, standing above
the melancholy sea, where he and she had stood folded in each
other's arms in the sweet triumphant moment of love's firpt
*yowaL
*Who knows not Cvrcef 219
Bopsy did not allow him much leisure for mournful medita-
tion. She prattled on in that sweetly girlish manner which was
meant to be all spirit and sparkle — glancing from theme to theme,
like the butterfly among the flowers, and showing a level
ignorance on all. Mr. Hamleigh listened with Christian resigna-
tion, and even allowed himself to be her escort home — and to
seem especially attentive to her at afternoon tea : for although
it may take two to make a quarrel, assuredly one, if she be but
brazen enough, may make a flirtation. Dopsy felt that time
was short, and that strong measures were necessary. Mr.
Hamleigh had been very polite — attentive even. Dopsy, accus-
tomed to the free and easy manners of her brother's friends,
mistook Mr. Hamleigh's natural courtsey to the sex for particu-
lar homage to the individual. But he had * said nothing,' and
she was no nearer the assurance of becoming Mrs. Hamleigh
than she had been on the evening of his arrival. Dopsy had
been fain to confess this to Mopsy in the confidence of sisterly
discourse.
* It seems as if I might just as well have had a try for him
myself, instead of standing out to give you a better chance,'
retorted Mopsy, somewhat scornfully.
* Go in and win, if you can,' said Dopsy. * It won't be the
first time you've tried to cut me out.'
Dopsy, embittered by the sense of failure, determined on new
tactics. Hitherto she had been all sparkle — now she melted into
a touching sadnoss.
* What a delicious old room this is,' she murmured, glancing
round at the bookshelves and dark panelling, the high wide
chimney-piece with its coat-of-arms, in heraldic colours, flash-
ing and gleaming against a background of brown oak. * I
cannot help feeling wretched at the idea that next week I
"iihall be far away from this dear place — in dingy dreary
London. Oh, Mr. Hamleigh,' — detaining him while she se
lected one particular piece of sugar from the basin he was
handing her — 'don't you detest London?'
*Not absolutely. I have sometimes found it endurable.'^
*Ah, you have your clubs — just the one pleasant street in
all the great overgi-own city — and that street Hned with
palaces, whose doors are always standing open for you. Libraries,
smoking rooms, billiard-tables, perfect dinners, and all that is
freshest and brightest in the way of society. I don't wonder
men like London. But for women it has only two attractions
— Mudie, and the shop-windows ! '
* And the park — the theatres — the churches — the delight
of looking at other women's gowns and bonnets. I thought
thct could never j):ill ] '
•It does though. There comes a time when one feeJ«
^26 Mount Boyal,
weary of everything,* said Dopsy, pensively stirring her tea,
and so fixing Mr. Hamleigh with her conversation that lie
was obliged to linger — yea, even to set down his own tea-cup
on an adjacent table, and to seat himself by the charmer's side.
* I thought you so delighted in the theatres,' he said. * You
were full of enthusiasm about the drama the night I first
dined here.'
* Was I ? ' demanded Dopsy, naively. * And now I feel as if I
did not care a straw about all the plays that were ever acted
— all the actoi-s who ever lived. Strange, is it not, that one
can change so, in one little fortnight?'
*The change is an hallucination. You are fascinated by
the charms of a rural life, which you have not known long
enough for satiety. You will be just as fond of plays and players
when you get back to London.'
* Never,' exclaimed Dopsy. 'It is not only ray taste that ia
changed. It is myself. I feel as if I were a new creature.*
' What a blessing for yourself and society if the change were
radical,' said Mr. Hamleigh, within himself ; and then he
answered, lightly,
* Perhaps you have been attending tlie little chapel at Bos-
castle, secretly imbibing the doctrines of advanced Methodism,
and this is a spiritual awakening.'
*No,' sighed Dopsy, shaking her head, pensively, as she
gazed at her teacup. * It is an utter change. I cannot make it
out. I don't think I shall ever care for gaiety — parties — theatres
— dress — again.'
* Oh, this must be the influence of the Methodists.*
* I hate Methodists ! I never sj)oke to one in my life, I
should like to go into a convent. I should like to belong to a
Protestant sisterhood, and to nurse the poor in their own houses.
It would be nasty ; I should catch some dreadful complaint, and
die, I daresay ; but it would be better than what I feel now.'
And Dopsy, taking advantage of the twilight, and the fact
that she and Angus were at some distance from the rest of the
party, burst into tears. They were very real tears — tears of
vexation, disappointment, despair ; and they made Angus very
uncomfortable.
*My dear Misa Vandeleur, I am so sorry to see you dis-
tressed. Is there anything on your mind ? Ia there anything
that I can do ? Shall I fetch your sister ? '
* No, no,' gasped Dojwy, in a choked voice. * Please don't
go away. I like you to be near me.'
She put out her hand — a chilly, tremulous hand, with no
passion in it save the passionate pain of despair, and touched hia
timidly, entreatingly, as if she were calling upon him for pity
and help She was, indeed, in her inmost heart, asking him ta
*Who knows not Circe f* 221
fescue her from the great dismal swamp of poverty Mnd dis-
repute ; to take her to himself, and give her a place and status
among well-bred people, and make her life worth living.
This was dreadful. Angus Hamleigh, in all the variety of
his experience of womankind, had never before found himself
face to face with this kind of difficulty. He had not been blind
to Miss Vandeleur's strenuous endeavours to charm him. He
had parried those light arrows lightly ; but he was painfully
embarrassed by this appeal to his compassion. It was a new
thing for him to sit beside a weeping woman, whom he could
neither love nor admire, but from whom he could not withhold
his pity.
* I daresay her life is dismal enough/ he thought, * with sucl
a brother as Poker Vandeleur — and a father to match.*
While he sat in silent embarrassment, and while Dopsj
Blowly dried her tears with a gaudy little coloured handkerchief,
taken from a smart little breast-pocket in the tailor-gown, Mr.
Tregonell sauntered across the room to the window where they
sat — a Tudor window, with a deep embra.sure.
* What are you two talking about in the dark ? ' he asked,
as Dopsy confusedly shuffled the handkerchief back into the
breast-pocket. 'Something very sentimental, I should think,
from the look of you. Poetry, I suppose.'
Dopsy said not a word. She believed that Leonard meant
well by her — that, if his influence could bring Mr. Hamleigh 'a
nose to the grindstone, to the grindstone that nose would be
brought. So she looked up at her brother's friend with a watery
smile, and remained mute.
' We were talking about London and the theatres,* answerod
Angus. *Not a very sentimental topic;' and then he got up
and walked away with his teacup, to the table near which
Cliristabel was sitting, in the flickering fire-light, and seated
himself by her side, and began to talk to her about a box of
books that had airived from London that day — books tliat
were familiar to hira and new to her. Leonard looked after
him with a scowl, safe in the shadow ; while Dopsy, feeling
that she had made a fool of herself, iapsed agnin into tears.
* I am afraid he is behaving very badly to you,' said Leonard.
* Oh, no, no. But he has such strange ways. He blows hot
and cold.*
'In plain words, he's a heartless flirt,* answered Leonard,
impatiently. * He has been fooled by a pack of women — pre-
tends to be dying of consumption — gives himself no end of aii-a
He has flirted outi-ageously with you. Has he proposed 1 *
* No not exactly,* faltered Dopsy.
* Some one ought to bring him to the scratch. Your brothel
must t.u;klo him.'
222 Mount Boycd,
* DoTi*t you think if — if — Jack were to say anything — were
just to hint that I was being made very unhappy — thaA, such
marked attentions before all the world put me in a false position
— don't you think it might do harm 1 '
* Quite the contrary. It would do good. No man ought to
trifle with a girl's feelings in that way. No man shall be allowed
to do it in my house. If Jack won't speak to him, I will.'
* Oh, Mr. Tregonell, what a noble heart you have— what a
true friend you have always been to us ! *
* You are my friend's sister — my wife's guest. I won't see
you trifled with.'
* And you really think his attentions have been marked ? *
* Very much marked. He shall not be permitted to amuse
himself at your expense. There he sits, talking sentiment to
my wife — just as he has talked sentiment to you. Why doesn't
he keep on the safe side, and confine his attentions to married
women % '
* You are not jealous of him ? ' asked Dopsy, with some alarm.
* Jealous I 1 1 It would take a very extraordinary kind of
wife, and a very extraordinary kind of admirer of that wife, to
make me jealous.'
Dopsy felt her hopes in somewise revived by Mr. Tregonell's
manner of looking at things. Up to this point she had mis-
trusted exceedingly that the flirting was all on her side : but
now Leonard most distinctly averred that Angus Hamleigh had
flirted, and in a manner obvious to every one. And if Mr.
Hamleigh really admired her — if he were really blowing hot and
cold — inclining one day to make her his wife, and on another
day disposed to let her languish and fade in South Belgravia —
might not a word or two from a judicious fiiend turn the scale,
and make her happy for life.
She went up to her room to dress in a flutter of hope and
fear ; so agitated, that she could scarcely manage the more
delicate details of her toilet — the drapery of her skirt, the adjust-
ment of the sunflower on her sliouider.
* How flushed and shaky you are,' exclaimed Mopsy, parsing
5n the pencilling of an eyebrow to look at her sister. * Is tlie
deed done ? Has he popped ? '
* No, he has not popped. But I think he wilL*
* I wish I werb r^f your opinion. I should like a rich sister.
It would be the next best thing to being well oflF oneself.*
* You only think of his money,' said Dopsy, who had really
fallen in love — for only about the fifteenth time, so there waa
■till freshness in the feeling — *I should care for him just as much
if he were a pauper.'
* No, you would not,' said Mopsy. * I daresay you think you
TTOuld, but you wouldn't There is a glamour about money
*Who knows not Circe f* 228
which nobody in our circumstances can resist A man who
dresses perfectly — who has never been hard up — who has always
lived among elegant people — there is a style about him that goes
straight to one's heart. Don't you remember how in "Peter
fVilkins" there are different orders of beings — a superior class —
born so, bred so — always apart and above the otliers ? Mr.
Hamleigh belongs to that higher order. If he were poor and
shabby he would be a different person. You wouldn't care two-
pence for him.'
The Eector of Trevalga and his wife dined at Mount Royal
that evening, so Dopsy fell to the lot of Mr. Hamleigh, and had
plenty of opportunity of carrying on the siege during dinner,
while Mrs. Tregoiiell and the Rector, who was an enthusiastic
antiquarian, talked of the latest discoveries in Druidic remains.
After dinner came the usual adjournment to billiards. The
Rector and his wife stayed in the drawing-room with Christabel
and Jessie. Mr. Hamleigh would have remained with them,
but Leonard specially invited him to the billiard-room.
* You must Ijave had enough Mendelssohn and Beethoven to
last you for the next six months,' he said. ' You had better cone
and have a smoke with us.'
' I could never have too much good music,* answered Angus.
* Well, I don't suppose you'd get much to-night. The Rector
and my wife will talk about pots and pans all the evening, now
they've once started. You may as well be sociable, for once-in-a-
way, and come with us.'
Such an invitation, given in heartiest tones, and with seeming
frankness, could hardly be refused. So Angus went across the
hail with the rest of the billiard players, to the tine old room,
once a chapol, in which there was pace enough for settees, and
easy chairs, tea-tables, books, flowers, and dogs, without the
slightest inconvenience to the players.
* You'll play, Hamleigh ? ' said Ijeonard.
* No thanks ; I'd rather sit and smoke and watch you.'
* Really 1 Then Monty and I will play Jack and one of the
girls. Billiards is the only game at which one can afford to play
against relations — they can't cheat. Mopsy, will you play 1
Dopsy can mark.'
' What a thorough good fellow he is,' thought Dopsy, charmed
with an arrangement which left her comparatively free for
flirtation with Mr. Hamleigh, who had taken possession of
Christabel's favourite seat — a low capacious basket-chair — by the
wide wood fire, and had Christabel's table near him, loaded with
her books, and work-basket — those books which were all hia
favourites as well as hers, and which made an indissoluble link
between them. What is mere blood relationship compared witli
tlie ^litler tie qf ipntual likings and dislikings ?
Q
224 Mount Boyal
The men all lighted their cigarettes, and the game progressed
with tolerably equal fortunes, Jack Vandeleur playing well
enough to make amends for an^ lack of skill on the part of
Mopsy, whose want of the scientific purpose and certainty which
come from long experience, was as striking as her dashing and
self-assured method of handling her cue, and her free use of all
slang terms peculiar to the game. Dopsy oscillated between the
marking-board and the fireplace — sometimes kneeling on the
Persian rug to i)lay with Eandie and the other dogs, sometimes
standing in a pensive attitude by the chimney-piece, talking to
Angus. -AJl traces of tears were gone. Her cheeks were flushed,
her eyes brightened by an artful touch of Indian ink under the
lashes, her eyebrows accentuated by the same artistic treatment,
her large fan held with the true Grosvenor Gallery air.
* Do you believe that peacocks' feathers are unlucky 1 ' she
asked, looking pensively at the fringe of green and azure plumage
on her fan.
* I am not altogether free from superstition, but my idea of
the Fates has never taken that particular form. Why should the
peacock be a bird of evil omen ? I can believe anything bad of
the screech-owl or the raven — but the harmless ornamental
peacock; — surely he is innocent of our woes.*
• * I have known the most direful calamities follow the intro-
duction of peacocks' feathers into a drawing-room^— yet they are
BO tempting, one can hardly live without them.'
* Beally ! Do you know that I have found existence endurable
without so much as a tuft of down from that unmelodious bird ? '
* Have you never longed for its plimiage to give life and colour
to yoiju: rooms ? — suck exquisite colour — such delicious harmony
r—^I woijder that you, who have such artistic taste, can resist the
fascin£|,tion.'
* I hope you have not found that pretty fan the cause of many
woes 1 ' said Mr. Hamleigh, smilingly, as the damsel posed herself
in the early Italian manner, and slowly waved the bright-hued
plumjge. '
* i cannot say that I have been altogether happy since I pos
eessed it,' answered Dopsy, with a shy downward glance, and a
smothered sigh ; * and yet I don't know — I have been only too
happy sometimes, perhaps, and at other times deeply -wretched.'
* Is not that kind of variableness common to our poor human
nature — independent of peacocks' feathers 1*
' Not to me. I used to be the most thoughtless happy-go-
lucky creature.'
'Ontilwhenr
* Till I came to Cornwall,' with a faint sigh, and a sudden
upward glance of a pair of blue eyes which would have been
pretty, had they been ouly innocent of all scheming.
« Who knows not Circe f ' 225
' Then I'm afraid this mixture of sea and mountain air does
not agree with you. Too exciting for your nerves perhapsi'
* I don't think it is that,' with a stiU fainter sign.
*Then the peacocks' feathers must be to blame. Why don*l
you throw your fan into the fire 1*
* Not for worlds,' said Dopsy.
* Why not ?'
* First, because it cost a guinea,' naively, ' and then because
it is associated with quite the happiest period of my life.*
* You said just now you had been unhappy since you owned it*.*
* Only by fits and starts. Two utterly happy at other times.*
* If I say another word she will dissolve into tears again,*
thought Angus. 1 ' I shall have to leave Mount Royal : a man in
weak health is no match for a young woman of this type. She
will get me into a comer and declare I have proposed to her.'
He got up and went over to the table, where Mr. Miontaga
was just finishing the game, with a break which had left Dopsy
free for flirtation during the last ten minutes.
Mr. Hamleigh played in the next game, but this hardly
bettered his condition, for Dopsy now took her sister's place with
the cue, and required to be instructed as to every stroke, and
even to have her fingers placed in poaition, now and then by
Angus, wlien the ball was under the cushion, and the stroke in
any way difficult. This lengthened the game, and bored Angua
exceedingly, besides making him ridiculous in the eyes of the
oUier three men.
* I hate playing with lovers,' muttered Leonard, under hi?i
breath, when Dopsy was especially worryl"Qg about the exact point
at which she was to hit the ball for a parteoular cannon.
* Decidedly I must get away to-morrow,' reflected Angus.
The game went on merrily enough, and was onlv just over
when the stable clock struck eleven, at which hour the servants
brought in a tray with a tankard of mulled claret for vice, and a
siphon for virtue. The Miss Vandeleurs, after pretending to say
good-night, were persuaded to sip a little of the hot spiced wine,
and were half inclined to accept the cigarettes persuasively
ofi'ered by Mr. Montagu ; till, warned by a wink from Jack, they
drew tip suddenly, declared they had been quite too awfully
dissipated, that they should be too late to wish Mrs. TregoneU
good-night, and skipped away.
* AwfuUy jolly girls, those sisters of yours,* said Montagu, aa
he closed the door which he had opened for the damsels' exit, and
strolled back to the heai-th, where Angus was sitting dreamily
caressing Bandie — her dog 1 How many a happy dog has
received caresses charged with the love of his mistress, such
moumfnl kisses as Dido lavished on the young Ascaniaa in th«
fiaaA watches erf the weary ni^ht.
f26 Mount Boyal.
Jack Yandeleur and his host had begun another game)
delighted at having the table to themselves.
* Yes, they're nice ^Is,' answered 1>&. Vandeleur, without
looking off the table ; * ]ust the right kind of girls for a country-
house : no starch, no prudishness, but as innocent as babies, and
as true-hearted — well, they are all heart I should be sorry to
see anybody trifle with either of them. It would be a very
serious thing for her — and it should be my business to make
it serious for him.*
* Great advantage for a girl to have a brother who enjoys the
reputation of being a dead shot,' said Mr. Montagu, * or it would
be if duelling were not an exploded institution — like trial for
witchcraft, and hanging for petty larceny.'
* Duelling is never out of fashion, among gentlemen,' answered
Jack, making a cannon and going in off the red. * That makes
seventeen, Monty. There are injuries whidi nothing but the
pistol can redress, and I'm not sorry that my Eed River ex-
perience has made me a pretty good shot. But I'm not half a*
good as Leonard. He could give me fifty in a hundred any
* When a man has to keep his party in butcher's meat by tlie
use of his rifle, he'd need be a decent marksman,' answered Mr.
Tregonell, carelessly. * I never knew the right use of a gun till
I crossed the Rockies. By-the-way, who is for woodcock shooting
to-morrow 1 You'll come, I suppose. Jack ? *
* Not to-morrow, thanks. Monty and I are going over to
Bodmin to see a man hanged. We've got an order to view, aa
the house-agents call it. Monty is supposed to be on the Times,
I go for the Western Daily Mercury.'
* What a horrid ghoulish thing to do,' said Leonard.
* It's seeing life,' answered Jack, shrugging his shoulders.
* I should call it the other thing. However, as crime is very
rare in Cornwall, you may as well make the most of your
opportunity. But if s a pity to neglect the birds. This is one
of the best seasons we've had since 1860, when there was a
remarkable flight of birds in the second week in October. But
even that year wasn't as good as '55, when|a farmer at St. Buiyan
killed close upon sixty birds in a week. You'U go to-morrow,
I hope, Mr. Hamleigh ? There's some very good ground about
St Nectan's Kieve, and if s a picturesque sort of place, that will
just hit your fancy.'
* I have been to the Ejeve, often — ^yes, it is a lovely spot,*
answered Angus, rc«rjembering his first visit to Mount Royal,
and the golden irftemoons which he had spent with Christabel
among tho rocks and the ferns, their low voices half drowned by
tho no;>o of the waterfall. * But I shan't be able to shoot to-
'»u)rrow, I have just baen making up my mind to tear myself
* Who knows not Circe f * 227
away from Mount Eoyal, and I was going to ask yon to let one
of yoiir grooms drive me over to Launceston in time for the
mid -day train. I can get up from Plymouth by the Limited
Mail'
* Why are you in such a hurry ? ' asked Leonard. ' I thought
you were rather enjoying yourself with us.*
* So much so that as far as my own inclination goes there ia
no reason why I should not stay here for the rest of my life —
only you would get tired of me — and I have promised my doctor
to ^ southward before the frosty weather begins.'
^A day or two can't make much difference.'
* Not much — only when there is a disagreeable effort to be
made the sooner one gets it over the better,'
* I am sorry you are off so suddenly,' said Leonard, going on
with the game, and looking rather oddly across the table at
Captain Vandeleur.
* I am more than sorry,* said that gentleman, * I am surprised.
But perhaps I am not altogether in the secret of your move-
ments.'
* There is no secret,' said Angus.
'Isn't there? Then I'm considerably mistaken. It has
looked very much lately as if there were a particular understand-
ing between you and my elder sister ; and I think, as her
brother, I have some right to be let into the secret before you
leave Mount Royal.'
*I am sorry that either my manner, or Miss Vandeleur's
should have so far misled you,' answered Angus, with freezing
gravity He pitied the sister, but felt only cold contempt for the
brother. * The yoimg lady and I have never interchanged »
word which might not have been heard by everybody at Mount
Hoyal.'
* And you have had no serious intentions — ^you have never
pretended to any serious feeling about her?'
* Never. Charming as the young lady may be, I have been,
and am, adamant against all such fascinations. A man who has
been told that he may not live a year is hardly in a position to
make an offer of marriage. Good-night, TregonelL I shall rely
on your letting one of your men drive me to the station.'
He nodded good-night to the other two men, and left the l oom.
Handle, who loved him for the sake of old times, followed abfiis
heels.
' There goes a cur who deserves a dose of cold lead,' said
Jack, looking vindictively towards the door.
'What, Randie, my wife's favourite ?'
'No, the two-legged cur. Come, you two men know how
outrageously that puppy has flirted with my sister.'
' I know there has b*>ftn — some kind of flirtation,' answered
228 Mount Boyal,
Mr. Montagu, luxuriously buried in a large arm-chair, "witk hia
legs hanging over the arm, * and I suppose it's the man who's to
blame. Of course it always is the man.'
*Did you ever hear such a sneaking evasion?' demandea
Jack, * Not a year to live forsooth. Why if he can't make her
his wife he is bound as a gentleman to make her his widow.'
' He has plenty of coin, hasn't he V asked Montagu. * Your
Bister has never gone for me — and I'm dreadfully soft under such
treatment. When I think of the number of girls I've proposed
to, and how gracefully I've always backed out of it afterwards, I
really wonder at my own audacity. I never refuse to marry the
lady— ^as si bite : " I adore you, and we'll be married to-morrow
if you like," I say. " But you'll have to live with your papa and
mamma for the tii-st ten years. Perhaps by that time I might
be able to take second-floor lodgingB in Eloomsbury, and we
could begin housekeeping." '
* You're a privileged pauper,' said Captain Vandeleur ; * Mr.
Hamleigh is quite another kind of individual — and I say that
he has behaved in a dastardly manner to my elder sister.
Everybody in this house thought that he was in love with her.'
*You have told us so several times,' answered Montagu,
coolly, * and we're bound to believe you, don't you know.'
*I should have thought you'd have had too much spunk
to see an old friend's sister jilted in such a barefaced way,
Tregonell,* said Jack Vandeleur, who had drunk just enough
to make him quarrelsome.
*You don't mean to say that I am accountable for hia
actions, do you ? ' retorted Leonard. • That's rather a large
order.'
* I mean to say that you asked him here — and you puffed
him off as a great catch — and half turned poor little Dop'a
head by your talk about him. If you knew what an arrant
flirt he was you oijgjhtn't to have brought him inside your
doors.*
* Perhaps I didn't know anything about it,' answered Leonard,
with his most exasperating air.
*Then I can only say that if half I've heard is true /ou
ought to have known all about it.'
* As how 1 '
'Because it is common club-talk that he flirted with your
wife — was engaged to her — and was thrown off by her on
account of his extremely disreputable antecedents. Your mother
has the sole credit of the throwing off, by-the-by.'
* You had better leave my mother's name and my wife'g
»nme out of your conversation. That's twenty-eight to me,
Monty. Poker has spoiled a capital break by hia d d
personjility.'
'And Time is Setting wi^ Me, 0/ 220
'*I beg your pardon — Mrs. Tregonell is simply perfect, and
there ia no woman I more deeply ^honour. But still you must
allow me to wonder that you ever let that man cross your
threshold.'
* You are welcome to go on wondering. It's a wholesome
exercise for a sluggish brain.'
* Game,' exclaimed Mr. Montague ; and Leonard put his
cue in the rack, and walked away, without another word to
either of his guests.
'He's a dreadful bear,' said little Monty, emptying thi
tankard ; * but you oughtn't to have talked about the wife,
Poker — ^that was bad form.'
* Does he ever study good form when he talks of my
people? He had no business to bring that fine gentleman here
to flirt with my sister.'
* But really now, don't you think your sister did her share
of the flk"ting, and that she's rather an old hand at that kind
of thing ? I adore Dop and Mop, as I'm sure you know, and
I only wish I were rich enough to back my opinion by
marrying one of them — but I don't think our dear little Dopsy
is the kind of girl to break her heart about any man — more
especially a sentimental duffei^ with hollow cheeks and a hollow
cough,' ^
CHAPTER XXI.
*AirD TIME IS SETTING Wl' MB, O.*
Angus Hamleigh left the billiard players with the intention of
going straight to his own room ; but in the hall he encountered
the Rector of Trevalga, who was just going away, veiy
apologetic at having stayed so late, beguiled by the fascination
of antiquarian talk. Christabel and Jessie had come out to
the hall, to bid their old friends good-night, and thus it
happened that Mr. Hamleigh went back to the drawing-room,
and sat there talking till nearly midnight. They sat in front
of the dying fire, talking as they had talked in days gone by —
and their conversation grew sad and solemn as the hour wore
on. Angus announced his intended departure, and Christabel
nad no word to say against his decision.
* We shall be very sorry to lose you,' she said, sheltering
her personality behind the plural pronoun, *but I think it
ii wise of you to waste no more time.'
'I have not wasted an hour. It has be«Q unspeakable
happiness for me to be here — and I am more grateful than I
230 Mount Eoyat,
can say to your husband for having brought me here — for having
treated me with such frank cordiality. The time has come when
I may speak very freely — yes — a man whose race is so nearly
run need have no reserves of thought or feeling. I think, Mrs,
Tregonell, that you and Miss Bridgeman, who knows me almost
k!i well as you do '
'Better, perhaps,* murmured Jessie, in a scarcely audible
voice.
* LI ust both know that my life for the past four years has
been one long regret — that all my days and hours have been
steeped in the bitterness of remorse. I am not going now to
dispute the justice of the sentence which spoiled my Kfe and broke
my heart. I submitted without question, because I knew that
the decree was wise. I had no right to offer you the ruin of a
life '
* Do not speak of that,' cried Christabel, with a stifled sob,
*for pity's sake don't speak of the past : I cannot bear it.'
* Then I will not say another word, except to tell you that your
goodness to me in these latter days — your friendship, so frankly, so
freely given — has steeped my soul in peace — has filled my mind
with sweet memories which will soothe my hours of decline, when
I am far from this dear house where I was once so happy. I
wish I could leave some pleasant memory here when I am gone
— I wish your boy had been old enough to remember me in the
days to come, as one who loved him better than any one on earth
could love him, after his father and mother.'
Christabel answered no word. She sat with her hand before
her eyes — tears streaming slowly down her cheeks — tears that
were happily invisible in the faint light of the shaded lamps and
the fading tire.
And then they went on to talk of life in the abstract — its
difficulties — its problems — its consolations — and of death — and
the dim world beyond — the unknown land of universal recom-
pense, where the deep joys striven after here, and liever attained,
are to be ours in a purer and more spiritual form — where love
shall no longer walk hand in hand with pain and sorrow, dogged
by the dark spectre Death.
Illness and solitude had done much to exalt and spiritualize
Angus Hamleigh's mind. The religion of dogma, the strict
hard-and-fast creed which was the breath of life to Leonard's
mother, had never been grappled with or accepted by him — but
it was in his nature to be religious. Never at his worst had he
sheltered his errors under the brazen front of paganism — never
had he denied the beauty of a pure and perfect life, a simple
childlike faith, heroic self-abnegating love of God and man. He
had admired and honoured such virtue in others, and had been
aor.ry that Nature had cast him in a lower mould. Then had
*And Time is Setting wi' Me, 0.* 231
eome the sentence which told him that his days were to be of
the fewest, and, without conscious effort, his thoughts had taken
a more serious cast. The great problem had come nearer home
to him — and he had found its only solution to be hope — hope
more or less vague and dim — more or less secure and steadfast-—
according to the temperament of the thinker. All metaphysical
argument for or against — all theological teaching could push the
thing no further. It seemed to him that it was the universal
instinct of mankind to desire and hope for an imperishable life,
purer, better, fairer than the life we know here — and that innate
m every human breast there dwells capacity for immortality, and
disbelief in extinction — and to this universal instinct he sur-
rendered himself unreservedly, content to demand no stronger
argument than that grand chapter of Corinthians which haa
consoled so many generations of mourners.
So now, speaking with these two women of the life to come
— tho fair, sweet, all-satisfjring life after death — he breathed no
word which the most orthodox churchman might not have
approved. He spoke in the fulness of a faith which, based on
instinct, and not on dogma, hfid ripened with the decline of all
delight and interest in this lower life. lie spoke as a man for
whom earth's last moorings had been loosened, whose only hopes
pointed skyward.
It was while he was talking thus, with an almost passionate
earnestness, and yet wholly free from all earthly passion, that
Mr. Tregonell entered the room and stood by the door, contem-
plating the group by the health. The spectacle was not pleasant
to a man of intensely jealous temperament, a man who had been
testing and proving the wife whom he could not completely
trust, whom he loved grudgingly, with a savage half -angry love.
Christabel's face, dimly lighted by the lamp on the low table
near her, was turned towards the speaker, the lips parted, the
large blue eyes bright with emotion. Her hands were clasped
upon the elbow of the chair, and her attitude was of one who
listens to words of deepest, dearest meaning ; while Angus
Hamleigh sat a little way off with his eyes upon her face, his
whole air and expression charged with feeling. To Leonard's
mind aU such earnestness, all sentiment of any kind, came under
one category : it all meant love-making, more or less audacious,
more or less hypocritical, dressed in modem phraseology, sophis-
ticated, disguised, super-refined, fantastical, called one « day
aeatheticism and peacocks' feathers, another day positivism,
agnosticism, Swinburne-cum-Bume-Jones-ism, but always the
Bame thing au fond, and meaning war to domestic peace. There
Bat Jessie Bridgeman, the dragon of prudery placed within caU,
but was any woman safer for the presence oi a duenna ? was it
not in the nature of such people to look on simperingly while
282 Mount Royal.
the poiscm cap was being quaffed, and to declare afterwards that
they had supposed the mixture perfectly liarmless ? No doubt,
Tristan and Iseult had somebody standing by to play propriety
■when they drank from the fatal goblet, and bound themselves
for life in the meshes of an unhappy love. No, the mere fact ol
Miss Bridgeman's presence was no pledge of safety.
There was no guilt in Mrs. Tregonell's countenance, aasuredly,
when she looked up and saw her husband standing near the
door, watchful, silent, with a pre-occupied air that was strange
to him.
' What is the matter, Leonard 7' she asked, for hla manner
ir"plied that something was amiss,
* Nothing — I — I was wondering to find you up so late— that's
* The Rector and his wife stayed till eleven, and we have
been sitting here talking. Mr, Hamleigh means to leave us to-
morrow.'
* Yes, I know,' answered Leonard, curtly. * Oh, by the way,'
turning to Angus, 'there is something I want to say to you
before you go to bed ; something about your journey to-morrow,*
* I am quite at your sers'ice.'
Instead of approaching the group by the fireplace, Leonard
turned and left the room, leaving Mr. Hamleigh under the
necessity of following him.
' Good-night,' he said, shaking hands with ChristabeL * I
shall not say good-bye till to-morrow, I suppose I shall not
have to leave Mount Eoyal till eleven o'clock.'
* I think not'
'Good-night, Miss Bridgeman. I shall never forget how kind
you have been to me.'
She looked at him earnestly, but made no reply, and in the
next instant he was gone,
' What can have happened V asked Christabel, anxiously, ' I
am sure there is something wrong. Leonard's manner was so
strange.'
'Perhaps he and his dear friends have been quarrelling,'
Jessie answered, carelessly, * I believe Captain Vandeleur
breaks out into vindictive language, sometimes, after he haa
taken a little too much wine : Mop told me as much in her
amiable candour. And I know the Captain's glass was filled
very often at dinner, for I had the honour of sitting next him.'
*I hope there is nothing really wron^,* said Cmristabel ; but
■he could not get rid of the sense of uneasiness to which Leonard's
■trange manner had given rise.
She went to her boy's nursery, aa she did every night, before
eoing to bed, and said her prayers beside his pillow. She had
Mgim this one night when the child was ill, and had never
*And Time is Setting wV Me, 0.' 233
missed a night since. That quiet recess in which the little one's
cot stood was her oratory. Here, in the silence, broken only by
the ticking of the clock or the fall of a cinder on the hearth,
while the nurse slept near at hand, the mother prayed ; and her
prayers seemed to her sweeter and more efficacious her© than in
any other place. So soon as those childish lips could speak it
would be her delight to teach her son to pray ; and, in the mean-
time, her supplications went up to Heaven for hira, from a heart
Viat overflowed with motherly love. There had been one dismal
interval of her life when she had loved no one — having really
no one to love — secretly loathing her husband — not daring even
to remember that other, once so fondly loved — and then, when
her desolate heart seemed walled round with an icy barrier that
tivided it from all human feeling, God had given her this child,
jind lo! the ice had melted, and her re-awakened soul had
kindled and glowed with warmth and gladness. It was not in
Christabel's nature to love many things, or many people : rather
was it natural to her to love one person intensely, as she had
loved her adopted mother in her girlhood, as she had loved
Angus Hamleigh in the bloom of her womanhood, as she loved
her boy now.
She was leaving the child's room, after prayers and medi-
tations that had been somewhat longer than usual, when she
heard voices, and saw Mr. Tre^onell and Mr. Hamleigh by the
door of the room occupied by the latter, which was at t£e further
end of the gallery.
* You understand my plan V said Leonard.
* Perfectly.'
* It prevents all trouble, don't you see.'
* Yes, I believe it may,' answered Angus, and without any
word of good-night he opened his door and went into his room,
while Leonard turned on his heel and strolled to his own
quarters.
* Was there anything amiss between you and Mr. Hamleigh,
that you parted so coldly just now ? ' asked Christabel, presently,
when her husband came from his dressing-room into the bed-
room where she sat musing by the fire.
* What, aren't you gone to bed yet ! ' he exclaimed. * You
seem to be possessed by a wakeful demon to-night.'
* I have Deen in the boy's room. Was there anything amiss,
Lscoardr
* You are monstrously anxious about |it. No. What should
there be amiss ? You didn't expect to see us hugging each other
like a couple of Frenchmen, did you ? '
Mount Boydl,
CHAPTER XXII.
•with such remorseless speed still come ITEW WOEa'
TnE next morning was damp, and grey, and mild, no autumn
wind stiring the long sweeping branches of the cedars on the
lawn, the dead leaves falling silently, the world all sad and
solemn, clad in universal greyness, Christabel was up early,
with her boy, in the nursery — watching him as he splashed about
his bath, and emerged rosy and joyous, like an infant river-
god sporting among the rushes ; early at family prayers in the
dining-room, a ceremony at which Mr. Tregonell rarely assisted,
and to which Dopsy and Mopsy came flushed and breathless
with hurry, anxious to pay all due respect to a hostess whom they
hoped to visit again, but inwardly revolting against the unreason-
ableness of eight-o'clock prayers.
Angus, who was generally about the gardens before eight, did
not appear at all this morning. The other men were habitually
late — breakfasting together in a free-and-easy manner when the
ladies had left the dining-room — so Christabel, Miss Bridgeman,
and the Miss Vandeleurs sat down to breakfast alone, Dopsy
giving little furtive glances at the door every now and then,
expectant of Mr. Hamleigh's entrance.
That expectancy became too painful for the damsel's i>atience,
by-and-by, as the meal advanced.
* 2 wonder what has become of Mr. Hamleigh,' she said.
* This is the first time he has been late at breakfast.'
' Perhaps he is seeing to the packing of his portmanteau,' said
Miss Bridgeman. * Some valets are bad packers, and want
superintendence.'
* Packing ! * cried Dopsy, aghast. * Packing ! What for ?'
* He is going to London this afternoon. Didn't you know ? *
Dopsy grew pale as ashes. The shock was evidently terrible,
and even Jessie pitied her.
* Poor silly Dop,' she thought. * Could she actually suppose
that she stood the faintest chance of bringing down her bird 1 '
'Going away? For good?' murmured Miss Vandeleur,
faintly — all the flavour gone out of the dried salmon, the Cornish
butter, the sweet home-baked bread.
* I hope so. He is going to the South of France for the
winter. Of course, you know that he is consumptive, and hai
not many years to live,' answered Miss Bridgeman.
* Poor fellow 1' sighed Dopsy, with tears glittering upon her
lowered eyelids.
She had begun the chase moved chiefly by sordid instincts ;
* With such Bemorseless Speed still come New Woes.* 235
her tenderest emotions had been hacked and vulgarized by long
experience in flirtation — but at this moment she believed that
never in her life had she loved before, and that never in her life
could she love again.
* And if he dies unmarried what will become of his property ? *
inquired Mopsy, whose feelings were not engaged.
*I haven't the faintest idea,' answered Miss Bridgeman.
• He has no near relations. I hope he will leave his money to
some charitable institution.'
*What time does he goV faltered Dopsy, swallowing her
tears.
* Mr. Hamleigh left an hour ago, Madam,' said the butler,
who had been carving at the side-board during this conversation.
* He has gone shooting. The dog-cart is to pick him up at the
gate leading to St. Nectan's Kieve at eleven o'clock.'
* Gone shooting on his last morning at Mount Eoyal ! * ex-
claimed Jessie. ' That's a new development of Mr. Hamleigh's
character. I never knew he had a passion for sport.'
* I believe there is a note for you, ma'am,' said the butler to
his mistress.
He went out into the hall, and returned in a minute or two
carrying ;,a letter upon his official salver, and handing it with
•fficial solemnity to Mrs. Tregonell.
The letter was brief and commonplace enough —
* Dear Mrs. Tregonell, —
' After all I am deprived of the opportunity of wishing you
good-bye this morning, by the temptation of two or three hours'
woodcock shooting about St. Nectan's Kieve. I shall drive
straight from there to Launceston in Mr. Tregonell's dog-cart, for
the use of which I beg to thank him in advance. I have already
thanked you and Miss Bridgeman for your goodness to me
during my late visit to Mount Royal, and can only say that my
gratitude lies much deeper, and means a great deal more, than
such expressions of thankfulness are generally intended to convey.
' Ever sincerely yours,
'Angus Hamleigh.'
* Then this was what Leonard and he were settling last night,
thought Christabel. ' Your master went out with Mr. Hamleigli,
I suppose,' she said to the servant.
'No, ma'am, my master is in his study. I took him hia
breakfast an hour ago. He is writing letters, I believe.'
* And the other two gentlemen ? '
'Started for Bodmin in the wagonette at six o'clock this
Kiorning.'
* They are going to see that unhappy man hanged,' said Miss
Bridgeman. * Congenial occupation. Mr. Montagu told me all
l,bout it at dinner yesterday, and asked me if I wasn't sorry that
286 Mount BoyaU
my Bex prevented my joining the party. ** It would be a ne>f
sensation/' he said, " and to a woman of your intelligence that
must be an immense attraction." I told him I had no hankering
after new sensations of that kind.'
* And he is really gone — without saying good-bye to any of us,*
said Dopsy, still harping on the departed guest.
* Yes, he is really gone,' echoed Jessie, with a sigh.
Christabel had been silent and absent-minded throughout the
meal. Her mind was troubled — she scarcely knew why ; dis-
turbed by the memory of her husband's manner as he parted
with Angus in the corridor ; disturbed by the strangeness of this
lonely expedition after woodcock, in a man who had always
shown himself indifferent to sport. -As usual with her when she
was out of spirits, she went straight \jo Iriie nursery for comfort,
and tried to forget everything in life except that Heaven had
given her a son whom she adored.
Her boy upon this particular morning was a little more fasci-
nating and a shade more exacting than usual ; the rain, soft and
gentle as it was — rather an all-pervading moisture than a positive
rainfall — forbade any open-air exercise for this tenderly reared
young person — so he had to be amused indoors. He was just of
an age to be played with, and to undei-stand certain games which
called upon the exercise of a dawning imagination ; so it was his
mother's dfiiight to ramble with him in an imaginary wood, and
to fly from iuiiiginary wolves, lurking in dark caverns, repre-
sented by the obscure regions underneath a table-cover — or to
repose with him on imaginary mountain-to^)s on the sofa— or be
engulfed with him in sofa pillows, which stood for whelming
waves. Then there were pictures to be looked at, and little Leo
had to be lovingly instructed in the art of turning over a leaf
without tearing it from end to end — and the necessity for re-
straining an inclination to thrust all his fingers into his mouth
between whiles, and sprawl them admiringly on the page after-
wards.
Time so beguiled, even on the dullest morning, and with a
lurking, indefinite sense of trouble in her mind all the while,
went rapidly with Christabel. She looked up with surprise when
the stable clock struck eleven.
'So late? Do you know if the dog-cart has started yet,
Carson?'
' Yes, ma'am, I heard it drive out of the yard half-an-hour
ago,' answered the nurse, looking up from her needle-work.
* Well, I must go. Good-bye, Baby. I think, if you are very
good, you might have your dinner with mamma. Din-din — with
— mum — mum — mum ' — a kiss between every nonsense syllable.
* You can bring him down, nurse. I shall have only the ladiea
wich me at luncheon.' There were atjll fuither leave-takings,
* With such Jtemorseless Speed stiU come New Woes,' 2S7
and then Christabel went downstairs. On her way past her
husband's study she saw the door standing ajar.
* Are you there, Leonard, and alone 1 '
*Yes.'
She went in. He was sitting at his desk — his cheque-book
open, tradesmen's account*: spread out before him — all the signs
and tokens of business-li.,e occupation. It was not often that
Mr. Tregonell spent a morning in his study. When he did, it
meant a general settlement of accounts, and usually resulted in a
surly frame of mind, which lasted, more or less, for the rest of
the day.
*Did you know that Mr. Hamleigh had gone woodcock
shooting ? '
* Naturally, since it was I who suggested that he should have
a shy at the birds before he left,' answered Leonard, without
looking up.
He was filling in a cheque, with his head bent over the table.
* How strange for him to go alone, in his weak health, and
with a fatiguing journey before him.'
* What's the fatigue of lolling in a railway carriage ?
Confound it, you've made me spoil the cheque ! ' mutteicid
Leonard, tearing the oblong sKp of coloured paper across and
acro.-s, impatiently.
'How your hand shakes! Have you been writing all the
morning?'
* Yes — all the morning,' absently, turning over the leaves
of his cheque-book.
* But you have been out — your boots are all over mud.'
* Yes, I meant to have an hour or so at the birds. I got
as far as Willapark, and then remembered that Clayton wanted
'he money for the tradesmen to-day. One must stick to one'i
pay-day, don't you know, when one has made a rule.'
'Of course. Oh, there are the new Quarterlies!' saiJ
Christabel, seeing a package on the table. ' Do you mind my
opening them here ? '
* No ; as long as you hold your tongue, and don't disturb me
when I'm at figures.'
This was not a very gracious permission to remain, but
Christabel seated herself quietly by the fire, and began to explore
the two treasuries of wisdom which the day's post had brought.
Leonard's study looked into the stable-yard, a spacious quad-
rangle, with long ranges of doors and windows, saddle rooms,
harness rooms, loose boxes, coachmen's and groom's quarters — a
little colony complete in itself. From his open window the
Squire could give his orders, interrogate his coachman as to his
consumption of forage, have an ailing horse paraded before
ibiim, bully an underling, fiT)4 bestow praise or blame all round, as
238 Mount Hoyah
it suited his humour. Here, too, were the kennels of the dogs,
whose company Mr. Tregonell Hked a Httle better than that o£
his fellow-men.
Leonard sat with his head bent over the table, wriPM^
Christabel in her chair by the fire turning the leaves of wer
book in the rapture of a first skimming. They sat thus for about
an hour, and then both looked up with a startled air, at the
sound of wheels.
It was the dog-cart that was being driven into the yard, Mr.
Hamleigh's servant sitting behind, walled in by a portmanteau
and a Gladstone bag. Leonard opened the window, and looked
out.
* Wliat's up V he asked. * Has your master changed his mind ? *
The valet alighted, and came across the yard to the window.
* We haven't seen Mr. Hamleigh, sir. There vaxinXj have been
some mistake, I think. We waited at the gate for nearly an
hour, and then Baker said we'd better come back, as we must
have missed Mr. Hamleigh, somehow, and he might be here
waiting for us to take him to Launceston.'
* Baker's a fool. How could you miss him if he went to the
Kieve ? There's only one way out of that place — or only one
way that Mr. Hamleigh could find. Did you inquire if he went
to the Kieve V
* Yes, sir. Baker went into the farmhouse, and they told
him that a gentleman had come with his gun and a dog, and had
asked for the key, and had gone to the Kieve alone. They were
not certain as to whether he'd come back or not, but he hadn't
taken the key back to the house. He might have put it into his
pocket, and forgotten all about it, don't you see, sir, after he'd
let himself out of the gate. That's what Baker said ; and he
might have come back here.'
' Peiliaps he has come back,' answered Leonard, carelessly.
* You'd better inquire.'
' I don't think he can have returned,' said Christabel,
standing near the window, very pale.
' How do you know ? ' asked Leonar \ savagely. * You've
been sitting here for the last hour poring /)ver that book.'
* I think I should have heard — I think I should have known,*
faltered Christabel, with her heart beating strangely.
There was a mystery in the return of the carriage which
eeemed like the beginning of woe and horror — like the ripening
of that strange vague sense of trouble which had oppressed her
for the last few hours.
* You would have heard — you would have known,' echoed her
husband, with brutal mockery — ' by instinct, by second siglit,
by animal magnetism, I suppose. You are just the sort ol
woman to believe in that kiixd of rot.'
• With mch Bemorseless Speed still come New Woes. 239
The valet had gone across the yard on his way round to t..
offices of the house. CJhristabel made no reply to her husband's
sneering speech, but went straight to the hall, and rang for the
butler.
* Have you — has any one seen Mr. Hamleigh come back to
the house 1 * she asked.
* No, ma'am.'
* Inquire, if you please, of every one. Make quite sure that
he has not returned, and then let three or four men, with Nicholls
at their head, go down to St. Nectan's Kieve and look for him.
I'm afraid there has been an accident.'
* I hope not, ma'am,' answered the butler, who had known
Christabel from her babyhood, who had looked on, a pleased
spectator, at Mr. Hamleigh's wooing, and whose heart was melted
with tenderest compassion to-day at the sight of her palHd face,
and eyes made large with terror. * It's a dangerous kind of place
for a stranger to go clambering about with a gun, but not for
one that knows every stone of it, as Mr. Hamleigh do.'
* Send, and at once, please. I do not think Mr. Hamleigh,
having arranged for the dog-cart to meet him, would forget hia
appointment.*
* There's no knowing, ma'am. Some gentlemen are so wrapt
up in their sport.'
Christabel sat down in the hall, and waited while Daniel, the
butler, made his inquiries. No one had seen Mr. Hamleigh come
in, and everybody was ready to aver on oath if necessary that he
had not returned. So Nicholls, the chief coachman, a man of
gumption and of much renown in the household, as a person
whose natural sharpness had been improved by the large respon-
sibilities involved m a weJl-filled stable, was brought to receive
his orders from Mrs. Tregonell. Daniel admired the calm gravity
with which she gave the man his instructions, despite her colour-
less cheek and tiie look of pain in every feature of her face.
* You will take two or three of the stablemen with you, and
go as fast as you can to the Kieve. You had better go in the
light cart, and it would be as well to take a mattress, and some
pillows. If — if there should have been an accident those might
be useful. Mr. Hamleigh left the house early this morning with
Lis gun to go to the Kieve, and he was to have met the dog-cart
at eleven. Baker waited at the gate till twelve — but perhaps
you have heard.'
* Yes, ma'am, Baker told me. It's strange — but Mr. Ham-
leigh may have overlooked the time if he had good sport. Do
you know which of the dogs he took with him 'i '
*No. Why do you ask?'
' Because I rather thought it was Sambo. Sambo was always
q ^avouTite of Mr. Hamleigh's, though he's getting rather too old
« B
240 Mount R^/j/al,
for his work now. If it was S.-imbo the dog muet have run away
and left him, for he was back about the yard before ten o'cloclc.
He'd been hurt somehow, for there was blood upon one of hia
feet. Master had the red setter with him this morning, when he
went for his stroll, but I believe it must have been Sambo that
Mr. Hamleigh took. There was only one of the lads about the
yard when he left, for it was breakfast time, and the little guffin
didn't notice.'
* But if all the other dogs are in their kennels—'
*They aren't, ma'am, don't you see. The two gentlemen
took a couple of 'em to Bodmin in the break — and I don't know
which. Sambo may have been with them — and may have got
tired of it and come home. He's not a dog to ap])reciate that
kind of thing.*
' Go at once, if you please, Nicholls. You know what to do.'
* Yes, ma'am.'
Nicholls went his way, and the gong began to sound for
luncheon. Mr. Tregonell, who rarely honoured the family with
his presence at the mid-day meal, came out of his den to-day in
answer to the summons, and found his wife in the halL
* I suppose you are coming in to luncheon,' he said to her, in
an angry aside. * You need not look so scared- Your old lover
is safe enough, I daresay.'
' I am not coming to luncheon,' she answered, looking at him
with pale contempt. * If you are not a little more careful of your
words I may never break bread with you again.'
The gong went on with its discordant clamour, and Jessie
Bridgeman came out of the drawing-room with the younger Miss
Vandeleur. Poor Dopsy was shut in her own room, with a head-
ache. She had been indulging herself with the feminine luxury
of a good cry. Disappointment, wounded vanity, humiliation,
and a very real pencliant for the man who had despised her
attractions were the mingled elements in her cup of woe.
The nurse came down the broad oak staircase, baby Leonard
toddling by her side,»and making two laborious jumps at e^ich
shallow step — one on— one off. Christabel met him, picked him
up in her arms, and carried him back to the nursery, where she
i)rdered his dinner to be brought. He was a little inclined to
resist this change of plan at the first, but was soon kissed into
pleasantness, and then the nurse was despatched to the servants*
hall, and Christabel had her boy to herself, and ministered to him
and amused him for the sjiace of an liour, despite an aching heart.
Then, when the nurse came back, Mrs. Tregonell went to her own
room, and sat at the window watching the avenue by which the
men must drive back to the house.
They did not come back till just when the gloom of the sunless
day wiis deepening ix)to starless night, Christabel ran down to
• With SUCH Remorseless Speed still cotm New Woes.* 241
the lobby that opened into the stable yard, and stood in the door-
way waiting for NichoUs to come to her ; but if he saw her, he
pretended not to see her, and went Mtraight to the house by
another way, and asked to speak to Mr. Tregonell.
Christabel saw him hurry across the yard to that other door,
and knew that her fears were realized. Evil of 8om«> kind had
befallen. She went straight to her husband's study, certain that
ehe would meet Nicholls there.
Leonard was standing by the fireplace, listening, while
Nicholls stood a little way from the door, relating the result
of his search, in a low agitated voice.
* Was he quite dead when you found him 1 * asked Leonard,
when the man paused in his narration.
Chriatabfi skx>d just within the doorway, half hidden in the
obscurity of the room, where there was no light but that of the
low tire. The door had been left ajar by Nicholls, and neither he
nor his master was aware of her presence.
*Yes, Sir. Dr. Blake said he must have been dead some
hours.*
* Had the gun burst ? '
* No, sir. It must have gone off somehow. Perhaps the trigger
caught in the hand-rail when he was crossing the wooden bridge
—and yet that seemed hardly possible — for he was lying on the
big stone at the other side of the bridge, with his face downwards
close to the water.'
* A. horrible accident,* said Leonard. * There'll be an inquest,
of course. Will Blake give the Coroner notice— or must 1 1 '
* Dr. Blake said he'd see to that, sir.'
* And he is lying at the farm — '
* Yes, sir. We thought it was best to take the body there—
rather than to bring it home. It would have been such a shock
for my mistress — and the other ladies. Dr. Blake said the inquest
would be held at the inn at Trevena.'
' Well,' said Leonard, with a shrug and a bigh, * it's an awful
business^ that's all that can be said about it. Lucky he has no
wife or children — no near relations to feel the blow. All we can
do is to show our respect for him, now he is gone. The body
had better be brought home here, after the inquest It will look
more respectful for him to be buried from this house. Mrs.
Tregonell's mind can be prepared by that time.
* It is prepared already,' said a low voice out of the ehadow.
* I have heard all,'
' Very sad, isn't it ? ' replied Leonard ; 'one of those nnhicky
accidents which occur every shooting sejispn. . He was a;lways a
little awkward with a gun — ^never handied one like a thorough-
bred spoiUsniaii.'
* Why did he go out shooting oa the last morning of hi^i
242 Mount Boyal.
visit % * asked Christabel. * It was you who urged him to do it
— you who planned the whole thing.'
* 1 1 What nonsense you are talking. I told him there were
plenty of birds about the Kieve — ^just as I told the other fellows.
That will do, Nicholls. You did all that could be done. Go
and get your dinner, but first send a mounted groom to Trevena
to ask Blake to come over here.'
Nicholls bowed and retired, shutting the door behind him.
* He is dead, then,' said Christabel, coming over to the hearth
where her husband was standing. * He has been killed.'
' He has had the bad luck to kill himself, as many a better
sportsman than he has done before now,' answered Leonard,
loughly.
' If I could be sure of that Leonard, if I could be sure that
his death was the work of accident — I should hardly grieve for
him — knowing that he was reconciled to the idea of death — and
that if God liad spared him this sudden end, the close of his life
must have been full of pain and weariness.'
Teais were streaming down her cheeks — tears which she
made no eifort to restrain — such tears as friendship and affection
give to the dead — tears that had no taint of guilt. But
Leonard's jealous soul was stung to fury by those innocent tears.
* Why do you stand there snivelling about him,' he
-^claimed ; * do you want to remind me how fond you were of
him — and how little you ever cared for me. Do you suppose
I am stone blind — do you suppose I don't know you to the core
of your heart 1 '
* If you know my heart you must know that it is as guiltless
of sin against you, and as true to my duty as a wife, as you, my
husband, can desire. But you must know that, or you would
not have brought Angus Hamleigh to this house.'
'Perhaps 1 wanted to try you — to watch you and him
together — to see if the old fire was quite burnt out.'
' You could not be so base — so contemptible.'
* There is no knowing what a man may be when he is used
OS I have been by you — looked down upon from the height of
a superior intellect, a loftier nature — told to keep his distance,
»B a piece of vulgar clay — hardly fit to exist beside that fine
porcelain vase, his wife. Do you think it was a pleasant spec-
tacle for me to see you and Angus Hamleigh sympathizing and
twaddling about Browning's last poem — or sighing over a sonata
of Beethoven's — I who waa outside all that kind of thing ? — a
boor — a dolt — to whom your fine sentiments and your flummery
were an unknown language. But I was only putting a case just
now, I liked Hamleigh well enough — in his way — and I asked
him here because I thought it was giving a chance to the
Vandelenr girla. That was my motive — aod my only motive'
*T(mrs on Monday^ GocPs to-day,* 243
* And he came — and he is dead,' answered Christabel, in icy
tones. *He went to that lonely place this morning — at your
instiii^ation — and he met his death there — no one knows how —
no one ever will know.'
* At my instigation ?— confound it, Christabel — yon have no
right to say such things. I told him it was a good place for
woodcock — and it pleased his fancy to try his luck there before
he left. Lonely place, be hanged. It is a place to which every
tourist goes — it is as well known as the road to this house.'
* Yet he was lying there for hours and no one knew. If
Nicholls had not gone he might be Ijdng there still. He may
have lain there wounded — his life-blood ebbing away — dying by
inches — without help — with a creature to succour or comfort him.
It was a cruel place — a place where no help could come.'
* Fortune of war,' answered Leonard, with a careless shrug.
* A sportsman must die where his shot finds him. There's many
a day I might have fallen in the Rockies, and lain there for the
lynxes and the polecats to pick my bones ; and I have walked
shoulder to shoulder with death on mountain passes, when every
step on the crumbling track might send me sliding down to the
bottomless pit below. As for poor Hamleigh ; well, as you say
yourself, he was a doomed man — a little sooner or later could
not make much difference.'
* Perhaps not,' said Christabel gloomily, going slowly to the
door ; 'but I want to know how he died.'
*Let us hope that the coroner's inquest will make your mind
easy on that point,' retorted her husband as she left the room.
CHAPTER XXIIL
•tours on MONDAY, GOD's TO-DAT,'
The warning gong sounded at half -past seven as usual, and at
eight the butler announced dinner. Captain Vandeleur and
Mr. Montagu had returned from Bodmin, and they were
gioupcd in front of the lire talking in undertones with Mr.
Tregonell, while Christabel and the younger Miss Vandeleur sat
on a sofa, silent, after a few murmured expressions of grief on
on the part of the latter lady.
*It is like a dream,' sighed Mopsy, this being the one
remark which a young person of her calibre inevitably makes
U])on such an occasion. *It is like a dreadful dream — playing
billiards last night, and now — dead ! It is too awful.'
* Yes, it is awful ; Death is always awful,' ausweretl Clhrislr
abel, mechauvcaily.
244b Mount Rr/yak
She h;id told herself that it was her duty to appear at thv
dinner-table— to fulfil all her responsibilities as wife and hostess
— not to give ,any one the right to say that she was bemoaning
him who had once been her lover ; and she was here to do her
duty. She wanted all the inhabitants of her little world to see
that she mourned for him only as a friend grieves for the loss of
a friend — soberly, with pious submission to the Divine Will
that had taken him away. For two hours she had remained on
her knees beside her bed, drowned in tears, numbed by despair,
feeling as if life could not go on without him, as if this heavily
beating heart of hers must be slowly throbbing to extinction :
and then the light of reason had begun to glimmer through the
thick gloom of grief, and her lips had moved in prayer, and, as if
in answer to her pi-ayers, came the image of her child, to comfort
and sustain her.
* Let me not dishonour my darling,' she prayed. ' Let me
remember that I am a mother as well as a wife. If I owe my
husband very little, I owe my son everything.'
Inspired by that sweet thought of her boy, unwilling, for hia
sake, to give occasion for even the feeblest scandal, she had
washed the tears from her pale cheeks, and put on a dinner
gown, and had gone down to the drawing-room just ten minutes
before the announcement of dinner.
She remembered how David, when his beloved was dead,
had risen and washed and gone back to the business of life.
* What use are my tears to him, now he is gone V she said to her-
self, as she went downstairs.
Miss Bridgeman was not in the drawing-room ; but Mopsy
was there, dressed in black, and looking very miserable.
* I could not get poor Dop to come down,' she said, apolo-
getically. ' She has been lying on her bed crying ever since she
heard tne dreadful news. She is so sensitive, poor girl ; and she
liked him so much ; and he had been so attentive to her. I hope
you'll excuse her ? *
* Please don't apologize, I can quite imagine that this shock
has been dreadful for her — for every one in the house. Perhaps
you would rather dine upstairs, so as to be with your sister ? '
* No!' answered Mopsy, taking Christabel's hand, with a touch
of real feeling. * I had rather be with you. You must feel hia
loss more than we can — you had known him so much longer.'
' Yes, it is just five years since he came to Mount KoyaL
Five years is not much in the lives of some people ; but it seems
the greater part of my life.'
* We will go away to-morrow,' said Mopsy. * I am sure yon
will be glad to get rid of us : it will be a relief, I mean. P(>r-
haps at some future time you will let us come again for a iitU«
wliile. We have b<^n so intensely happy here.'
'Yours on Monday, God!s to-day* 245
* Then I shall be happy for you to come again — next summer,
if we are here,' answeredX)hristabel, kindly, moved by Mopsy'a
iwbivet^i ' one can never tell. Next year seems so f ar ofT in the
hour of trouble.'
Dinner was announced, and they all went in, and made believe
to dine, in a gloomy silence, broken now and then by dismal
attempts at general conversation on the part of the men. Once
Mopsy took heart of grace and addressed her brother :
* Did you like the hanging. Jack? ' she asked, as if it were a
play.
* No, it was hideous, detestable. I will never put myself in
the way of being so tortured again. The guillotine is swifter
and more merciful. I saw a man blown from a gun in India
— there were bits of him on my boots when I got home — but it
was not so bad as the hanging to-day : the limp, helpless figure,
swaying and trembling in the hangman's grip while they put
the noose on, the cap dragged roughly over the ghastly face, the
monotonous croak of the parson reading on like a machine,
while the poor wretch was being made ready for his doom. It
was all horrible to the last degree. Why can't we poison our
criminals ; let them die comfortably, as Socrates died, of a dose
of some strong narcotic. The parson might have some chance —
sitting by the dying man's bed, in the quiet of his cell.'
* It would be much nicer,* said Mopsy.
* Where's Miss Bridgeman? ' Leonard asked, suddenly, looking
round the table, as if only that moment perceiving her absence.
* She is not in her room, Sir. Mary thinks she has gone out,'
answered the butler.
* Gone out — after dark. What can have been her motive for
going out at such an hour?' asked Leonard of his wife, angrily.
* I have no idea. She may have been sent for by some sick
person. You know how good she is.'
* I know what a humbug she is,' retorted Leonard. * Daniel,
^o and find out if any messenger came for Miss Bridgeman— or
if she left any message for your mistress.'
Daniel went out and came back again in five minutes. No
one had seen any messenger — no one had seen Miss Bridgeman
go out.
^That's always the case here when I want to ascertain a
fact,' growled Leonard : * no one sees or knjws anything. There
are twice too many servants for one to be decently served. Well,
it doesn't matter much. Miss Bridgeman is old enough to take
care of herself — and if she walks off a cliff — it will be her loss
and nobody else's.'
'I don't think yon ought to speak like that of a person \rhom
your mother loved — and who is my most intimate friend,' said
Christabel, with grave reproach.
246 Mount Royal
Leonard had drunk a good deal at dinner ; and indeed there
had been an inclination on the part of all three men to drown
their gloomy ideas in wine, while even Mopsy, who generally
took her fair share of champagne, allowed the butler to fill her
glass rather oftener than usual — sighing as she sipped the spark-
ling bright-coloured wine, and remembering, even in the midst
of her regret for the newly dead, that she would very soon have
returned to a domicile where Moet was not the daily beverage,
nay, where, at times, the very beer-barrel ran dry.
After dinner Christabel went to the nursery. It flashed
upon her with acutest pain as she entered the room, that when
last she had been there she had not known of Angus Ham-
leigh's death. He had been lying yonder by the waterfall,
dead, and she had not known. And now the fact of his death
was an old thing — part of the history of her life.
The time when he was alive and with her full of bright
thoughts and poetic fancies, seemed ever so long ago. Yet it
was oiily yesterday — yesterday, and gone from her life as utterly
as if it were an episode in the records of dead and gone ages — as
old as the story of Tristan and Iseult. She sat with her boy till
he fell asleep, and sat beside him as he slept, in the dim light of
the night-lamp, thinking of him who lay dead in the lonely
farmhouse among those green hills they two had loved so well
— ^hushed by the voice of the distant sea, sounding far inland
in the silence of night.
She remembered how he had talked last night of the undis-
covered country, and how, as he talked, with flushed cheeks, and
too brilliant eyes, she had seen the stamp of death on his face.
They had talked of * The Gates Ajar,' a book which they had
read together in the days gone by, and which Christabel had
often returned to since that time — a book in which the secrets of
the future are touched lightly by a daring but a delicate hand
— a book which accepts every promise of the Gospel in its most
literal sense, and overflows with an exultant belief in just such a
Heaven as poor humanity wants. In this author's creed
transition from death to life is instant — death is the Lucina of
life. There is no long lethargy of the grave, there is no time of
darkness. Straight from the bed of death the spirit rushes to
the arms of the beloved ones who have gone before. Death, so
glorified, becomes only the reunion of love.
He had talked of Socrates, and the faithful few who waited
.\t the prison doors in the early morning, when the sacred ship
had returned, and the end was near ; and of that farewell
discourse in the upper chamber of the house at Jerusalem
which seems dimly foreshadowed by the philosopher's converse
wiih his disciples — at Athens, the struggle towards light — at
Jerusalem the lifiht itself in fullest glory.
* Toiirs on Monday, God's to-day* 24*
Christabel felt herself bound by no social duty to return to
the drawing-room, more especially as Miss Vandeleur had gone
upstairs to sit with the afflicted Dopsy — who was bewailing the
dead very sincerely in her own fashion, with little bursts of
hysterical tears and fragmentary remarks.
* I know he didn't care a straw for me ' — ^she gasped, dabbing
her temples with a handkerchief soaked in eau-de-Cologne — * yet
it seemed sometimes almost as if he did : he was so attentive —
but then he had such lovely manners — no doubt he was just afa
attentive to all girls. Oh, Mop, if he had cared for me, and if I
had married him — what a paradise this earth would have been.
Mr. Tregonell told me that he had quite four thousand a year.'
And thus — and thus, witli numerous variations on the same
theme — poor Dopsy mourned for the dead man ; while the low
murmur of the distant sea, beating for ever and for ever against
the horned cliffs, and dashing silvery white about the base of
that Mechard Eock which looks like a couchant lion beeping
guard over the shore, sounded like a funeral chorus in the pauses
of her talk.
It was half -past ten when Christabel left her boy's bed-side,
and, on her way to her own room, suddenly remembered Jessie's
unexplained absence.
She knocked at Miss Bridgeman's door twice, but there was
no answer, and then she opened the door and looked in, expecting
to find the room empty.
Jessie was sitting in front of the fire in her hat and jacket,
staring at the burning coals. There was no light in the room,
except the glow and flame of the fire, but even in that cheerful
light Jessie looked deadly pale. * Jessie,' exclaimed Christabel,
going up to her and putting a gentle hand upon her shoulder, for
she took no notice of the opening of the door, * where in heaven's
name have you been ? *
* Where should I have been ? Surely you can guess 1 I hare
been to see him.'
* To the farm — alone — at night 1 '
* Alone — at night — yes ? I would have walked through storm
and fire — I would have walked through ' she set her lips like
iron, and muttered through her clenched teeth, 'Hell'
* Jessie, Jessie, how foolish ! What good could it do ? '
* None to him, I know, but perhaps a little to me. I think if
I had stayed here I should have gone stark, staring mad. I felt
my brain reeling as I sat and thought of him in the twilight, and
then it seemed to me as if the only comfort possible was in look-
ing at his dead face— holding his dead hand — and I have done i1^
and ara comforted — a little,' she said, with a laugh, which ended
in a convulsive sob.
* My good warm-hearted Jessie 1 ' murmured Christabel,
2iS Mount Boyal
bending over her lovingly, tears raining down her cheeks ; *1
know you always liked him.'
* Always liked him ! * echoed the other, staling at the fire, in
blank tearless grief ; * liked him ? yes, alwajrs.'
*But you must not take his death so despairingly, dejir.
You know that, under the fairest cii comstances, he had not
very long to live. We both knew that
* Yes ! we knew it. I knew — thought that I had realized
the fact — told myself every day that in a few months he would
be hidden from us under ground — ^gone to a life where we
cannot follow him even with our thoughts, though we pretend
to be 80 sure about it, as those women do in " The Gates Ajar."
I told myself this every day. And yet, now that he is snatched
away suddenly — cruelly — mysteriously — it is as hard to bear
as if I had believed that he would live a hundred years. I
am not like you, a piece of statuesque perfection. I cannot
say " Thy will be done," when my dearest — the only man I ever
loved upon this wide earth is snatched from me. Does that
shock your chilly propriety, you who only half loved him, and
who broke his heart at another woman's bidding ? Yes ! 1 loved
him from the first — loved him all the while he was your lover,
and found it enough for happiness to be in his company — to
see and hear him, and answer every thought of his with sympa-
thetic thoughts of mine — understanding him quicker and better
than you could, bright as ^ou are — happy to go about with you
two — ^to be the shadow in the sunshine of your glad voung
lives, just as a dog who loved him would have been nappy
following at his heels. Yes, Belle, I loved him — I think almost
from the hour he came here, in the sweet autumn twilight,
when I saw that poetic face, half in fire-glow and half in
darkness — loved him always, always, always, and admired him
as the most perfect among men ! '
* Jessie, my dearest, my bravest I And you were so true
and loyaL You never by word or look deti*ayed '
* What do you think of me ? ' cried Jessie, indignantly. * Do
you suppose that I would not rather have cut out my tongue-
thrown myself ofi' the nearest cliff — than give him one lightest
occasion to suspect what a paltry-souled creature I was — so
weak that I could not cure myself of loving another woman's
lover. While he lived I hated myself for my folly ; now he
is dead, I glory in the thought of how I loved him — ^how I
gave him the most precious treasures of my soul — my reverence —
my regard — ray tears and hopes and prayers. Those are the
only gold and frankincense and 'myrrh which the poor oi thii
earth can offer, and I gave them freely to my divinity ! '
Christabel laid her hand upon the passionate lipa ; and
kneeling by her friend's side, comf<Hi»d her with gentle caresses.
* Tours on Monday^ GocTs to-drnj* 240
* Do you suppose I am not sorry for him, Jessie?* she said
feproachfully, aiter a long pause.
•Yes, no doubt you are, in your way; but it is such an
icy way/
* Would you have me go raving about the house — I, Leonard's
wife, Leo's mother ? I try to resign myself to God's will : but
I shall remember him till the end of my days, with unspeakable
Borrow. He wa/< like sunshine in my life ; so that life without hira
seemed all one dull grey, till the baby came, and brought me
back to the sunlight, and gave me new duties, new cares ! '
* Yes I you ciin find comfort in a baby's arms — that is a
blessing. My comfort was to see my beloved in his bloody
shroud — shot through the heart — shotjthrough the heart ! Well,
the inquest will find out something to-morrow, I hope ; but I
want you to go with me to-morrow morning, as soon aa it is
light to the Kieve.*
* What for?'
*To see the spot where he died.'
* W^at will be the good, Jessie ? I know the place too well ;
it ha;? been in my mind all this evening.'
* Vhere will be some good, perhaps. At any rate, I want
you to go with me ; and if there ever was any reality in your
love, if you are not merely a beautiful piece of mechanism, with
a heart that beats by clockwork, you will go.*
* If you wish it I will go.'
* As soon as it is light — say at seven o'clock.'
* I will not go till after breakfast. I want the business of
the house to go on just as calmly as if this calamity had never
happened. I don't want any one to be able to say, "Mrs.
Tregonell is in despair at the loss of her old lover." '
* In fact you want people to suppose that you never cared
for him ! '
* They cannot suppose that, when I was once so proud of my
love. All I want is that no one should think I loved him too well
after I was a wife and mother. I wUl give no occasion for scandal.'
* Didn't I say that you were a handsome automaton % *
* I do not want any one to say hard thi^igs of me when I am
dead — hard things that my son may hear.'
* When you are dead ! You talk as if you thought you
Were to die soon. You are of the stuff that wears to threescore-
aiid-ten, and even beyond the Psalmist's limit. There is no
friction for natures of your calibre. When Werther had shot
himself, Charlotte went on cutting bread and butter, don't you
know? It was her nature to be proper, and good, and useful,
and never to give offence — her nature to cut bread and butter,*
ooncluded Jessie, laughing bitterly.
Christabel stayed with her for an hour, talking to he*"
250 Mount Boyal,
consoling her, speaking hopefully of that unknown world, so
fondly longed for, bo piously believed in by the woman who had
Jearnt her creed at Mrs. Tregonell's knees. Many tears were
ehed by Ohristabel during that hour of mournful talk ; but not
one by Jessie Bridgeman. Hers was a dry-eyed grief.
* After breakfast then we will walk to the Kieve,' said
Jessie, as Christabel left her. * Would it be too much to ask
you to make it as early as you can ? '
* I will go the moment I am free. Qood-night, dear/
CHAPTER XXIV.
DUEL OB MURDER?
All the household appeared at breakfast next morning ; even
poor Dopsy, who felt that she could not nurse her grief in soli-
tude any longer. * It's behaving too much as if you were his
widow,' Mopsy had told her, somewhat harshly ; and then there
was the task of packing, since they were to leave Mount Royal
at eleven, in order to be at Launceston in time for the one
o'clock train. This morning's breakfast was less silent than the
dinner of yesterday. Everybody felt as if Mr. Hamleigh had
been dead at least a week.
Captain Vandeleur and Mr. Montagu discussed the sad
event openly, as if the time for reticence were past ; speculated
and argued as to how the accident could have happened ; talked
learnedly about guns ; wondered whether the country surgeon
was equal to the difficulties of the case.
* I can't understand,* said Mr. Montagu, * if he was found
lying in the hollow by the waterfall, how his gun came to go off.
If he had been going through a hedge, or among the brushwood
on the slope of the hill, it would be easy enough to see how the
thing might have happened ; but as it is, I'm all in the dark.'
* You had better go and watch the inquest, and make yourself
nseful to the coroner,' sneered Leonard, who had been drinking
his coffee in moody silence until now. * You seem to think
yourself so uncommonly clever and far seeing.'
* Well, I flatter myself I know as much about sport as most
men ; and I've handled a gun before to-day, and know that the
worst gun that was ever made won't go off and shoot a fellow
through the heart without provocation of some kind,'
* Who said he was shot through the heart 1 *
* Somebody did — one of your people, I think.
Mrs. Tregonell sat at the other end of the table, half hidden
by the large old-fashioned silver urn, and next her sat Jessie
Bridgeman, a spare small figure in a cloae-fitting black gown,
Dml or Murder f 251
A pale drawn face with a look of burnt-out fires — -pale as the
crater when the volcanic forces have exhausted themselves. At
a look from Christabel she rose, and they two left the room
together. Five minutes later they had left the house, and were
walking towards the cliflf, by following which they could reach
the Kieve without going down into Boscastle. It was a wild
walk for a windy autumn day ; but these two loved its wildness
— had walked here in many a happy hour, with souls full of
careless glee. Now they walked silently, swiftly, looking neither
to the sea nor the land, though both were at their loveliest in
the shifting lights and shadows of an exquisite October morning
— sunshine enough to make one believe it was summer — breezes
enough to blow about the fleecy clouds in the blue, clear sky, to
ripple the soft dun-coloured heather on the hillocky common,
and to give life and variety to the sea.
It was a long walk ; but the length of the way seemed of
little account to these two. Christabel had only the sense of
a dreary monotony of grief. Time and space had lost their
meaning. This dull aching sorrow was to last for ever — till the
grave — broken only by brief intervals of gladness and forge t-
fulness with her boy.
To-day she could hardly keep this one source of consolation
in her mind. All her thoughts were centered upon him who lay
yonder dead.
* Jessie,' she said, suddenly laying her hand on her com-
panion's wrist, as they crossed the common above the slate-
quarry, seaward of Trevalga village, with its little old church
and low square tower. * Jessie, I am not going to see him.'
* What weak stuff you are made of,' muttered Jessie, con-
temptuously, turning to look into the white frightened face.
*No, you are not going to look upon the dead. You would be
afraid, and it might cause scandal. No, you are only going to
see the place where he died ; and then perhape you, or I will see
a little further into the darkness that hides his fate. You heard
how those men were puzzling their dull brains about it at break-
fast. Even they can see that there is a mystery.*
* What do you mean 1 '
* Only as much as I say. I know nothing — ^yei.*
* But you suspect 1 *
* Yes. My mind is full of suspicion ; but it is all guess- worl
-—no shred of evidence to go upon.'
They came out of a meadow into the high road presently—
the pleasant rustic road which so many happy holiday-makina
people tread in the sweet summer time — the way to that wild
spot where England's first hero was born ; the Englishman'i
Troy, cradle of that fair tradition out of which grew the Englialv-
Iliad.
V
252 Mownt BoyaX,
Besiclo the gate tlirough which they came lay that mighty
»lab of Bpar which has been christened King Ai-thur'a Quoit, but
Ivhich the Rector of Trevalga declared to be the covering stone
of a Cromlech. Christabel remembered how facetious they liad
all been about Arthur and his game of quoits, live years ago, in
the bright autumn weather, when the leaves were blown about
so lightly in the warm west wind. And now the leaves fell
with a mournful heaviness, and every falling leaf seemed an
emblem of death.
They went to the door of iho. farm-house to get the key of
the gate which leads to the Kieve. Cia-isiabel stood in the
little quadrangular garden, looking up at the house, while Jessie
rang and asked for what she wanted.
' Did no one except Mr. Hamleigh go to the Kieve yesterday
until the men went to look for him 1 * she asked of the young
woman who brought her the key.
* No one else, Miss. No one but him had the key. They
•found it in the pocket of his shooting jacket when he was brought
liere.'
Involuutirily, Jessie put the key to her lips. His hand waa
almost the la^st that had touched it.
Just as they were leaving the garden, where the last of the
yellow dahlias were fading, Christabel took Jessie by the arm,
and stopped her.
* In which room is he lying ? ' she asked. * Can we see the
window from here ? '
* Yes, it is that one.*
Jessie pointetl to a low, latticed window in the old grey
house — a casement round which myrtle and honeysuckle clunn
lovingly. The lattice stood open. The soft sweet ai^r waa
blowing into the room, just faintly stirring the white dimity
curtain. And /le was lying there in that last ineffable repose.
They went up the steep lane, between tall tangled hedges,
wheie the ragged robin still showed his pinky blossoms, and
many a pale yellow hawksweed enlivened the faded foliage,
while the ferns upon the banks, wet from yesterday's rain, still
grew rankly green.
^ On the crest of the hill the breeze grew keener, and the dead
leaves were being ripped from the hedgerows, and whirled down,
into the hollow, where the autumn wind seemed to follow
Christabel and Jessie as they descended, with a long plaintive
min^ cry, like the l^ent at an Irish funeral. All was dark
and oesolate in the gi^en valley, as Jessie unlocked the gate, and
they went slowly down the steep slippery path, amopg moss-growu
rock and drooping fern — down and down, by sharply windinf*
ways, so narrow that they could only go one by one, till they
cime within the sound of the rushing w^ter, and then down into
Dtiel or Murder? 258
the narrow cleft, where the waterfall tumbles into a broad shallow
bed, and dribbles away among green slimy rocks.
Here there is a tiny bridge — a mere plank — that spans the
water, with a hand-rail on one side. They crossed this, and stood
on the broad flat stone on the other side. This is the very heart
of St Nectan's mystery. Here, high in air, the water pierces
the rock, and falls, a slender silvery column, into the rocky bed
below.
* Look 1 * said Jessie Bridgeman, pointing down at the stone.
There were marks of blood upon it — the traces of stjiina
which had been roughly \viped away by the men who found the
body.
' This is where he stood,' said Jessie, looking round, and then
she ran suddenly across to the narrow path on the other side.
*And some one else stood here — here — just at the end of the
bridge. There are marks of other feet here.'
* Those of the men who came to look for him,* said
ChristabeL'
* Yea ; that makes it difficult to tell. Thei-e are the traces of
many feet. Yet I know,' she muttered, with clenched teeth,
'that some one stood here — just here — and shot him. They
were standing face to face. See !' — she stepped the bridge with
light swift feet — * so ! at ten paces. Don't you see ? '
Christabel looked at her with a white scared face, remembering
her husband's strange manner the night before la^'t, and those
parting words at Mr. Hamleigh's bed-i'oom door. * Vqu under-
stand my plan?' * Perfectly.' * It saves all trouble, don't you
see.' Those few words had impressed themselves uj)on her memory
— insignificant as they were — because of something in the tone in
which they were spoken — soniething in the manner of the two
men.
* You mean,' she said slowly, with her hand clenching the
rail of the bridge, seeking unconsciously for support ; ' you mean
tJjat Angus and my husband met here by appointment, and
fought a duel ? '
' That is my reading of the mystery.'
* Here in this lonely place — without witnesses — my husband
murdered him ! '
' They would not count it murder. Fate might have been the
other way. Your husband might have been killed.'
' No ! * cried Christabel, passionately ; * Angus would not
have killed him. That would have been too deep a dishonour !'
She stood silent for a few moments, white as death, looking
round her with wide, despairing eyes.
* He has been murdered ! ' she siiid, in hoarse, faint tones.
* That suspicion has been in my mind dark — sliapeless — horrible
— from the fir^t. He has been murdered ! And I am to spend
254 Mount Boyal.
the rest of my life with his murderer ! * Then, with a sudden
hysterical cr}", she turned angrily upon Jessie.
* How dare you tell lies about my husband ? ' she exclaimed.
Don't you know that nobody came here yesterday except Angu s ;
no one else had the key. The girl at the farm told us so.'
* The key ! ' echoed Jessie, contemptuously. * Do you thiok
a gate, breast high, would keep out an athlete like your husband %
Besides, there is another way of getting here, without going
near the gate, where he might be seen, perhaps, by some farm
labourer in the field. The men were ploughing there yesterday,
and heard a shot. They told me that last night at the farm.
Wait I wait ! ' cried Jessie, excitedly.
She rushed away, light as a lapwing, flying across the
narrow bridge bounding from stone to stone — vanishing amidst
dark autumn foliage. Christabel heard her steps dying away
in the distance. Then there was an interval of some minutes,
during which Christabel, hardly caring to wonder what had
become of her companion, stood clinging to the handrail, and
staring down at stones and shingle, feathery ferns, soddened logs,
logs, the water rippling and lapping round all things, crystal clear.
Then startled by a voice above her head, she looked up and
saw Jessie's light figure just as she dropped herself over the
sharp arch of rock, and scrambled through the cleft, hanging on
by her hands, finding a foothold in the most perilous places — im
danger of instant death.
' My God I ' murmured Christabel, with clasped hands, not
daring to cry aloud lest she should increase Jessie's peril. ' She
will be killed.*
With a nervous grip, and a muscular strength which no one
could have supposed possible in so slender a frame, Jessie
Bridgeman made good her descent, and stood on the shelf of
slippery rock, below the waterfall, unhurt save for a good many
scratches and cuts upon the hands that had clung so fiercely tc
root and bramble, crag and boulder.
* What I could do your husband could do,' she said. * He
did it often when he was a boy — you must remember his
boasting of it. He did it yesterday. Look at this.*
' This ' was a ragged narrow shread of heather cloth, with a
brick-dust red tinge in its dark warp, which Leonard had much
afi'ected this year — *Mr. Tregonell's colour, is it not?' asked
Jessie.
* Yes — it is like his coat.'
* Like ? It is a part of his coat. I found it hanging on «
bramble, at the top of the cleft. Try if you can find the coat
when you get home, and «iee if it is not torn. But most likely
he will have hidden the cloihes he wore yest,erday. Murderers
generally do.'
Duel or Murder t 265
*fiow dare you call him a murderer?' said CliriHia Ul,
to'embling.aud cold to the heart. It seemed to her as if the mild
nutumnal air— here in this sheltered nook which was always
warmer than the rest of the world — had suddenly become an
icy blast that blew straight from far away arctic seas. * How
dare you call my husband a murderer ? '
* Oh, I forgot. It was a duel I suppose : a fair fight, planned
so skilfully that the result should seem like an accident, and the
survivor should run no risk. Still to my mind, it was murder
all the same— for I know who provoked the quarrel — yes —
and you know — you, who are his wife — and who for respecta-
bility's sake, will try to shield him — you know — for you must
have seen hatred and murder in his face that night when he
came into the drawing-room — and asked Mr. Hamleigh for a
few words in private. It was then he planned this work,*
pointing to the broad level stone against which the clear water
was rippling with such a pretty playful sound, while those two
women stood looking at each other with pale intent faces, fixed
eyes, and tremulous lips ; ' and Angus Hamleigh, who valued
his brief remnant of earthly life so lightly, consented — reluctantly
firhaps — but too proud to refuse. -A nd he fired in the air — yes,
know he would not have injured your husband by so much aa
a hair of his head — I know him well enough to be sure of that.
He came here like a victim to the altar. Leonard Ti-egonell must
have known that. And I say that though he, with his Mexican
freebootei-'s morality, may have called it a fair fight, it was
murder, deliberate, diabolical murder.'
* If this is true,' said Christabel in a low voice, * I will have
no mercy upon him.'
' Oh, yes, you will. You will sacrifice feeling to propriety,
you will put a good face upon things, for the sake of your son.
You were born and swaddled in the purple of respectability.
You will not stir a finger to avenge the dead.'
* I will have no mercy upon him,* repeated Cliristabel, with a
strange look in her eyes.
CHAPTER XXV.
*DUST TO DUST.'
Thb inquest at the WharnclifFe Arms was conducted in r»
thoroughly respectable, unsuspicious manner. No searching
questions w«re asked, no inferences drawn. To the fai*mers ana
tradespeople who constituted that rustic jury, the case seemed Uvt
«impie to need any severe interi-ogatiot. A gentleman Ktaying
8
256 Mount BoyaL
in a country house goes out shooting, and is at unlucky as t»
shoot himself instead of the birds whereof he went in searcli.
fie is found with an empty bag, and a charge of swan-shot
tlirougli his heart.
*Hard lines,* as Jack Vandeleur observed, $otto voce, to a
neighbouring squire, while the inquest was pursuing its sleepy
coui-se, * and about the queerest fluke T ever saw on any table.'
* Was it a flake ? * muttered little Montagu, lifting himself on
tiptoe to watch the proceedings. He and his companions were
standing among a little crowd at the door of the ju^ice-room.
* It looks to me uncommonly as if Mr. Hamleigh had shot him-
self. We all know he was deadly sweet on Mrs. T., although
both of them behaved beautifully.'
* Men have died — and worms have eaten them— but not for
lovf,' quoted Captain Vandeleur, who li.-id a hearsay knowledge
of Shakespeare, though he had never read a Shakespearian play in
his life. * If Hamleigh was so dead tired of 'jfe that he wanted
to kill himself he could have done it comfortably in hia own
room.'
* He might wish to avoid the imputation of suicide.*
* Pshaw, how can any man care what comes afterwards ?
Bury me where four roads meet, with a stake through ray body,
or in Westminster Abbey under a marble monument, and the
result is just the same to me.*
•That's because you are an out-and-out Bohemian. But
Hamleigh was a dandy in all things. He would be nice about
the details of his death.'
Mr. Hamleigh's valet was now being questioned as to his
master's conduct and manner on the morning he left Mount
lioyal. The man replied that his master's manner had been
exactly the same as usual. He was always very quiet — s;iid no
more than was necessary to be said. Ho was a kind master but
never familiar. * He never made a companion of me,' said the
man, * though I'd been with him at home and abrojid twelve
years ; but a better master never lived. He was always an
early riser — there was nothing out of the way in his getting up
at six, and going out at seven. There wjis only one thing at all
out of the commofi, and that was his attending to his gun him-
self, instead of telling me to get it ready for him.'
* Had he many guns with him ? '
* Only two. The one he took was an old gun — a favourite.*
*Do you know why he took swan-shot to shoot woodcocks?'
* No — ^unless he made a mistake in the charge. He took the
cartridges out of the case himself, and put them into his pocket
Ho was an experienced sportsman, though he was never as fond
of BjKirt as the generality of gentlemen.'
* Do vou know if he had been troubled in mind of late I*
•Dust to Dmt: &57
•No; I dont think he had wiy trouble on his mind. He
was in very bad health, and knew that he had not long to live ;
but he seemed quite happy and contented. Indeed, judging by
what I saw of him, I should say that he was in a more easy,
contented frame of mind during the last few months than he had
ever been for the last four years.'
This closed the examination. There had been very few
witnesses called— only the medical man, the men who had found
the body, the girl at the farm, who declared that she had given
the key to Mr. Hamleigh a little before eight that mominff, that
no one else had asked for the key till the men came from Moimt
Boyal— that to her knowledge, no one but the men at work on
the farm had gone up the lane that morning. A couple of farm
labourers gave the same testimony — they had been at work in
the topmost field all the morning, and no one had gone to the
Kieve that way except the gentleman that was killed. They
had heard a shot — or two shots — they were not certain which,
fired between eight and nine. They were not very clear as to
the hour, and they could not say for certain whether they heard
one or two shots ; but they knew that the report was a very
loud one — unusually loud for a sportsman's shot.
Mr. Tregonell, although he was in the room ready to answer
any questions, was not interrogated. The jury went in a
wagonette to see the body, which was still lying at the farm,
and returned after a brief inspection of that peaceful clay — the
countenance wearing liiat beautiful calm which is said to be
eharacteristic of death from a gun-shot wound—to give their
erdict.
* Death by misadventure.'
The body was carried to Mount Royal after dark, and three
days later there was a stately funeral, to which first cousins and
second cousins of the dead came as from the four corners of the
ea^Jbh ; for Angus Hamleigh, dying a bachelor, and leaving a hand-
some estate behind him, was a person to be treated with all those
last honours which aflFectionate kindred can ofi'er to poor humanity.
He was buried in the little churchyard in the hollow, where
Christabel and he had heard the robin singmg and the dull thud
of the earth thrown out of an open grave in the calm autumn
sunlight. Now in the autumn his own grave was dug in the
same peaceful spot — in accordance with a note which his valet,
who knew his habits, found in a diary.
*Oct. 11. — If I should die in Cornwall — and there are times
when I feel as if death were nearer than my doctor told me at
fur last interview — I should like to be buried in Minster
Churchyard. I have outlived all family associatioiLs, and I
rfiould like to lie in a spot which is dear to me for its own sake.'
A will Uad been found in Mr. Hamleigh's dfupatch Ijoa;
258 Mount Boyai
which receptacle M'as opened by his lawyer, who dame from
London on purpose to take charge of any papers which his client
might have in his possession at the time of his death. The bulk
of his papers were no doubt in his chambers in the Albany ;
chambers which he had taken on coming of age ; and which he
had occupied at intervals ever since.
Mr. Tregonell showed himself keenly anxious that every-
thing should be done in a strictly legal manner, and it was by
his own hand that the lawyer was informed of his cUent's death,
and invited to Mount Royal. Mr. Biyanstone, the solicitor, a
thorough man of the world, and an altogether agreeable per-
son, appeared at the Manor House two days before the funeral,
and, being empowered by Mr. Tregonell to act as he pleased,
sent telegrams far and wide to the dead man's kindred, who
came trooping like carrion crows to the funeral feast.
Angus Hamleigh was buried in the afternoon ; a mild,
peaceful afternoon at the end of October, with a yellow light in
the western sky, which deepened and brightened as the funeral
train wound across the valley, climbed the steep street of Bos-
castle, and then wound slowly downwards into the green heart
of the hill, to the little rustic burial place. That orb of molten
gold was sinking behind the edge of the moor just when the
Vicar read the last words of the funeral service. Golden and
crimson gleeuns touched the landscape here and there, golden
lights still lingered on the sea, as the mourners, so thoroughly
formal and conventional for the most part — Jack Vandeleur and
little Monty amidst the train with carefully-composed features
— went back to their carriages. And then the shades of evening
came slowly down, and spread a dark pall over hill-side, and
hedgerow, andj churchyard, where there was no sound but
the monotonous fall of the earth, which the grave-digger was
ahovelling into that new grave.
There had been no women at the funeral. Those two who
each after her own peculiar fashion, had loved the dead man,
were shut in their own rooms, thinking of him, picturing, with
too vivid imagery, the lowering of the coffin in the new-made
grave — hearing the solemn monotony of the clergyman's voice,
sounding clear in the clear air — the first shovelful of heart
on the coflBn-lid — dust to dust ; dust to dust.
Lamps were lighted in the drawing-room, where the will
was to be read. A large wood fire burned brightly — pleasant
after the lowered atmosphere of evening. Wines and other
refreshments stood on a table near the hearth ; another table
stood ready for the lawyer. So far as there could be, or ought
to be, comfort and cheeriness on so sad an occasion, comfort and
cheeriness were here. The cousins — first and second — warmed
Uieuiselvea before the fire, and discoursed in low nmrmurs of
'Dust to Dust: 259
the time and the trouble it had cost them to reach thia out-of«
the-way hole, and discussed the means of getting away from
it. Mr. Tregonell stood on one side of the hearth, leaning his
broad back heavily against the sculptured chimney-piece, and
listening moodily to Captain Vandeleur's muttered discourse.
He had insisted upon keeping his henchman with him during
this gloomy period ; sending an old servant as far as Plymouth
to see the Miss Vandeleurs into the London train, rather than
part with his familiar friend. Even Mr. Montagu, who had
delicately hinted at departure, was roughly bidden to remain.
* I shall be going away myself in a week or so,' said Mr.
Tregonell. *I don't mean to spend the winter at this fa^^-
end of creation. It will be time enough for you to go when
I go.'
The friends, enjoying free quarters which were excellent in
their way, and having no better berths in view, freely forgave
the bluntness of the invitation, and stayed. But they com-
mented between themselves in the seclusion of the smoking
room upon the Squire's disinclination to be left without cheerful
company.
'He's infernally nervous, that's what it all means,' said
little Monty, who had all that cock-sparrowish pluck which
small men are wont to possess — the calm security of insignifi-
cance. 'You wouldn't suppose a great burly fellow like
Tregonell, who has travelled all over the world, would be scared
by a death in his house, would you ? '
' Death is awful, let it come when it will,' answered Jack
Vandeleur, dubiously. ' I've seen plenty of. hard-hitting in the
hill-country, but I'd go a long way to avoid seeing a strange dog
die, let alone a dog I was fond of.'
* Tregonell couldn't have been very fond of Hamleigh, that's
certain,' said Monty.
* They seemed good friends.'
* Seemed ; yes. But do you suppose Tregonell ever forgot
that Mr. Hamleigh and his wife had once been engaged to be
married ? It isn't in human nature to forget that kind of thing,
and he made believe that he asked Hamleigh here to give one
of your sisters a chance of getting a rich husband,' said Monty,
rolling up a cigarette, as he sat adroitly balanced on the arm of
a large chair, and shaking his head gently, with lowered eyelids,
and a cjmical smile curling his thin lips. ' That was a little t<»
thin. He asked Hamleigh here because he was savagely jealoue,
and suspected his motive for turning up in this part of tib^i
country, and wanted to see how he and Mrs. Tregonell wo»»lA
carry on.'
' Whatever he wanted, I'm sure he saw no harm in either of
them,' aftid Captain Vandeleur. 'I'm as quick as any maii ai
260 Mount Boyah
twigging that kind of thing, and 111 swear that it was all ftuJ
and above board with those two ; they behaved beautifully.
*So they did, poor things,' answered Monty, in his little
purring way. * And yet Tregonell wasn't happy.*
* He'd have been better pleased if Hamleigh had proposed to
my sister, as he ought to have done,' said Vandeleur, trying to
look indignant at the memory of Bopsy's wrongs.
* Now drop that, old Van,' said Monty, laughing softly and
pleasantly, as he lit his cigarette, and began to smoke, dreamily,
daintily, like a man to whom smoking is a fine art. * Sink your
sister. As I said before, that's too thin. Dopsy is a dear
little girl — one of the five or six and twenty nice girls whom I
passionately adore ; but she was never anywhere within range of
Hamleigh. First and foremost she isn't his style, and secondly
he has never got over the loss of Mrs. Tregonell. He behaved
beautifully while he was here ; but he was just as much in lov«
with her as he was four years ago, when I used to meet them at
dances — a regular pair of Arcadian lovers ; Daphne and Chloe,
and that kind of thing. She only wanted a crook to make the
picture perfect.'
And now Mr. Bryanstone had hummed and hawed a little,
and had put on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, and cousina
near and distant ceased their conversational undertones, and
seated themselves conveniently to listen.
The will was brief. ' To Percy Ritherdorsg Commander in
Her Majesty's Navy, my first cousin and old schoolfellow, in
memory of his dear mother's kindness to one who had no mother,
I bequeath ten thousand pounds, and my sapphire ring, which
has been an heirloom, and which I hope he will leave to any son
of his whom he may call after me.
* To my servant, John Danby, five himdred pounds in consols,
* To my housekeeper in the Albany, two hundred and fifty.
' To James Bryanstone, my very kind friend and solicitor of
Lincoln's Inn, my collection of gold and silver snuff-boxes, and
Eoman intaglios.
* All the rest of my estate, real and personal, to be vested in
trustees, of whom the above-mentioned James Bryanstone shall
be one, and the Kev. John Carlyon, of Trevena, Cornwall, the
other, for the sole use and benefit of Leonard George Tregonell,
now an infant, who shall, with his father and mother's consent,
assume the name of Hamleigh after that of Tregonell upon
coming of age, and I hope that his father and mother will
accept this legacy for their son in the spirit of pure friendship
for them, and attachment to the boy by which it is dictited,
and that they will sufter their son so to perpetuate the name o^
one who wiU die childless/
•Dust to DuaV 201
Tliere was an awful silence — perfect collapse on the part oi
the cousins, the one kinsman selected for benefaction being now
with his ship in the Mediterranean.
And then Leonard Tregonell rose from his seat by the fire, and
came close up to the table at which Mr. Bryanstone was sitting.
*Am I at liberty to reject that legacy on my son's part?'
he asked.
* Certainly not. The money is left in trust. Your son can
do what he likes when he comes of age. But why should you
wish to decline such a legacy — left in such friendly terms 1 Mr.
Hamleigh was your friend.'
* He wiis ray mother's friend — for me only a recent acquain-
tance. It seems to me that there is a sort of indirect insult in
such a bequest, as if I were unable to provide for my boy — as if
I were likely to run through everything, and make him a jxauper
befbre he comes of age.*
' Believe me there is no such implication,' said the lawyer,
smiling blandly at the look of trouble and anger in the other
man's face. * Did you never hear before of money being left to
a man who already has plenty ? That is the general bent of all
legacies. In this world it is the poor who are sent empty away,
murmured Mr. Bryanstone, with a sly glance under his spectacles
at the seven blank faces of the seven cousins. * I consider that
Mr. Hamleigh — who was my very dear friend — has paid you tlie
highest compliment in his power, and that you have every reason
to honour his memory.'
* And legally I have no power to refuse his property 1 *
* Certainly not. The estate ia not left to you — you have no
power to touch a sixpence of it.'
* And the will is dated r
* Just three weeks ago.'
* Within the tirst week of this visit here. He "^ust have
taken an inordinate fancy to my boy.*
Mr. Bryanstone smiled to himself softly with lowered eyelids,
as he folded up the will — a holograph will upon a siiigle sheet of
Bath post — witnessed by two of the Mount Royal servants. The
family solicitor knew all about Angus Hamleigh's engagement to
Miss Courtenay — had even received instructions for drawing the
marriage settlement — but he was too much a man of the world
to refer to that fact.
* Was not Mr. Hamleigh's father engaged to your mother V
he asked.
*Y^»
* Then don't you think that respect for your mother may have
had some influence with Mr. Hamleigh when he made your soil
hisheu-?'
, . .u^ *^J am not going to speculate about his motives. I only wi«h
262 Mount Royal,
he had left his money to an asylum for idiots— or to his cousins *
— with a glance at the somewhat vacuous countenances of the
dead man's kindred, * or that I were at liberty to decline his gift
— which I should do, flatly.'
* This sounds as if you were prejudiced against my lamented
friend. I thought you liked him.'
* So I did,* stammered Leonard, * but not well enough to give
him the right to patronise me with his d — d legacy.*
* Mr. Tregonell,' said the lawyer, frowning, ' I have to remind
you that my late client has left you, individually, nothing — and
I must and that your language and manner are most unb«fitinij
this melancholy occasion.'
Leonard grumbled an inaudible reply, and walked back to the
fire-place. The whole of this conversation had been carried on
in undertones — so that the cousins who had gathered in a group
upon the hearth-nig, and who were for the most part absorbed
in pensive reflections upon the futility of earthly hopes, heard
very little of it. They belonged to that species of well-dressed
nonentities, more or less impecunious, which sometimes constitute
the outer fringe upon a good old family. To each of them it
seemed a hard thing that Angus Hamleigh had not remembered
him individually, choosing him out of the ruck of cousiuship as a
meet object for bounty.
* He ought to have left me an odd thousand,' murmured a
beardless subaltern ; * he knew how badly I wanted it, for I
borrowed a pony of him the last time he asked me to breakfast ;
and a man of good family must be very hard up when he comes
to borrowing ponies.'
* I dare say you would not have demuned to making it a
monkey, if Mr. Hamleigh had proposed it,' said his interlocutor.
'Of course not: and if he nad been generous he would have
given me something handsome, instead of being so confoundedly
literal as to write his check for exactly the amount I asked for.
A man of his means and age ought to have had ^more feeling for
a young fellow in his first season. And now I am out of pocket
for my expenses to this infernal hole.'
Thus, and with other wailings of an approximate character,
did Angus Hamleigh's kindred make their lamentation : and then
they all began to arrange amoung themselves for getting away as
early as possible next morning — and for travelling together, with
a dista \t idea of a little ' Nap' to beguile the weariness of the
way between Plymouth and Paddington. There was room enough
for them all at Mount Royal, and Mr. Tregonell was not a man
to permit any guests, however assembled, to leave his house for
the shelter of an inn ; so the cousins stayed, dined heavily,
imoked as furiously as those furnace chimneys which are supposed
«t to smoke, all the evening, and thought they were passing
< Dust to Dust. 203
▼iitnoTis for refraining from the relaxation of pool, or shell-out —
opining that the click of the balls might have an imholy sound so
soon after a fmieral. Debarred from this amusement, they
discussed the career and character of the dead man, and were aU
agreed, in the friendliest spirit, that there had been very little in
him, and that he had made a poor thing of his life, and obtained
a most inadequate amount of pleasure out of his money.
Mount Royal was clear of them all by eleven o'clock next
morning. Mr. Montagu went away with them, and only Captain
Vandeleur remained to bear Leonard company in a house which
now seemed given over to gloom. Chris tabel kept her room,
with Jessie Bridgeman in constant attendance upon her. She
had not seen her husband since her return from the Kieve, and
Jessie had told him in a few resolute words that it would not be
well for them to meet.
* She is very ill,' said Jessie, standing on the threshold of th»
room, while Leonard remained in the corridor outside. *Dr.
llayle has seen her, and he says that she nmst have perfect quiet
— no one is to worry her — no one is to talk to her — the shock she
has suffered in this dreadful business has shattered her nerves.*
* Why can't you say in plain words that she is grieving for the
only man she ever loved,* asked Leonard.
* I am not going to say that which is not true ; and which you
better than any one else, know is not true. It is not Angus
Hamleigh's death, but the manner of his death, which she feels,
Take that to your heart, Mr. TregonelL*
* You are a viper ! ' said Leonai'd, * and you always were a
viper. Tell my wife — when she is well enough to hear reasoM —
that I am not going to be sat upon by her, or her toady ; and
that as she is going to spend her winter dissolved in tears for
Mr. Hamleigh's death, I shall spend mine in South America, with
Jack Vandeleur.'
Three days later his arrangements were all made for leaving
Cornwall. Captain Vandeleur was very glad to go with him,
upon what he. Jack, pleasantly called *reciproc^ terms,' Mr.
Tregonell paying all expenses as a set-off against his friend's
cheerful society. There was no false pride about Poker Vaa-
deleur ; no narrow-minded dislike to being paid for. He was
so thoroughly assured as to the perfect equitableness of the
transaction.
On the morning he left Mount Royal, Mr. Tregonell weiit
into the nursery to bid his son good-bye. He contrived, by some
mild artifice, to send the nurse on an errand ; and while she was
away, strained the child to his breast, and hugged and kissed
him with a rough fervour which he had never before shown.
The boy quavered a little, and his lip drooped under that rough
caress — and then the clear blue eyes looked up and saw that thif
264 Mmmt Boyal.
▼ehemenc5e meant love, and the chubby arms ching closely round
the father's neck.
* Poor little beggar ! ' muttered Leonard, his eyes clouded
with tears. * I wonder whether I shall ever see him again. He
might die — or I — there is no telling. Hard lines to leave him
for six months on end — but' — with a suppressed shudder — *I
should go mad if I stayed here.'
The nurse came back, and Leonard put the child on his
rocking-horse, which he had left reluctantly at the father's
entrance, and left the nursery without another word. In the
corridor he lingered for some minutes — now staring absently at
the family portraits — now looking at the door of his wife's room.
He had been occupying a bachelor room at the other end of the
house since her illness.
Should he force an entrance to that closed chamber — defy
Jessie Bridgeman, and take leave of his wife ? — the wife whom,
after the bent of his own natui-e, he had passionately loved.
What could he say to her ? Very little, in his present mood.
What would she say to him ? There was the rub. From that
pale face — from those uplifted eyes — almost as innocent as the
eyes that had looked at him just now — he shrank in absolute
fear.
At the last moment, after he had put on his overcoat, and
wlicn the dogcart stood waiting for him at the door, he sat down
and scribbled a few hasty lines of farewell.
* I am told you are too ill to see me, but cannot go without
one word of good-bye. If I thought you cared a rap for me, I
should stay ; but I believe you have set yourself against me
because of this man's death, and that you will get well all the
sdoner for my being far away. Perhaps six months hence, when
I come back again — if I don't get killed out yonder, which is
always on the cards — you may liave learnt to feel more kindly
towards me. God knows I have loved you as well as ever man
loved woman — too well for my own happiness. Good-bye. Take
care of the boy ; and don't let that little viper, Jessie Bridgeman,
poison your mind against me.'
'Leonard ! are you coming to-day or to-morrow?* cried Jack
Vandeleur's stentorian voice from the hall. * We shall lose the
train at Launceston, if you don't look sharp.'
Thus summoned, Leonard thrust his letter into an envelope,
directed it to his wife, and gave it to Daniel, who was hovering
about to do due honour to his master's departure — the master
for whose infantine sports he had made his middle-aged back aa
the back of a horse, and perambulated the passages on all-fours,
twenty years ago — the master who seemed but too likely to bring
his giev hairs with sorrow to the grave, judgii);,' by the pace at
vhich he now appeared to be uavelliug along the roe^ to ruia.
*Pcdnfor thy Girdle, and Sorrow upon thy Head.' 265
CHAPTEE XXVI.
*PAIW FOR THY GIRDLE, AND SORROW UPON THY HBAIX*
Now came a period of gloom and solitude at Mount Royal. Mrs.
Tregonell lived secluded in her own rooms, rarely leaving them
save to visit her boy in his nursery, or to go for long lonely
rambles with Miss Bridgeman. The lower part of the house was
given over to silence and emptiness. It w;aa winter, and the
roads were not inviting for visitors ; so, after a few calls had
been made by n(;ic;hbours who lived within ten miles or so, and
thoue caliei-s had been politely informed by Daniel that his.
mistress was confined to her room by a severe cough, and wjis not
well enough to see any one, no more carriages drove up the long
avenue, and the lodge-keeper's place became a sinecure, save for
opening the gate in the morning, and shutting it at dusk.
Mra. Tregonell neither rode nor drove, and the horses were
only taken out of their stables to be exercised by grooms and
underlings. The servants fell into the way of living their own
lives, almost as if they had been on board wages in the absence
of the family. The good old doctor, who had attended Chiistabel
in all her childish illnesses, came twice a week, and stayed an
hour or so in the morning-room upstairs, closeted with his patieut
and her companion, and then looked at little Leo in tua nursery,
that young creature growing and thriving exceedingly nraidsi. the
gloom and silence of the house, and awakening the ectioes
occasionally with bursts of baby mirth.
None of the servants knew exactly what was amiss with Mrs.
Tregonell. Jessie guarded and fenced her in with such jealous
care, hardly letting any other member of the household spend
five minutes in her company. They only knew that she was
very white, very sad-looking ; that it was with thvj utmost
difficulty she was persuaded to take sufficient nourishment to
sustain life ; and that her only recreation consiste-i m those long
walks with Jessie — walks which they took in all weathers, and
sometimes at the strangest hours. The people about Boscastle
grew accustomed to the sight of those two solitary women, clad
in dark cloth ulsters, with close-fitting felt hats, that defied wind
and weather, armed with sturdy umbrellas, tramping over fields
and commons, by hilly paths, through the winding valley where
the stream ran loud and deep after the autumn rains, on the cliffs
above the wild grey sea — always avoiding as much as possible all
beaten tracks, and the haunts of mankind. Those who did meet
the two reported that there was something strange in the looks
and ways of both. They did not talk to each other as most ladies
talked, to beguile the way : they marched on in silenoo -th«
266 Mount Boyal
younger, fairer face pale aa death and inexpressibly sad, and with
a look as of one who walks in her sleep, with wide-open, unseeing
eyes.
* She looks just like a person who might walk over the cliff,
if there was no one by to take care of her,' said Mrs. Penny, the
butcher's wife, who had met them one day on her way home
from Camelf ord Market ; * but Miss Bridgeman, she do take such
care, and she do watch every step of young Mrs. Tregonell's ' —
Christabel was always spoken of as young Mrs. Tregonell by
those people who had known her aunt. * I'm afraid the poor
dear lady has gone a little wrong in her head since M»
Hamleigh shot himself ; and there are some as do think he shot
himself for her sake, never having got over her marrying our
Squire.'
On many a winter evening, when the eea ran high and wild
at the foot of the rocky promontory, and overhead a wilder sky
seemed like another tempestuous sea inverted, those two women
paced the grass-grown hill at Tintagel, above the nameless graves,
among the ruins of prehistorical splendour.
They were not always silent, as they walked slowly to and fro
among the rank grass, or stood looking at those wild waves which
came rolling in like solid walls of shining black water, to burst
into ruin with a thunderous roar against the everlasting rocks
They talked long and earnestly in this solitude, and in other
solitary spots along that wild and varied coast ; but none but
themselves ever knew what they talked about, or what was the
delight and relief which they foimd in the dark grandeur of that
winter sky and sea. And so the months crept by, in a dreary
monotony, and it was spring once more ; all the orchards full of
bloom — ^those lovely little orchards of Alpine Boscastle, here
nestling in the deep gorge, there hanging on the edge of the hill.
The gardens were golden with daffodils, tulips, narcissus,
jonquU — ^that rich variety of yellow blossoms which come in early
spring, like a floral sunrise — and the waves ran gently into the
narrow inlet between the tall cliffs. But those two lonely women
were no longer seen roaming over the hills, or sitting down to
rest in some sheltered comer of Pentargon Bay. They had gone
to Switzerland, taking the nurse and baby with them, and were
not expected to return to Mount Royal till the autumn.
Mr. Tregonell's South American wanderings had lasted longer
than he had originally contemplated. His latest letters — brief
scrawls, written at rough resting-places — announced a consider^
able extension of his travels. He and his friend were following
in the footsteps of Mr. Whymper, on the Equatorial Andes, tht
backbone of South America. Dopsy and Mopey were mopinff
in the dusty South Bel^vian lodging-house, nursmg their invalid
father, squabbling with their landlady, catting, Qontriviag,
* Pain for thy Gwdle^ and Sorrow upon thy Head.* 267
straining every nerve to make sixpences go as far as shillings,
and only getting outside glimpses of the world of pleasure and
gaiety, art and fashion, in their weary trampings up and down
the dusty pathways of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens.
They had written three or four times to Mrs. Tregonell,
letters running over with aflFection, fondly hoping for an invita-
tion to Mount Royal ; but the answers had been ^ in Jessie
Bridgeman's hand, and the last had come from Zurich, which
seemed altogether hopeless. They had sent Christmas cards and
New Year's cards, and had made every effort, compatible with
their limited means, to maintain the links of friendship.
* I wish we could afford to send her a New Year's gift, or a
toy for that baby,' said Mopsy, who was not fond of infants.
* But what could we send her that she would care for, when she
has everything in this world that is worth having. And we
could not get a toy, which that pampered child would think
worth looking at, under a sovereign,' concluded Mop, with a
profound sigh.
And so the year wore on, dry, and dreary, and dusty for the
two girls, whose only friends were the chosen few whom their
brother made known to them — friends who naturally dropped
out of their horizon in Captain Vandeleur's absence.
* What a miserable summer it has been,* said Dopsy, yawning
and stretching in her tawdry morning gown — one of last year's
high-art tea gowns — and surveying with despondent eye the
barren breakfast-table, where two London eggs, and the re-
mains of yesterday's loaf, flanked by a nearly empty marma-
lade pot, comprised all the temptations of the flesh. * What a
wretched summer — hot, and sultry, and thundery, and dusty —
the cholera raging in Chelsea, and measles only divided from us
by Lambeth Bridge I And we have not been to a single
theatre.'
* Or tasted a single French dinner.'
* Or been given a single pair of gloves.'
'Hark ! ' cried Mopsy, 'it's the postman,' and she rushed into
the passage, too eager to await the maid-of -all-work's slipshod
foot.
'What's the good of exciting oneself?' murmured Dopsy,
with another stretch of long thin arms above a towzled head.
* Of course it's only a bill, or a lawyer's letter for pa.'
Happily it was neither of these unpleasantnesses which the
morning messenger had brought, but a large vellum envelope,
with the address, Mount Royal, in Old English letters above the
*unall neat seal ; and the hand which had directed the envelope
was Christabel Tregonell's.
' At last she has condescended to write to me with her own
hand,' said Dopsy, to whom, as Miss Vandeleur, the letter vthm
268 Mount Boyat
addressed. * Bat I dare iay if a only a hurabu^ging note. 1
know she didn't really like ub : we are not her style.'
* How should we be 1' exclaimed Mopsy, whom the lan^id
influences of a sultry August had made ill-humoured and cynical,
* She was not brought up in the gutter.*
* Mopsy/ cried her sister, wim a gasp of surprise and delight,
•ifsan invitation I*
*What?»
* Listen —
• "Dear Miss Vandeleur, —
* " We have just received a telegram from Buenos Ayrea.
Mr, Tregonell and Captain Vandeleur leave that port for Plymouth
this afternoon, and will come straight from Plymouth here. I
think you would both wish to meet your brother on hia arrival ;
and I know Mr. Tregonell is likely to want to keep him here for
some time. Will you, therefore, come to ua early next week, so
as to be here to welcome the travellers 1
* " Very sincerely yours,
* "Christabel Trboonell,' '
' This is too delicious,' exclaimed Dopsy. * But however are
we to find the money for the journey "i And our clothes — what
a lot we shall have to do to our clothes. If we only had credit
at a good draper's.'
* Suppose we were to try our landlady's plan, for once in a
way,' suggested Mopsy, faintly, * and get a few things from that
man near Drury Lane who takes weekly instalments,'
*What, the Tallyman?' screamed Dopsy. *No, I would
rather be dressed like a South Sea Islander. It's not only the
utter lowness of the thing ; but the man's goods are never like
anybody else's. The colours and materiala seem invented on
purpose for him.'
* That might pass for high art.'
* Well, they're ugly enough even for that ; but it's not the
right kind of ugliness.'
* After all,' answered Mopsy, * we have no more chance of
paying weekly than we have of paying monthly or quarterly.
Nothing under three years' credit would be any use to us. Some-
thing might happen — Fortune's wheel might turn in three
years.'
* Whenever it does turn it will be the wrong way, and we
jhall be under it,' said Dopsy, still giving over to gloom.
It was very delightful to be invited to a fine old country
house ; but it was bitter to know that one must go there but half
provided with those things which civilization have made n
necessity,
* How happy those South Sea Islanders must be,' sighed
* I will Juwe no Mercy on Em,* 260
\I0pl83r, pensively meditating upon the difference between weaiiug
iothing, and having nothing to wear.
CHAPTEE XXVIL
*1 WILL HAVE NO MEECT ON fflM.*
The Buenos Ayres steamer was within sight of land — English
laud. Those shining lights yonder were the twin lanterns of the
Lizard. Leonard and his friend paced the bridge smoking their
cigars, and looking towai'ds that double star which shone out as
one light in the distance, and thinking that they were going back
to civilization — conventional habits — a world which must seem
cramped and narrow — not much better than the squiiTel's cage
seems to the squirrel — after the vast ^vidth and margin of that
wilder, freer world they had just left — where men and women
were not much more civilized than the unbroken horses that
were brought out struggling, and roped in among a team of older
stagers, to be dragged along anyhow for the first mile or so,
rebellious, and wondering, and to fall in with the necessities of
the case somehow before the stage was done.
There was no thrill of patriotic rapture in the breast of either
traveller as he v/atched yonder well-known light brightening on
the dark horizon. Leonard had left his country too often to feel
any deep emotion at returning to it. He had none of those
strong feelings which mark a man as the son of the soil, and
make it seem to him that he belongs to one spot of earth, and
<ian neither live nor die hapi)ily anywhere else. The entire globe
was his CMmtry, a world created for him to roam about in.
climbing all its hills, shooting in all its forests, fishing in all its
rivei-s, exhausting all the sport and amusement that was to be
Had out of i*; — and with no anchor to chain him down to any
given spot. Yet, though he had none of the deep feeling of the
exile returning to the country of his birth, he was not without
emotion as he saw the Lizard light broadening and yellowing
under the pale beams of a young moon. He was thinking of his
wife — the wife whose face he had not seen since that gloomy
morning at Mount Royal, when she sat pale and calm in her
place at the head of his table — maintaining her dignity as the
mistress of his house, albeit he knew her heaii; was breaking.
From the hour of her return from the Kieve, they had been
\)arted. She had kept her room, guarded by Jessie ; and he had
Deen told, significantly, that it was not well they should meet.
How would she receive him now 1 What were her thoughts
and feelings about that de^ man ? The man wliora she had
270 Mount Boyal.
loved and he had hated : not only because his wife loved him—
though that reason was strong enough for hatred — but becausa
the man was in every attribute so much his own superior. Never
had Leonard Tregonell felt such keen anxiety as he felt now,
when he speculated upon his wife's greeting — when he tried to
imagine how they two would feel and act standing face to face
after nearly a year of severance.
The correspondence between them had been of the slightest
For the first six months his only home-letters had been from
Miss Bridgeman — curt, business- like commuiiicjitions — telling
him of his boy's health and general progress, and of any details
about the estate which it was his place to be told. Of Christabel
she wrote .as briefly as possible. * Mrs. Tregonell is a little
better.' ' Mi-s. Tregonell is gradually regaining strength.' * The
doctor considers Mrs. Tregonell much improved,' and so on.
Later there had been letters from Christabel — letters written
in Switzerland — in which the writer confined herself almost
entirely to news of the boy's growth and improvement, and to the
pirticulars of their movements from one place to another — letters
which gave not the faintest indication of the writer's frame of
mind : .as devoid of sentiment as an official communication from
one legation to another.
He was going back to Mount Royal therefore in profound
Ignorance of his wife's feelings — whether he would be received
with smiles or frowns, with tears or sullen gloom. Albeit not of
a aeijsitive nature, this uncertainty made him uncomfortable,
and he looked at yonder faint grey shore — the peaks and pinnacles
of that wild western coast — without any of those blissful
emotions which the returning wanderer always experiences — in
poetry.
I'lymouth, however, where they went ashore next morning,
seemed a very enjoyable place after the cities of South America.
It was not so picturesque a town, nor had it that rowdy air and
dissipated fl.avour which Mr. Tregonell appreciated in the cities
of the South : but it had a teeming life and perpetual movement,
which were unknown on the shores of the Pacific ; the press and
hurry of many industries — the steady fervour of a town where
we.alth is made by honest labour — the intensity of a place which
is in somewise the cradle of naval warfare. Mr. Tregonell break-
fasted and lunched at the Duke of Cornwall, strolled on the Hoe,
played two or three games on the first English billiard-tablelhe had
seen for a year, and found a novel delight in winner* and losers.
An afternoon train took the travellers on to Launceston,
where the Mount Royal wagonette, and a cart for the luggage,
were waiting for them at the station.
* Everything right at th3 Mount ? ' asked Leonard, as NichoJk
touched his hat.
•J toiU fuwe no Mercy on Him.* 271
Yea, sir.*
He asked for no details, but took the reins from Nicholla
ndthout another word. Captain Vandeleur jumped up by his
side, Nicholls got in at the back, with a lot of the smaller luggage
— gun-cases, dressing-bags, despatch-boxes — and away they went
up the castle hill, and then sharp round to the right, and off at a
dashing pace along the road to the moor. It was a two hours'
drive even for the best goers ; but Mr. Tregonell spoke hardly a
dozen times during the journey, smoking all the way, and with
his eyes always on his horses.
At last they wound up the hill to Mount Royal, and passed
the lodge, and saw all th^ lights of the old wide-spreading Tudor
front shining upon them through the thickening grey of early
evening.
* A good old place, isn't it ? ' said Leonard, just a little moved
at sight of the house in which he had been born. * A man might
come home to a worse shelter.'
'This man might come home to lodgings in Chelsea,* said
Jack Vandeleur, touching himself lightly on the breast, with a
grim laugh. * It's a glorious old place, and you needn't apologize
for being proud of it. And now we've come back, I hope you
are going to be jolly, for you've been uncommonly glum while
we've been away. The house looks cheerful, doesn't it ? I should
think it must be full of company.'
'Not likely,' answered Leonard. *Christabel never cared
about having people. We should have lived like hermits if she
had had her way.'
* Then if the house isn't full of people, aU I can say is there's
a good deal of candle-light going to waste,' said Captain Vande-
leur.
They were driving up to the porch by this time ; the door
stood wide open ; servants were on the watch for them. The
hall was all aglow with light and fire ; people were moving about
near the hearth. It was a relief to Leonard to see this life and
brightness. He had feared to find a dark and silent house — u
melancholy welcome — ail things still in mourning for the
untimely dead.
A ripple of laughter floated from the hall as Leonard drew
up his horses, and two tall slim figures with fluffy heads, short-
waisted gowns, and big sashes, came skipping down the broad
shallow steps.
' My sisters, by Jove,' cried Jack, delighted. ' How awfully
]olly of lAra. Tregonell to invite them,'
Leonard's only salutation to the damsels was a friendly nod.
He brushed by them as they grouped themselves about their
brother — like a new edition of Laocoon without the snr^aea, or
the three Graces without the grace — and hurried into tlAti hall,
272 Mount Eoyat,
eager to be face to face with Lis wife. She came forward to
meet him, looking her loveliest, dressed as he had never seen her
dressed before, with a style, a chic, and a daring more appro-
priate to the Th6S.tre Fran9ais than to a Cornish squire's house.
She who, even in the height of the London season, had been
simplicity itself, recalling to those who most admired her, the
picture of that chaste and unworldly maiden who dwelt beside
the Dove, now wore an elaborate costume of brown velvet and
satin, in which a Louis Quinze velvet coat, with large cut-steel
buttons and Mechlin ^a^o^, was the most striking feature. Her
fair, soft hair was now fluffy, and stood up in an infinity of
frizzy curls from the broad white forehead. Diamond solitaires
flashed in her ears, her hands glittered with the rainbow light of
old family rings, which in days gone by she had been wont to
leave in the repose of an iron safe. The whole woman was
changed. She came to meet her husband with a Society smile ;
shook hands with him as if he had been a commonplace visitor —
he was too startled to note the death-like coldness of that slender
hand — and welcomed him with a conventional inquiry about his
passage from Buenos Ayres.
He stood transfixed — overwhelmed by surprise. The room was
full of people. There was Mrs. Fairfax Torrington, liveliest and
most essentially modern of well-preserved widows, always dans le
mouvement, as she said of herself ; and there, loUing against the
high oak chimney-piece, with an air of fatuous delight in his own
attractiveness, was that Baron de Cazalet — pseudo artist, poet,
and litterateur, who, five seasons ago, had been an object of
undisguised detestation with Christabel. He, too, was essentially
in the movement — eesthetic, cynical, agnostic, thought-reading,
spiritualistic — always blowing the last fashionable bubble, and
making his bubbles bigger and brighter than other people's — ^a
man who prided himself upon his 'intensity' in every pursuit —
from love-making to gourmandize. There, again, marked out
from the rest by a thoroughly prosaic air, which, in these days ol
artistic sensationalism is in itself a distinction — pale, placid,
taking his ease in a low basket chair, with his languid hand on
Randie's black muzzle — sat Mr. FitzJesse, the journalist, pro-
prietor and editor of The Sling, a fashionable weekly — the man
who was always smiting the Goliahs of pretence and dishonesty
with a pen that was sharper than any stone that ever David slung
against the foe. He was such an amiable-looking man — had such
a power of obliterating every tdkeii of intellectual force and fire
^om the calm smf ace of his countenance, that people, seeing him
for the first time, were apt to stare at him in blank wonder at hia
innocent aspect. Was this the wielder of that scathing pen —
was this the man who wrote not with ink but with aqua tortls 1
Even his placid matter-of-fact speech was, at first, a little dio-
'I will have no Mercy on Him, 2fS
appointing. It was only b^ gentlest degrees that the \it)n hand
of satire made itself ff^lt niuler the velvet glove of conventional
good manners. Leonard had met Mr. FitzJesse in London, at
the clubs and elsewhere, and had felt that vague awe which the
provincial feels for the embodied spirit of metropolitan intellect
m the shape of a famous journalist. It was needful to be civil
to such men, in order to be let down gently in their papers.
One never knew when some rash unpremeditated act might
furnish matter for a paragraph which would mean sodNU annihi-
lation.
There were other guests grouped about the tire-place — little
Monty, the useful and good-humoured country-house hack ;
Colonel Blathwayt, of the Kildare Cavalry, a noted amateur
actor, reciter, waltzer, spirit -rapper, invaluable in a house full of
people — a tall, slim-waisted man, who rode nine stone, and
at forty contrived to look seven-and-twenty ; the Eev. St.
Bernard Faddie, an Anglican curate, who carried Ritualism to
the extremest limit consistent with the retention of his stipend
as a minister of the Church of England, and who was always at
loggerheads with some of his parishioners. There were Mr.
and Mrs. St. Aubyn and their two daughters — county people,
with loud voices, horsey, and doggy, and horticultural — alwavs
talking garden, when they were not talking stable or kennel.
These were neighbours for who Christabel had cared very little
in the pjist. Leonard was considerably astonishe*) at tindin^^
vhem domiciled at Mount EoyaL
^And you had a nice passage,' said his wife, amiiiiig at her
loixl. ' Will you have some tea ? '
It seemed a curious kind of welcome to a husband after a
year's absence ; but Leonard answered feebly that he would
take a cup of tea. One of the numerous tea-tables had beeii
established in a corner near the fire, and Miss Bridgeman, in
neat grey silk and linen collar, as of old, was oliiciatiug, witl»
Mr. Faddie in attendance to distribute the cups.
* No tea, thanks,' said Jack Vandeleur, coming in with hia
Bisters still entwined about him, still faintly suggestive of that
poor man and the sea-serpents. * Would it be too dreadful if I
were to suggest S. and B. ? '
Jessie Bridgeman touched a spring bell on the tea-table, and
gave the required order. There was a joviality, laissez-aller in
the air of the place, with which soda and brandy seemed quite
in harmony. Everything in the house seemed changed to
Leonard's eye ; and yet the furniture, the armour, the family
portraits, brown and indistinguishable in this doubtfil Hght,
were all the same. There were nc flowers about in tubs or on
tables. That subtle grace — as of a thoughtful woman's hand
ruling and arranging everything, artistic even where seeming
most careless — ^was missing. Papers, books were thrown
•ikyhow upon the tables ; whips, carriage-ruf'sj, wrspe, hatfi^
274 * Mount Boyal.
encumheted the cJ.aii-s near the door. Half-a-dozen dogs-
pointers, aettei-s, cdlie — sprawled or prowled about the roein.
In nowise did his house now resemble the orderly mansion
U'liic!) liis mother had ruled so loni^, and which his wife had
in;iii)taine<l upon e^^ctly the same lines after her aunt's death.
He had grumbled at what he called a silly observance of his
niother's tuds. The air of the house was now much more in
accordance with his own view of life, and yet the change
angemd him as much as it perplexed him.
'Wliere's the boyT he asked, exploring the hall and ita
OCCTii>ants, with a blank stare.
* In his nursery. Where should he be?* exclaimed Chris-
tabel, lightly.
*I thought he would have been with you. I thought he
might have been here to bid me welcome home.*
He had made a picture in his mind, almost involuntarily, of
the mother and child-^she, calm and lovely as one of Murillo'a
Madonnas, with the little one on her knee. There was no vein
of poetry in his nature, yet unconsciously the memory of such
pictures had associated itself with his v/ife'a image. And
instead of that holy embodiment of maternal love, there flashed
and sparkled before him this brilliant woman, with fair fluffy
hair, and Louis Quinze coat, all a glitter with cut-steel.
* Home ! ' echoed Christabel, mockingly ; * how sentimental
you haYe grown. I've no doubt the boy will be charmed to see
you, especially if you have brought him some South American
toys ; but I thought it would bore you to see him before you
had dined. He shall be on view in the drawing-room before
dinner, if you would really like to see him so soon.'
* Don't trouble,* said Leonard, curtly : * I can find my way to
the nursery.*
He went upstairs without another word, leaving his friend
Jack seated in the midst of the cheerful circle, drinking soda
water and brandy, and talking of their adventures upon the
backbone of South America.
* Delicious country I * said de Cazalet, who talked remarkably
good English, with just the faintest Hibernian accent. * I have
ridden over every inch of it. Ah, !Mrs. Tregonell, that is the
soil for poetry and adventure ; a land of extinct volcanoes. If
Byron had known the shores of the Amazon, he would have
struck a deeper note of passion than any that was ever inspired
by the Dardanelles or the Bosphorus. Sad that so grand a spiiit
■uould have pined in the prison-house of a worn-out world.'
*I have always understood that B;y-ron got some rather
•trong poetry out of Switzerland and Italy,' murmured Mr.
FitzJesse, meekly.
*Weak and thin to what he might have written had h«
known the Pampas,' said the Baron.
' You have done the Pampas ? ' said Mr. FitzJesaai
z will ha,ve tw Mercy on Him,* 275
* I have lived amongst wild liorsea, and wilder humanity, for
months at a stretch.'
' And you have published a volume of — verses ? '
* Another of my youthful follies. But I do not place myself
upon a level with Byron.'
* I should if I were you,' said Mr. FitzJesse. * It would be
an original idea — and in an age mai-ked by a total exhaustion oi
brain-power, an original idea is a pearl of price.'
'What kind of dogs did you see in your travels?' asked
Emily St. Aubyn, a well-grown upstanding young woman, in a
severe t<iilor-gown of uiidyed homespun.
* Two or three very hue breeds of mongrels.'
* I adore mongrels 1' exclaimed Mopsy. * I think that kind
of dog, which belongs to no particular breed, which has been
ill-used by London boys, and wliich follows one to one's doorstep,
is the most faithful and intelligent of the whole canine race.
Huxley may exalt Blenheim spaniels as the nearest thing to human
nature ; but my dog Tim, which is something between a liu-cher,
a collie, and a bull, is ever so much better than human nature.'
' The Blenheim is greedy, luxurious, and lazy, and generally
dies in middle life from the consequences of over-feeding,*
'Vawled Mr. FitzJesse. * I don't think Huxley is very far out.'
* I would back a Cornish sheep-dog against any animal in
creation,' said Christabel, patting Randie, who w^is standing
ainiably on end, with his fore-pa wa on the cushioned elbow of
her chair. * Do you know that these dogs smile when they are
pleased, and cry when they are grieved — and they will mourn
for a master with a fidelity unknown in humanity.'
' Which as a rule does not mourn,' said FitzJesse. * It only
goes into mourning.'
And so the talk went on, always running upon trivialiti£» —
glancing from theme to theme — a mere battledore and shuttle-
cock conversation — making a mock of most things and most
people. Ciristabel joined in it all ; and some of the bitterest
speech that was spoken in that hour before the sounding of the
seven o'clock gong, fell from her perfect lips.
*Did you ever see such a change in any one as in Mrs.
Tregonell ? ' asked Dopsy of Mopsy, as they elbowed each other
before the looking-ghiss, the lii-st armed with a powder puff, the
second with a little box containing the implements required for
the production of piquant eyebrows.
* A wonderful improvement,' answered Mopsy. * She's ever
so much easier to get on witL I didn't think it was in her
to be so thoroughly chic.^
* Do you know, I really liked her better last year, when she
was frumpy and dowdy,' faltered Dopsy. * I wasn't able to get
on with her, but I couldn't help looking up to her, and feeling
that, after all, she was the right kind of woman. And now '
' Aftd now she condescends to be hum^ja — to be on© of u*— «
276 Mount BoyaV.
and th« consequence is that her house is three times as nice aa it
Was last year/ said Mopsy, turning the corner of an eyebrow
with a bold but careful hand, and sending a sliarp elbow into
Dopsy's face d;iring the operation.
* I wish you'd be a little more careful,* ejaculated Dopsy.
* I wish you'd contrive not to want the glass exactly when I
do,' retorted Mopsy.
*How do you like the French Baron V asked Dopsy, when n
brief silence had resitored her equanimity.
* French, indeed ! He is no more French than 1 am. Mr.
FitzJesse told me that he was bom and brought up in Jersey —
that his father was an Irish Major on half -pay, and his mother a
circus rider.'
' But how does he come by his title — if it is a real title ? '
* FitzJesse says the title is right enough. One of his father's
ancestors came to the South of Ireland after the revocation of
something — a treaty at Nancy — I think he said. lie belonged
to an old Huguenot family — those peo])le who were massacred in
the opera, don't you know — and the title had been allowed to go
dead — till this man married a tremendously rich Sheflield cutler's
daughter, and bought the old estate in Provence, and got himself
enrolled in the French peerage. Romantic, isn't it ? '
* Very. What became of the Sheffield cutler's daughter? '
*She drank herself to death two yeai-s after her marriage.
Fitz Jessie says they both lived upon brandy, but she hadn't been
educated up to it, and it killed her.'
*A curious kind of man for Mrs. Tregouell to invite here.
Not quite good style.'
* Perhaps not — but he's very amusing.'
Leonard spent half an hour with his son. The child had
escaped from babyhood in the year that had gone. He was now
a bright sentient creature, eager to express his thoughts — to
gather knowledge — an active, vivacious being, full of health and
energy. Whatever duties Christabel had neglected during her
husband's absence, the boy Lad, at least, suffered no neglect.
Never had childhood developed under happier conditions. The
father could find no fault in the nursery, though there was a
vague feeling in his mind that everything was wrong at Mount
Eoyal,
* Why the deuce did she fill the house with people while 1
was away,' he muttered to himself, in the solitude of his dressing-
room, where his clothes had been put ready for him, and candles
lighted by his Swiss valet. The dressing-room was at that end
of the corridor most remote from Christabel's apartments. It
communicated with the room Leonard had slept in during his
boyhood and that opened again into his gun-room.
The fact that these rooms had been prepared for him told
him plainly enough that he and his wife weiv) henceforth to lead
divided live* The event of last October, his year of absence.
'I wiXt have no Mercy on Him^ 277
had built up a wall between them which he, for the time being
at least, felt himself powerless to knock down.
* Can she saspect — can she know ' — he asked hioself , pausing
in his dressing to stand staring at the fire, with moody brow and
troubled eyes. ' No, that's hardly possible. And yet her whole
manner is changed. She holds me at a distance. Eveiy look,
every tone just now was a defiance. Of course I know that she
loved that man — loved him first — last — ^always ; never caring a
straw for me. She was too careful of herself — had been brought
up too well to go wrong, like other women — but she loved him,
I would never have brought him inside these doors if I had not
known that she could take care of herself. I tested and tried
her to the uttermost — and — well — I took my change out cf him.'
Mr. Tregonell dressed himself a little more carefully than he was
wont to dress — thinking for the most part that anything which
suited him was good enough for his friends — and went down to
the drawing-room, feeling like a visitor in a strange house, half
inclined to wonder how he would be received by his wife and
his wife's guests. He who had always ruled supreme in that
house, choosing his visitors for his own pleasure — subjugating
all tastes and habits of other people to his own convenience, now
felt as if he were only there on sufierance.
It was early when he entered the drawing-room, and the
Baron de Cazalet was the only occupant of that apartment. He
was standing in a lounging attitude, with his back against the
mantelpiece, and his handsome person set off by evening dress.
That regulation costume does not afford much scope to the latent
love of finery which still lurks in the civilized man, as if to prove
his near relationship to the bead and feather-wearing savage —
but de Cazalet had made himself as {^iprgeous as he could with
jeweUed studs, embroidered shirt, satin under-waistcoat, amber
lilk stockings, and Qneen Anne shoes. He was assuredly hand-
Bome — but he had just that style of beauty which to the fasti-
dious mind is more revolting than positive ugliness. Dark-
brown eyes, strongly arched eyebrows, an aquiline nose, a sensual
mouth, a heavy jaw, a faultless complexion of the French plum-
box order, large regular teeth of glittering whiteness, a small
delicately trained moustache with waxed ends, and hair of oily
sheen, odorous of pommade divine, made up the catalogue of hia
charms. Leonard stood looking at him doubtfully, as if he were
& hitherto unknown animal.
* Where did my wife pick him up, and why ? ' he asked him-
self. * I should have thought he was just the kind of man she
wculd detest.'
*How glad you must be to get back to your Lares and
Penates,* said the Baron, smiling blandly.
* I'm uncommonly glad to get back to my horses and dogs,* an-
swered Leonard, flinging himself into a. large arm-chair by the fire.
wid taking up a newspaper. ' Have you peei]^ long in H^e We^t ' !
278 Mount BoyaX.
* About a fortnight, but I have been only three days at
Mount BoyaL I had the honour to renew my acquaintance
with Mrs. Tregonell last August at Zermatt, and she was good
enough to say that if I ever found myself in this part of the
country she would be pleased to receive me in her house. I
needn't tell you that with such a temptation in view I was very
glad to bend my steps westward. I sj^ent ten days on board a
friend's yacht, between Dartmouth and the Lizard, landed at
Penzance last Tuesday, and posted here, where I received a more
than hospitable welcome.'
* You are a great traveller, I understand ? '
* I doubt if I have done as much as you have in that way. I
have seldom travelled for the sake of travelling. T have lived
in the tents of the Arabs. I have bivouacked on the Pampas —
and enjoyed life in all the cities of the South, from Valparaiso
to Carthagena ; but I can boast no mountaineering exploits or
scientific discoveries — and I never lead a paper at the
Geographical.'
' You look a little too fond of yourself for mountaineering,
said Leonard, smiling grimly at the Baron's portly figure, and
all-pervading sleekness.
*Well — yes— I like a wild life — but I have no relish foi
absolute hardship — the thennometer below zero, a doubtful
Bupply of provisions, pemmican, roasted skunk for supper, with-
out any currant jelly — ^no, I love mine ease at mine Inn.'
He threw out his fine expaaise of padded chest and shoulders,
and surveyed the spacious lamp-lit room with an approving
smile. This no doubt was the kind of Inn at which he loved to
take his ease — ^a house full of silly women, ready to be subju-
gated by his florid good looks and shallow accomplishments.
The ladies now came straggling in — first Emily St. Aub}^!,
and then Dopsy, whose attempts at conversation were coldly
received by tlie county maiden. Dopsy's and Mopsy's home-
made gowns, cheap laces and f rillings, and easy flippancy were
not agreeable to the St. Aubyn sisters. It was not that the
St. Aubyn manners, which always savoured of the stable and
farmyard, were more refined or elegant ; but the St. Aubyns
arrogated to themselves the right to be vulgar, and resented
free-and-easy manners in two young persons who were obviously
poor and obviously obscure as to their surroundings. If their
gowns had been made by a West End tailor, and they had been
ftble to boast of intimate acquaintance with a duchess and two
cr three coimtessses, their flippancy might have been tolerable,
nay, even amusing, to the two Miss St Aubyns ; but girls who
went nowhere and knew nobody, had no right to attempt smart-
ness of speech, and deserved to be sat upon.
To Dopsy succeeded Mopsy, then some men, then Mrs. St.
Aubyn and her younger daughter Clara, then Mrs. Tregonell in
9, Tfd go\7n 4]^aped witj^ old Spanish l^ce, apd witli oianiQU U
•/ will have no Mercy on Him,* 27>
^rs in her hair, a style curiously different from those quiet
dinner dresses she had been wont to wear a year ago. Leonard
looked at her in blank amazement — just as he had looked at
their first meeting. She, who had been like the violet, shelter-
ing itself among its leaves, now obviously dressed for effect,
and as obviously courted admiration.
The dinner was cheerful to riotousness. Eveiybody had
something to say ; anecdotes were told, and laug]ii,er was frequent
and loud. The St. Aubyn girls, who had deliberately snubbed
the sisters Vandeleur, were not above conversing with tlie
brother, and, finding him a kindred spirit in horseyness and
doggyness, took him at once into their confidence, and were on
tiie friendliest terms before dinner was finished. De Cazalet sat
next his liostess, and talked exclusively to her. Mr. FitzJesse
had Miss Bridgeman on his left hand, and conversed with her in
gentle murmiii-s, save when in his quiet voice, .'uid with hia
seeming-innocent smile, he told some irresistibly funny story —
some touch of character seen with a philosophic eye — for the
general joy of the whole table. Very diderent was the banquet
of to-day from that quiet dinner on the first night of Mr. Ham-
leigh's visit to Mount Royal, that dinner at which Leonard
watched his wife so intensely, eager to discover to what degree
she was affected by the presence of her first lover. He watched
her to-night, at the head of her brilliantly lighted dinner-table
— no longer the old subdued light of low shaded lamps, but the
radiance of innumerable candles in lofty silver candelabra,
shining over a striking decoration of vivid crimson asters and
spreading palm-leaves — he watched her helplessly, hopelessly,
knowing that he and she were ever so much farther apart than
they had been in the days before he brought Angus Ilamleigh
to Mount Royal, those miserable discontented days when he had
fretted himself into a fever of jealousy and vague suspicion, and
had thought to find a cure by bringing the man he feared and
hated into his home, so that he might know for certain how deep
the wrong was which this man's very existence seemed to inflict
upon him. To bring those two who had loved and parted face
to face, to watch and listen, to fathom the thoughts of each —
that had been the process natural and congenial to his jealous
temper ; but the result had been an imcomfortable one. And
now he saw his wife, whose heart he had tried to break — hating
her because he had failed to make her love him — ^just as remote
and unapproachable as of old.
* What a fool I was to marry her,' he thought, after replying
somewhat at random to Mrs. St. Aubyn's last remark upon the
superiority of Dorkings to Spaniards from a culinary point of
view. *It was my determination to have my own way that
wrecked me. I couldn't submit to be conquered by a girl — to
.have the wife I had set my heart upon when I was a boy, stolen
Croo me by the first effeminate fopling my silly mother iavitod
2?J0 Mount Boyal.
to Mount Koyal. I had never imagined mj'^self with auj other
woman for my wife — never really cared for any other woman.'
This was the bent of Mr. Tregonell's reflections as he sat ia
his place at that animated assembly, adding nothing to its mirth,
or even to its noise ; albeit in the past his voice had ever been
loudest, his laugh most resonant. He felt more at his ease after
dinner, when the women had left — the brilliant de Cazalet
slipping away soon after them, although not until he had finished
his host's La Rose — and when Mr. St. Aubyn expanded himself
in county talk, enlightening the wanderer as to the progress of
events during his absence — while Mr. FitzJesse sat blandly
puffing his cigarette, a silent observer of the speech and gestures
of the county magnate, speculating, from a scientific point of
view, as to how much of this talk were purely automatic — an
inane drivel which would go on just the same if half the Squire's
brain had been scooped out. Jack Vandeleur smoked and drank
brandy and w; ter, while little Monty discoursed to him, in
confidential tones, upon the racing year which was now expiring
at Newmarket — the men who had made pots of money, and the
men who had been beggared for life. There seemed to be no
medium between those extremes.
When the host rose. Captain Vandeleur was for an imme-
diate adjournment to billiards, but, to his surprise, Leonard
walked oflf to the drawing-room".
* Aren't you coming ? ' asked Jack, dejectedly.
* Not to-night. I have been too long away from feminine
society not to appreciate the novelty of an evening with ladies.
You and Monty can have the table to yourselves, unless Mr,
F.tz Jesse '
* I never play,' replied the gentle journalist ; * but I rather
like sitting in a billiard-room and listening to the conversation
of the players. It is always so full of ideas.'
Captain Yandeleur and Mr. Montagu went their way, and
the other men repaired to the drawing-room, whence came the
sound of the piano, and the music of a rich baritone, trolling out
a popular air from the most fashionable opera-bouffe — that one
piece which all Paris was bent upon hearing at the same moment,
whereby seats in the little Boulevard theatre were selling at a
ridiculous premium.
De Cazalet was singing to Mrs. Tregonell's accompaniment —
a patois song, with a refrain which would have been distinctly
indecent, if the tails of all the words had not been clipped oiF,
so as to reduce the language to mild idiocy.
* The kind of song one could fancy being fashionable in the
decline of the Roman Empire,' said FitzJesse, * when Apuleiua
was writing his " Golden Ass," don't you know.'
After the song came a duet from *Traviata,' in which
Cbristabel sang with a dramatic power which Leonard never
remembemd. to have heard from her before. The two voicei
1 will haA)e no Mercy on Him. 281
harmonized admirably, and there were warm expressiomi <^
delight from the listenera.
' Veiy accomplished man, de Cazalet/eaid Colonel Blathwayt;
* nncommoniy useful in a country house — sings, and plays, and
recites, and acts — rather putly and short-winded in his elocution
— if he were a horee one would call him a roarer — but always
reaily to auiuse. Quite an acquisition.'
* Who is he ? ' asked Leonard, looking glum. * My wife
picked hiai up in Switzerland, I hear — that is to say, he seema
to have made himself agreeable — or useful — to Mrs. Tregonell
and Must* Bridgeuian ; and in a moment of ill-advised hospitality,
my wife asked iiini here. Is he received anywhere ? Does any-
Ixxly know anything about him ?'
'He is received in a few houses — rich houses where the
hostess goes in for amateur acting and tableaux vivants, don't
you know ; and peo{)le know a good deal about him — nothing
actually to his detriment. The man was a full-blown adventuier
wlien he lutd the good luck to get hold of a vhh wife. He pays
his way now, I believe ; but the air of the adventurer hangs
round him still. A man of Irish parentage — brought up in
Jersey. What can you expect of him V
' Does he drink ! '
* Like a tish — but his capacity to drink is only to be estimated
Dy cubic s}>ace — the amount he can hold. His brain and con-
stitution have been educated up to alcohol. Nothing can touch
him further.'
' Colonel Blathwayt, we want yoa to give us the " Wonderful
One-Horse Shay," and after that, the Baron is going to recite
" James Lee's Wife," said Mrs. Tregonell, while her guests
ranged themselves into an irregular semicircle, and the useful
Miss Bridgeman placed a prie-dleu chair in a commanding
position for the reciter to lean upon gracefully, or hug con-
vulsively in the more energetic passages of his recitation.
* Everybody seems to have gone mad,' thought Mr. Tregonell,
as he seated himself and surveyed the assem bly, all intent and
expectant.
His wife sat near the piano with de Cazalet bending over her,
talking in just that slightly lowered voice which gives an idea of
confidential relation, yet may mean no more than a vain man's
desire to appear the accepted worshipper of a beautiful woman.
Never had Leonard seen Angus Hamleigh's manner so dis-
tinctively attentive as was the air of this Hibernian adventurer.
* Just the last man whose attentions I should have supposed
she would tolerate,' thought Leonard ; * but any garbage is food
for a woman's vanity.'
The ' Wonderful One-Horse Shay ' was received with laughter
and delight. Dopsy and Mopsy were in raptures. * How could
» horrid American have written anything so clever ? ^ But then
it was Colonel Biathwayt's inimitable elocution which gave •
283 Mount EoyaZ.
charra to the whole thing. The poem was poor enonp;h, no donbt,
if one read it to oneself. Colonel Blathwayt wa,s adorably funny.'
* It's a tremendous joke, as you do it,' said Mopsy, twirling
her sunflower fan — a great yellow flower, like the siirn of the
Sun Inn, on a black satin ground. * How delightful to be so
gifted'
* Now,for "James Lee's Wife,"' said the Colonel, who accepted
the damsel's compliments for what they were worth. * You'll
have to be very attentive if you want to find out what the poem
means ; for the Buron'a delivery is a trifle spasmodic'
And now de Cazalet ste[)ped forward with a vellum-bound
volume in his hand, dashed back his long sleek hair with a largo
white hand, glanced at the page, coughed faintly, and then
began in thick hurried accents, wliich kept getting thicker and
more hun-ied aa the poem adv\anced. It was given, not in lines,
but is spasms, panted out, till at the close the Baron sank
exhausted, breathless, like the hunted deer when the hounds
close round him.
* Beautiful ! exquisite 1 too pathetic ! ' exclaimed a chorus of
feminine voices.
* I only wish the Browning Society could hear that : they
would be delighted,' said ]Mr. Faddie, who piqued himself upon
being in the literary world.
* It makes Browning so much easier to understand,' remarked
Mr. FitzJesse, with his habit?ial placidity.
* Brings the whole thing home to you — makes it ever so
m.uch more real, don't you know,' said Mrs. Torrington,
* Poor James Lee ! ' sighed TSIopsy.
*Poor !Mrs. Lee !' ejaculated Dopsy.
* Did he die ? ' asked Miss St. Aubyn.
*Did she run away from him?' inquired her sister, the
railroad pace at which the Baron fired off the verses having left
all those among his hearers who did not know the text in a state
of agreeable uncertainty.
So the night wore on, with more songs and duets from opera
and opera-boufi'e. No more of Beethoven's grand bursts of
melody — now touched with the solemnity of religious feeling —
now melting in human pathos — now light and airy, changeful
and capricious as the skylark's song — a very fountain of joyous
fancies. Mr. Tregonell had never appreciated Beethoven, being
indeed, as unmusical a soul as God ever created ; but he thought
it a more respectable thing that his wife should sit at her piano
playing an order of music which only the privileged few could
understand, than that she should delight the common herd by
einging which savoured of music-hall and burlesque.
' Is she not absolutely delicious ? ' said Mrs. Torrington,
beating time with her fan. * How proud I should be of myself
if I could sing like that. How proud you must be of your wife
-^nch verve — such /hn — sc thoronghly in the spirit of Uid
•/ will hav6 no Mp^dy an Him,* 28S
thing. That is the only kini. oi singing anybody really cares
for now. One goes to the opera to hear them scream through
" Lohengrin" — oi "Tannhauser" — and then one goes into society
and talks about Wagner — but it is music like this one enjoys.'
' Yes, it's rather jolly,* said Leonard, staring moodily at his
wife, in the act of singing a refrain of Be-b?-be, which was
supposed to represent the bleating of an innocent lamb.
And the Baron's voice goes so admirably with Mrs.
Tregonell'a.'
* Yes, his voice goes — admirably,' said Leonard, sorely
tempted to blaspheme.
'Weren't you charmed to find us all so gay and bright here —
nothing to suggest the sad break-up you had last year. I felt so
intensely sorry for you all — yet I was seltish enough to be glad
I had left before it happened. Did they — don't think me morbid
for asking — did they bring him home here ? '
* Yes, they brought him home.'
*And in which room did they put himi One always wants
to know these tilings, though it can do one no good.'
' In the Blue Room.'
* The second from the end of the corridor, n*ixt but one to
mine ; that's rather awfully near. Do you believe in spiritual
iuriaences? Have you ever had a revelation? Good gracious!
is it leally so late ? Everybody seems to be going.'
'Let me get your candle,' said Leonard, eagerly, making a
dasli for the hall. And so ended his fii-st evening at home with
that imbecile refrain — B e-be-be, repeating itself in hia eaj-s.
CHAPTER XXVIIL
*GAI DONC, LA VOYAGEUSE, AU COUP DU PELERIN 1*
When Mr. Tregonell came to the breakfast room next morning
he found everybody alert with the stir and expectation of an
agreeable day. The Tievena harriers were to meet for the first
time this seat>on, and everybody was full of that event. Chris-
tabel, Mrs. Torrington, and the St. Aubyn girls were breakfasting
in their habits and hats : whips and gloves were lying about on
chairs and side-tables — everybody was talking, and everybody
seemed in a huiry. De Cazalet looked gorgeous in olive corduroy
and Newmarket boots. Mr. St. Aubyn looked business-like in
a well-worn red coat and mahogany tops, while the other men
inclined to dark shooting jackets, buckskins, and Napoleons.
Mr. FitzJesse, in a morning suit that savoured of the study
rather than the hunting field, contemplated these Nimrods with
an amubtnl smile ; but the Reverend St. Bernard beheld them
liot without pangs of envy. He, too, had been io Arca^tlia ; ht^
284 Mount Boyati
too, had followed the hounds in hia green Oxford days, beford
he joined that band of young Anglicans who he doubted not
would by-and-by be as widely renowned as the heroes of the
Tractarian movement.
' You are going to the meet 1 ' inquired Leonard, as his wife
handed him his coftee.
* Do you think I would take the trouble to put on my habit
in order to ride from here to Trevena ? * exclaimed Christabel.
* I am going with the rest of them, of course. Emily St. Aubyu
will show me the way.'
* But you have never hunted.'
* Because your dear mother was too nervous to allow me.
But I have ridden over every inch of the ground. I know my
horse, and my horse knows me. You needn't be afiaid.'
' Mrs. Tregoneli is one of the finest horsewomen I ever saw,'
said de Cazalet. 'It is a delight to ride by her side. Are not
you coming with us ? ' he asked.
' Yes, I'll ride after you,' said Leonard. * I forgot all about
the harriers. Nobody told me they were to begin work this
morning.'
The horses were brought round to the porch, the ladies put
on their gloves, and adjusted themselves in those skimpy lop-
sided petticoats which have replaced the flowing drapery of the
dark ages when a horsewoman's legs and boots were in some-
wise a mystery to the outside world.
Leonard went out to look at the horses. A strange horse
would have interested him even on his death bed, while one ray
of consciousness yet remained to recognize the degrees of equine
strength and quality. He overhauled the mare which Major
Bree had chosen for Christabel a month ago — a magnificent
three-quarter bred hunter, full of power.
* Do you think she can carry me ? ' asked Christabel.
* She could carry a house. Yes ; you ought to be safe upon
her. Is that big black brute the Baron's horse ? '
*Yes.'
* I thought so — a coarse clumsy beast, all show,* muttered
Leonard : *like master, like man.'
He turned away to examine Colonel Blathwayt's hunter, a
good looking chestnut, and in that moment the Baron had taken
up his ground by Christabel's mare, and was ready to lift her
into the saddle. She went up as lightly as a shuttlecock from
a battledore, scarcely touching the corduroy shoulder — but
Leonard felt angry with the Bwon for usurping a function
which should have been left for the husband.
*ls Betsy Baker in condition 1' he asked the head groom, &»
the party rode away, de CazjJet on Mrs. Tregonell's right hand,
< Splendid, sir. She only wants work.'
*Got her ready as quick as you can I'll take it out of her.'
Mr. Tregoneli kept hia word. Wherever de Cazalet and
• Gai Done, La Voyageme, Au Coup JDu Pelerm ! * 285
Christabel rode that day, Christabel's husband went with them.
The Baron was a bold, bad rider — reckless of himself, brutal tc
his horse. Christabel rode superbly, aud was superbly mounted.
Those hills which seemed murderous to the stranger, were aa
nothing to her, who had galloped up and down them on her
Shetland pony, and had seldom ridden over better ground from
the time when Major Bree first took her out with a leading rein.
The day was long, and there v/as plenty of fast going — but these
three were always in the front. Yet even the husband's
immediate neighbourhood in no wise lessened the Baron's
marked attention to the wife, and Leonard rode homeward at
dusk sorely troubled in spirit. What did it mean ? Could it
be that she, whose conduct last year had seemed without
reproach ; who had borne herself with matronly digm'ty, with
virginal purity towards the lover of her girlhood — the refined
and accomplished Angus Hamleigh — could it be that she had
allowed herself to be involved in a flirtation with such a tinsel
dandy as this de Cazalet ?
' It would be sheer lunacy,' he said to himself. * Perhaps she
is carrying on like this to annoy me — punishinir me for '
He rode home a little way behiml those other two, full of
vexation and bewilderment. Nothing had ha)){)ened of which
he could reasonably couij^lain. lie could scarcely kick this man
out of his house because he inclined his head at a certain angle — oi
bev^ause he dropped his voice to a lower key when he s[)oke to
Christabel. Yet his very attitude in the saddle as he rode on
ahead — his hand on his horse's (lank, his figure turned towards
Christabel — was a provocation.
Opera boutl'e duets — recitations — acting charades — hovU rirn-es
— all the catalogue of grown-up playfidness — began again after
dinner ; but this evening Leonard did not stay in the drawing-
room. He felt that he could not trust himself. His disgust
must needs explode into some rudeness of speech if he remained
to witness these vagaries.
' I like the society of barmaids, and I can tolerate the com-
panv of ladies,' he said to his bosom friend Jack ; but a mixture
of the two is unendurable : so we'll have a good smoke and half-
crown pool, shilling lives.*
This was as much as to say, that Leonard and his Either
friends were about to render their half-crowns and shillings
as tribute to Captain Vandeleur's superior play ; th;it gentleman
liaving made pool liis profession since he left the army.
They played till midnight, in an atmospliere which grew
thick with tobacco smoke before the night was done. They
played till Jack Yandeleur's pockets were full of loose silver, and
till the other men had come to the conclusion that pool was a
slow game, with an element nf childishness in it, at the best— -no
real skill, only a mere mechanical knack, acquired by incesaapt
practice in fusty puWin rooms, reeking: wi^*^ alcohol.
286 Moun* Boyai,,
'Show me a man who plays like th;rt, and 111 «how you 4
Bcamp,' muttered little Monty in a friendly aside to Leonard, ai
Jack Vaudeleur swept up the last pooL
* I know he's a scamp,' answered Leonard, ' but he's a pleasant
«camp, and a capital fellow to travel with — never ill — never out
of teraper — always ready for the day's work, whatever it is, and
always able to make the beat of things. Why don't you marry
one of his sisters ? — they're both jolly good fellows.'
* No coin,* said Monty, shaking his neat little flaxen head.
* I can just contrive to keep myself — " still to be neat, still to be
drest." What in mercy's name should I do with a wife who
would want food and gowns, and stalls at the theatres ? I have
been thinking that if those St. Aubyn girls have money— on the
nail, you know, not in the form of expectations from that pain-
fully healthy father — I might think seriously of one of them.
They are horridly rustic — smell of clover and beans, and would
be likely to disgrace one in London society — but they are not
hideous.'
* I don't think there's much ready money in that quarter
Monty,' answered Leonard. ' St. Aubyn has a good deal of land.'
* Land,' screamed Monty. * I wouldn't touch it with a pair
of tongs ! The workhouses of the next century will be peopled
by the offspring of the landed gentry. I shudder when I think
of the country squire and his prospects.'
* Hard lines,' said Jack, who had made that remark two or
three times before in the course of the evening.
They were sitting round the fire by this time — smoking and
drinking mulled Burgundy, and ^he conversation had become
general.
This night was as many other nights. Sometimes Mr.
Tregonell tried to live through the evening in the drawing-room
—enduring the society games — the Boulevard music — the reci-
tations and tableaux and general frivolity — but he found these
umusements hang upon his spirits like a nightmare. He watched
his wife, but could discover nothing actually reprehensible in her
conduct — nothing upon which he could take his stand as an
outraged husband and say * This shall not be.' If the Baron's
devotion to her was marked enough for every one to see, and if
her acceptance of his attentions was gracious in the exticme, his
devotion and her graciousness were no moie than he had seen
everywhere accepted as the small change of societ}', meaning
nothing, tending towards nothing but gradual satiety ; except in
those few exceptional cases which ended in open scandal and
took society by surprise. That which impjessed Leonard was
the utter change in his wife's character. It seemed as if her
very nature were altered. Womanly tenderness, a gentle and
Bubdued manner, had given place to a hard brilliancy. It was,
au if he had lost a pearl, and found a diamond in its place— one
all softness and purity, the other all sparkle and light.
* Gai DonCf La Voyageusey Au Coup Du Pelerin f * 287
He was too proud to sue to her for any renewal of old confi-
dences — to claim from her any of the duties of a wife. If she
eould live and be happy without him — and he knew but too
Burely that hia presence, his affection, had never contributed to
her happiness — he would let her see that he could hve without
her — that he was content to accept the position she had chosen —
union which was no union — ^marriage that had ceased to be
marriage — a chain drawn out to its furthest length, yet lield cw
lightly that neither need feel the bondage.
Everybody at Mount Royal was loud in praise of Christabel.
She was so brilliant, so versatile, she made her house so utterly
charming. This was the verdict of her new friends — but her
old friends were less enthusiastic. Major Bree came to the
Manor House very seldom now, and frankly owned himself a
fish out of water in Mrs. Tregonell's new circle.
* Everybody is so laboriously lively,' he said ; * there is an
air of forced hilarity. I sigh for the house as it was in your
mother's time, Leonard. " A haunt of ancient peace." '
'There's not much peace about it now, by Jove,' said
Leonard. * Why did you put it into my wife's head to ride to
hounds ? '
* I had nothing to do with it. She asked me to choose her a
hunter, and I chose her something good and safe, that's all
But I don't think you ought to object to her hunting, Leonard,
or to her doing anything else that may help to keep her in good
spirits. She was in a very bad way all the winter,'
* Do you mean that she was seriously ill ? Their letters to
me were so d d short. I hardly know anything that went on
while I was away.'
* Yes. She was very ill — given over to melancholy. It was
only natural that she should be affected by Angus Hamleigh's
death, when you remember what they liad been to each other
before you came home. A woman may break an engagement of
that kind, and may be very happy in her union with another
man, but she can't forget her first lover, if it were only because
he is the fii-st. It was an unlucky thing your bringing him to
Mount Royal. One of your impulsive follies.'
* Yes, one of my follies. So you say that Christabel was out
of health and spirits all the winter.'
* Yes, she would see no one — not even me — or the Rector.
No one but the doctor ever crossed the threshold. But saiely
Miss Bridgeman lia.s told you all about it Miss Bridgeman was
devoted to her.*
* Miss Bridgeman is as close as the grave ; and I am not going
to demean myself by questioning her.'
*Well, there is no need to be unhappy about the past.
Chrisiabel is herself again, thank God — brighter, prettier than
ever. That Swiss tour with Miss Bridgeman and the boy did
her worlds of ii^op<J. J thought you made a mistake in leaving
288 Mount BoyaX,
her at Mount Royal after that melancholy erent. You should
have taken her with you.*
* Perhaps I ought to have done so/ assented Leonard, tli ink-
ing bitterly how very improbable it was that she would have
consented to go with him.
He tried to make the best of his position, painful as it was.
He blustered and hectored as of old — gave his days to field
sports — his evenings for the most part to billiards and tobacco.
He drank more than he had been accustomed to drink, sat np late
of nights. His nerves were not benefited by these latter habits.
' l^our hand is as shaky as an old wonian's,' exclaimed Jack,
upon his opponent missing an easy cannon. ' Why, you miglit
have done that with a boot- jack. If you're not careful you'll be
in for an attack of del. trem., and that will chaw you up in a
very short time. A man of jonr st;imiiia is the worst kind of
Bubject for nervous diseases. We sliall have you catching flies,
and seeing imaginary snow-storms i)eff»re long.'
Leonard received this friendly warning with a scornful laugh.
* De Cazalet drinks more brandy in a day than I do in a
week,' he said.
*Ah, but look at his advantages — brought up in Jersey,
where cognac is duty-free. aVoneof us have had his tine training.
Wonderful constitution he must have — hand as steady as a rock.
You saw him this morning knock off a particular acorn from the
oak in the stfible yard with a bullet.'
* Yes, the fellow can shoot ; he's less of an impostor than I
expected.'
* Wonderful eye and hand. He must have spent years of his
life in a shooting gallery. You're a dooced good shot, Tregonell ;
but, com]»ared with him, yon're not in it.'
* That's very likely, though I have had to live by my gun in
the Kockies. FitzJesse told me that in South America de Cazalet
was known as a professed duellist.'
* And you have only shot four-fooied beasts — never gone for
a fellow creature,' answered Jack, lightly.
CHAPTER XXIX.
*TIMB TURNS THE OLD DAYS TO DERISION.*
If Leonard Tregonell was troubled and perplexed by the change
in his wife's character, there was one other person at Moun
Royal, Christabel's nearest and dearest friend, to whom that
change was even a greater mystification. Jessie Bridgeman.
who had been witli her in the dark hour-s of her giief — who had
seen her sunk in the apathy of despair — who had comforted and
watched her, and sympathized and wept with ])er, looked on
now in blank wonderment at a phase of character which was
altogelh er enigmatical. She t^d l:|eeo -vyith Mrs. Tregonell 5<5
*Time Turns the Old Days to Derision,* 289
Zermatt, when de Cazalet had obtruded iiim»elf on their notice
by bis officious attentions during a pilgiumage to tlie Eiffel, and
uhe had been bewildered at Christabel's civility to a man of such
obvious bad style- He had stayed at the sane hotel with them
for three or four days, and had given them as much of his society
as he could without being absolutely intrusive, taking advantage
of having met Christabel five seasons ago, at two or three quasi
literary assemblies ; and at parting Christabel had invited him
to Mount Royal. 'Mr. Tregonell will be at li^me in the autumn,'
she said, * and if you shoidd find yourself in Cornwall ' — he had
talked of exploring the West of England — * I know he would be
glad to see you at Mount RoyaL'
When Jessie hinted at the unwisdom of an invitation to a
man of whom they knew so little, Christabel answered carelessly
that * Leonard liked to have his house full of lively people, and
would no doubt be pleased with the Baron de Cazalet.'
* You used to leave him to choose his own visitors.'
* I know ; but I mean to take a more active part in tlie
arrangement of things in future. I am tired of being a cipher.'
Did you hear those people talking of the Baron at table oPKdU
I heard a little — I was not particularly attentive.'
*Then perhaps you did not hear that he is a thorough
Bohemian — that he led a very wild life in South America, and
was a notorious duellist.*
* What can that matter to us, even if it is true ?'
It seemed to Jessie that Christabel's whole nature underwent
ft change, and that the transformation dated from her acquaint-
ance with this man. They were at the end of their tour at the
time of this meeting, and they came straight through to Paris,
where Mrs. Tregonell abandoned herself to frivolity — going to
all the theatres— buying all the newest and lightest music-
spending long mornings with milliners and dressmakers-
squandering money upon fine rlothes, which a year ago she
would liave scorned to wear, lliihei-to her taste had tended to
simplicity of attire — not without richness — for she was too much
of an artist not to value the artistic efi"ect3 of costly fabrics, the
beauty of warm colouring. But she now pursued that Will o' the
Wisp fashion from Worth to Pingat, and bought any number of
gowns, some of which, to Miss BriJgemau's severe taste, seemed
simply odious.
* Do you intend spending next season in May Fair, and do
you expect to be asked to a good many fancy balls ?' asked
Jessie, as Mrs. Tregonell's maid exhibited the gowns in the
spacious bed-room at the Bristol.
* Nonsense, Jessie. These are all dinner gowns. The infinite
variety of modern fashion is its chief merit The style of to-day
embraces three centm-ies of the past, from Catherine de M^dicis
to Madame B^camiei^'
Mount Boyal,
At one of the Boulevard theatres Mrs. Tregonell and Mi8»
Bridgeman met Mr. FitzJesse, who was also returning from a
sunmier holiday. He was Angus Hamleigh's friend, and had
imown Christabel during the happy days of her first London
season. It seemed hardly strange that she should be glad to
meet him, and that she should ask him to Mount Eoyal.
And now I must have some women to meet these men,* she
Baid, when she and Jessie were at home again, and the travelled
infant had gone back to his nursery, and had inquired why tlie
hiUs he saw from his windows were no longer white, and why
the sea was so much bigger than the lakes he had seen lately.
' I mean to make the house as pleasant as possible for Leonard
when he comes home.*
She and Jessie were alone in the oak-panelled parlour — the
room with the alcove overlooking the hills and the sea. They
were seated at a little table in this recess — Christabel's desk open
before her — Jessie knitting.
* How gaily you speak. Have you '
She was going to say, * Have you forgiven him tor what was
done at St Nectan's Kieve?' but she checked herself when the
words were on her lips. What if Leonard's crime was not for-
given, but forgetten? In that long dreary winter they had
never spoken of the manner of Angus Hamleigh's death. Cliria-
tabel's despair had been silent. Jessie had comforted her with
vague words which never touched upon the cruel details of her
grief. How if the mind had been affected by that long interval
of sorrow and the memory of Leonard's deed blotted out?
Christabel's new delight in frivolous things — her sudden fancy
for filling her house with lively people — might be the awakening
of new life and vigour in a mind that had trembled on the con-
fines of madness. Was it for her to recall bitter facts — to reopen the
fountain of tears ? She gave one little sigh for the untimely dead
—-and then addressed herself to the duty of pleasing Christabel,
just as in days gone by her every effort had been devoted to
making the elder Mrs. Tregonell happy.
* I suppose you had better ask Mrs. Fairfax Torrington,' she
•uggested.
* Yes, Leonard and she are gi-eat chums. We must have
Mrs. Torrington. And there are the St. Aubyns, nice lively
girls, and an inoffensive father and mother. I believe Leonard
rather likes them. And then it will be a charity to have Dopsy
and Mopsy.'
* I thought you detested them.'
* No, poor foolish things — I was once sorry for Dopsy.* The
tears rushed to her eyes. She rose suddenly from her chair, vaiid
went to the window.
* Then she has not forgotten,' thought Jessie.
So it was that the autumn party was planned. Mr. Faddie
*(7ad doing duty at the little church in the glen, and thiui
* Time Tv/ms the Old Days to Derision, 291
Happened to be in the way of an invitation. Mr. Montagu wajf
asked as a person of general usefulness. The St. Aubyn party
brought horses, and men and maids, and contributed much to
the liveliness of the establishment, so far as noise means gaiety.
They were ail assembled when Baron de Cazalet telegraphed from
a yacht offthe^izardto ask if he might come, and, receivinga favour-
able reply, landed at Penzance, and posted over with his valet ; his
horse and gun cases were brought from London by another servant.
Leonard had been home nearly a fortnight, and had begun
to accept this new mode of life without further wonder, and to
fall into his old ways, and find some degree of pleasure in his old
occupations — hunting, shooting.
The Vandeleur girls were draining the cup of pleasure to
tlie dregs. Dopsy forgot her failure and grief of last year. One
cannot waste all one's life in mourning for a lover who was
never in love with one.
* I wore bugles for him all last winter, and if I had been able
to buy a new black gown I would have kept in mourning for
six months,' she told her sister apologetically, as if ashamed of
her good spirits, *but I can't help enjoying myself in such a
house as this. Is not Mr« Tregonell changed for the better ?*
'Everything is changvV? for the better,' assented Mopsy,
* If we had only horses and could hunt, like those stuck up St,
Aubyn girls, life would be perfect.'
* They ride well, I suppose,' said Dopsy, * but they are dread-
fully arriirdes. They haven't an aesthetic idea. When I told
th»»m we had thoughts of belonging to the Browning Society, that
eldest one asked me if it was like the Birkbeck, and if we should
be able to buya house rent free by monthly instalments. And the
youngest said that sunflowers were only fit for cottage gardens.'
* And the narrow-minded mother declared she could see no
beauty in single dahlias,' added Dopsy, with ineffable disgust.
The day was hopelessly wet, and the visitors at Mount Royal
Pvere spending the morning in that somewhat straggling manner
common to people who are in somebody else's house — impressed
with a feeling that it is useless to settle oneself even to the
interesting labour of art needlework when one is not by one's
own fireside. The sportsmen were all out ; but de Cazalet, the
Rev. St. Bernard, and Mr. FitzJesse preferred the shelter of a
well-warmed Jacobean mansion to the wild sweep of the wind
across the moor, or the dash of the billows.
* I have had plenty of wild life on the shores of the Pacific,*
■aid de Cazalet, luxuriating in a large green plush arm-chair, on«
of the anachronisms of the grave old library. * At home I revel
in civilization — I cannot have too much of warmth and
comfort — velvety nests like this to lounge in, downy cushions to
lean against, hothouse flowers, and French cookery. Delicious tc
hear the rain beating against the glass, and the wind howling in the
chimney. Put another Ion oi^ Faddie. like the best of fallows*'
S99 Mount Boyal.
The Reverend St. Bernard, not much appreciating thif
familiarity, daintily picl.ed a log froLi the big brazen basket
and dropped it in a gingerly manner upon the hearth, carefully
dusting his fingers afterwards with a cambric handkerchief
l«rhich sent forth odoui-s of Mar^chale.
Mr. FitzJesse was sitting at a distant table, with a large
despatch box and a pile of open letters before him, writing at
railway speed, in order to be in time for the one o'clock post.
* He is making up his paper,' said de Cazalet, lazily contem-
plating the worker's bowed shoulders. * I wonder if he is saying
anything about us.'
* 1 am happy to say that he does not often discuss church
"Hatteia,' said Mr. Faddie. * He shows his good sense by a
*areful avoidance of opinion upon our difiiculties and our
differences.'
* Perhaps he doesn't think them worth discussing---of no more
consequence than the shades of difference between tweedledum
and twedledee,' yawned de Cazalet, whereupon Mr. Faddie gave
him a look of contemptuous anger, and left the room.
Mr. FitzJesse went away soon afterwards with his batch of
letters for the post-bag in the hall, and the Baron was left alone
in listless contemplation of the fire. He had been in the drawing
room, but had found that apartment uninteresting by reason of
Mrs. Tregonell's absence. He did not care to sit and watch
the two Miss St. Aubyns playing chess — nor to hear Mrs. Fairfax
Torrington dribbling out stray paragi-aphs from the * society
journals ' for the benefit of nobody in particular — nor to listen
to Mrs. St. Aubyn's disquisitions upon the merits of Alderney
cows, with which Jessie Bridgeman made believe to be
interested, while deep in the intricacies of a crewel-work dafibdii
For him the spacious pink and white panelled room without one
particular person was more desolate than the wild expanse of
the Pampas, with its low undlations, growing rougher towards
the base of the mountains. He had come to the library — an
apartment chiefly used by the men— to bask in the light of the
fire, and to brood upon agreeable thoughts. The meditations of
a man who has a very high opinion of his own merits ar»
generally pleasant, and just now Oliver de Cazalet's idea about
himself were unusually exalted, for had he not obviously made
\he conquest of one of the moat charming women he had
ever met.
'A pity she has a husband,* he thought. *It would have
Buited me remarkably well to drop into such h luxurious nest aa
thia The boy is not three years old — by the time he came of
age — well — I should have lived my life, I suppose, and could
afford to subside into comforiable obscurity,' sighed de Cazalet,
conscious of his forty years. * The husband logks uncommonly
tough ; but even Hercules was morfeil. One never knows ho\r
or when a man of tliat atamD may p-< off the hook&'
'Time Turns tfie Old Days to Derision.' 293
TTn-*!e pleasing reflections were disturbed by the entrance of
Mops3% who, after prowlincj all over the hou3« in quest of mas-
culine society, came yawning into the library in search of any*
thing readable in the way of a newspaper — a readable paper
with Mopsy meaning theatres, fashions, or scandal.
She gave a little start at sight of de Cazaiet, whose stalwart
form and florid good looks were by no means obnoxious to her
taste. If he had not been so evidently devoted to Mrs. Tregonell,
Mopsy would have perchance essayed his subjugation ; but, re-
membering Dopsy's bitter experience of last year, the sadder and
wiser Miss Vandeleur had made up her mind not to *go for' any
marriageable man in too distinct a manner. She would play
that fluki^ig game which she most affected at billiards — sending
her ball spinning all over the table with the hope that some
successful result must come of a vigorous stroke.
She fluttered about the room, then stopped in a Fra Angelico
pose over a table strewed with papers.
'Baron, have you seen the Queen?' she asked presently.
* Often. I had the honour of making my bow to her last
April. She is one of the dearest women I know, and she was
good enough to feel interested in my somewhat romantic career.'
* How nice ! But I mean the Queen newspaper. I am tlyiug
to know if it really is coming in. Now it has been seen in Paris.
Fm afraid it's inevitable.'
' May I af.k what it is 1 '
* Perhaps I oughtn't to mention it — crinoline. There is a talk
about something called a crinolette.'
* And Crinolette, I suppose, is own sister to Crinoline t '
' I'm afraid so — don't you hate them ? I do ; I love the early
Italian style — clinging cashmeres, soft flowing draperies.'
' And accentuated angles — well, yes. If one has to ride in
a hansom or a single brougham with a woman the hoop and
powder style is rather a burthen. But women are such lovely
l3eings — they are adorable in any costume. Madame Tallien
with bare feet, and no petticoats to speak of — Pompadour in
patches and wide-spreading brocade — Margaret of Orleans in a
peaked head dress and puffed sleeves — Mary Stuart in a black
velvet coif, and a ruff — each and all ad(jrable — on a pretty
woman.'
* On a pretty woman — yes. The pretty women set the fashions
and the ugly women have to wear them — that's the difliculty.'
* Ah, me,* sighed the Baron, * did any one ever see an ugly
woman 1 There are so many degrees of beauty that it takes a
long time to get from Venus to her opposite. A smile — a sparkle
— a kindly look — a fresh complexion — a neat bonnet — vivacious
converuition — such trifles will pass for beauty with a man who
worships the sex. For him every flower in the garden of woman-
hood, from the imperial rose to the lowly buttercup, has its own
i>eculiar charm.'
194 Mount Moyal.
* And yet I should have thought you were awfully fastidiouu,
Raid Mopsy, trilling with the newspapers, '•uid tiiat nothing
«l)ort of absolute perfection would please you.'
* Absolute perfection is generally a bore. I have met famous
beauties who had no more attraction than if they had been
famous statues.*
* Yes ; I know there is a cold kind of beauty — but there are
women who are as fascinating as they are lovely. Our hostess,
for instance — don't you think her utterly sweet 1 *
* She is very lovely. Do come and sit by the fire. It is such
a creepy morning. I'll hunt for any newspapers you like
presently ; but in the meanwhile let us chat. I was getting
horribly tired of my own thoughts when you came in.'
Mopsy simpered, and sat down in the easy chair opposite the
Baron's. She began to think that this delightful person admired
her more than she had hitherto supposed. His desire for her
company looked promising. What if, after all, she, who had
striven so much less eagerly than poor Dopay strove last year,
Bliould be on the high road to a conquest. Here was the
handsomest man she had ever met, a man with title and money,
courting her society in a house full of people.
* Yes, she is altogether charming,' said the Baron lazily, as if
he were talking merely for the sake of convei-sation. 'Very
Bweet, as you say, but not quite my. style — there is a something
— an intangible something wantin^Oi She has chic — she has
savoir-faire, but she has not — no, she has not that electrical wit
which — I have admired in othei-s less conventionally beautiful.'
The Baron's half-veiled smile, a smile glancing from under
lowered eyelids, hinted that this vital spark which was wanting
in Christabel might be found in Mopsy.
The damsel blushed, and looked down conscious of eyelashes
artistically treated.
* I don't think Mrs. Tregonell has been quite happy in her
married life,' said Mopsy. ' My brother and Mr. Tregonell are
very old friends, don't you know ; like brothers, in fact ; and
Mr. Tregonell tells Jack everything. I know his cousin didn't
want to marry him — she was engaged to somebody else, don't
you know, and that engagement was broken off, but he had set
his heart upon marrying her — and his mother had set her heart
upon the. match — and between them they tidked her into it.
She never really wanted to marry him — Leonard has owned
that to Jack iii his savage moods. But I ought not to run on sQ
— I am doing very wrong' — said Mopsy, hastily.
' You may say anything you please to me. I am like the
grave. I never give up a secret,' said the Baron, who had
settled himself comfortably in his chair, assured that Mopsj
once set going, would tell him all she could telL
* No, I don't believe — from what Jack says be sava in hi*
tempera — I don't believe ahe ever liked him,' pursued Mopsy.
• Time Twms the Old Days to Derision: 290
' And she was desperately in love with the other one. But she
gave him up at her aunt's instigation, because of some early
intrigue of his — which was absurd, as she would have known,
poor thing, if she had not been brought up in this out-of-the-way
comer of the world.'
* The other one. Who was the other one 1 ' asked th« Baron,
*The man who was shot at St. Nectan's Kieve last year
You must have heard the story.'
* Yes ; Mr. St. Aubyn told me about it And this Mr.
Hamleigh had been engaged to Mi-s. Tregonell ? O^d that he
should be staying in this house ! '
' Wasn't it 1 One of those odd things that Leonard Tregoneli
is fond of doing. He was always eccentric.
* And during this visit was there anything — the best of women
are mortal — was there anything in tlie way of a flirtation going
on between Mrs. Tregonell and her former sweetheart ? '
'Not a shadow of impropriety,' answered Mopsy heartily.
* She behaved perfectly. I knew the story from my brother, and
couldn't help watching them — there was nothing underhand — not
the faintest indication of a secret understanding between them,'
* And Mr. Tregonell was not jealous 1 '
* I cannot say ; but I am sure he had no cause.'
* I suppose Mrs. TregoneU was deeply affected hy Mr. Ham*
leigh's death 1 '
* I hardly know. She seemed wonderfully calm ; but as we
left almost immediately after the accident I had not much
opportunity of judging.'
* A sad business. A lovely woman married to a man she
does not care for — and really if I were not a visitor under his
roof I should be tempted to say that in my opinion no woman
in her senses could care for Mr. Tregonell. But I suppose after
all practical considerations had something to do with the match.
Tregonell is lord of half-a-dozen manoi*s — and the lady hadn't
a sixpence. Was that it ? '
*Not at all Mrs. Tregonell has money in her own right
She was the only child of an Indian judge, and her mother was
co-heiress with the late Mrs. Tregonell, who was a Miss Cham-
pernowne — I believe she has at least fifteen hundred a year,
upon which a single woman might live very comfortably, don't
you know,' concluded Miss Vandeleur, with a grand air.
* No doubt,' said the Baron. * And the fortune was settled
on herself, I conclude 1 '
* Every shilling. ]\Ir. Tregonell's mother insisted upon that.
No doubt she felt it her duty to protect her niece's interest.
Mr. Tregonell has complained to Jack of his vsdfe being so
independent. It lessens his hold upon her, don't you see.*
* Naturally. She is not under any obligation to him for her
milliner's bills.'
' Na And bar bilU must be awf ulbr heavy this year. I
996 Motmt Boyax,
never saw such a change in any one. Last autumn she dressed
BO simply. A tailor-gown in the morning — black velvet or satin
in the evening. And now there is no end to the variety of her
gowns. It makes one feel awfully shabby.'
' Such artistic toilets as yours can never be shabby,' said the
Baron. * In looking at a picture by Greuze one does not think
how much a yard the pale indefinite drapery cost, one only sees
the grace and beauty of the draping.'
*True ; taste will go a long way,' assented Mopsy, who had
been trying for the last ten years to make taste — that is to say
a careful study of the West-end shop windows — do duty for cash
' Then you find Mrs. Tregonell changed since your last visit ?
inquired de Cazalet, bent upon learning all he could.
* Remarkably. She is so much livelier — she seems so much
more anxious to please. It is a change altogether for the better.
She seems gayer — brighter — happier.'
* Yes,' thought the Baron, ' she is in love. Only one
magician works such wonders, and he is the oldest of the gods
— the motive power of the universe.'
The gong sounded, and they went off to lunch. At the foot
of the stairs they met Christabel bringing down her boy. She
was not so devoted to him as she had been last year, but there
were occasions — like this wet morning, for instance — when she
gave heraeLf up to his society.
* Leo is going to eat his dinner with us,' she said, smiling at
the Baron, ' if you will not think him a nuisance.'
' On the contrary, I shall be charmed to improve his acquaint-
ance. I hope he will let me sit next him.'
* Thant,' lisped Leo,' decisively. * Don't like oc*
* Oh, Leo, how rude.'
* Don't reprove him,' said the Baron. * It is a comfort to be
reminded that for the first three or four years of our lives we all
tell the truth. But I mean you to like me, Leo, all the same.'
* I hate 'oo,' said Leo, frankly — he always expressed himself
in strong Saxon English — * but *oo love my mamma.'
This, in a shrill childish treble, was awkward for the rest of
the party. Mrs. Fairfax Torrington gave an arch glance at Mr.
YitzJesse. Dopsy reddened, and exploded in a little spluttering
laugh behind her napkin. Christabel looked divinely uncon-
scious, smiling down at her boy, whose chair had been placed at
the corner of the table close to his mother.
* It is a poet's privilege to worship the beautiful, Leo,' said
the Baron, with a self-satisfied smirk. * The old troubadour's
right of allegiance to the loveliest — as old as chivalry.'
* And as disreputable,' said FitzJesse. • If I had been one
of the knights of old, and had found a troubadour sneaking
about my premises, that troubadour's head should have been
through his guitar before he knew where he was — or he should
have discovered fJiat my idea of a common chord was a halter.
• Time Twms the Old Days to Derision.* 297
But in our present age of ultra-refinernent the social troubadour
is a gentleman, and the worship of beauty one of the higher
forms of culture.'
The Baron looked at the journalist suspiciously. Bold as he
was of speech and bearing, he never ventured to cross swords
with Mr. FitzJesse. He was too much afraid of seeing an
article upon his Jersey antecedents or his married life in leaded
type in the Sling.
Happily Mr. Tregonoll was not at luncheon upon this par-
ticular occasion. He had gone out shooting with Jack Vandeimir
and iittlij Monty. It was supposed to be a great year for wood-
cock, and the Squire and his friends liad been after the birds in
every direction, except St. Nectan's Kifeve. He had refused to go
there, although it was a tradition that the place was a favourite
resort of the birds.
'Why don't you shoot, Mrs. Tregonell?' avsked Mrs. Tor-
rington ; *it is just the one thing that makes life worth living in
a country like this, where there is no great scope for hunting.'
* I should like roaming about the hills, but I could never
bring myself to hit a bird,' answered Christabel. 'I am too
fond of the feathered race. I don't know why or what it is, but
there is something in a bird which appeals intensely to one's
pity. I have been more soiTy than I can say for a dying
sparrow ; and I can never teach myself to remember that birds
are such wretchedly cruel and unprincipled creatures in their
dealings with one another that they really deserve very little
compassion from man.'
* Except that man has the responsibility of knowing better,
said Mr. FitzJesse. * That infernal cruelty of the animal Sta-
tion is one of the problems that must perplex the gentle optimist
who sums up his religion in a phrase of Pope's, and avows that
whatever is, is right. "Who, looking at the meek meditative
countenance of a Jersey cow, those large stag-like eyes — Juno'a
eyes — would believe that Mrs. Cow is capable of trampling a
sick sister to death — nay, would look upon the operation as a
matter of course — a thing to be done for the good of society.'
'Is there not a little moral trampling done by stag-eyed
creatures of a higher grade,' asked Mrs. Torrington. 'Let a
woman once fall down in the raud, and there are plenty of her
own sex ready to grind her into the mire. Cows have a coarser,
more practical way of treating their fallen sisters, but the prin-
ciple is the same, don't you know.'
*I have always founa man the more malignant animal,' said
FitzJesse. * At her worst a woman generally has a motive for
the evil ska does — some wrong to avenge — some petty slight to
retaliate. A man stabs for the mere pleasure of stabbing-
With him slander is one of the line arts. Dapend upon it your
Crabtree is a more malevolent creature than Mrs. Candour — ^and
tiie Candours W4 old not kill refutations if the Crabtrea^i did uot
298 Mount Bcyyal,
admire anQ applaud the slaughter. For my own part I believe
that if there were no men in. the world, women would be almost
kind to each other.*
The Baron did not enter into this discussion. He had no
taste for any subject out of his own line, which wixs art and
beauty. With character or morals he had nothing to do. He
did not even pretend to listen to the discourse of the others, but
amused himself with petting Leo, who sturdily repulsed his
endearmeutd. When he spoke it waa to reply to Chiistabel's last
remark.
* If you are fonder of roaming on the hills than of shooting,
Mrs. Tregonell, why should we not organize a rambling party 1
It is not too late for a picnic. Let us hold ourselves ready for
the first bright day — perhaps, after this deluge, we shall have
fine weather to-morrow — and organize a pilgrimage to Tintagel,
with all the freedom of pedestrians, who can choose their own
company, and are not obliged to sit opposite the person they
least care about in the imprisonment of a barouche or a wagonette.
Walking picnics are the only picnics worth having. You are a
good walker, I know, Mrs. Tregonell ; and you, Mrs. Torrington,
you can walk, I have no doubt.'
The widow smiled and nodded. * Oh, yes I am good for
half-a-dozen miles, or so,' she said, wondering whether she
possessed a pair of boots in. which she could walk, most of her
boots being made rather with a view to exhibition on a fender-
stool or on the step of a cai-riage than to locomotion. * But I
think as I am not quite so young as I was twenty years ago, I
had better follow you in the pony- carriage.'
* Pony-carriage, me no pony -carriages,* exclaimed de Cazalet.
* Ours is to be a walking picnic and nothing else. If you like to
meet us as we come home you can do so — but none but pedes-
trians slialj drink our champagne or eat our salad — that salad
which I shall have the honour to make for you with my own
hands. Mrs. TregonelL'
Jessie Bridgeman looked at Christabel to see if any painful
memory — any thought of that other picnic at Tintagel when
Angus Hanileigh was still a stranger, and the world seemed made
for ghidness and laughter, would disturb her smiling serenity.
But there was no trace of mournful recollection in that bright
beaming face which was turned in all graciousness towards
the Baron, who sat caressing Leo's curls, while the boy wriggled
his plump shoulders half out of his black velvet frock in palpable
disgust at the caress.
' Oh ! it will be too lovely — too utterly ouftish,' exclaimed
Dopsy, who had lately acquired this last flower of speech — a
word which might be made to mean almost anything, from tha
motive power which impels a biUiard cue to the money that pays
the player's losses at pool — a word which is a aubBtantive oi
adjective according; to tiitt sDeaker's pleasure^
• Thou shouldst come UJce a Fury.* 299
'I Bnppose we shall be allowed to join you,' said Mopsy, • we
arc splendid walkers.'
* Of covirse — entry open to all weights and ages, with Mrs.
Tregonell's permission.'
*Let it be your picnic, Baron, since it is your idea,* said
Christabel ; * my housekeeper shall take your orders about the
luncheon, and we will all consider ourselves your guests.'
*I shall expire if I am left out in the cold,' said Mrs.
Torrington. * You really must allow age the privilege of a pony-
carriage. That delightful cob of Mrs. Tregonell's understands
me perfectly.'
* Well, on second thoughts, you shall have the carriage,' said
de Cazalet, graciously. * The pro^nsions can't walk. It shall be
your privilege to bring them. We will have no servants. Mr.
Faddie, Mr. Fitz Jesse, and I will do all the fetching and carry-
*ing, cork-drawing, and salad-making.'
CHAPTER XXX.
*TH0T7 SHOULDST COME LIKE A FURY CROWNED WITH SNAKE3.*
When the shooting party came home to afternoon tea, Dopsy
and Mopsy were both full of the picnic. The sun was sinking
in lurid splendour ; there was every chance of a fine day to-
morrow. De Cazalet had interviewed the housekeeper, and
ordered luncheon. Mopsy went about among the men like a
recruiting sergeant, telling them of the picnic, and begging them
to join in that festivity.
* It will be wretched for Dopsy and I ' — her grammar was
weak, and she had a fixed idea that 'I' was a genteeler pronoun
than ' me,' — ' if you don't all come,' she said to Colonel Blatliwayt.
* Of course the Baron will devote himself exclusively to Mi's.
Tregonell. FitzJesse will go in the pony trap with Mre.
Torrington, and they'll have vivisected everybody they know
before they get there. And I can't get on a little bit with Jlvlr.
Faddie, though he is awfully nice. I feel that if I were to let
him talk to me an hour at a stretch I should be obliged to go
and join some Protestant sisterhood and wear thick boots and
too fearful bonnets for the rest of my days.'
*And what would society do without Mopsy Vandeleur?*
asked the Colonel, smiling at her. * I should enjoy a ramble
with you above all things, but a picnic is such a confoundedly
infantine business. I always feel a hundred years old when I
attempt to be gay and frisky before dusk — feel as if I had been
dead and come back to life again, as some of the savage tribes
believe. However, if it will really please you, I'll give up the
birds to-morrow, and join your sports.*
* How sweet of you,' exclaimed Mopsy, with a thrilling look
from under her painted leshes. * The whole thing would be
ghastly without you.'
5U0 Mount Boyah,
•What's the it/wT' asked Leonard, turning his head upon
the cushion of the easy chair in which he lolled at full length,
to look up at the speakers as they stood a little way behind him.
The master of Mount Eoyal was sitting by one fireplace,
with a table and tea-tray all to himself ; while Mrs. Tregonell
tnd her circle were grouped about the hearth at the opposite end
of the hall. Jack Vandeleur and little Monty stood in front of
the fire near their host, faithful adherents to the friend who fed
them ; but all the rest of the party clustered round Christabel.
Mopsy told Mr. Tregonell all about the intended picnic.
* It is to be the Baron's afi'air,' she said, gaily. * He organized
it, and he is to play the host. There are to be no carriages —
except the pony-trap for Mrs. Torrington, who pinches her feet
and her waist to a degree that makes locomotion impossible.
We are aU to walk except her. And I believe we are to have tea at
the farm by St. Piran's well — a simple farmhouse tea in some dear
old whitewashed room with a huge fireplace, hams and onions
And things hanging from the rafters. Isn't it a lovely idea ? '
* Very,' grumbled Leonard ; ' but I should say you could
have your tea a great deal more comfortable here without being
under an obligation to the farm people.'
*0h, but we have our tea here every afternoon,* said Mopsy.
* Think of the novelty of the thing.'
* No doubt. And this picnic is the Baron's idea ! '
* His and Mrs. Tregonell's, they planned it all between them.
And they are going to get up private theatricals for your birth-
day.'
* How kind,* growled Leonard, scowling at his teacup.
* Isn't it sweet of them ? They are going to play " Delicate
Ground." He is to be Citizen Sangfroid and she Pauline — ^the
husband and wife who quarrel and pretend to separate and are
desperately fond of each other all the time, don't you know ? It's
a powder piece.*
* A what?*
* A play in which the people wear powdered wigs and patches,
and all that kind of thing. How dense you are.'
* I was born so, 1 believe. And in this powder piece Mrs.
Tregonell and Baron de Cazalet are to be husband and wife, and
quarrel and make friends again — eh ? '
* Yes. The reconciliation is awfully fetching. But you aro
not jealous, are you ? '
' Jealous ? Not the least bit.'
* Tliat's so nice of you ; and you wiU come to our picnic to-
morrow ? '
* I think not'
* Why not ? '
' Because the woodcock season is a short one, and I want to
make the best use of my time.'
' What a barbarian, to prefer any sport to our society,' ex*
• Thou sTumldst come like a Fury. 301
elaimed Mopsy, coquettishly. Tor my part I hate the very
name of woodcock.'
' Why 1 ' asked Leonard, looking at her keenly, with his dark,
briglit eyes ; eyes which had that hard, glassy brightness that
nas always a cruel look.
' Because it reminds me of that dreadful day last year when
poor Mr. Hamleigh was killeil. If he had not gone out wood-
cock shooting he would not have been killed.'
* No ; a man's death generally hinges upon something,
answered Leonard, with a chilling sneer ; * no effect without a
cause. But I don't think you need waste your lamentations
upon Mr. Hamleigh ; he did not treat your sister particularly
well.'
Mo])sy sighed, and was thoughtful for a moment or two.
Captain Vandeleur and Mr. Montague had strolled off to change
their clothes. The master of the house and Miss Vandeleur
were alone at their end of the old hall. Rii>ples of silvery
laughter, and the sound of mirthful voices came from the group
about the other fireplace, where the blaze of piled-up logs went
roaring up the wide windy chimney, making the most magical
changeful light in which beauty or its opposite can be seen.
'No, he hardly acted fairly to poor Dopsy : he led her on,
don't you know, and we both thought he meant to propose. It
would have been such a splendid match for her — and I could
have stayed with them sometimes.'
' Of coarse you could. Sometimes in your case would have
meant all the year round.*
* And he was so fascinating, so handsome, ill as he looked,
poor darling,' sighed Mopsy. ' 1 know Dop hadn't one mercenary
feeling about him. It was a genuine case of spoons — she would
have died for him.'
' If he had wished it ; but men have not yet gone in for
collecting corpses,' sneered Leonard. ' However poor the speci-
men of your sex may be, they prefer the living subject — even
the surgeons are all coming round to that.'
* Don't be nasty,' protested Mopsy. ' I only meant to say
that Dopsy really adored Angus Hamleigh for his own sake. I
know how kindly you felt upon the subject — and that you
wanted it to be a match.'
'Yes, I did my best,' answered Leonard. *I brought him
nere, and gave you both your chance.'
' And Jack said that you spoke very sharply to Mr. Hamleigh
that last night.*
' Yes, I gave him a piece of my mind. I toll him that ho
had no rip;ht to come into my house and play fjist and loose with
fuy friend's sister.'
* How did he take it 1 '
* Pretty quietly.'
* You did not; q.uiirTel with hira S *
802 Xount RoyaH,
'No, it could h.A^dly be called a quarrel. We were both too
reasonable — ^understood each other too thoroughly,* answered
Tjeonard, as he got up and went off to his dressing-room, leaving
Mopsy sorely perplexed by an indescribable something in hia
tone and manner. Surely there must be some fatal meaning in
that dark evil smile, which changed to so black a frown, and that
deep sigh which seemed wrung from the very heart of the man :
a man whom Mopsy had hitherto believed to be somewhat poorly
furnished with that organ, taken in its poetical significance as a
thing that throbs with love and pity.
Alone in his dressing-room the lord of the Manor sat down
in front of the fire with his boots on the hob, to muse upon the
incongruity of his present position in his own house. A year
ago he had ruled supreme, sovereign master of the domestic
circle, obeyed and ministered to in all humility by a lovely and
pure-minded wife. Now he was a cipher in his own house, the
husband of a woman who was almost as strange to him as if he
had seen her face for the first time on hia return from South
America. This beautiful brilliant creature, who held him at
arm's length, defied him openly with looks and tones in which
his guilty soul recognized a terrible meaning — looks and tones
which he dare not challenge — this woman who lived only for
pleasure, fine dress, frivolity, who had given his house the free-
and-easy air of a mess-room, or a club— could this be indeed the
woman he had loved in her girlhood, the fair and simple-minded
wife whom his mother had trained for him, teaching her all good
things, withholding all knowledge of evil.
* I'm not going to stand it much longer,' he said to himself,
with an oath, as he kicked the logs about upon his fire, and then
got up to dress for the feast at which he always felt himself jusi
the one guest who was not wanted.
He had been at home three weeks — it seemed an age — an age
of disillusion and discontent — and he had not yet sought any
explanation with ChristabeL Nor yet had he dared to claim hia
right to be obeyed as a husband, to be treated as a friend
and adviser. With a strange reluctance he put off the explana-
tion from day to day, and in the meanwhile the aspect of life at
Mount Royal was growing daily less agreeable to him. Could
i\t be that this wife of his, whose purity and faith he had tried by
the hardest test — the test of daily companionship with her first
and only lover — was inclined to waver now — to play him false
for so shallow a coxcomb, so tawdry a fine gentleman as Oliver
de Cazalet. Not once, but many times within the past week he
had asked himself that question. Could it be ? He had heard
strange stories — had known of queer cases of the falling away of
good women from the path of virtue. He had heard of sober
matrons — Toothers of fair children, wives of many years — ^the
Cornelias of their circle, staking home, husband, children,
honour, good name, and troops of friends against the wild
' Hum $houldst come Uke a Fv/ty* 309
delirium of some new-bom fancy, Budden, demoniac as the dance
of death. The women who go wrong are not always the most
likely women. It is not the trampled slave, the neglected and
forlorn wife of a bad husband — but the pearl and treasure of a
happy circle who takes the fatal plunge into the mire. The
forlorn slave-wife stays in the dreary home and nurses her
children, battles with her husband's creditors, consoles herself
with church going and many prayers, fondly hoping for a future
day in which Tom will find out that she is fairer and dearer than
any of his false godesses, and come home repentant to the
domestic hearth : while the good husband's idol, sated with
legitimate worship, gives herself up all at once to the intoxication
of unholy incense, and topples oflf her shrine. Leonard TregoneU
knew that the world was full of such psychological mysteries ;
and yet he could hardly bring himself to believe that Christabel
was one of the stuff that makes false wives, or that she could be
won by such a third-rate Don Juan as the Baron de Cazalet.
The dinner was a little noisier and gayer than usual to-night.
Everyone talked, laughed, told anecdotes, let off puns, more or
less atrocious— except the host, who sat in his place an image of
gloom. Happily Mrs. St. Aubyn was one of those stout, healthy,
contented people who enjoy their dinner, and only talk about as
much as is required for the assistance of digestion. She told
prosy stories about her pigs and poultry — which were altogether
superior, intellectually and physically, to other people's pigs and
poultry — and only paused once or twice to exclaim, * You are
looking awfully tired, Mr. TregoneU. You must have overdone
it to-day. Don't you take cura§oaP I always do after ice
pudding. It's so comforting. Do you know at the last dinner
I was at before I came here the cura9oa was ginger-brandy.
Wasn't that horrid ? People ought not to do such things.'
Leonard suggested in a bored voice that this might have
been the butler's mistake.
* I don't think so. I believe it was actual meanness — but I
shall never take liqueur at that house again,' said Mrs. St Aubyn,
in an injured tone.
* Are you going to this picnic to-moiTOw ? '
* I think not. I'm afraid the walk would be too much for me—
and I am not fond enough of Mrs. Torrington to enjoy two hours*
tete-d,-tete in a pony-carriage. My girls will go, of course. And I
should not leave her to go picnicing about the world with such
an attratctive man as the Baron.'
Leonard gave an uneasy little laugh, meant to convey the
idea of supreme security.
' I'm not jealous of de Cazalet,' he said. ' Surely you doni
call him an attractive man.' x
fH Mount Boyal.
* Dangeroosly attractive,' replied Mrs. St. Anbjnm, gazing at
the distant Baron, whose florid good looks were asserting them-
eelves at the further end of the table, on Christabel's left hand
— she had Mr. St. Aubyn's grey, contented face, glistening with
dinner, on her right. * He is just the kind of man I should
have fallen in love with when I was your wife's ajje.'
*Keally,' exclaimed Leonard, incredulously. ' Bat I suppose
after you married St. Aubyn, you left off falling in love.'
* Of course. I did not put myself in the way of temptation.
I should never have encouraged such a man — handsome,
accomplished, unscrupulous — as Baron de Cazalet.'
* I don't think his good looks or his uuscrupulouaness will
make any difference to my wife,* said Leonard. ' She knows
how to take care of herself.*
* No doubt. But that does not release you from the duty
of taking care. You had better go to the picnic'
* My dear Mrs. St. Aubyn, if I were to go now, after what
you have just said to me, you might suppose 1 was jealous of de
Cazalet ; and that is just the one supposition I could not stand,'
answered Leonard. * It would take a dozen such fiiscinating
men to shake my confidence in my wife : she is not an acquaint-
ance of yesterday, remember : I have known her all my life.'
* Mrs. St. Aubyn sighed and shook her head. She was one
of those stupid well-meaning women whose mission in life is to
make other people uncomfortable — with the best intentions.
She kept a steady look-out for the approaching misfortunes of
her friends. She was the first to tell an anxious mother that her
youngest boy was sickening for scarlet fever, or that her eldest
girl looked consumptive. She prophesied rheumatics and
bronchitis to incautious people who went out in wet weather —
she held it as a fixed belief that all her friends' houses were
damp. It was in vain that vexed householders protested against
such a suspicion, and held forth upon the suptriority of their
drainage, the felt under their tiles, their air bricks, and ven-
tilators. 'My dear, your house is damp' ahe would reply
conclusively. 'What it would be if you r/ad not taken those
precautions I shudder to imagine — but I only know that I get
the shivers every time I sit in your drawing-room.
To-night she was somewhat offended with Mr. Tregonell that
he refused to take alann at her friendly warning, She had
made up her mind that it was lier duty to s])eak. She had tola
the girls so in the course of their afternoon constitutional, a
private family walk.
* If things get any worse I shall take you away,* she said, as
they trudged along the lane in their wateiproofs, caring very
little for a soft drizzling rain, which was supposed to be good
for their complexions.
* Don't, mother,' said Emily. * Clara and I are having such ft
jolly time. Mrs. TregoueU is straight enough, I'm sure. SU»
'His Lady Smiles : Delight is in her Face.' 805
does fiirt outrageously with the Baron, I admit ; but an open
flirtation of that kind seldom means mischief ; and Mr. Tre-
gonell is such a heavy clod-hopping fellow; his wife maybe forgiven
for flirting a little.'
* Mrs. Tregonell flirts more than a little,* replied Mrs. St.
Aubyn. All I can say is, I don't like it, and I don' think it's a
proji^r spectacle for girls.'
' Then you'd better send us back to the nursery, mother, or
shut us up in a convent,' retorted the younger of the damsels.
' If you don't want us to see young married women flirt, you
must keep us very close indeed.'
* If you feel uneasy about your Cochin Chinas, mother, you
can go home, and lea^'^'^ us to follow with the pater,' said Emily.
* I've set my heart u^i»w stopping till after Mr. Tregonell's birth-
day, the 14th of November, for the theatricals will be fine fun.
They talk of " High Life Below Stairs " for us girls, aftel
"Delicate Ground ;" and I think we shall be able to persuade
Mrs. Tregonell to wind up with a dance. What is the use of
people having fine rooms if they don't know how to use them ? *
* Mrs. Tregonell seems ready for anything,' sighed the matron.
* I never saw such a change in any one. Do you remember how
quiet she was the summer before last, when we were here for a
few days ? '
CHAPTER XX^I.
* HIS LADY SMILES ; DELIGHT IS IN HER Ti-ACE.'
That benevolent advice of Mrs. St. Aubyn's was not without its
influence upon Leonard, lightly as he seemed to put aside the
insinuation of evil. The matron's speech helped to strengthen
his own doubts and feaiu Other eyes than his had noted Chris-
tabel's manner of receiving the Baron's attentions — other people
had been impressed by the change in her. The thing was not
an evil of his own imagining. She was making herself the
talk of his friends and acquaintance. There was scandal — foul
suspicion in the very atmosphere she breathed. That mutvial
understanding, that face to face arraignment, which he felt must
come sooner or later, could not be staved off much loui'er. The
wife who defied him thus openly, making light of him under hia
own roof, must be brought to book.
' To-monow she and I must come to terms,' Leonard said to
himself.
No one had much leisure for thought that evening. The
drawing-room was a scene of babble and laughter, music, flirta-
tion, frivolity, everybody seeming to be blest with that happy-
go-lucky temperament which can extract mirth from the merest
trifles. Jessie Bridgeman and Mr. Tregonell were the only
lookers-on — the only two people who in Jack Vandeleur'a
favourite! phrase were not * m it.' Every one else was full cl
the private theatricals. The idea h.ad only been mooted alter
(uucheou, and now it seemed as if life a* aid hardly have been
806 Mount BoyaX.
bearable yesterday without this thrilling prospect. Colonfl
Blathwayt, who had been out shooting all the afternoon, entered
vigorously into the discussion. He was an experienced amateur
actor, had helped to swell the funds of half tlie charitable insti-
tutions of London and the provinces ; bo he at once assumed the
function of stage manager.
* De Cazalet can act,' he said. * I have seen liim at South
Kensington ; but I don't think he knows the ropes as well as I
do. You must let me manage the whole business for you ; write
to the London people for stage and scenery, lamj)s, costumes,
wigs. And of course you will want me for Alphonse.'
Little Monty had been suggested for Aljihonse. He was fair-
haired and eiieniinate, and had just that small namby-pamby air
which would suit Pauline's faint-hearted lover ; but nobody dared
to say anything about him when Colonel Blathwayt made this
geneious ofler,
* Will you really play Alphonse !' exclaimed Christabel, look-
ing up from a volume of engravings, illustrating the costumes of
the Directory and Empire, over which the young ladies of the
party, notably Dopsy and Mopsy, had been giggling and ejacu-
lating. * We should not have ventured toofFer you a secondary part.*
* You'll find it won't be a secondaiy character as I shall play
it,' answered the Colonel, calmly. * Alphonse will go better than
any part in the piece. And now as to the costumes. L>o you
want to be picturesque, or do you want to be correct ? '
* Picturesque by all means,' cried Mopsy. * Dear Mrs. Tre-
gonell would look too lovely in powder and patches.'
'Like Boucher's Pompadour,' said the Colonel *Do you
know I think, now fancy balls are the rage, the Louis Quinze
costume is lather played out. Eveiy ponderous matron fancies
herself in powder and brocade. The powder is hired for the
evening, and the brocade is easily convertible into a dinner
gown,' added the Colonel, who spent the great-er part of his life
among women, and prided himself upon knowing their ways.
* For my part, I should like to see M i-a. Tregcnell diessed like
Madame Tallien.'
* Undressed like ^Madame Tallien, you mean,' aaid Captain
Vandel»*ar ; and tliereupon followed a lively discussion as to the
costume of the close of the la.st century as compared with the
costume of to-day, which ended in somebody's a-ssertion that tho
last yeai-s of a century are apt to expire in social and political
convulsions, and that there was every promise of revolution as a
wind-up for the present age.
' My idea of the close of the nineteenth century is that it will
be a period of dire poverty,' said the proprietor of the Sling ; * an
age of pauperism already heralded by the sale of noble oldmausions,
the breakiug-up of great estates, the destruction of famous col-
lections, gaBeries, Ubraries, the pious hoards of generations of
connoisseurs and b'^ok-v/orms, scattered tx) the four winds by a
• Etis Lady Smiles ; Delight is in her Face.' 807
stroke of the auctioneer's hauimer. The landed interest and the
commercial classes are going down the hill together. Suez has
ruined our shipping interests ; an unreciprocated free trade la
Duining our commerce. Coffee, tea, cotton — our markets are
narrowing for alL After a period of lavish expenditure, reckless
extravagance, or at any rate the affectation of reckless extrava-
gance, there will come an era of dearth. Those are wisest who
will foresee and anticipate the change, simplify their habits,
reduce their luxuries, put on a Quakerish sobriety in dress and
entertainments, which, if carried out nicely, may pass for high
krt — train themselves to a kind of holy poverty outside the
cloister— and thus break their fall Depend upon it, there will
be a fall, for every one of thoae men and women who at this
present day are living up to their incomes.'
* The voice is the voice of FitzJesse, but the words are the
words of Oiissandra,' said Colonel Blathwayt. * For my part, I
am like the Greeks, and never listen to such gloomy vaticina-
tions. I dare say the deluge uill come — a deluge now and again
is inevitable ; but I think the dry land will last our time. And
in the meanwhile was theie ever a pleasanter world than that
we live in — an entirely rebuilt and revivified London — clubs,
theatres, restaurants, without number — gaiety and brightness
everywhere ? If our amusements are frivolous, at least they are
hearty. If our friendships are transient, they are very pleasant
while they last. We know people to-day and cut them to-
morrow ; that is one of the first conditions of goud society. The
people who are cut understand the force of circumstances, and
are just as ready to take up the running a year or two hence,
when we can afford to know them.'
* Blessed are the poor in spirit,' quoted little Monty, in a
meek voice.
* Our women are getting every day more like the women of
the Directory and the Consulate,' continued the Colonel. * We
have come to short petticoats and gold anklets. All in good time
we shall come to bare feet. We have abolished sleeves, and we have
brought bodices to a reductio ad ahsurdum; but, although prudes
and puritans may disapprove our present form, I must say that
women were never so intelligent or so delightful. We have
come back to the days of the salon and the petit souper. Our
daughters are sirens and our wives are wits.'
' Charming for Colonel Blathwayt, whose only experience is of
other people's wives and daughters,' said little Monty. * But I
don't feel sure that the owners are quite so happy.'
' When a man marries a pretty woman, he puts himself be-
yond the pale,' said Mr. FitzJesse ; * nobody sympathizes with
him. I daresay there wAs not a member of the Grecian League
who did not long to kick Menelaus.'
' There should be stringent laws for che repression of nice
gii^k' fathers,' said little Monty. * Co old there ZM>t be some kiiui
SOB Mount Boyal.
ef institution like the Irish Land Court, to force parents to cash
np, and hand over daughter and dowry to any spiritetl youDg
man who made a bid ? Here am I, a conspicuous n-artyr to
parental despotism. I might have married half a dozen heiresses,
but for the intervention of stony-hearted fathers. I have gon«
for them at all ages, fiom pinafores to false fronts ; but I have
never been so lucky as to Ti'?>e an orphan.'
* Pour little JSlolity ! Bu}. what a happy escape for the lady.'
* Ah, I should have been vtry kind to her, even if her youth
and beauty dated before the Eeform Bill,' said Mr. Montagu.
* 1 should not have gone into society with her — one must draw
the line somewhere. But I should have been forbearing.'
'Dear Mrs. Tregonell,* said Mopsy, gushingly, 'have you
made up your mind what to wear ? '
Christabel had been turning the leaves of a folio abstracted! _^
for the last ten minutes.
' To wear ? Oh, for the play ! "Well, I suppose I must l)e as
true to the period as I can, without imitating Madame Tallien.
Baron, you draw beautifully. Will you make a sketch for my
costume ? 1 know a little woman in George Street, Hanover
Square, who will carry out your idea charmingly.'
'I should have thought that you could have imagined a short-
waisted gown and a pair of long mittens without the help of an
artist,' said Jessie, with some acidity. She had been sitting close
to the lamp, poring over a piece of point-lace woik, a quiet and
observant listener. It was a fixed idea among the servants at
Mount Royal that Miss Bridgeman's eyes were constructed on
the same principle as those of a horse, and that she could see
behind her. ' There is nothing so very elaborate in the dress of
that period, is there ? '
' I will try to realize the poetry of the costume.'
* Oh, but the poetry means the bare feet and ankles, doesn't
it ! ' asked Miss Bridgeman. ' When you talk about poetry in
costume, you generally mean something that sets a whole roomful
of people staring and tittering.'
* My Pauline will look a sylph ! ' said the Baron, with a
languishing glance at his hostess.
Aud thus, in tliQ pursuit of the infinitely little, the evening
wore away. Songs and laughter, music of the lightest and most
evanescent character, games which touched the confines of idiocy,
and set Leonard wondering whether the evening amusements of
Colney Hatch and Hanwell could possibly savour of wilder
lumicy than these sports which his wife and her circle cultivated
in the grave old recei)tion-room, where a council of Cavaliers,
with George Trevelyan of Nettlecombe, Royalist Colonel, at their
head, had met and sworn fealty to Charles Stuart's cause, al
hazard of fortune and life.
Leonard stood with his back to the wide old fire-place,
waLcLijag theatt revellers, and speculatint;, in a tioubled spirit.
'Bis Lady Smiles ; Delight is in her Face.* 309
as to how much of this juvenile friskiness was real ; contem-
plating, with a cynical spirit, that nice sense of class distinction
which enabled the two St. Aubyn girls to keep Mopsy and Dopsy
at an impassable distance, even whik engaged with them in these
familiar sports. Vain that in the Post OrKce game, Dopsy as
Montreal exchanged places with Emily St. Aubyn as New-
market. Montreal and Newmarket themselves are not farther
apart geographically than the two damsels were morally as they
skipped into each other's chairs. Vain that in the Spelling game,
the South Belgravians caught up the landowner's daughters with
a surpassing sharpness, and sometimes turned the laugh against
those tender scions of the landed aristocracy. The very attitude
of Clara St. Aubyn's chin — the way she talked apart with Mrs.
Tregonell, seemingly unconscious of the Vandeleur presence,
marked her inward sense of the gulf between them.
It was midnight before any one thought of going to bed, yet
there was unwonted animation at mne o'clock next morning
In the dining-room, where every one was talking of the day's
expedition : always excepting the master of the house, who sat
at one end of the table, with Termagant, his favourite Irish
settei", crouched at his feet, and his game-bag lying on a chair
near at hand.
* Are you really going to desert us 1 ' asked Mopsy, with her
sweetest smile.
* I am not going to desert you, for I never had the faintest
intention of joining you,' answered Leonard bluntly ; * whether
my wife and her friends made idiots of themselves by playing
nursery games in her drawing-room, or by skipping about a
windy height on the edge of the sea, is their own affair. I can
take my pleasure elsewhere.'
* Yes ; but you take your pleasure very sadly, as somebody
said of English people generally,* urged Mopsy, whose only
knowledge of polite literature was derived from the classical
quotations and allusions in the Bail^ Telegraph; * you will be all
alone, for Jack and little Monty have promised to come with us.'
* I gave them perfect freedom of choice. They may like that
kind of thing. I don't.'
Against so firm a resolve argument would have been vain.
Mopsy gave a little sigh, and went on with her breakfast. She
was really sorry for Leonard, who had been a kind and useful
friend to Jack for the last six years — who had been indeed the
backbone of Jack's resources, without which that gentleman's
pecuniary position would have collapsed into hopeless limpnesa
She was quite sharp-sighted enough to see that the present
aspect of affairs was obnoxious to Mr. Tregonell — that he was
savagely jealous, yet dared not remonstrate with his wife.
* I should have thought he was just the last man to put up
with anything of that kind,' she said to Dopsy, in their bed-
chamber confidences ; * I mean her carryika: on with the Baron.'
9l0 Mount j^oyat.
* You needn't explain yourself,* retorted Dopsy, it*fl visible to
the naked eye. If you or I were to cany on like that in another
"woman's house we should get turned out ; but Mrs. Tregonell is
in her own house, and so long as her husband doesn't see fit
to complain '
* But when will he see fit ? He stands by and watches hia
Jjife's open flirtation with the Baron, and lets her go on from
bad to Vorse. He must see that her very nature is changed since
last year, and yet he makes no attempt to alter her conduct. He
ia an absolute worm.'
* Even the worm will turn at last. You may depend ho will,'
said Dopsy sententiously.
This was last night's conversation, and now in the bright
fireah October morning, with a delicious coolness in the clear air,
a balmy warmth in the sunshine, Dopsy and Mopsy were
smiling at their hostess, for whose kindness they could not help
feeling deeply grateful, whatever they might think of her con-
duct. They recognized a divided duty — loyalty to Leonard, aa
their brother's patron, and the friend who had first introduced
them to this land of Beulah — ^gratitude to Mrs. Tregonell, without
whose good graces they could not long have made their abode here.
* You ai-e not going with us 1 ' asked Christabel, carelessly
scanning Leonard's shooting gear, as she rose from the table and
drew on her long mousquetaire gloves.
* No — I'm going to shoot.*
* Shall you go to the Kieve ? That's a good place for wood-
cock, don't you know ? ' Jessie Bridgeman stared aghast at the
speaker. * If you go that way in the afternoon you may fall in
with us : we are to drink tea at the farm.'
* Perhaps I may go that way.'
* And now, if every one is ready, we had better start,' said
Christabel, looking round at her party.
She wore a tight-fitting jacket, dark olive velvet, and a cloth
skirt, both heavily trimmed with sable, a beaver hat, with an
ostrich feather, which made a sweeping curve round the brim,
and caressed the coil of golden-brown hair at the back of the
amall head. The costume, which was faintly suggestive of a
himting party at Fontainebleau or St. Germaina, became the tall,
finely-moulded figure to admiration. Nobody could doubt for
an instant that Mrs. Tregonell was dressed for efi'ect, and was
determined to get full va.ae out of her beauty. The neat
tailor gown and simple little cloth toque of the past, had given
way to a costly and elaborate costume, in which every detail
marked the careful study of the coquette who lives only to bfc
admired. Dopsy and Mopsy felt a natural pang of envy as the;;^
scrutinized the quality of the cloth and calculated the cost of the
fur ; but they consoled themselves with the conviction that there
was a bewitching Kate Greenaway quaintness in their own
flimsy garments which made up for the poverty of the stuff, and
*Bis Lady Smils* ; Delight is inker FaoeJ 811
the doubtful finish of home dressmaking. A bunch of crimson
poppies on Mopsy's shoulder, a cornflower in Dopsy's hat, made
vivid gleams of colour upon their brown merino frocks, while the
freshness of their saffron-tinted Toby frills was undeniable.
Sleeves shoi't and tight, and ten-buttoned Swedish gloves, made
up a toilet which Dopsy and Mopsy had believed to be sBstheti-
cally perfect, until they compared it with Chriatabel's rich and
picturesque attire. The St. Aubyn girls were uot less conscious
of the superiority of Mrs. Tregonell's appearance, but they were
resigned to the inevitable. How could a meagre quarterly
allowance, doled out by an unwilling father, stand against a
wife's unlimited power of running up bills. And here was a
woman who had a fortune of her own to squander as she pleased,
without anybod/s leave or license. Secure in the severity of slate-
coloured serges made by a West-end tailor, with hats to match, and
the best boots and gloves that money could buy the St. Aubyn's
girls affected to despise Christabel's oUve velvet and sable tails.
* It's the worst possible form to dress like that for a country
ramble,' murmured Emily to Clara.
*0f course. But the country's about the only place where
she could venture to wear such clothes,' replied Clara : ' she'd be
laughed at in London.'
* Well, I don't know : there were some rather loud get-ups in
the Park last season,' said Emily. * It's really alyjurd the way
married women out-dress girls.'
Once clear of the avenue, Mrs.Tregonell and her guests arranged
themselves upon the Darwinian principle of natural selection.
That brilliant bird the Baron, whose velvet coat and knicker-
bockers were the astonishment of Boscastle, instinctively drew
near to Christabel, whose velvet and sable, plumed hat, and
point-lace necktie pointed her out as his proper mate — Little
Monty, Bohemian and d^cousu, attached himself as naturally to
one of the Vandeleur birds, shunning the iron-grey respectability
of the St. Aubyn breed.
Mrs. St. Aubyn, who had made up her mind at the last to
join the party, fjistened herself upon St. Bernard Faddie, in the
fond hope that he would be able to talk of parish matters, and
advise her about her duties as Lady Bountiful ; while he, on his
part, only cared for rubric and ritual, and looked upon pariah
visitation as an inferior branch of duty, to be perfonned by
newly-fledged curates. Mr. FitzJesse took up with Dopsy, who
amused him as a marked specimen of nineteenth-century girl-
hood — a rare and wonderful bird of its kind, like a heavily wattled
barb pigeon not beautiful, but infinitely curioiLs. The two St.
Aubyn girls, in a paucity of the male sex, had to put up with
the escort of Captain Vandeleur, to whom they were extremely
civil, although they studiously ignored his sisters. And so, by
lane and field-path, by hill and vale, they went up to the broad,
open heit^hts above the sea — a sea that waa very fair to look
812 Mount Boyvd,
apon on this sunshiny autumn day, luminous with those trans*
lucent hues of amethyst and emerald, sapphire and gamot
which make the ever changeful glory of that Cornish strand.
Miris Bridgeman walked half the way with the St. Aubyn
girls and Captain Vandeleur. The St. Aubyns had always been
civil to her, not without a certain tone of patronage which
would have wounded a more self-conscious person, but which
Jessie endured with perfect good temper,
' What does it matter if they have the air of bending down
from a higher social level every time they talk to me,' she said to
Major Bree, lightly, when he made some rude remark about these
young ladies. * If it pleases them to fancy themselves on a
pinnacle, the fancy is a harmless one, and can't hurt me. I
shouldn't care to occupy that kind of imaginary height myself.
There must be a disagreeable sense of chilliness and remoteness ;
and then there is always the fear of a sudden drop ; like that
fall through infinite space which startles one sometimes on the
edge of sleej^.'
Armed with that calm philosophy wliich takes all sraall
things lightly, Jessie was quite content that the Miss St.
Aubyns should converse with her as if she were a creature of an
inferior race — born with lesser hopes and narrower needs than
theirs, and with no rights worth mention. She was content
that they should be sometimes familiar and sometimes distant —
that they should talk to her freely when there was no one else
with whom they could talk — and that they should ignore her
presence when tlie room was full.
To-day, Emily St. Aubyn was complaisant even to friendli-
ness. Her sister had completely appropriated Captain Vandeleur,
so Eniiry gave herself up to feminine gossip. There were some
subjects whicli she really wanted to discuss with Miss Bridgeman,
and this seemed a golden opportunity.
' Are we really going to have tea at the farmhouse near St
Nectan's Kieve 1' she asked.
* Didn't you hear Mrs. Tregonell say so V inquired Jessie, dryly.
* I did ; but I could not help wondering a little. Was it not
at the Kieve that poor Mr. Hamleigh was killed ? *
' Yes.'
* Don't you think it just a little heartless of Mrs. Tregonell
to choose that spot for a pleasure party ? '
' The farmhouse is not the Kieve: they are at leasta mile apart.'
* That's a mere quibble. Miss Bridgeman : the association is
just the same, and she ought to feel it.'
* Mrs. Tregonell is my very dear friend,* answered Jessie.
* She and her aunt are the only friends T have made in this world.
You can't suppose that I shall find fault with her conduct ' '
* No, I suppose not. You would stand by her through thick
•cd thin 1 '
* Thiou4?h thick and thin.*
• Mis Lady Smiles ; Delight is in her Face' 313
* Even at the sacrifice of principle ? '
* I should consider gratitude and friendship the governing
principles of my life where she is concerned.'
* If she were to go ever so wrong, you would stand by her ? '
* Stand by her, and cleave to her — walk by her side till death,
wherever the path might lead. I should not encourage her in
wrong-doing. I should lift up my voice when there was need :
but I should never forsake her.'
* That is your idea of friendship ? '
* Unquestionably. To my mind, friendship which implies
an}'lhing less than that is meaningless. However, there is no need
for heroics : Mrs. Tregonell is not going to put me to the test.'
' I hope not She is very sweet. I should be deeply pained
if she were to go wrong. But do you know that my mother
does not at all like her manner with the Baron. My sister and
I are mncli more liberal-minded, don't you know ; and we can
understaiul Ihat all she says and does is mere frivolity — high
spiiiU which nitist litid some outlet. Bat wliat surprises me
is that she should be so gay and light-hearted after the dreadful
events of her life. If such things had happened to me, I should
inevitiibly hrfve gone over to Home, and buried myself in the
severest conventual order that I could find.'
' Yes, there have been sad events in her life : but I think she
chose the wiser course in doing her duty by the aunt who
brought her up, than in self-immolation of that kind, answered
Jessie, with her thin lips drawn to the firmest line they were
capable of assuming.
* But think what she must have suffered last year when that
poor man was killed. I remember meeting him at dinner when
they were first engaged. Such an interesting face — the counte-
nance of a poet. T could fancy Shelley or Keats exactly like him.'
' We have their ))()itraits,' said Jessie, iaitolerant of gush.
* There ia no scope for fancy.'
* But I think he reall}'^ was a little like Keats — consumptive
looking, too, which cariied out the idea. How utterly dreadful
it must have been for Mi-s. Tregonell when he met his death, so
suddenly, so awfully, while he was a guest under her roof.
How did she bear it ? '
' Veiy quietly. She had borne the pain of breaking her engage-
ment for a principle, a mistaken one, as I think. His death
could hardly have given her worse pain.'
* But it was such an awful death.'
* Awful in its suddenness, that is all — not more awful than
the death of any one of our English soldiers who fell in Zulu-
land the other day. After all, the mode and manner of death ia
only a detail, and, so long as the physical pain is not severe, an
insignificant detail. The one stupendous fact for the survivor
remains always the same. We had a friend and he is gone — foi
ever, for all we know.'
814 Mount Boyal.
There was the faint sound of a sob in her voice as she finished
ipeaking.
* Well all I can say is that if I were Mrs. Tregonell, I could
never have been happy again,' persisted Miss St. Aubyn.
They came to Trevena soon after this, and went down the
nill to the base of that lofty crag on which King Arthur's Castle
stood. They found Mrs. Fairfax and the pony-carriage in the
Valley. The provisions had all been carried up the ascent.
Everything was ready for luncheon.
A quarter of an hour later they were all seated on the long
grass and the ci-umbling stones, on which Christabel and her
lover had sat so often in that happy season of her life when love
was a new thought, and faith in the beloved one as boundless as
that far-reaching ocean, on which they gazed in dreamy content.
Now, instead of low talk about Arthur and Guinevere, Tristan
and Iseult, and all the legends of the dim poetic past, there
were loud voices and laughter, execrable puns, much conversa-
tion of the order generally known as chaff*, a great deal of mild
personality of that kind which, in the age of Miss Burney and
Miss Austin was described as quizzing and roasting, and an all-
pervading flavour of lunacy. The Baron de Cazalet tried to
take advantage of the position, and to rise to poetry ; but he
was laughed down by the majority, especially by Mr. FitzJesse,
who hadn't a good word for Arthur and his Court.
* Marc was a coward, and Tristan was a traitor and a knave,*
he said. * While as for Iseult, the less said of her the better.
The legends of Arthur's birth are cleverly contrived to rehabili-
tate his mother's character, but the lady's reputation still is open
to doubt. Jack the Giant Killer and Tom Thumb are quite the
most respectable heroes connected with this western world. You
have no occasion to be proud of the associations of the soil, Mrs.
Tregonell.'
* But I am proud of my country, and of its legends,* answered
Christabel.
* And you believe in Tristan and Iseult, and the constancy
which was personified by a bramble, as in the famous ballad of
Lord LoveL'
' The constancy which proved itself by man-ying somebody
else, and remaining true to the old love all the same, said Mrs.
Fairfax Torrington, in her society voice, trained to detonate
sharp sentences across the subdued buzz of a dinner-table.
* Poor Tristan,' sighed Dopsy.
*Poor Iseult,* murmured Mopsy.
They had never heard of either personage until tliis morning.
* Nothing in the life of either oecame them so well as the
leaving it,' said Mr. Fitz Jesse. * The crowning touch of poetry
in Iseult's death redeems her errors. You remember how she
was led half senseless to Tristan's doatlr -cJ^amber— Zora Femr
•Hm Lady Smiles; Delight is in h^r Face.' 816
brasse de ses hras^ tant comme die peut^ et gette ung souspvTf (t M
pasme sur le corps, et le ciceur luipart, et Vdme ien va.^
* If every woman -who loses her lover could die like that,' said
Jessie, with a curious glance at Christabel, who sat listening smil-
ingly to the conversation, with the Barou prostrate at her feet.
* Instead of making good her loss at the earliest opportunity,
what a dreary place this world would be,' murmured little
Monty. * I think somebody in the poetic line has observed that
nothing in Nature is constant, so it would be hard lines upon
women if they were to be fettered for life by some early attach-
ment that came to a bad end.'
'Look at Juliet's constancy,' said Miss St. Aubyn.
* Juliet was never put to the test,' answered Fitz Jesse. * The
whole course of her love affair was something less than a week.
If that potion of hers had failed, and she had awakened safe
and sound in her own bedchamber next moniing, who knows
that she would not have submitted to the force of circumstances,
married County Paris, and lived happily with him ever after.
There is only one perfect example of constancy in the whole
realm of poetry, and that is the love of Paolo and Francesca, the
love which even the pains of hell could not dissever.'
* They weren't married, don't you know,' lisped Monty.
' They hadn't had the opportunity of getting tired of each other.
And then, in the under-world, a lady would be glad to take up
with somebody she had known on earth ; just as in Australia
one is delighted to fall in with a fellow one would'nt caie two-
pence for in Bond Street.'
* I believe you are right,' said Mr. FitzJesse, * and that con-
stancy is only another name for convenience. Married people
are constant to each other, as a rule, because there is such an in-
fernal row when they fall out'
Lightly flew the moments in the balmy air, freshened by the
salt sea, warmed by the glory of a meridian sun — lightly and
happily for that wise majority of the revellers, whose philosophy
is to get the most out of to-day's fair summer-time, and to leave
future winters and possible calamities to Jove's discretion. Jessie
watched the girl who had grown up by her side, whose every
thought she had once known, and wondered if this beautiful
nrtificial impersonation of society tones and society graces could
be verily the same flesh and blood. What had made this
wondrous transformation 1 Had Christabel's very soul under-
gone a change during that dismal period of apathy last winter ?
t)he had awakened from that catalepsy of despair a new woman
— eager for frivolous pleas\ires — courting admiration — studious
^f efitect : the very opposite of that high-souled and pure-minded
girl whom Jessie had known and loved.
*It is the most awful moral wreck that was ever seenj
thought Jessie ; * but if my love can save her from deepei
degi-adation she shall be saven.'
S16 Mount Boyckk
Could she care for that showy impostv>r posed at her feet^
gazing up at her with passionate eyes — hanging on her accents—
openly worshipping her ? She seemed to accept his idolatry, U
ganction his insolence ; and all her friends looked on, half scorn*
ful, half aiDiised.
* V/hat can Tregonell be thinking about not to be here to-
day 1 " said Jack Vandeleur, close to Jessie's elbow.
* Why should he be here 1 ' she asked.
* Because he's wanted. lie's neglecting that silly woman
slj<amefully.'
'It is only his way,' answered Jessie, scornfully. * Last year
he invited Mr. Hamleigh to Mount lloyal, who had been engaged
to his wife a few years before. He is not given to jealousy.'
* Evidently not,' said Captain Vandeleur, wnxing thoughtful,
as he lighted a cigarette, and strolled slowly off to stare at the
sea, the rocky pinnacles, and yonder cormorant skimming away
from a sharp point, to dip and vanish in the green water.
The pilgrimage from Trevena to Trevitliy farm was some-
what less straggling than the long wnlk by the cliffs. The way
was along a high road, which necessitated less meandering, but
the party still divided itself into twos and threes, and Christabel
still allowed de Cazalet the piivilege of a tete-a-tHe. She was a
better walker than any of her friends, and the Baron was a
practised pedestiian ; so those two kept well ahead, leaving the
rest of the party to follow as they pleased.
* I wonder they are not tired of each other by this time,* said
Mopsy, whose Wurtemburg heels were beginning to tell upon
her temper. * It has been such a long day — and such a long
walk. What can the Baron find to talk about all this time ? '
* Himself,' answered FitzJesse, ' an inexhaustible subject
Men can always talk. Listening is the art in which they fail.
Are you a good listener, Miss Vandeleur?'
* I'm afraid not. If any one is prosy I begin to think of my
frocks.'
* Very bad. As a young woman, with the conquest of society
before you, I most earnestly recommend you to cultivate the
listener's art. Talk just enough to develop your companion's
powers. If he hcxs a hobby, let him ride it. Be interested, be
sympathetic. Do not always agree, but differ only to be con«
vinced, argue only to be converted. Never answer at random,
or stifle a yawn. Be a perfect listener, and society is open to
yoi\ Psople will talk of you as the most intelligent girl they know.'
V^opsy smiled a sickly smile. The ?gony of those ready-made
boots, just a quarter of a size too smal\ though they had seemed
80 comfortable in the shoemaker's shop, was increasing momen-
tarily. Here was a hill like the side of a house to be descended.
Poor Mopsy felt as if she were balancing herself on the points of
her toes. She leant feebly on her umbrella, while the editor c/
Uie Sling trud^^ed sturdily by her side, admirins the landscaoe—
* His Lady SmUes ; Delight is in her Face.' 817
stopping half-way down the hill to point out the grander features
of the scene with his bamboo. Stopping was ever so much worse
than going on. It was as if the fires consuming the martyr at
the stake had suddenly gone out, and left him with an acuter
consciousness of his pain.
* Too, too lovely,' murmured Mopsy, heartily wishing herself
in the King's Road, Chelsea, within hail of an omnibus.
She hobbled on somehow, pretending to listen to Mr. Fitz-
Jesse's conversation, but feeling that she was momentarily de-
ationstrating her incompetence as a listener, till tiiey came to the
farm, where she was just able to totter into the sitting-room,
and sink into the nearest chair.
* I'm afraid you're tired,* said the journalist, a sturdv block
of a man, who hardly knew the meaning of fatigue.
* I am just a little tired,* she faltered hypocritically, * but it
fas been a lovely walk.*
They were the last to arrive. The tea things were ready upon
a table covered with snowy damask — a substantial tea, inciiuliiig
home-made loaves, saffron -coloured cakes, jam, marmalade, and
cream. But there was no one in the room except Mrs. Fairfax
Torrington, who had enthroned herself in the most comfortable
chair, by the side of the cheerful fire.
* AU the rest of our people have gone straggling off to look at
things,' she said, * some to the Kieve — and as that is a mile off we
shall have ever so long to wait for our tea.*
* Do you think we need wait very long ?* asked Mopsy, whose
head was aching from the effects of mid-day champagne ; 'would
it be so very bad if we were to ask for a cup of tea.'
*I am positively longing for tea,' said Mrs. Torrington to
FitzJesse, ignoring Mopsy.
* Then I'll ask the farm people to brew a special pot for you
two,' answered the journalist, ringing the bell. * Here comes
Mr. Tregonell, game-bag, dogs, and all. This is more friendly
than I expected.*
Leonaid strolled across the little quadrangular garden, and
came in at the low door, as Mr. FitzJesse spoke.
* I thought I should find some of you here,' he said ; * where
are the others ? '
Gone to the Kieve, most of them,' answered Mrs. Torrington,
briskly. Her freshness contrasted cruelly with Mopsy's limp and
exhausted condition. * At least I know your wife and de Cazalet
were bent on goingthere. She had promised how the waterfall.
We were just debating whether we ought to wait tea for them.'
* I wouldn't, if I were you,* said Leonard. * No doubt they'll
take their time.'
He flung down his game-bag, took up his hat, whistled to lii.^
dogs, and went towards the door.
* Won't you stop and have some tea — ^just to kee|» ub i?
•ountenance ? ' asked Mrs. Torrington.
5i9.8 Mount Boyak
* No, thanks. Fd rather have it later. Ill go and meet \hfi
others.'
* If he ever intended to look after her it was certainly time
he should begin,' said the widow, when the door was shut upon
her host. ' Please ring again, Mr. FitzJesse. How slow these
farm people are ! Do they suppose we. have come here to stare
at cups and saucei-s ? '
CHAPTER XXXII.
'love borb such bitter and such deadly fruit.*
Leonard Tregonbll went slowly up the steep narrow lane witl
his dogs at his heels. It was a year since he had been this way.
Good as the cover round about the waterfall was said to be for
woodcock, he had carefully avoided the spot this season, and his
friends had been constrained to defer to his superior wisdom as a
son of the soil. He had gone farther afield for his sport, and, as
there had been no lack of birds, his guests had no reason for
complaint. Yet Jack Vandftleur had said more than once, * I
wonder you don't try the Kitve. We shot a lot of birds there
last year.' ,t
Now for the first time since that departed autumn he went
up the hill to one of the happy hunting-grounds of his boyhood.
The place where he had fished, and shot, and trapped birds, and
hunted water-rats, and climbed and torn his clothes in the care-
less schoolboy days, when his conception of a perfectly blissful
existence came as near as possible to the life of a North American-
Indian. He had always detested polite society and book-learning;
but he had been shrewd enough and quick enough at learning
the arts he loved : — gunnery — angling — veterinary surgery.
He met a group of people near the top of the hiU — all the
party except Christabel and the Baron. One glance showed hmi
that these two were missing from the cluster of men and women
crowding through the gate that opened into the lane.
* The waterfall is quite a shabby affair,' said Miss St. Aubyn;
* there has been so little rain lately, I felt ashamed to show Mr.
Faddie such a poor little dribble.'
* We are all going back to tea,' explained her mother. * 1
don't know what has become of Mi-s. Tregonell and the Baron,
but I suppose they are loitering about somewhere. Perhaps
you'll tell them we have all gone on to the farm.'
* Yes, I'll send them after you. I told my wife I'd meet her
at the Kieve, if I could.*
He passed them and ran across the ploughed field, while the
others went down the hill, talking and laughing. He lieard the
iviund of their voic<^^« and that ligl)t laughter dying away ou tha
^Love lore such Bitter and such Deadly Fruit. ^ 319
itill air as the distance widened between him and them ; and he
wondered if they were talking of his wife, and of his seeming
icdifiference to her folly. The crisis had come. He had watched
her in blank amazement, hardly able to believe his own senses,
to realize the possibility of guilt on the part of one whose very
perfection had galled him ; and now he told himself there was
no doubt of her folly, no doubt that this tinselly pretender
had fascinated her, and that she was on the verge of destruction.
No woman could outrage propriety as she had been doing of late,
and yet escai)e danger. The business must be stopped somehow,
even if he were forced to kick the Baron out of doors, in order
to make an end of the entanglement. And then, what if she
were to lift up her voice, and accuse him — if she were to turn
that knowledge which he suspected her of possessing, against
him ? What then 1 He must face the situation, and pay the
penalty of what he had done. That was all.
* It can't much matter what becomes of me,' he said to himself
'I have never had an hour's real happiness since 1 married her.
She warned me that it would be so — wai-ned me against my own
jealous tem])er — but I wouldn't listen to her. I luul niyown way.
Could she care for that man 'i Could plie ? In spite of tlio
coarseness of his own nature, there was in Leonard's mind a
deep-rooted conviction of his wife's purity, wliich was stronger
even than the evidence of actual facts. Even now, although the
time had come when he must act, he had a strange confused
feeling, like a man whose brain is under the influence of some
narcotic, which makes him see things that are not. He felt as in
some hideous dream — long-involved — a maze of delusion and
bedevilment, from which there was no escape.
He went down into the hollow. The high wooden gate stood
wide open — evidence that there was some one lingering below.
The leaves were still on the trees, the broad feathery feiTis were
still green. There was a low yellow light gleaming behind the
ridge of rock and the steep earthy slope above. The rush of the
water sounded loud and clear in the siliUice.
Leonard crept cautiously down the winding moss-growq
track, holding his dogs behind him in a leash, and constraining
those well-mannered brutes to ])erfect quiet. He looked down
int-o the deep hollow, through which the water runs, and over
which there is that narrow foot biidge, whence the waterfall is
seen in all its beauty — an aic of silvery light cleaving the dark
rock above, and flashing down to the dark rock below.
Christabel was stancling on the bridge, with de Cazalet at her
side. They were not looking up at the waterfaU. Their faces
were turned the other way, to the rocky river bed, fringed with
fern and wfVd rank growth of briar and weed. The Baron was»
talking ear nestly, his head bent over Christabel, till it seemed tu
those furious eyes staring between the leafage, aa if hia lips must be
touching lier taoe. His hand ciasped hera. That was plain enough.
820 Mount Boyal.
Just then the spaniel stirred, and rustled the dank dead
leaves — Christabel started, and looked up towards the trees that
screened her husband's figure. A guilty start, a guilty look,
Leonard thought. But those eyes of hers could not pierce the
leafy screen, and they drooped again, looking downward at the
water beneath her feet. She stood in a listening attitude, as if
her whole being hung upon de Cazalet'a words.
What was he pleading so intensely ? What was that honeyed
speech, to which the false wife listened, unresistingly, motionless
as the bird spell-bound by the snake. So might Eve have
listened to the first tempter. In just such an attitude, with just
such an expression, every muscle relaxed, the head gently
drooping, the eyelids lowered, a tender smile curving the lips —
the first tempted wife might have hearkened to the silver-sweet
tones of her seducer.
* Devil ! ' muttered Leonard between his clenched teeth.
Even in the agony of his rage — rage at finding that this open
folly which he had pretended not to see, had been but the light and
airy prelude to the dark theme of secret guilt — that wrong
which he felt most deeply was his wife's falsehood to herself — her
wilful debasiement of her own noble character. He had known
her, and beli^^ved in her as perfect and pure among women, and
now he saw her deliberately renouncing all claim to man's
respect, lowering herself to the level of the women who can be
tempted. He had believed her invulnerable. It was as if
Diana herself had gone astray — as if the very ideal and arche-
type of purity among women had become perverted.
He sbood, breathless almost, holding back his dogs, gazing,
listening with as much intensity as if only the senses of hearing
and sight lived in him — and all the rest were extinct. He saw
the Baron draw nearer and nearer as he urged his prayer — who
could doubt the nature of that prayer — until the two figures
were posed in one perfect harmonious whole, and then his arm
stole gently round the slender waist.
Christabel sprang away from him with a coy laugh.
* Not now,' she said, in a clear voice, so distinct as to reach
that listener's ears. * I can answer nothing now. To-morrow.'
* But, my soul, why delay 1 *
* To-morrow,' she repeated ; and then she cried suddenly,
' hark ! there is some one close by. Did you not hear ? *
There had been no sound but th*^ waterfall — not even the
faintest rustle of a leaf. The two dogs crouched submissively at
their master's feet, while that master himself stood motionless
as a stone figure.
*I must go,' cried Cliristabel. * Think how long we have
stayed behind the others. We shall Fset i)eople wondering.'
She sprang lightly from the bridge to the bank, and came
quickly up the rocky path, a narrow winding track, which closely
•ikirted the spot wheia Leunaid stood concealed by the broad
*,Jjove bore such hitter and szich Deadly Fruit.^ 321
leaves of a chestnut. She might almost have heard his hurried
breathing, she might almost have seen the lurid eyes of his dogs,
gleaming athwart the rank under-grovirth ; but she stepped
lightly past, and vanished from the watcher's sight.
De Cazalet followed.
* Christabel, stop,' he exclaimed ; * I must have your answer
DOW. My fate hangs upon your words. You cannot mean to
throw me over. I have planned everything. In three days w©
Hhall be at Pesth — secure from all pursuit.*
He was following in Christabel's track, but he was not
Bwift enough to overtake her, being at some disadvantage
upon that slippery way, where the moss-grown slabs of rock
offered a very insecure footing. As he spoke the last words
Christabel's figure disappeared among the trees upon the higher
ground above him, and a broad hercidean hand shot out of the
leafy background, and pinioned him.
Scoundrel — profligate — impostor ! ' hissed a voice in his ear,
and Leonard Tregonell stood before him — white, panting, with
flecks of foam upon his livid lips. * Devil ! you have corrupted
and seduced the purest woman that ever lived. You shall
answer to m^ — her husband — for your infamy.'
* Oh ! is that your tune ? ' exclaimed the Baron, wrenching
his arm from that iron gi*ip. They were both powerful men —
fairly matched in physical force, cool, hardened by rough living,
' Is that your game ? I thought you didn't mind.'
* You dastardly villain, what did you take me for ? *
*A common product of nineteenth-century civilization,'
answered the other, coolly. 'One of those liberal-minded
husbands who allow their wives as wide a license as they claim
for themselves.'
* Liar,' cried Leonard, rushing at him with hia clenched fist
raised to strike.
The Baron caught him by the wrist — held him with fingers
of iron.
'Take care,' he said. *Two can play at that game. If it
comes to knocking a man's front teeth down his throat I may as
well teU you that I have given the 'Frisco dentists a good bit of
work in my time. You forget that there's no experience of a
rough-and-ready life that you have had which I have not gone
through twice over. If I had you in Colorado we'd soon wipe
off this little score with a brace of revolvers.'
* Let Cornwall be Colorado for the nonce. We could meet
here as easily as we could meet in any quiet nook across the
Channel, or in the wilds of America. No time like the present
—no spot better than this.'
*If we had only the barkers,' said de Ca»^J^t> *but
unluckily we haven't.'
* I'll meet you here to-morrow at daybreak — say, sharp
•sven. We can arrange about the pistols to-night. Yandeleur
8Ji4 Mount Boyat
will come with me— he'd run any risk to serve me — and I daro-
»ay yon could get little Monty to do as much for you. He's a
good plucked one.'
*I)o you mean it?'
* Unquestionably.'
* Very well. Tell Vandeleur what you mean, and let him
settle the details. In the meantime we can take things quietly
before the ladies. There is no need to scare any of them.'
' I am not going to scare them. Dowij, Termagant,' said
Leonard to the Irish setter, as the low light branches of a
neighbouring tree were suddenly stirred, and a few withered
leaves drifted down from the rugged bank above the spot where
the two men were standing.
' Well, I suppose you're a pretty good shot,* said the Baron,
coolly, taking out his cigar-case, * so there'll be no dispai-ity.
By-the-by there was a man killed here last year, I heard — ^a
former rival of yours.'
* Yes, there was a man killed here,* answered Leonard,
walking slowly on.
' Perhaps you killed him ? '
*I did,' answered Leonard, turning upon him suddenly. *I
killed him : as I hope to kill you : as I would kill any man
who tried to come between me and the woman I loved. He wan
a gentleman, and I am sorry for him. He fired in the air, and
made me feel like a murderer. He knew how to make that last
score. I have never had a peaceful moment since I saw him
fall, face downward, on that broad slab of rock on the other side
of the bridge. You see I am not afraid of you, or I shouldn't
tell you this.'
* I suspected as much from the time I heard the story,' said
de Cazalet * I rarely believe in those convenient accidents
which so often dispose of inconvenient people. But don't you
think it might be better for you if we were to choc«e a different spot
for to-morrow's meeting % Two of your livals settled in the same
S^lly might look suspicious — for I daresay you intend to kill me.
* I shall try,' answered Leonard.
* Then suppose we were to meet on those sands — Trebai'with
sands, I think you call the pJace. Not much fear of interrup-
tion there, I should think, at seven o'clock in the morning.'
* You can settle that and everything else with Vandeleur-'
said Leonard, striding off with liis dogs, and leaving the Barun
to follow at his leisure.'
De Cazalet walked slowly back to the farm, meditating deeply.
* It's devilish unlucky that this should have happened,' he
said to himself. An hour ago everything was going on velvet.
Wo might have got quietly away to-morrow — for I know she
meant to go, cleverly as she fenced with me just now — and left
my gentlemen to liis legal remedy, which would have secured
ilie wdy aad her fortune to me, as woon as the Divorct; (Jouj-t
* Love bore such Bitter and mch Deadly Fruit* 328
business was over. Ho would have followed us with the idea
of fighting, no doubt, but I should have known how to give
him the slip. And then we should have started in life with a
clean skte. Now there must be no end of a row. If I kill hiwj
it will be difficult to get away — and if I bolt, how am I to be
sure of the lady ? "Will she come to my lure when I call her ?
Will she go away with me, to-morrow? Yes, that will be my
only chance. I must get her to promise to meet me at Bodmin
Road Station in time for the Plymouth train — there's one starts
at eleven. I can drive from Trebarwith to Bodmin with a good
horse, take her straight through to London, and from London by
the first available ex})ress to Edinburgh. She shall know nothing
of what has happened till we are in Scotland, and then I can tell
her that she is a free woman, and my wife by the Scottish law,
— a bond which she can make as secure as she likes by legal and
religious ceremonies.'
The Baron had enough insight into the feminine character to
know that a woman who has leisure for deliberation upon the
verge of ruin is not very likely to make the fatal plunge. The
boldly, deliberately bad are the rare exceptions among woman-
kind. The women who err are for the most part hustled and
hurried into wrong-doing — hemmed round and beset by con-
flicting interests — bewildered and confused by false reasoning —
whirled in the Maelstrom of passion, helpless as the hunted hare.
The Baron had pleaded his cause eloquently, as he thought —
had won Christabel almost to consent to elope with him — but not
quite. She had seemed so near yielding, yet had not yielded.
She had askod for time — time to reflect upon the fatal step — and
reflection was just that one privilege which must not be allowed
to her. Strange, he thought, that not once had she spoken of her
son, the wrong she must inflict upon him, her agony at having
to part with liim. Beautiful, fascinating although he deemed
her — proud as he felt at having subjugated so lovely a victim, it
seemed to de Cazalet that there was something hard and
desperate about her — as of a woman who went wrong deliberately
and of set purpose. Yet on the brink of ruin she drew back,
and was not to be moved'by any special pleading of his to consent
to an immediate elopement. Vainly had he argued that the time
had corae — that people were beginning to look askance — that
her husband's suspicions might be ai'oused at any moment. She
had been rock in her resistance of these arguments. But her
consent to an early flight must now be extorted from her.
Delay or hesitation now might be fatal. If he killed his man —
ami he had little doubt in his own mmd that he should kill him
— it was essential that his flight should be instant. The days
were pa^t when juries were disposed to look leniently upon
gentlemanly homicide. If he were caught red-handed, the
penalty of his crime would be no light one.
* I was a foo] t/O qonaeoi. to such a wild plan,' he told himselt
824 Mov/nt EoyaZ.
* I ought to have insisted upon meeting him on the other side o£
the Channel. But to draw back now might look bad, and would
lessen my chance with her. No ; there is no alternative course. I
must dispose of him, and get her away, without the loss of an hour.'
The whole business had to be thought out carefully. His
intent was deadly, and he planned this duel with as much
wicked deliberation as if he had been planning a murder. He
had lived among men who held all human life, except their own,
lightly, and to whom duelling and assassination were among tlie
possibilities of every-day existence. He thought how if he and
the three other men could reach that lonely bend of the coast
unobserved, they might leave the man who should fall lying on
the sand, with never an indication to point how he fell.
De Cazalet felt that in Vandeleur there was a man to be
trusted. He would not betray, even though his friend were
left there, dead upon the low level sand-waste, for the tide to
roll over him and hide him, and wrap the secret of his doom in
eternal silence. There was something of the freebooter in Jack
Vandeleur — an honour-among-thieves kind of spirit — which the
soul of that other freebooter recof/nized and understood.
* We don't want little Montagu, thought de Cazalet. * One
man will be second enough to see fair-play. The fuss and
formality of the thing can be dispensed with. That little
beggar's ideas are too insular — he might round upon me.'
So meditating upon the details of to-morrow, the Baron went
down the hill to the farm, where he found the Mount Eoyal
party just setting out on their howeward journey under the
shades of evening, stars shining faintly in the blue infinite above
them. Leonard was not among his wife's guests — nor had he
been seen by any of them since they met him at the field-gate,
an hour ago.
*He has made tracks for home, no doubt/ said Jack Vandeleur.
They went across the fields, and by the common beyond
Trevalga— walking briskly, talking merrily, in the cool evening
air ; all except Mopsy, from whose high-heeled boots there was
no surcease of pain. Alas ! those Wurtemburg heels, and the
boots just hal{ a size too small for the wearer, for how many a
bitter hour of a woman's life have they to answer !
De Cazalet tried in vain during that homeward walk to get
confidential speech with Christabel— he was eager to urge his
new plan— the departure from Bodmin Road Station— but she
was always surrounded. He fancied even that she made it her
business to avoid him.
* Coquette,* he muttered to himself savagely. * They are all
alike. I thought she was a little better than the rest ; but they
are all ground in the same mill'
He could scarcely get a glimpse of her face in the twilight
She was always a little way ahead, or a little way behind him— •
now with Jesaie Biidgemau now with Emily St. Aubyn—
' Love bore stcch Bitter and such Deadly Fruit' 326
gkimmin^ over the rough heathy ground, flitting from group to
group. \Vlien tliey entered the house she disappeared almost
instantly, leaving her guests lingering in the hall, too tired to
repair at once to their own rooms, content to loiter in the glow
and warmth of the wood fires. It was seven o'clock. They had
been out nearly nine hours.
*What a dreadfully long day it has been 1' exclaimed Emily
St. Aubyn, with a stifled yawn.
* Isn't that the usual remark after a pleasure party*?' de-
manded Mr. FitzJesse. * I have found the unfailing result of
any elaborate arrangement for human felicity to be an abnormal
lengthening of the hours ; just as every strenuous endeavour to
accomplish some good work for one's fcllow-meu infallibly
provokes the enmity of the class to be benefited.'
' Oh, it has all been awfully enjoyable, don't you know,' said
Miss St. Aubyn ; 'and it was very sweet of Mrs. Tregonell to
give us such a deliglitful day ; but I can't help feeling as if we
had been out a week. And now we have to dress for dinner,
which is rather a trial'
* Why not sit down as you are ? Let us have a tailor-gown
and shooting-jacket dinner, as a variety upon a calico ball,
suggested little Monty.
' Impossible ! We should feel dirty and horrid,' said Miss St.
Aubyn. ' The freshness and purity of the dinner-table would
make us asham(!d of our grubbiness. Besides, however could
we face the servants] No, the effort must be made. Come,
mother, you really look as if you wanted to be carried upstairs.'
*By voluntary contributions,' murmured FitzJesse, aside to
Miss Bridgeman. * Briareus himself could not do it single-
handed, as one of our vivacious Home Rulers might say.'
The Baron de Cazalet did not appear in the drawing-room an
hour later when the house-party assembled for dinner. He sent
his hostess a little note apologizing for his absence, on the ground
of important business letters, which must be answered that
night ; though why a man should sit down at eight o'clock in
ths evening to write letters for a post which would not leave
Boscastle till the following afternoon, was rather diflicult for any
one to understand.
* All humbug about those letters, you may depend,' said little
Monty, who looked as fresh as a daisy in his smooth expanse of
shirt-front, with a single diamond stud in the middle of it, like a
Mghthouse in a calm sea. * The Baron was fairly done — athlete
as he pretends to be — hadn't a leg to stand upon — came in limp-
ing. I wouldn't mind giving long odds that he won't show till
to-morrow afternoon. It's a case of gruel and bandages for tha
next twentj -four hours.'
Leonard came into the drawing-room just in time to give hia
arm to Mrs. St. Aubyn. He made himself more agreeable than
usual at dinner, as it seemed to that worthy matron — talked
826 Mount Boyal.
more — laughed louder — and certainly drank more than his wont
The di;:ner was remarkably lively, in spite of the Baron's
absence ; indeed, the conversation took a new and livelier turn
upon that account, for everybody had something more or less
amusing to say about the absent one, stimulated and egged on
with quiet malice by Mr. FitzJesse. Aiiecdotes were told of his
eelf-assurance, his vanity, his pretentiouaiiess. Ilis pedigree was
discussed, and settled for — his antecedents — his married life,
were all submitted to the process of conversational vivisection,
* Eather rough on Mrs. Tregonell, isn't it V muimured little
Monty to the fair Dopsy.
* Do you think slie really cares V Dopsy asked, incrsdulously.
'Don't you?'
* Not a straw. She could not care for such a man as tliat,
after being engaged to Mr. Hamleigh.'
* Hamleigh was better form, I admit — and I used to think
Iilrs. T. as straight as an arrow. But I confess I've been
Btaggered lately.'
* Did you see what a cabn queenly look she had all the time
people were laughing at de Cazalet 1 ' asked Dopsy. * A woman
who cared one little bit for a man could not have taken it so quietly.'
* You think she must have flamed out — said something in
defence of her admirer. You forget your Tennyson, and how
Guinevere " marred her friend's point with pale tranquility.''
Women are so deuced deep.'
* Dear Tennyson ! * murmured Dopsy,' whose knowledge of
the Laureate's works had not gone very far beyond ' The May
Queen,' and * The Charge of the Six Hundred.'
It was gi'owing late in the evening when de Cazalet showed
himself. The drawing-room party had been in very fair spirits
without him, but it was a smaller and a quieter party than
usual ; for Leonard had taken Captain Vandeleur oflf to his own
den after dinner, and Mr. Montagu had offered to play a fifty
game, left-handed, against the combined strength of Dopsy and
Mops)^ ChrAstabcl had been at the piano almost all the evening,
playing with a breadth and grandeur which seemed to rise
above her usual style. The ladies made a circle in front of the
fire, with Mr. Faddie and Mr. FitzJesse, talking and laughing
in a subdued tone, while those grand harmonies of Beethoven's
rose and fell upon their indifferent, half admiring ears.
Christabel played the closing chords of the Funeral March of
a Hero as de Cazalet entered the room. He went straight to
the piano, and seated himself in the empty chair by her side.
She glided into the melancholy arpeggios of the Moonlight
Sonata, without looking up from the keys. They were a long
way from the group at the fire — all the length of the room lay in
deep shadow between the lamps on the mantelpiece and neigh-
bouring tables, and tjie candles upon the piano. PiaJiissiino
"iT-^nV seemed tn invito convei-sation.
• Love bore such Bitter and such Deadly Fruit* 327
* Yon have written your letters ? ' she asked, lightly.
* My letters were a fiction — I did not want to sit face to face
with your husband at dinner, after our conversation this after-
noon at the waterfall ; you can understand that, can't you,
Christabel. Don't — don't do that,.'
* What ? ' she asked, still looking down at the keys.
* Don't shudder when I call you by your Christian name — aa
you did just now. Christabel, I want your answer to my ques-
tion of to-day. I told you then that the crisis of our fate had
come. T tell you so again to-night — more earnestly, if it is pos-
sible to be more in earnest than I was to-day. I am obliged to
speak to you here — almost within earshot of those pcojJe —
because time is short, and I must take the first chance that
offers. It has been my accursed luck never to be with you
alone — I think this afternoon was the first time that you and
I have been together alone since I came here. You don't
know how hard it has been for me to keep every word and look
within check — always to remember that we were before an
audience.*
' Yes, there has beenagood deal of acting,' she answered, quietly.
* But there must be no more acting — no more falsehood. "We
have both made up our minds, have we not, my beloved ? T
think you love me — 3'es, Christabel, I f^^el secure of your love.
You did not deny it to-flay, v/hen I asked that thrilling question
— those hidden eyes, the conscious droop of that proud head,
were more eloquent than words. And for my love, Christabel —
no words can speak that. It shall be told by-and-by in language
tliat all the world can understand — told by my deeds. The time
has come for decision ; I have had news to-day that renders
instant action necessary. If you and I do not leave Cornwall
together to-morrow, we may be parted for ever. Have you made
up your mind ? '
* Hardly,' she answered, her fingers still slowly moving over
the keys in those plaintive arpeggios.
* What is your difficulty, dearest ? Do you fear to face the
future with me ? '
* I have not thought of the future.'
* Is it the idea of leaving your child that distresses you.' '
* I have not thought of him.'
* Then it is my truth — my devotion which you doubt ? *
* Give me a little more time for thought,' she said, still play-
ing the same sotto voce accompaniment to their speech.
* I dare not ; everything must be planned to-night. I must
leave this house early to-morrow morning. There are imperative
reasons which oblige me to do so. You must meet me at Bodmin
Boad Station at eleven — ^yo u must, Christabel, if our lives are to
be free and happy and spent together. Vacillation on your part
will ruin all my plans. Trust yourself to me, dearest — trust my
power to secure a bright and happy future. Jf you do not waifit
8219 Mount Royal.
to be parted from your boy take him with yon. He shall be my
son. I will hold him for you against all the world.'
* You most leave this house early to-morrow morning,' sh*
said, looking up at him for the first time. ' Why ? '
*For a reason which I cannot tell you. It is a businea>i in
which some one else is involved, and I am not free to dibcio^e
it yet. You shall know all later.'
* You will tell me, when we meet at Bodmin Road.'
* Yes. Ah, then you have made up your mind — you will be
there. My best and dearest, Heaven bless you for that sweet
consent.*
* Had we not better leave Heaven out of the question ? ' she
said with a mocking smile; and then slowly, gravely, deliberately,
she said, * Yes, I will meet you at eleven o'clock to-morrow, at
Bodmin Road Station — and you will tell meall that has happened.'
* What secret can I withhold from you, love — my second self
— the fairer half of my soul ? '
Urgently as he had pleaded his cause, certain as he had been
of ultimate success, he was almost overcome by her yielding.
It seemed as if a fortress which a moment before had stood up
between him and the sky — massive — invincible — the very ty]>e
of the impregnable and everlasting, had suddenly crumbled into
ruin at his feet. His belief in woman's pride and purity had
never been very strong : yet he had believed that here and there,
in this sinful world, invincible purity was to be found. But
now he could never believe in any woman again. He had
believed in this one to the last, although he had set himself to
win her. Even when he had been breathing the poison of his
florid eloquence into her ear — even when she had smiled at him,
a willing listener — there had been something in her look, some
sublime inexpressible air of stainless womanhood which had
made an impassable distance between them. And now she had
consented to run away with him : she had sunk in one moment
to the level of all disloyal wives. His breast thrilled with pride
and triumph at the thought of his conquest : and yet there was
a touch of shame, shame that she could so fall.
Emily St. Aubyn came over to the piano, and made an end
of all confidential talk.
* Now you are both here, do give us that delicious little duet
of Lecocq's,* she said : * we want something cheerful before wo
disperse. Good gracious Mrs. Tregonell, how bad you look,'
cried the young lady, suddenly, * as white as a ghost.'
' I am tired to death,' answered Christabel, * I could not sing
a note for the world.'
* Really, then we mustn't worry you. Thanks so much for
that lovely Beethoven music — the " Andante" — or the" Pastorale"
—or the " Pathetique," was it not ? So sweet.'
* Good night,' said ChristabeL * You won't think m© rud«
if I am the first to go?'
* Love hore siwh Bitter and such Deadly Fruit* 329
* Not at alL We are all going. Pack up your wools, mother
I know you have only been pretending to knit "We are all half
asleep. I believe we have hardly strength to crawl upstairs.'
Candles were lighted, and Mrs. Tregonell and her guests dis-
persed, the party from the billiard-room meeting them in the hall.
These lighter-minded people, the drama of whose existence
was just now in the comedy stage, went noisily up to their rooms ;
but the Baron, who was usually the most loquacious, retired
almost in silence. Nor did Christabel do more than bid hei-
guests a brief good-night. Neither Leonard nor his friend Jack
Vandeleur had shown themselves since dinner. Whether they
were still in the Squire's den, or whether they had retired to
their own rooms, no one knew.
The Baron's servant was waiting to attend his master. He
was a man who had been with de Cazalet in California, Mei ico,
and South America — who had lived with him in his bachelorhood
and in his married life — knew aU the details of his domestic
career, and had been faithful to him in wealth and in poverty,
knew all that there was to be known about him — the best and
the worst — and had made up his mind to hold by an employment
which had been adventurous, profitable, and tolerably easy, not
entirely free from danger, or from the prospect of adversity —
yet always hopeful. So thorough a scamp as the Baron must
always find some chance open to him — ^thus, at least, argued
Henri le Mescam, his unscrupulous ally. The man was quick,
clever — able to turn his hand to anything — valet, groom, cook,
courier — as necessity demanded.
* Is Salathiel pretty fresh % ' asked the Baron.
* Fit as a fiddle : he hasn't been out since you hunted him
four days ago.'
* That's lucky. He will be able to go the pace to-morrow
morning. Have him harnessed to that American buggy of Mr.
Tregonell's at six o'clock.'
' I suppose you know that it's hardly light at six.'
* There will be quite enough light for me. Pack my smallest
portmanteau with linen for a week, and a second suit — no dress-
clothes— and have the trap ready in the stable-yard when the
clock strikes six. I have to catch a train at Launceston at 7.45.
You will follow in the afternoon with the luggage.'
To your London rooms. Sir ? '
* Yes. If you don't find me there you will wait for further
instructions. You may have to join me on the other side of the
channel.'
* I hope so. Sir.'
* Sick of England, already ? '
* Never cared much for it. Sir. I began to think I should
die of the dulness of this place .'
* Rather more luxurious than our old quarters at St. Helierr
ten years ago, when you were markep at Jewson's, while I wa*
880 Mount Boyak
teacliing drawing and French at the fashionable academies of th«
island.'
* That was bad, Sir ; "but luxury isn't everything in life. A
man's mind goes to rust in a place of this kind.'
* Well, there will not be much I'ust for you in future, I
believe. How would you like it if I were to take you back to
the shores of the Pacific ? '
'That's just what I should like, Sir. You were a king there,
and I was your prime minister.'
* And I may be a king again — ^perhaps this time with a queen
— a proud and beautiful queen.'
* Le Mescam smiled, and shrugged his shoulders:
* The queenly element was not quite wanting in the past, Sir,*
he said .
' Pshaw, Henri, the ephemeral fancy of the hour. Such
chance entanglements as those do not rule a man's life.'
* Perhaps not, Sir ; but I know one of those cliance entangle-
ments made Lima unpleasantly warm for us ; and if, after you
winged Don Silvio, there hadn't been a pair of good horses
waiting for us, you might never have seen the outside of Peru.'
* And if a duel was dangerous in Lima, it would be ten times
more dangerous in Cornwall, would it not, Henri 1 '
* Of course it would, Sir. But you are not thinking of any-
thing like a duel here — you can't be so mad as to think of it.'
' Certainly not. And now you can pack that small port-
manteau, while I take a stretch. I sha'n't take off my clothes :
a man who has to be up before six should never trifle with his
feelings by making believe to go to bed.'
CHAPTEB XXXIII.
*STTE STOOD *JT IN BITTER CASE, WITH A PALE YET
STEADY FACE.'
The Bileuf.i of night and slumber came down upon the world,
shadow and darkness were folded round and about it. The
ticking of the old eight-day clock in the hall,, of the bra,cket
clock in the corridor, and of half a dozen other time-j)ieces, con-
scientiously performing in em])ty rooms, took that solemn and
»epulchrarsound which all clocks, down to the humblest Dutch-
man, assume after midnight. Sleep, peace, .and silence seemed to
brood over all human and brute life at Mount Royal. Yet there
were some who had no thought of sleep that night.
In Mr. Tregonell's dressing-room there was the light of lamp
and fire, deep into the small hours. The master of the house
lolled, half-dres.<«ed, ia an arm-chair by the hearth ; while hia
friend, Captain Vandcleur, in smoking-jacket and slippers
joungi^ with his back to the chinmey-piece, and a cigarette
}}«!tw'i?on Im lip». A whisky ••ottle and a onu]>U' of siphons stood
She stood up in Bitt&r Cas6,* SSI
Oil h ttB,y on the Squire's writing-table, an open pistol-case neai
at hand.
'You'd better lie down for a few ^hours,' said Captain
Vandeleur. * I'll call you at half -past five.*
' I'd rather sit here. I may get a nap by-and-by perhaps.
You can go to bed if you are tired : I shan't oversleep myself.'
* I wish you'd give up this business, Tregonell,' said his friend
with \maccustomed seriousness. ' This man is a dead shot. We
heard of him in Bolivia, don't you remember i A man who has
spent half his Hfe in shooting-galleries, and who has lived where
life counts for very little. Why should j'-ou stake your life
against his 1 It isn't even betting : you're good enough at big
game, but you've had very little pistol practice. Even if you
were to kill him, which isn't on the cards, you'd be tried foi
murder ; and where's the advantage of that ? *
*I'll risk it,' answered Leonard, doggedly, *I saw him with
my wife's hand clasped in his — saw him with his lips close to hei
face — close enough for kisses — heard her promise him an answer
— to-morrow. By Heaven there shall be no such to-morrow for
him and for me. For one of us there shall be an end of all things.'
*I don't believe Mi-s. Tregonell is capable' — began Jack,
thoughtfully mumbling his cigarette.
' You've said that once before, and you needn't say it again
Capable ! Why, man alive, I saio them together. Nothing less
than the evidence of my own eyes would have convinced me. I
have been slow enough to believe. There is not a man or woman
in this house, yourself included, who has not, in his secret soul,
despised me for my slowness. And yet, now, because there is a qu(,'s-
tion of a pistol-sliot or two you fence round, and try to persuade
me that my wife's good name is immaculate, that all which you
have seen and wondered at for the last thiee weeks means nothing.'
* Those open ilirtations seldom do mean anyxhing/ said Jack,
Dersuasively.
A man may belong to tlie hawk tribe and yet not be witliout
certain latent instincts of compassion and good feeling.
* Perhaps not — but secret meetings do : what I saw at the
Kieve to-day was conclusive. Besides, the alfair is all settled —
you and de Cazalet have arranged it between you. He is willing
that there should be no witi^ess but you. The whole businef^d
will rest a secret between us three ; and if we get quietly do^ -u
to the sands before any one is astir to see us no one else need
ever know what happened there.'
* If there is bloodshed the thing must be known.'
* It will seem hke accident ?'
* True,' answered Vandeleur, looking at him searchingly ;
*like that accident last year at the Kieve — poor HamleigL's
death. Isn't to-morrow the anniversary, by-the-byl'
' Yes — the date has come lound again.'
*l)ate.=i b8V(> an awkvTard kn;ick of doing that. Tliere h a
33S Mount BoyaL
cui^ed mechanical regularity in life which makes a man wl»fc
himself in some savage island where there is no such thing as an
almanack.' said Vandeleur, taking out another cigarette. * If I
had been Crusoe, I ^ould never have stuck up that post I
should have been to glad to get rid of quarter-day.'
In Christabel's room at the other end of the long corridor
there was only the dim light of the night-lamp, nor wae there
any sound, save the ticking of the clock and the crackling of the
cinders in tlie dying fire. Yet here there was no more sleep nor
{)eace than in the chamber of the man who was to wager his life
against the life of his fellow-man in the pure light of the dawn-
ing day. Christabel stood at her window, dressed just as she
had left the drawing-room, looking out at the sky and the sea,
and thinking of him who, at this hour last year, was still a part
of her life — perchance a watcher then as she was watching now,
gazing with vaguely questioning eyes into the illimitable pano-
rama of the heavens, worlds beyond worlds, suns and planetary
systems, scattered like grains of sand over the awful desert of
infinite space, innumerable, immeasurable, the infinitesimals of
the a>?tronorner, the despair of faith. Yes, a year ago and he was
beneath that roof, her friend, her counsellor, if need were ; for
Khe had never trusted him so completely, never so understood and
realized all the nobler qualities of his nature, as in those last days,
after she had set an eternal barrier between herself and him.
She stood at the open lattice, the cold night air blowing upon
her fever-heated face ; her whole being absorbed not in deliberate
thought, bat in a kind of waking trance. ' Strange pictures came
out of the darkness, and spread themselves before her eyes. She
saw her first lover lying on the broad flat rock at St. Nectan's
Kieve, face downward, shot through the heart, the water stained
with the life-blood slowly oozing from his breast. And then,
when that picture faded into the blackness of night, she saw her
husb?.nd and Oliver de Cazalet standing opposite to each other
on the broad level sands at Trebarvvith, the long waves rising up
behind them like a low wall of translucent green, crested with
silvery whiteness. So they would stand face to face a few hours
hence. Fiom her lurking-place behind the trees and brushwood
at the entrance to the Kieve she had heard the appointment
made — and she knew that at seven o'clock those two weie to
meet, with deadliest intent. She had so planned it — a life for a life.
She had no shadow of doubt as to which of these two would
fall. Three months ago on the BifFel she had seen the Baron's
skill as a marksman tested — she had seen him the wonder of the
crowd at those rustic sports — seen him perform feats which only
a man who has reduced pistol -shooting to a science would
attempt. Against this man Leonard Tregonell — ^good all-round
sportsman as he was — could have very little chance. Leonard
bad always been satisfied with that moderate skilfulness which
*8he stood up in Bitter Case* 333
comee easily and unconsciously. He had never given time and
labour to any of the arts be pursued — content to be able to hold
his own among parasites and flatterers.
* A life for a life,' repeated Christabel, her lips moving dumbly,
her heart throbbing heavily, as if it were beating out those awful
words. ' A life for a life — the old law — the law of justice — God's
own sentence against murder. The law could not touch this
nuuderer — but theie was one way by which that cruel deed
might be punished, and I found it.'
The slow siiant hours wore on. Christabel left the window
shivering with cold, though cheeks, brow, and lips were biuiiing.
She walked up and down the room for a long while, till the very
atmosphere of the room, nay, of the house itself, seemed unen-
durable. She felt as if she were being suffocated, and this sense
of oppression became so strong that she was sorely tempted to
shriek aloud, to call upon some one for rescue from that stifling
vault. The feeling grew to such intensity that she flung on her
hat and cloak, and went quickly down stairs to a lobby-door
that opened into the garden, a little door which she had unbolted
many a night after the servants had locked up the house, in order
to steal out in the mo<)nli<,'ht and among the dewy flowers, and
across the dewy turf to those shrubbery walks which had such a
mysterious look — half in light and half in shadow.
She closed the door behind her, and stood with the night
wind blowing round her, looking up at the sky ; clouds were
drifting across the starry dome, and the moon, like a storm-
beaten boat, seemed to be hurrying through them. The cold
wind revived her, and she began to breathe more freely.
* I think I was going mad just now,' she said to herself.
And then she thought she would go out upon the hills, and
down to the churchyard in the valley. On this night, of all
niglits, she would visit Angus Hamleigh's grave. It was long
since she had seen the spot where he lay — since her return from
Switzerland she had not once entered a church. Jessie had re-
monstrated with her gravely and urgently — but without eliciting
any explanation of this falling off in one who had been hitherto
so steadfastly devout.
' I don't feel inclined to go to church, Jessie,* she said,
coolly ; ' there is no ase in discussing my feelings. I don't feel flt
for chiu-ch ; and I am not going in order to giatify your idea of
what is conventional and correct.'
* I am not thinking of this in its conventional aspect — I have
always made light of conventionalities — but things must be in a
bad way with you, Christabel, when you do not feel fit tor church.*
* Things are in a bad way witk me,' answered Christabel, with
a dogged moodiness which was insurmountable. * I never said
they were good.'
This surrender of old pious habits had given Jessie more
ttneasineaa than any other fact in Ckriatabel's life. Her riirtation
384 Mount Boyaf^
with the Baron must needs be meaningless frivolity, Jessie had
thought ; since it seemed hardly within the limits of possibility
that a refined and pure-minded woman could have any real pen"
chant for that showy adventurer ; but this persistent avoidance
of church meant mischief.
And now, in the deep dead-of-night silence, Christabel went
on her lonely pilgrimage to her first lover's gi-ave. Oh, h;ippy
summer day when, sitting by her side outside the Maidenhead
coach, all her own through life, as it seemed, he told her how, if
she had the ordering of his grave, she was to bury him in that
romantic churchyard, hidden in a cleft of the hill. She had not
forgotten this even amidst the horror of his fate, and had told
tlie vicar that Mr. liamleigh's grave must be at Minster and no
otherwhere. Then had come his relations, suggesting burial-
places with family associations — vaults, mausoleums, the pomp
and circumstance of sepulture. But Christabel had been firm ;
and while the others hesitated a paper was found in the dead
man's desk requesting that he might be buried at Minster.
How lonely the world seemed in this solemn pause between
night and morning. Never before had Christabel been out alone
at such an hour. She had travelled in the dead of the night, and
had seen the vague dim night-world from the window of a rail-
way carriage — but never until now had she walked across these
solitary hills after midnight. It seemed as if for the first time
in her life she were alone with the stars.
IIow diincult it wms in her present state of mind to realize
that those lights, tremulous in the deep blue vault, were worlds,
and combinations of worlds — almost all of them immeasurably
gi'eator than this earth on which she trod. To her they seemed
living watchers of the night— solemn, mysterious beings, looking
down at her with all-understanding eyes. She had an awful
feeling of their companionship as she looked up at them — a
mystic sense that jill her thoughts— the worst .and the best of
them — were being read by that galaxy of eyes.
Strangely beautiful did the hills and the sky — the indefinite
shapes of the trees against the edge of the horizon, the mysteri-
ous expanse of the dark sea — seem to her in the night silence.
She had no fear of any human presence, but there wa>'. an awful
feeling in being, as it were, for the Hrst time in her life alone
with the immensities. Those hills and gorges, so familiar in all
phases of daylight, from sunrise to after set of sun, assumed
Titanic proportions in this depth of night, and were as strange to
her as if slie had never trodden this path before. What wjis the
wind saying, as it came moaning and sobbing along the deep
gorge through which the river ran ? — what did the wind say as
she crossed the narrow bridge which trembled under her light
footfall ? Surely there was some human meaning in that long
minor wail, which burst suddenly into a wild unearthly shriek,
»nd then dieii away in a low sobbing tone, as of sorrow and juiii
• She stood up in Bitter Case.* 886
t grew dumb from sheer exhaustion, and not because there
iras any remissisn of pain or sorrow.
With that unearthly sound still following her, she went up
the winding hill-side path, and then slowly descended to the
darkness of the churchyard — so sunk and sheltered that it seemed
Kke going down into a vault.
Just then the moon leapt from behind an inky cloud, and, in
tliat ghostly light, Christabel saw the pale gi-ey granite cross
which had been erected in memory of Angus Hamleigh. It
stood up in the midst of nameless mounds, and humble slate
tablets, pale and glittering — an unmistakable sign of the spot
where her first lover lay. Once only before to-night had she
seen that monument. Absorbed in the pursuit of a Pagan S'clieme
of vengeance she had not dared to come within the precincts of
the church, where she had knelt and prayed through all the
sinless years of her girlhood. To-night some wild impulse had
brought her here — to-night, when that crime which she called
Cetribution was on the point of achievement.
She went with stumbling footsteps through the long graas,
across the low mounds, till she came to that beneath which
Angus Hamleigh lay. She fell like a lifeless thing at the foot of
the cross. Some loving hand had covered the mound of etirth
with primroses and violets, and there were low clambering rosea
all round the grave. The scent of sweetbriar was mixed with
the smell of earth and grass. Some one heid cared for that grave
although she, who so loved the dead, had never tended it.
* Oil, my love ! my love ! ' she sobbed, with her face upon
the grass and the primrose leaves, and her arms clasping the
granite ; * my murdered love— my tii-st, last, only lover — before
to-morrow's sun is down your death will be revenged, and my
life will be over ! I have lived only for that — only for that
Angus, my love, my love I ' She kissed the cold wet grass mor^j
psissionately than she had ever kissed the dead face mouldering
underneath it. Only to the dead — to the utterly lost and gone —
is given this supreme passion — love sublimated to despair. Froib-
the living there is always something kept back — something saved
and garnered for an after-gift — some reserve in the mind or the
h•v^: rt of the giver ; but to the dead love gives all — with a wile-
8eb"-ab;i,ndonment which knows rmt restraint or measure. The
wife who, while this man yet lived, had been so rigorously true to
honour and duty, now poured into the deaf dead ears a reckless
avowal of love — ^love that had never faltered, never changed — love
that had renounced the lover, and had yet gone on loving to the end.
The wind came moaning out of the valley again with that
sharp human cry, as of lamentation for the dead.
* Angus 1 ' murmured Christabel, piteously, * Angus, can you
hear me ? — do you know ? Oh, my God ! is there memory of
understanding i)i the world where he has g^tme, or is it
4e^ blank 't Help me, my Qod 1 1 have lost all the old
836 Mount Boyat.
illusiona of faith — I have left off praying, hoping, believing — 1
have only thought of my dead — thought of death and of him tiU
all the living world grew unreal to me — and God and Heaven
were only like old half -forgotten dreams. Angus ! *
For a long time she lay motionless, her cold hands clasping
the cold stone, her lips pressed upon the soft dewy turf, her face
buried in primrose leaves — then slowly, and with an effort, she
raised herself upon ber knees, and knelt with her arms encircling
the cross — that sacred emblem which had once meant so mucii for
her : but which, since that loug blank interval last winter, seemed
to have lost all meaning. One great overwhelming grief had made
her a Pagan — thirsting for revenge — vindictive — crafty — stealthy
as an American Indian on the trail of his deadly foe — subtle as
Greek or Oriental to plan and to achieve a horrible retribution.
She looked at the inscription on the cross, legible in the
moonlight, deeply cut in large Gothic letters upon the gi-ey stone,
filled in with dark crimson.
* Vengeance is mine : I will repay, saith the Lord.'
Who had put that inscription upon the cross ? It was not there
when the monument was first put up. Christabel remembered
going with Jessie to see the grave in that dim half -blank time
before she went to Switzerland. Then there was nothing but a
name and a date. And now, in awful distinctness, there appeared
those terrible words — God's own promise of retribution — the
claim of the Almighty to be the sole avenger of human wrongs.
And she, reared by a religious woman, brought up in the
love and fear of God, had ignored that sublime and awful
attribute of the Supreme. She had not been content to leave
her lover's death to the Great Avenger. She had brooded on
his dark fate, until out of tlie gloom o" despair there had arisen
the image of a crafty and bloody retribution. * Whoso sheddetli
man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.' So runs the
dreadful sentence of an older law. The new, lovelier law, which
began in the after-glow of Philosophy, the dawn of Christianity,
bids man leave revenge to God. And she, who had once called
herself a Christian, had planned and plotted, making herself the
secret avenger of a crimuial who had escaped the grip of the law.
' Must he lie in his grave, unavenged, until the Day of
Judgment 1 ' she asked hei-self. * God's vengeance is slow.'
An hour later, and Christabel, pale and exhausted, her gar-
ments heavy with dew, was kneeling by her boy's bed in the
faint light of the night-lamp ; kneeling by him as she had knelt
a year ago, but never since her return from Switzerland-
praying as she had not prayed since Angus Hamleigh's death.
After those long, passionate prayera, she rose and looked at th«
glumberer's face — her husband's face in little — but oh ! how pure
aAd fresh and radiant God keep him from boyhood's sins of
self-love and scif-iudul^ence — from manhood'd evil passions.
• She stood up in Bitter Case* 837
hatred and' jealousy. All her life to come seemed too little to
be devoted to watching and guarding this beloved from the
encircling snares and dangers of life. Pure and innocent now
In this fair dawn of infancy, he nestled in her arms — he clung to
Aer and believed in her. What business had she with anv other
fears, desires, or hopes— God havhig given her the sacred duties
of maternity — the master-passion of motherly love %
* I have been mad ! ' she said to herrelf ; * I have been living in a
ghastlydream : but God has awakened me — God's word has cured me.'
God's word had come to her at the crisis of her life. A month
ago, while her scheme of vengeance seemed still far from fulfil-
ment, that awful sentence would hardly have struck so deeply. It
W£i3onthe very verge of the abyss that those familiar words caught
her ; just when the natural faltering of her womanhood, upon the eve
of a terrible crime, made her most sensitive to a sublime impression.
The first faint streak of day glimmered in the east, a pale
cold light, livid and ghostly upon the edge of the sea yonder,
white and wan upon the eastward points of rock and headland,
when Jessie Bridgeman was startled from her light slumbers
by a voice at her bedside . She was always an early riser, and
it cost her no e£fort to sit up in bed, with her eyes wide open,
and all her senses oil the alert.
* Christabel, what is the matter 1 Is Leo ill? *
* No, Leo is weU enough. Get up and dress yourself quickly,
Jessie. I want you to come with me— on a strange errand ; but
it is something that must be done, and at once.'
* Christabel, you are mad.'
* No. I have been mad. I think you must know it — ^this is
the awakening. Come, Jessie.'
Jessie had spnmg out of bed, and put on slippers and dressing
gown, without taking her eyes off Christabel. Presently she
felt her cloak and gown.
* Why, you are wet through. Where have you been ? '
* To Angus Hamleigh's grave. Who put that inscription on
the cross V
'I did. Nobody seemed to care about hia grave — no one
attended to it. I got to think the grave my own property, and
that* I might do as I liked with it.'
* But those awful words ! What made you put them there f
* I wanted the man who killed him to be reminded that there
is an Avenger.'
* Wash your face and put on your clothes as fast as you can.
Every moment is of consequence,' said Christabel.
She would explain nothing. Jessie urged her to take off
her wet doak, to go and change her gown and shoes ; but sh«
refused with angry impatience.
* There will be time enough for that afterwards,' she said ;
*'^hat I have to do will not take long, but it must be done tA
oace. Pray be quick.*
*fiHb Mount Boyal,
Jessie struggled through her hurried toilet, And followed
Chriatabel along the corridor, without question or exclamation.
They went to the door of Baron de Cazalet's room. A light
shone under the bottom of the door, and there was the sound
of someone stirring within. Chriatabel knocked, and the door
was opened almost instantly by the Baron himself.
* Is it the trap ? * he asked. * It's an hour too soon,*
*No, it is I, Monsieur de Cazalet May I come in for a few
minutes ? I have something to tell you.'
Christabel— my ' He stopped in the midst of that eager
exclamation, at sight of the other figure in the back-ground.
He was dressed for the day — carefully dressed, like a man
who in a crisis of his life wishes Jto appear at no disadvantage.
His pistol-case stood ready on the table. A pair of candles,
buint low in the sockets of the old silver candlesticks, and a
heap of charred and torn paper in the fender showed that the
Baron had been gett ing rid of superfluous documents. Cliristabel
went into the ro<)m, followed by Jessie, the Baron staring at
them both, in blitnk amazement. He drew an arm-chair near
the expiring fire, and Christabel sank into it, exhausted and
half fainting.
*What does it all mean?' asked de Cazalet, looking at
Jessie, * and why are you here with her ? *
* Why is she here ? ' asked Jessie. * There can be no reason
except '
She touched her forehead lightly with the tips of her fingers.
Christabel saw the action.
* No, I am not mad, now,' she said ; ' I believe I have been
mad, but that is all over. Monsieur de Cazalet, you and my
husband are to fight a duel this morning, on Trebarwith sanc^'
* My dear Mrs. Tregonell, what a strange notion ! *
* Don't take the trouble to deny anything. I overheard your
conversation yesterday afternoon. I know everything.'
* "Would it not have been better to keep the knowledge to
yourself, and to remember your promise to me, last night ? '
* Yes, I remember that promise. I said I would meet you at
Bodmin Eoad, after you had shot my husband.'
* There was not a word about shooting your husbaad.*
* No ; but the fact was in our minds, all the same — in yours
as well as in mine. Only there was one difference between us.
You thought that when you had killed Leonard I would run
away with you. That was to be yoiu* recompense for murder. I
meant that you should kiU him, but that you should never see
toy face again. You would have served m.y purpose — you would
have been the instrument of my revenge ! '
* Christabel ! '
' Do not call me by that name — I am nothing to jj^ou — I never
ODuld, under any possible phase of circumstances, be any neaier
\g> tou than I am at this moment From f»mt to laat I have b««»a
• IShe stood up in Bitter Case.' 539
acting a part. When I saw you at that shooting match, on the
Riffel, I said to myself, " Here ia a man, who in any encounter
with my husband, must be fatal" My husband killed the only
man I ever loved, in a duel, without witnesses — a duel forced
upon him by insane and causeless jealousy. Whether that meet-
ing was fair or unfair in its actual details, I cannot tell ; but at
the best it was more like a murder than a duel Wlien, through
Misa Bridgeraan's acuteness, I came to understand what that
meeting had been, I made up my mind to avenge Mr. Hamleigh'a
deatli. For a long time my brain was under a cloud — I could
think of nothing, plan nothing. Tlien came clearer thoughts,
and then I met you ; and the scheme of my revenge flashed upon me
like a suggestion direct from Satan. I knew my husband's jealous
temper, and how easy it would be to fire a train there, and I made my
plans with that view. You lent yourself very easily to my scheme.'
*Lent myself?' cried the Baron, indignantly ; and then with
a savage oath he said : * I loved you, Mrs. Tregonell, and you
made me believe that you loved me.'
I let you make fine speeches, and I pretended to be pleased
at them,' answered Christabel, with supreme scorn. * I think
that was all.*
* No, madam, it was not all. You fooled me to the top of my
bent. What, those lovely looks, those lowered accents — all meant
nothingllt wasalladelusion — anacted lie? You nevercared for me V
* No,' answered Christabel. * My heart was buried with the
dead. I never loved but one man, and he was murdered, as I
believed — and I made up my mind to avenge his murder.
" Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.*
That sentence was in my mind always, when I thought o£
Leonard Tregonell. I meant you to be the executioner. And
now — now — God knows how the light has come — but the God
I worshipped when I was a happy sinless girl, has called me out
of the deep pit of sin — called me to remorse and atonement. You
must not fight this duel. You must save me from this horrible
crime that I planned — save me and yourself from blood-guilti-
ness. You mast not meet Leonard at Trebarwith.'
* And stamp myself as a cur, to oblige you : after having
lent myself so simply to your scheme of vengeance, lend myself
as complacently to your repentance. No, Mrs. Tregonell, that ia
tx)o much to ask. I will be your bravo, if you like, since I took
the part unconsciously — but I will not brand myself with the
charge of cowardice — even for you.'
' You fought a duel in South America, and killed your
adversary. Mr. FitzJesse told me so. Everybody knows that
you are a dead shot. Who can call you a coward for refusing to
shoot the man whose roof has sheltered you — who never injured
you — against whom you can have no ill-will.'
* Don't be to** sure of that. He is your husband. Wheo I
vftme to Mount Koyal, I came resolved to window.'
840 Mount Boyal.
* Only because I had deceived you. The woman you admired
was a living lie. Oh, if you could have looked into my heart only
yesterday, you must have shrunk from me with loathing. When
I led you on to play the seducer's part, I was plotting murder —
murder which I called justice. I knew that Leonard wai
listening — I had so planned that he should follow us to the
Baeve. I heard his stealthy footsteps, and the rustle of the
bouglm — ^you were too much engrossed to listen; but all my
senses were strained, and I knew the very moment of his coming.
* It was a pity you did not let your drama come to its natural
denouement,' sneered de Cazalet, furious with the first woman
who had ever completely fooled him. * When your husband was
dead — ^for there is not much doubt as to my killing him — you
and I could have come to an understanding. You must have
had some gratitude. However, I am not bloodthirsty, and since
Mrs. Tregonell has cheated me out of my devotion, fooled me
with day-dreams of an impossible future, I don't see that I
should gain much by shooting Mr. Tregonell.*
* No, there would be no good to you in that profitless blood-
shed. It is I who have wronged you — I who wilfully deceived
you — degrading myself in order to lure my husband into a fatal
?[uarrel — ^tempting you to kill him. Forgive me, if you can — ^and
orget this wild wicked dream. Conscience and reason came
ba^ to me beside that quiet grave to-night. What good could
it do him who lies there that blood should be spilt for his sake 1
Monsieur de Cazalet, if you will give up all idea of this duel I
will be grateful to you for the rest of my life.'
* You have treated me very cruelly,* said the Baron, taking
both her hands, and looking into her eyes, half in despairing love,
half in bitterest anger ; * you have fooled me as never man was
fooled before, I think — ^tricked me — and trifled with me — and I
owe you very little allegiance. If you and I were in South
America I would show you very little mercy. No, my sweet one,
I would make you play out the game — you should finish the
drama you began — finish it in my fashion. But in this world of
yours, hemmed round with conventionalities, I am obliged to let
you off easily. As for your husband — weU, I have exposed my
life too often to the aim of a six-shooter to be called coward if I
let this one opportunity slip. He is nothing to me — or I to him —
since you are nothing to me. He may go — and I may go. I
will leave a line to tell him that we have both been the dupes of
a pretty little acted charade, devised by his wife and her friends —
and instead of going to meet him at Trebarwith, I'll drive
straight to Launceston, and catch the early train. Will that
satisfy vou, Mrs. Tregonell ?'
' I thank you with all my heart and soul — ^you have saved ma
from myself.'
*You are a much better man than I thought you, Baron/
vad Je^e. speaking for the first timik
• SfS6 stood up in Bitter Case.* 341
She had stood by, a quiet spectator of the scene, listening
intently, ready at any moment to come to Christabel's rescue, if
need were— understanding, for the first time, the moving springs
of conduct which had been so long a mystery to her.
' Thank you, Miss Bridgeman. I suppose you were in the
plot— looked on and laughed in your sleeve, as you saw how a
man of the world may be fooled by sweet words and lovely looks.*
* I knew nothing. I thought Mrs. Tregonell was possessed
by the devil If she had let you go on — if you had shot her
husband — I should not have been sorry for him — for I know he
killed a much better man than himself, and I am hard enough to
hug the stern old law — a life for a life. But I should have been
sorry for her. She is not made for such revenges.*
* And now you will be reconciled with your husband, I sup-
pose, Mrs. Tregonell. You two will agree to forget the past, and
to live happily everwards ? ' sneered de Cazalet, looking up from
the letter wliich he was writing.
'No ! there can be no forgetfulness for either of us. I have
to do my duty to my son. I have to win God's pardon for the
guilty thoughts and plans which have filled my mind so long.
But I owe no duty to Mr. Tregonell. He has forfeited every
claim. May I see your letter when it is finished ? '
De Cazalet handed it to her without a word — a brief epistle,
written in the airiest tone, ascribing all that had happened at the
Kieve to a sportive plot of ]Mrs. Tregonell's, and taking a polite
leave of the master of the house.
* When he reads that, I shall be half-way to Launceston,' he
said, as Christabel gave him back the letter.
* I am deeply grateful to you, and now good-bye,' she said,
gravely, oflering him her hand. He pressed the cold slim hand
in his, and gently raised it to his lips.
* You have used me very badly, but I shall love and honour
you to the end of my days,' he said, as ChristJibel left him.
Jessie was following, but de Cazalet stopped her on the
threshold. 'Come,' he said, *you must give me the chie to this
mystery. Surely you were in it — you, who know her so well,
must have known something of this ? '
* I knew nothing. I watched her with fear and wonder.
After— after Mr. Hanileigh's death — she was very ill — mentally
ill ; she sank into a kind of apathy— not madness — but terribly
aear the confiness of madness. Then, suddenly, her spirits
Ceemed to revive — she became eager for movement, amusement
— an utterly difiereut creature from her former self. She and
I, who had been like sisters, seemed ever so far apart. I could
not undeiijtand this new phase of her character. For a whole
year she has been unlike herself — a terrible year. Thank Grod
this morning I have seen the old Christabel again.'
Half an hour afterwards the Baron's dogcart drove out of
the yard, and half an hour after his departure the Barou't
849 Mount Boyal.
It^ttpr W13 deli vet od to Leonard Tregonell,whu muttered an oath a«
he tiniahed reading it, and then handed it to his faithful Jack.
* What do you say to that ? ' he asked.
*By Jove, I knew Mrs. T was straight,' answered the
Captain, in his unsophisticated phraseology. *But it was a
shabby trick to play you all the same. I daresay Mop and Dop
were m it Those girls are always ready for larks.*
Leonard muttered something the reverse of polite about Dop
and Mop, and went straight to the stable-yard, where he cancelled
hisorderfor the trap which wastohave conveyed him to Trebarwith
8ands,and where he heard of the Baron's departure for Launceston.
Mystified and angry, he went straight upstairs to his wife's
room. All barriers were broken down now. All reticence waa
at an end. Plainest words, straighteat measures, befitted the pre-
sent state of things.
Chriatabel was on her knees in a recess near her bed — a recess
which held a little table, with her devotional books and a prie-
dieu chair. A beautiful head of the Salvator Mundi, painted on
china at Munich, gave beauty and sanctity to this little oratory.
She was kneeling on the prie-dieu, her arms folded on the purple
velvet cushion, her head leaning forward on the folded ai-ms, in
an attitude of prostration and self-abandonment, her hair falling
loosely over her white dressing-gown. She rose at Leonard's
entrance, and confronted him, a ghost-hke figure, deadly pale.
* Your lover has given me the slip,' he said, roughly ; * wliy
didn*t you go with him ? You mean to go, I ha^^ no doubt
You have both made your plans to that end — but you yfant to
sneak away — to get clear of this country, perhaps, before people
have found out what you are. Women of your stamp don't
mind what scandal they create, but they like to be out of the row.'
* You are mistaken,' his wife answered, coldly, unmoved by
his anger, as she had ever been untouched by his love. ' The
man who left here this morning was never my lover — never
could have been, had he and I lived under the same roof for yeai-s.
But I intended him for the avenger of that one man whom 1 did
love, with all my heart and soul — the man you killed.'
* What do you mean ? ' faltered Leonard, with a dull grey
shade creeping over his face.
It had been in his mind for a long time that his secret waa
suspected by his wife — but this straight, sudden avowal of the
fact was not the less a shock to him.
*You know what I mean. Did vou not know when yon
came back to this house that I had fathomed your mystery— that
I knew whose hand killed Angus Hamleigh. You did know it,
Leonard : you must have known : for yoa knew tluit I was not
a woman to fling a wife's duty to the winds, without some all-
sufHcieut reason. You knew what kind of wife I had been for
four dull, peaceful vears — how honestly I had endeavoured to
perform the duty which I took upon myself in luvi»<^ gratitude
' She itood up in Bitter Car^e: , 3d3
to your dear mother. Did you believe that I could chaugt all
at once — become a heartless, empty-headed lover of pleasuie —
hold you, my husband, at arm's length — outrage propriety — defy
opinion — without a motive so powerful, a purpose so deadly and
so dear, that self-abasement, losa of good name, counted for
nothing with me.*
* You are a fool,' said Leonai'd, doggedly. ' No oneatthe inquest
so much as hinted at foul play. Why should you suspect any one 1 *
' Por more than one good reaaon. First, your manner on the
night before Angus Hamleigh's death — the words you and he
spoke to each other at the door of his room. I asked you then
if there were any quarrel between you, and you said no : but
even then I did not believe you.'
* There was not much love between ua. You did not expect
that, did you ? ' asked her husband, savagely.
* You invited him to you house ; you treated him as your
friend. You had no cause to distrust him or me. You must
liave known that.'
* I knew that you loved him.'
* I had been your faithful and obedient wife.'
* Faithful and obedient ; yes — a man might buy faith and
obedience in any market. I knew that other man was master of
your heart. Great Heaven, can I forget how I saw you that
night, hanging upon his words, all your soul in your eyes.'
* We were talking of life and death. It was not his words
that thrilled me ; but the deep thoughts they stiiTed within me
— thoughts of the great mystery— the life beyond the veil. Do
you know what it is to speculate upon the life beyond this life,
when you are talking to a man who bears the stamp of death
upon his brow, who is as surely devoted to the grave as Socrates
was when he talked to his friends in the prison. But why do I
talk to you of these tilings ? You cannot understand '
* No 1 I am outside the pale, am I not ? ' sneered Leonard ;
* made of a different clay from that sickly sentimental worshipped
of yours, who turned to you when he had worn himself out i^
the worship of bal.f* rgirls. I was not half fine enough for you,
could not talk of rihakespeare and the musical glasses. Was it a
pleasant sensation for me, do you think, to see you two sentimen-
talizing and poetizing, day after day — Beethoven here and Byron
there, and all the train of maudlin modem versifiers who have
made it their chief business to sap the fcandations of domestic life.
* Why did you bring him into your house ? '
* Why ? Can't you guess ? Because I wanted to know the
utmost and the worst ; to watch you two together ; to see what
venom was left in the old poison ; to make sure, if I could, thai
you were staunch ; to put you to the test*
* God knows I never faltered throughout that ordeal,' said
Christabel, solemnly. * And yet you murdered him. You aak
in<* how I kAOw o| il^t murder. Sha-U I tell yon I You weyo
!t44 Mount Boyal.
ft the Kieve that day; you did not go by the beaten srack
where the ploughmen must have seen you. No ! you crept in
by stealth the other way — clambered over the rocks — ah ! you
rtart. You wonder how I know that. You tore your coat in
I he scramble across the arch, and a fragment of the cloth was
caught upon a bramble. I have that scrap of cloth , and I have
the shooting jacket from which it was torn, under lock and key
in yonder wardrobe. Now, will you deny that you were at the
Kieve that day ?
* No. I was there. Hamleigh met me there by appointment.
You were right in your suspicion that night. We did quairel —
not about you — but about his treatment of that Vandeleur girl
I thought he had led her on — flirted with her — fooled her '
* You thought,' ejaculated Christabel, with ineflable scorn.
' Well, I told him so, at any rate ; told him that he would
not have dared to treat any woman so scurvily, with her brother
and her brother's friend standing by, if the good old wholesome
code 'of honour had not gone out of fashion. I told him that
forty' years ago, in the duelling age, men liad been shot for a
smaller otfence against good feeling ; and then he rounded on
me, and asked me if I wanted to shoot him ; if I was trying to
provoke a quarrel ; and then — I hardly know how the thing
came about— it was agreed that we should meet at the Kieve at
nine o'clock next morning, both equipped as if for woodcock
shooting — game bags, dogs, and all, our guns loaded with swan-
shot, and that we should settle oiu: diflferences face to face, in
that quiet hollow, without witnesses. If either of us dropped,
the thing would seem an accident, and would entail no evil
consequences upon the survivor. If one of us were only
wounded, why '
* But you did not mean that,' interrupted Christabel, with
flashing eyes,' * you meant your shot to be fatal.'
* It was fatal,' muttered Leonard. * Never mind what I
meant. God knows how I felt when it was over, and that man
was lying dead on the other side of the bridge. I had seen
many a noble beast, with something almost human in the look
of him, go down before my gun ; but I had never shot a man
before. Who could have thought there would have been so
much difference V
Christabel clasped her hands over her face, and drew back
with an involuntary recoil, as if all the horror of that dreadful
Bcene were being at this moment enacted before her eyes.
Never had the thought of Angus Hamleigh's fate been out of
her mind in all the year that was ended to-day — this day — the
anniversary of his death. The image of that deed had been
ever before her mental vision, beckoning her and guiding her
along the pathway of revenge — a lurid light.
' You murdered him,' she said, in low, steadfast tones. * You
brought hjm to this house with evil intent — yes, with your mind
• She stood up in Bitter Can 345
full of hatred and malice towards him. You acted the ti-aitor'i
base, hypocritical part, smiling at him and pretending friendship,
while in your soul you meant murder. And then, under this
pitiful mockery of a duel — a duel with a man who had never
injured you, who had no resentment against you — a duel \\\K>n
the shallowest, most preposterous pretence — you kill your friend
and your guest — you kill him in a lonely place, with none of the
safeguards of ordinary duelling ; and you have not the manhood
to stand up before your fellow-men, and say, " I did it." '
* Shall I go and tell them now ? ' asked Leonard, his white
lips tremulous with impotent rage. * They would hang me, most
likely. Perhaps that is what you want,'
* No, I never wanted that,' answered Christabel. * For our
boy's sake, for the honour of your dead mother's naine, I would
have saved you from a shameful death. But I wanted your life
— a life for a life. That is why I tried to provoke your jealousy
— why I planned that scene with the Baron yesterday. I knew
that in a duel between you and him the chances were all in his
favour. I had seen and heard of his skill. You fell easily into
the trap I laid for you. I was behind the bushes when you
challenged de Cazalet.'
* It was a plot, then. You had been plotting my death all
that time. Your songs and dances, your games and folly, all
meant the same thing.'
* Yes, I plotted your death as you did Angus Hamleigh's,*
answered Christabel, slowly, deliberately, with steady eyes tixed
on her husband's face ; * only I relented at the eleventh hour.
You did not.'
Leonard stared at her in dumb amazement. This new aspect
of his wife's character paralyzed his thinking powers, which had
never been vigorous. He felt as if, in the midst of a smooth
summer sea, he had found himself suddenly face to face with
that huge wave known on this wild northern coast, which,
generated by some mysterious power in the wide Atlantic, rolls on
its deadly course in overwhelmingmight ; engiilphing many a craft
which but a minute before was riding gaily on a summer sea.
* Yes, you have cause to look at me with horror in your eyes,'
said Christabel. * I have steeped my soul in sin ; I Lave plotted
your death. In the purpose and pursuit of my life I have been a
murderer. It is God's mercy that held me back from that
black gulf. What gain would your death have been to your
victim ? Would he have slept more peacefully in his grave, or
have awakened happier on the Judgment Day? If he had
consciousness and knowledge in that dim mysterious world, he
would have been sorry for the ruin of my soul — sorry for Satan's
power over the woman he once loved. Last night, kneeling on
uis grave, these thoughts came into my mind for the first time.
I think it was the fact of being near him — almost as if there waj
iome sympathy between the living and the deitd. Lieonard, J
346 Motmt Royal.
know how wicked I have been. God pity and pardon me, and
make me a worthy mother for my boy. For you and me there
can be nothing but life-long parting.'
* Well, yes, I suppose there would not be much cliance of
comfort or union for us after what has happened,' said Leonard,
moodily ; * ours is scarcely a case in which to kiss ag^in with tears,
as your song says. I must be content to go my way, and
let you go yours. It is a pity we ever married ; but that was
my fault, I suppose. Have you any particular views as to your
future ? J shall not molest you i but I should be glad to loiow
that the lady who bears my name is leading a reputable life.'
* I shall live with my son — for my son. You need have no
fear that I shall make myself a conspicuous person iu the world.
X have done with life, except for him. I care very little where
I live ; if you want Mount Eoyal for yourself, I can have the
old house at Penlee made comfortable for Jessie Bridgeman and
me. I dare say I can be a« happy at Penlee as here.*
* I don't want this house. I detest it. Do you suppose I am
going to waste my life in England — or in Europe ? Jack and I
can start on our travels again. The world is wide enough ; there
are two continents on which I have never set foot. I shall start
for Calcutta to-morrow, if I can, and explore the whole of India
before I turn my face westwards again. I think we understand
each other fully now. Stay, there is one thing : I am to see my
Bon when, and as often as I please, I suppose.'
* I will not interfere with your rights as a father.'
* I am glad of that. And now I suppose there is no more to
be said. I leave your life, my honour, in your own keeping.'
* God be with you,' she answered, solemnly, giving that part-
ing salutation its fullest meaning.
And so, without touch of lip or hand, they parted for a lifetime.
CHAPTER XXXIV
WB HAVE DONE WITH TEARS AND TREASONS.
* I WONDER if there is any ancient crime in the Tregonell
family that makes the twenty-fifth of October a fatal date;
Mopsy speculated, with a lachrymose air, on the afternoon
which followed the Baron's hasty departure. 'This very day
last year Mr. Hamleigh shot himself, and spoiled all our
pleasure ; and to-day, the Baron de Cazjilet rushes away as
if the house was infected, Mrs. Tregonell keeps her own room
with a nervous headache, and Mr. Tregonell is going to carry
off Jack to be broiled alive in some sandy waste among
prowling tigers, or to catch his death of cold upon more of
Uiose homd mountains. One might just as well have no brother.
*If he ever sent us anything from abroad we shouldn't
feel his loss so keenly,' said Bopsy, in a plaintive voice, ' hut lie
doesn't. If he were t-o travei-se the whole of Africa we sljouldii'tbe
the richer by a fciinjjle ostrich feather— and those undyv»U natur^J
We have done with Tears and Treasons. 847
ostriches are such good style. South America teems with gold
and jewels ; Peru is a proverb ; but what are we the better off ? '
* it is rather bad form for the master of a liouse to start on
his travels before his guests have cleared out/ remarked Mopsy.
* And an uncommonly broad hint for the guests to hasten the
clearing- out process,' retorted Dopsy. * I thought we were good
here for another month — till Christmas, perhaps. Christmas at
an old Cornish manor-house would have been too lovely — ^like
one of the shilling annuals.*
* A great deal nicer,' said Mopsy, * for you never met with a
country house in a Christmas book that was not peopled with
ghosts and all kind of ghastliness.
Luncheon was lively enough, albeit de Cazalet was gone, and
Mrs. Tregonell was absent, and Mr. TregoneU painfiUly silent.
The chorus of the passionless, the people for whom life means only
dressing and sleeping and four meals a day, found plenty to talk about.
Jack Vandeleur was in high spirits. He rejoiced heartily at
the turn which affairs had taken that morning, having from the
first moment looked upon the projected meeting on Trebarwith
sands as likely to be fatal to ms friend, and full of peril for all
concerned in the business.
He was too thorough a free-lance, prided himself too much on
his personal courage and his recklessness of consequences, to off'er
strenuous opposition to any scheme of the kind ; but he had not
faced the situation without being fully aware of its danger, and
he was very glad the thing had blown over without bloodshed or
law-breaking. He was glad also on Mrs. Tregonell's account,
very glad to now that this one woman in whose purity and
honesty of purpose he had believed, had not proved herself a
simulacrum, a mere phantasmagoric image of goodness and
virtue. Still more did he exult at the idea of re-visiting the
happy hunting-grounds of his youth, that ancient romantic world
in which the youngest and most blameless years of his life had been
spent. Pleasant to go back under such easy circumst-mces, with
Leonard's purse to draw upon, to be the rich man's guide, philo-
aopher, and friend, in a country which he knew thorouglily.
' Pray what is the cause of this abrupt depai-ture of de
Cazalet, and this sudden freak of our host's 1 ' inquired Mrs.
Torrington of her next neighbour, Mr. FitsJesse, who was
calmly discussing a cutlet d la MaintenoHf unmoved by the shrill
chatter of the adjacent Dopsy. *I hc^e it is nothing wrong
with the drains.'
* No I am told the drainage is simply peif ect.'
* People always declare as much, till typhoid fever breaks
out ; and then it is discovered that there is an abandoned cess-
pool in direct communication with one of the spare bed-rooma,
or a forgotten drain-pip^ under the drawing-room floor. I never
believe people when they tell me their houses are wholesome.
If I smell an unpleasant smell I go,' m,id Mrs. Toriiufiton.
848 Mount BoyaX,
* There Is often wisdom in flight,' reph'ed the journalist ; *bnt
I do not think this is a case of bad diainage.'
* No mere do I,' returned Mrs. Tomngton, dropping her voice
and becoming confidential ; * of course we both perfei tly understand
what it all means. There has been a row between Mr. and Mrs.
Tregonell, and de Cazalet has got his cong^ from the husband.
' I should have introduced him to the outside of my house
three weeks ago, had I been the Squire,' said FitzJesse. *But
I believe the flirtation was harmless enough, and I have a shrewd
idea it was what the thieves call a " put up " thing — done on
purpose to provoke the husband.*
* Why should she want to provoke him ? '
* Ah, why 1 That is the mystery. You know her better than
I do, and must be better able to understand her motives.'
* But I don't understand her in the least,' protested Mrs.
Torrington. ' She is quite a difierent person this year from the
woman I knew last year. I thought her the most devoted wife
and mother. The house was not half so jiice to stay at ; but it
was ever so much more respectable. I iiad arranged with my
next people — Lodway Court, near Bristol — to be with them at
the end of the week ; but I suppose the best thing we can all do
is to go at once. There is an air of general break-up in Mr.
Tregonell's hasty arrangements for an Indian tour.'
'Rather like the supper-party in Macbeth, is it not?* said
FitzJesse, * except that her ladyship is not to the fore.'
' 1 call it altogether uncomfortable,' exclaimed Mrs. Torring-
ton, pettishly. " How do I know that the Lodway Court people
will be able to receive me. I may be obliged to go to an hotel.'
* Heaven avert such a catastrophe.'
* It would be very inconvenient — with a maid, and no end of
luggage. One is not prepared for that kind of thing when one
Btai'ts on a round of visits.'
For Dopsy and Mopsy there was no such agreeable prospect
as a change of scene from one * well-found ' country-house to
another. To be tumbled out of this lap of luxury meant a fall
into the dreariness of South Belgravia and the Kmg's Road —
long, monotonous, arid streets, with all the dust that had been
ground under the feet of happy people in the London season
blown about in dense clouds, for the discomforture of the out*
Ciists who must stay in town when the season is over ; sparse
dinners, coals measured by the scuttle, smoky fires, worn
'iai'pets, flat beer, and the whole gamut of existence equally flat,
stale and unprofitable.
Dopsy and Mopsy listened with doleful countenances to
Jack's talk about thd big things he and his friend were going to
do in Bengal, the tigers, the wild pigs, and wild peacocks they
were going to slay. Why had not Destiny made them young
men, tb it they too might prey upon their species, and enjoy lifa
frt someoody else's expense %
We have done with Tears and Treasons. 349
* I'll tell you what,' said their brother, in the most cheerful
manner. * Of course you won't be staying here after I leave.
Mi-3. Tregonell will want to be alone when her husband goes.
You had better go with the Squire and me as far as Southamp-
ton. He'll frank you. We can all stop at the "Duke of
Cornwall " to-morrow night, and start for Southampton by an
early train next morning. You can lunch with us at the
" Dolphin," see us off by steamer, and go on to London afterwards.'
* That will be a ray of jollity to gild the last hour of our
happiness,' said Mopsy. 'Oh how I loathe the idea of going
back to those lodgings — and pa ! '
' The governor is a trial, I must admit,' said Jack. * But
you see the European idea is that an ancient parent can't hang
on hand too long. There's no wheeling him down to the Ganges,
and leaving him to settle his account with the birds and the
fishes ; and even in India that kind of thing is getting out of date.'
* I wouldn't so much mind him,' said Dopsy, plaintively,
* if his habits were more human ; but there are so many ti-aita
in his character — especially his winter cough — which remind
one of the lower animals.'
* Poor old Pater,' sighed Jack, with a touch of feeling.
He was not often at home. 'Would you believe it, that he
was once almost a gentleman? Yes, I remember, an early
period in my life when I was not ashamed to own him. But
when a fellow has been travelling steadily down hill for
fifteen years, his ultimate level must be uncommonly low.*
' True,' sighed Mopsy, ' we have always tried to rise superior
to our surroundings ; but it has been a tennble struggle.'
"There have been summer evenings, when that wretched
slavey has been out with her young man,- that I have been sorely
tempted to fetch the beer with my own hands — there is a jug
and bottle entrance at the place where we deal — but I have
suffered agonies of thirst rather than so lower myself,' said Dopsy,
with the complacence of conscious heroism.
* Right you are,' said Jack, who would sooner have fetched
beer in the very eye of society than gone without it ; * one must
draw the line somewhere.'
' And to go from a paradise like this to such a den as that,' exclaim-
ed Dopsy, still harping on the unloveliness of the Pimlico lodging.
' Cheer up, old girl. I daresay Mrs. T. will ask you again.
She's very good-natured.'
' She has behaved like an angel to us,' answered Dopsy, * but
I can't make her out. There's a mystery somewhere.'
' There's always a skeleton in the cupboard. Don't you try
to haul old Bony out,' said the philosophical Captain.
This was after luncheon, when Jack and his sisters had th«
billiard-room to themselves. Mr. Tregonell was in his study,
making things straight with his bailiff, coachman, butler, in his
Bsual business-like and decisivfi manner. Mr. FitzJesee was
35D Mount J^oyal,
packing his portmanteau, meaning to sleep that night at Pen-
zance. He was quite shrewd enough to be conscious of the
tempest in the air, and was not disposed to inflict himself uj)on
his friends in the hour of trouble, or to be bored by having to
lympatliize with them in their affliction.
He had studied Mrs. Tregonell closely, and he had made up
his mind that conduct which was out of harmony with her
character must needs be inspired by some powerful motive. He
had heai'd the account of her first engagement — knew all about
little Fishky — and he had been told the particulars of her j5rst
lover's death. It was not difficult for so astute an observer of
human nature to make out the rest of the story.
Little Monty had been invited to go as fur as Southampton
with the travellers. The St. Aubyns declared that home-duties
had long been demanding their attention, and that they must
positively leave next day.
Mr. Faddie accepted an invitation to accompany them, and
spend a week at their fine old place on the other side of the
county — thus, without awy trouble on Christabel's part, her house
was cleared for her. When she came down to luncheon next
day, two or three hours after the departure of Leonard and his
party, who were to spend that night at Plymouth, with some idea
of an evening at the theatre on the part of Mop and Dop, she
had only the St. Aubyns and Mr. Faddie to entertain. Even
theywere on the wing, as the carriao^e which was to convey them to
Bud min Road Station was ordered for threeo'clock in the afternoon.
Christabel's pale calm face showed no sign of the mental strain
of the hist twenty-four hours. There was such a relief in having
done with the false life which she had been leading in the past
mouth ; such an infinite comfort in being able to fall back on her
old self ; such an unspeakable relief, too, in the sense ©f having
saved herself on the very brink of tlie black gulf of sin, that it
was almost as if peace and gladness had returned to her soul.
Once again she had sought for comfoi-t at the one Divine source
of consolation ; once more she had dared to pray ; and this
tardy resumption of the old sweet habit of girlhood seemed like
a return to some dear home from which she has been long
banished. Even those who knew so little of her real chaiacter
were able t,o see the change in her countenance.
* What a lovely expression Mi«. Tiegoneli has to-day ! ' mur-
nmred Mr. Faddie to his neighbour, Mrs. St. Aubyn, tenderly
replenishing her hock glass, as a polite preliminary to filling his
own. ' So soft ; so Madonna-like ! '
' I suppose she ia rather sorry for having driven away her
huslwind,' said Mrs. St. AubjTi, severely. * That has sobered her.'
• There are depths in the human soul which only the con-
f«HBor can sound,' answered Mr. i'addie, who would not be
O^trayed into saying anything uncivil about his hosteaa.
We have ^one with Tears and- Treasons. 351
'Would that she mighr be led to pour her griefs into an ear
attuned to every note i:i the diapason of sorrow.'
* I don't approve of confession, aini I never shall bring myself
to like it,' said Mrs. St. Aubyn, sturdily. * It is un-English ! '
* But your Rubric, dear lady. Surely you standby your Rubric ? '
* If you mean the small print paragraphs in my prayer book, I
never read 'em,' answered the Squire's wife, bluntly. 'I hope I know
niy way through the Church Service without any help of that kind.
Mr. Faddie sighed "^t. this Boeotian ignorance, and went on
with his luncheon. It might be long before he pai-took of so
gracious a meal. A woman whose Church views were so barbar-
ous as those of Mrs. St. Aubyn, might keep a table of primitive
coarseness. A Squire Westernish kind of fare might await him
in the St. Aubyn mansion.
An hour later, he pressed Christabel's hand tenderly as he
bade her good-bye. * A thousand thanks for your sweet hospi-
tality,' he murmured, gently. ' This visit has been most precious
to me. It has been a privilege to be brought nearer the lives of
those blessed martyrs, Saint Sergius and Saint Bacchus ; to renew
my acquaintance with dear Saint Mertheriana, whose life I only
dimly remembered ; to kneel at the rustic shrines of Saint
Ulette and Saint Piran. It has been a period of mental growth,
the memory of which I shall ever value.'
And then, with a grave uplifting of two fingers, and a bless-
ing on the house, IVIr. Faddie went off to his place beside Clara
St. Aub}m, on the back seat of the landau which was to convey
the departing guests to the Lodmin Road Station, a two hours'
drive through the brisk autumn air.
And thus, like the shadowy figures in a dissolving view,
Christabel's guests melted away, and she and Jessie Bridgeman
stood alone in the grand old hall which had been of late so
perverted from its old sober air and quiet domestic uses. Her
fii-st act as the can-iage drove away was to fling one of the case-
ments wide open.
' Open the other windows, Jessie,' she said, impetuously ; ' aD
of them.'
' Do you know that the wind is in the east ? '
*I know that it is pure and sweet, the breath of heaven blow-
ing over hill and sea, and that it is sweeping away the tainted
atmoj;phere of the last month, the poison of scandal, and slang,
and cigarettes, and billiard-marker talk, and all t.h.'5t is most un-
lovely in life. Oh, Jessie, thank God you and I are alone together,
and the play is played out.'
' Did you see your husband to-day before he loft? '
* No "Why should we meet any more ? What can we two
have to say to each other ? '
* Then he left his home without a word from you,' said Jessifv
with a shade of wonder. 2 a
>
2^52 Mount Boyal.
* His home,' repeated Christabel ; * the home m which his pool
mother thought it would be ray lot to make his life good and
happy. If she could know — but no — thank God the dead are at
peace. No, Jessie, he did not go without v->ne word from me. I
wrote a few lines of farewell. I told him I had prayed to my
God for power to pity and forgive him, au'i that pity and pardon
had come to me. I implored him to makt- his future life one
long atonement for that fatal act last ye^ii. I who had sinned
BO deeply had no right to take a high tone. I spoke to him as a
sinner to a sinner.'
' 1 hope lie does repent — that he will atone,' said Miss Bridge-
man, gloomily. * His life is in his own keeping. Thank God that
you and I are rid of him, and can live the rest of our days in peace.
Very quietly flows the stream of life at Mount Eoyal now that
these feverish scenes have passed into the shadow of the days
that are no more. Christabel devotes herself to the rearing of
her boy, lives for him, thinks for him, finds joy in his boyish
pleasures, grieves for his boyish griefs, teaches him, walks with
him, rides with him, watches and nurses him in every childish
illness, and wonders that her life is so full of peace and sunshine.
The memory of a sorrowful past can never cease to be a part of
her life. All those scenes she loves best in this world, the familiar
places amidst which her quiet days are spent, are haunted by one
mournful shadow ; but she loves the hills and sea-shore only
the dearer for that spiritual presence, which follows her in
the noontide and the gloaming, for ever reminding her, amidst
the simple joys of the life she knows, of that unknown life
where the veil shall be lifted, and the lost shall be found.
Major Bree is her devoted friend and adviser, idolizes the
boy, and just manages to prevent his manliness deteriorating
under the pressure of womanly indulgence and womanly fears.
Jessie has refused that faithful admirer a second time, but
Christabel has an idea that he means to tempt his fate again,
and in the end must prevail, by sheer force of goodness and fidelity.
Kneeling by Angus Hamleigh's grave, little Leo hears from
his mother's lips how the dead man loved him, and be-
queathed his fortune to him. The mother endeavours to
explain in simplest, clearest words how the wealth so entrusted
to him should be a sacred charge, never to be turned to evil
uses or squandered in self-indulgence.'
* You will try to do good when you are a man won't you,
Leo ? ' she asks smiling down at the bright young face, which
shines like a sunbeam inits childish gladness.
'Yes,' he answers, confidently. 'I'll give Uncle Jakes tobacco.*
This is his widest idea of benevolence at the present stage ot
dbvelopment
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