s 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 NOB*!. 
 
 BY 
 
 CONSTANCE MAUDE NEVILLE. 
 
 Behind the, arras I'll convey myself, 
 To hear the process. 
 
 Hamlet: Act III, Scene 3. 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO: 
 
 A. L. BANCROFT AND COMPANY, 
 
 721 MARKET STREET. 
 
 I8 77 . 
 
R <r 
 
 Copyright, 1877, by 
 CONSTANCE MAUDE NEVILLE. 
 
I -3 -7 & - 
 Bancroft Ubnuty 
 
 TO 
 
 THE MANY FRIENDS 
 
 WHO HAVE 
 
 ENCOURAGED ITS PUBLICATION, 
 
 GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 My business in this state 
 Made me a looker-on. 
 
 Measure for Measure: Act V, Scene 1. 
 
 GENE: The grounds of Bratton Hall, shire. A gently 
 
 undulating surface, with here and there little knolls clothed 
 with the greenest of grass and crowned with groups of stately 
 oaks and majestic elms. Charmingly cool arbors covered with 
 creeping vines whose flowers, peeping within through the interstices 
 of the lattice work, seem to invite one with their delicious odors for 
 a lounge on a warm day, are scattered in the little valleys formed by 
 these hillocks. A murmur of waters is heard as a winding stream 
 feeds a miniature lake, whose placid surface is screened from view 
 by the weeping willows that fringe its banks. Shrubbery is in 
 abundance everywhere, furnishing homes for multitudes of birds, 
 and luxuriant shade for less sweet voiced mortals. Nor are flowers 
 wanting in all their varied hues; but so artistically are they arranged 
 that the brightest colors blend harmoniously, and nothing glaring 
 meets the eye. This seemingly enchanted spot is surrounded by 
 towering poplars which give character by their stiff beauty to the 
 whole scene, and form the boundary line beyond which stretch far 
 away on every side long vistas of rolling park land and verdant 
 meadow. 
 
 The dramatis personce are three: One, a man, tall and distingue in 
 appearance as he approaches in the distance; by his side, the slight, 
 graceful figure of a young girl who moves silently along with bent 
 head, listening, it seems, to her companion. The two are Alva 
 Ingolsby, a friend and visitor at Bratton Hall, and Lucy Egerton, 
 the adopted daugher of Sir Griffith Egerton, Bart., its master. As 
 they turn down one of the rose-bordered paths that lead to the 
 lake before reaching the arbor in which, I, Julia Lifford, the- third, 
 
8 BEHIND THE AREAS. 
 
 am enjoying the cool of the afternoon and beguiling an hour before 
 the dressing-bell sounds for dinner, with thoughts of days now long 
 past and gone, let me, by way of prologue, say a few words gleaned 
 from the recollections that have been uppermost in iny mind a pro- 
 logue which I hope, unlike prologues in general, will not be totally 
 without interest to you, my dear reader: the audience. 
 
 I am an old maid now; that is, if six-and-thirfcy years can make 
 one; but long ago when I was a blooming, and I may without 
 vanity say, a pretty girl, having by this time lost all youth and 
 freshness, and seeming a totally different person to myself Griffith 
 Egerton, a distant relative, but next in succession to the baronetcy 
 and estate of my step-father, Sir Ealph Egerton, had corne here to 
 Bratton with his wife and only child, Guy, a boy of eleven years, 
 for a week's visit during the shooting season. A dear old place was 
 Bratton Hall then, with its mazy passages and antique nooks, and 
 where, as a child, I loved to play, and was often lost in old, almost 
 forgotten rooms. But of all my youthful days, the happiest were 
 those when I could escape from the old house, and wander through 
 these grounds with Louis Dunraven, my betrothed. They were 
 happy days, too happy to last, for a moment's work shattered them 
 for ever. One morning Louis went out for his favorite sport, tak- 
 ing young Guy Egerton with him. The two started together after 
 breakfast, Guy, as I remember him, a handsome, impetuous boy, 
 with a head full of wild tales of adventure, and with a boy's love 
 for the marvelous. They were both in high spirits, laughing and 
 talking as they walked down the avenue, their merry voices borne 
 back to me as I watched them out of sight and hearing. They were 
 gone all day, an unusual occurrence, and even when dinner time 
 came, had not returned. We delayed the meal some time, and 
 then lingered over it, but still they came not. Later we were all 
 standing on the terrace, thinking they must indeed have found good 
 sport and wandered far, when a group of men appeared in the 
 avenue bearing some heavy burden between them. 
 
 Nature robed in the calm and gentle beauty of early evening was 
 little in harmony as how often many aching hearts can testify 
 with the sensation of dismal foreboding and horror that then crept 
 slowly over me, paralyzing every nerve. Such a feeling can only 
 be understood by one who has parted cheerily from a loved one in 
 the morning, to see him brought home at night as was mine, for 
 that heavy burden was my own, my darling Louis, dead; mortally 
 wounded by a shot through the lungs. What was hardest to bear, 
 and is most trying to remember even now, was that we had no last 
 words no parting. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS.' 9 
 
 Tlie terrible shock was more than my strength could withstand, 
 and for years after my mind was not my own. When, at last, rea- 
 son returned, it was only by degrees that memory came back to me. 
 I was v alone in the world, my step-father dead and gone, and Sir 
 Griffith Egerton installed as master of Brattori Hall. My step- 
 father, whom I loved as an own parent, was a widower and child- 
 less, and to Sir Griffith he had left all his private fortune in trust 
 for me, requesting him to care for me as his own. Right well has 
 Sir Griffith followed the provisions of the will, and has allowed me 
 to remain here in my old home. But no one could ever fill the va- 
 cant place in my heart. Never have my affections been given to 
 other than Louis Dunraven, for with Moore do I believe that, 
 
 "Those who have truly loved, never forget. " 
 
 Close upon that fearful event, his tragical death, followed the 
 inquest. The evidence clearly and circumstantially established the 
 fact that he had been murdered, and pointed to young Guy Eger- 
 ton as the perpetrator of the crime, his sudden flight and continued 
 absence after the commission of the act, for since that fatal day he 
 had never re-appeared, satisfying the coroner's jury though a mo- 
 tive for the deed was sought for in vain that the shooting was not 
 accidental, and by their verdict they charged him with willful mur- 
 der. None know except himself, if he still be living, what were the 
 true causes of the tragedy enacted in the lonely wood whether he 
 be really guilty or innocent; and though the mention of his name 
 is forbidden in our household, and all that could bring to mind the 
 fact that he ever existed has long since been banished from the 
 place by order of his father, in short, though his guilt is regarded 
 as an accepted fact by all, still, I have ever believed the poor boy 
 innocent of the terrible offense laid to him by the jury. 
 
 Shortly after the loss of their son, Sir Griffith and Lady Egerton 
 adopted a child, a little, fair-haired imp of a girl, self-willed and 
 passionate. But, lo! suddenly a change came o'er the spirit of her 
 dream, and behold in yonder gentle creature, again approaching with 
 her companion, the subject of a wonderful metamorphosis. She 
 still retains the beautiful hair of her childhood, which some people, 
 when anger or envy curls their lip, would sneeringly call red; but 
 by no means is it that ordinary shade associated in our minds, as 
 often in reality, with freckles. It most resembles burnished gold, 
 shaded by the faintest tinge of red, and is now brought back in 
 waves from the low, broad white forehead, and caught in a Grecian 
 knot behind the ears, Beneath dark eyebrows, and long dark 
 lashes, shine bright black eyes that can sparkle with merriment or 
 
10 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 flash forth brief signals of the willful spirit within; but quite nat- 
 ural to them is the rarer, more soft and warmer light that now 
 lingers under the drooping lids, whispering of a sweet and gentle 
 disposition. The determined mouth and chin denote strength of 
 will, and it may be a trifle of obstinacy. Altogether it is a striking 
 rather than a strictly pretty face, but a pleasing and a fascinating 
 one for all that one that is apt to send you off into wondering spec- 
 ulations as to the effect which worldly trials may have upon the com- 
 bined strength and sweetness of. her nature. 
 
 To describe her companion is a not less pleasing task. He has 
 reached that time of life when a man's character is formed; and, 
 looking back with a smile upon the follies of boyhood, he can yet 
 feel that there are years of an appreciative and still youthful enjoy- 
 ment of life before him. His well-knit frame is above the middle 
 height, and there is a certain dignified ease and frank courteousness 
 in his manner that rarely proceeds from high-breeding alone; or, 
 when it does, is not so perfect and whole-soulecl as when culture 
 acts merely as a guide through the channels of refinement, for im- 
 pulses of the heart naturally good. He has a handsome face, well- 
 cut features, and in repose a thoughtful, pre-occupied expression. 
 Hair, whiskers, and mustache are a dark brown. The eyebrows, 
 though not heavy, yet seem to cast a shadow on the changeable 
 eyes beneath, which vary in color from the lightest shade of violet 
 to a darker and warmer tint of gray changeable in expression as 
 in color, sometimes laughing, sometimes grave, often sad; but for 
 that indescribable shadow, one might read his very soul in their 
 otherwise clear depths. And his smile how quickly it chases the 
 gloom from his eyes, and lights his entire countenance in a but too 
 fleeting joyousness. 
 
 As they come within hearing of my place of concealment I say 
 concealment, because I can both see and hear, though unseen my- 
 self he, in a full voice, deep without gruffness, says to her: "Let 
 us rest on the bench outside this arbor, Miss Egerton. You must 
 feel fatigued with our long ramble, and I fear it was very selfish in 
 me to lead you on and on simply because I enjoyed your conversa- 
 tion." 
 
 " You alone cannot plead selfishness, Mr. Ingolsby, for I became 
 so interested in the subject we were talking about that I quite for- 
 got I was keeping you from your afternoon ride, and it is too late 
 now. But tell me: Do you really leave us so soon as next week?" 
 
 " Yes. I have some business of importance to attend to in town, 
 and I have been playing the idler here a long time; but now Mam- 
 mon calls me peremptorily from Paradise." 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 11 
 
 A pause while they seat themselves on the bench which runs 
 around the outside of my arbor; then the softer voice says, while 
 its owner's fingers slowly pull a rose to pieces: 
 
 ' ' You have spoken of a change in nie since your first visit two 
 years ago would you like to know the cause ?" 
 
 "I should, indeed," Ingolsby replies, twirling his hat in his 
 hands as he leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "Do 
 you know, Miss Egerton, that I have actually been upon the 
 point of asking you the cause several times, but fearing you might 
 think my inquisitiveness bordered on impertinence." 
 
 "Yes? How very absurd. I'll tell you, then; but you mustn't 
 think me egotistical, for you are the only one to whom I would 
 speak on the subject of my uninteresting self. Do you remember 
 that day two years ago when you gave me a lecture on temper?" 
 
 "I do recollect something of the sort; yes. "What did I say? 
 But I shouldn't expect you to remember my words, when I can't do 
 it myself. Of course you forgot what I said the very next minute." 
 
 "On the contrary, so great an impression did they make on my 
 mind, for I got very angry " 
 
 " I remember that, distinctly." 
 
 " Don't interrupt me, please," with a gentle tap with the point of 
 her parasol. " I say, so great an impression did they make on my 
 mind that I can repeat your very words. Listen and judge for 
 yourself if I had not reason for anger. ' Miss Egerton ' you began 
 in a solemn tone; ' let me have a few words with you on a rather 
 painful, but to me, most interesting subject, and believe me I do 
 not wish to hurt or wound your feelings, for I speak from motives 
 of pure kindness to yourself ahem!' ' J 
 
 "Not a bad sort of a prelude that, barring the ' ahein!' I don't 
 think I was quite guilty of that." 
 
 " I'll not be positive that you cleared your throat at that point of 
 your remarks. But let me go on, please. ' My dear child '- 
 
 " Oh, come now; I never called you that." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, you did but it was two years ago; you mustn't 
 forget that. But I shall never get through if you keep on in this 
 way. I sha'n't tell you another word until you promise not to inter- 
 rupt me again." 
 
 " I promise," in a solemn voice, as he holds up his right hand. 
 
 " * My dear child, you must be conscious of possessing, to speak 
 candidly, a most ungovernable temper, and brusque, unpleasing 
 manners.' Not a word, remember your promise. I listened with 
 pretended indifference, but your words stung me to the quick. My 
 blood was boiling with anger while you calmly went on : ' Why cul- 
 
12 BEHIND THE AERAS. 
 
 tivate and foster these disagreeable traits which make yourself and 
 all about you unhappy and miserable ? With your strength of char- 
 acter, at present perverted into obstinacy, you might make yourself 
 what you should wish to be. A great man noted for his good humor 
 once said: " It matters little that you have the worst possible tem- 
 per by nature if you have the best possible control over it by philos-i 
 ophy;" and he was a living example of his own theory.' You were 
 continuing in the same strain, when I with some saucy words broke 
 away from you, and you left next day thinking your kind words 
 wasted Hush! yes, they were kind words, though I thought them 
 not so then and that you had made the perverse girl hate you. 
 Was it not so?" and she glanced at him archly. "Candidly, and 
 without nonsense, was it not so ?" 
 
 A shade of seriousness comes over Ingolsby's face at her words, 
 and he answers in a low tone, not entirely free from embarrassment: 
 " To deal candidly with you, Miss Egerton, and eschew all badin- 
 age yes, I will confess that I left with a heavy heart, expecting 
 and fearing that your worst traits would grow with your growth and 
 strengthen with your strength. But it has become lighter as I have 
 since remarked the gradual change for the better in you. Now I 
 reproach myself that I did not see more clearly and leave those un- 
 lucky words unspoken; for I cannot be vain enough to imagine 
 that they could have had any influence with you those unlucky 
 words that seem only to have been treasured up against me." 
 
 "No, no, Mr. Ingolsby, don't please don't say that. It was 
 those words that worked the change. I tried at first not to remem- 
 ber them, but they would come unbidden to my mind again and 
 again, and the wish to try the philosophical experiment grew upon 
 me. Then I thought of the abominable disposition with which I 
 was born, and with which philosophy would have to contend single- 
 handed, and despair seized upon me. Still I could not banish the 
 idea, and on the impulse of the moment I made the effort, and the 
 battle began in real earnest. The struggle in my mind was con- 
 tinual, and often was I tempted to give up the fight; but my pride 
 was roused; you were right, I had a will, and would not yield. 
 When angry words rose to my lips, I bit my tongue and substituted 
 kind ones, although it nearly choked me at times to think that 
 people might imagine I was growing amiable. But at last the re- 
 ward came: life seemed happier and brighter; every one seemed to 
 love me better, and it was such exquisite pleasure to feel that I de- 
 served their love. I imagined I had conquered, till you came this 
 time, and I thought of telling you all of the victory your kindly- 
 spoken words had enabled me to achieve; and then the war I had 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 13 
 
 to wage against the thought that the avowal would flatter you too 
 much, showed that the fortress was not yet won. But you see that I 
 have, at least, gained another outwork by telling you this." 
 
 There is silence for a minute, she looking undecided whether to 
 stay or run away, but quite decided as to the wish that she had left 
 all unspoken; he, looking down at the bent head beside him with 
 pleasure and admiration in his eyes, is the first to speak. Taking 
 her hand, which she yields passively, he says: 
 
 ' ' Will you answer me one little question ? " There is no answer, 
 and he continues: " Was it simply the wish to test your strength and 
 the hope of conquering yourself unaided and alone that led to this 
 marvelous change? Or, was there," and his voice sinks so low 
 as to be almost inaudible to me, " any trifling thought of pleasing 
 another? Tell me, truly Lucy," and he bows his head low to 
 catch her answer. 
 
 Lucy evidently understands him, for the blood rushes to her face 
 as she turns it from him towards the latticed walls of the arbor, and 
 her eyes are soft and gentle; but as she lets them rest for an instant 
 upon the twining climatis a bright willful look comes into them, and 
 still holding her head away from him, she replies: "The thought of 
 succeeding was so absorbing and overpowering that it has chased 
 all recollection of a motive from my mind." 
 
 Ingolsby's lips close tightly with a pained expression, but open 
 again to speak, when, in spite of my efforts to control it, an unlucky 
 sneeze warns them of my presence. 
 
 As Lucy's head appears around the door-post, I start with well 
 feigned surprise; ask how long she has been there, and, yawning, 
 say : I must have slept some time. 
 
 I am no heroine, and do not hesitate to say that I have no foolish 
 horror of what is commonly called "eaves-dropping;" at least, I am 
 honest enough, I hope, to confess a belief shared, but sedulously 
 concealed, by nine-tenths of mankind. If one's purpose is a good 
 one, or even a harmless one, where it pleases yourself and hurts no 
 one, bribing servants, or making use of a ke^-hole for other pur- 
 poses than locking a door, or any little trifle of that sort, is to my 
 mind, quite allowable. 
 
 Curl not your lip in scorn, O reader, but only if you belong to 
 the other one-tenth will your sneer be genuine; for were I never to 
 feign ignorance where I know or suspect much, and were some 
 others as well as myself to have practiced, so far as the habit of 
 eaves-dropping is concerned, as it is thought popular to preach, the 
 knowledge that has enabled me to construct this little tale had never 
 been mine. 
 
14 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 I am rewarded, in the present instance, by a kiss from a pair of 
 soft lips, and by a smile from Ingolsby; whereas, had I not prac- 
 ticed the harmless little deception, all would have felt uncomfort- 
 ably embarrassed; or, had I discovered my whereabouts at first, 
 Alva Ingolsby might never have heard what has caused the happy 
 smile that has now returned to his face. But the warning bell 
 clangs out on the soft evening air, and silently we leave the arbor, 
 and wend our way back to the house to dress for dinner. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Draw the curtain close. 
 We shall hear more anon. 
 
 Henry VIII: Act V, Scene 2. 
 
 FEW minute's walk beneath overhanging boughs brings us to 
 an opening in the trees where involuntarily we pause as the 
 house comes full in view with the rays of the setting sun fall- 
 ing upon its turrets and gables, enlivening the clinging ivy, 
 and casting intense light and shade upon the old gray stones. 
 
 "The beauty of a serene and dignified old age," remarks Alva 
 Ingolsby in a low tone, with a look of reverence in his eyes. 
 
 " It must have been massive and mighty once," says Lucy; " but 
 papa has thrown out wings in every direction, until, like a spoilt 
 child, its worst features have increased with age, and little good is 
 perceptible except to the eye of a fond doting parent. I mean no 
 disrespect to papa's taste, for to me it is beautiful with all its de- 
 fects, but strange eyes can only see an incongruous and decidedly 
 ugly building. Look at that broad balcony across the southern 
 wing. It is better suited to a cottage than to this castle-like struc- 
 ture." 
 
 No word from Ingolsby; but the shadow darkens in his eyes, and 
 we again move onward. 
 
 I cannot gainsay the justice of Lucy's criticism, although the 
 place is so dear to me. It is a queer-looking structure. Of no par- 
 ticular shape now, whatever it may have been originally, wings jut 
 out in every direction, no two of them being exactly alike. Some 
 are low and rambling; some tower above the main building, while 
 others reach to the principal roof only. Windows of every conceiv- 
 able size and shape puncture the walls, and a few peep out from 
 spots where it seems impossible that a room can be within. From 
 numerous doors, narrow winding stairs lead into the grounds be- 
 neath. The grand entrance is reached by a flight of massive stone 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 15 
 
 steps, low, broad and eas} r of ascent. And here one sees an odd 
 whim of the owner, for they are guarded like the approach to the 
 Ming Tombs of China, by animals in bronze. At each end of every 
 step stands a dog, life size and natural. You first encounter a pair 
 of fierce watch dogs that almost frighten you into retreating, dumb 
 inanimate figures though they be. Provided you have courage to 
 pass the two foremost, you are gazed at in your ascent by mastiffs, 
 greyhounds, and Newfoundlands, and are finally ushered into the 
 house by a pair of the dearest little poodles, that look flossy enough 
 for petting and fondling. In fact it is a house or castle (I hardly 
 know which to call it) that seems to have been thrown together 
 utterly without plan, or formed from the discarded odds and ends 
 of numerous designs: a place where one can feel supremely happy, 
 or thoroughly miserable; in the seventh heaven or the depths of pur- 
 gatory, according to one's disposition. 'Twould drive a neat house- 
 wife wild to keep its holes and corners in anything like order; it 
 would kill a lazy man, with its innumerable steep winding stairs; 
 delight young people with its mazes; please a student with the 
 silence and solitude of its remote rooms; and surely, would it break 
 the neck of every careless person, with its three steps up, and five 
 steps down, in the darkest, most obscure passages. This is Bratton 
 Hall, the place where I was born and reared. 
 
 Two minutes and a half, and we have ascended the winding path- 
 way across the lawn, choosing it in preference to the broad, dusty 
 avenue. And now, we pass through the ranks of watchful canines, 
 and enter the large square hall, adorned with carvings in oak. 
 Here we part till dinner time. Lucy, with a burst of song, springs 
 up the stairs to her room; Alva saunters away to the library; and I, 
 more slowly and staidly, as becomes my years, cross the inlaid floor 
 and proceed to my apartments, thinking of the confession so recently 
 heard from Lucy's lips. 
 
 Now I know why the careless, passionate girl changed so marvel- 
 ously into a thoughtful woman. Formerly, none dare thwart her 
 slightest wish from fear of the storm that would be raised about 
 their ears, and the dread of some practical joke in retaliation. Now, 
 no one could be more considerate of the feelings and wishes of 
 others than she. Truly sweet tempered has she become not with 
 the mawkish docility of one who is too phlegmatic or without suf- 
 ficient depth of feeling to be otherwise, but with the sweetness of a 
 strong nature, when all the sourness of uncharitableness is cast 
 out, as if by force, and only that which is good retained, solely 
 because it is good. A great change, verily! But the cause; is it 
 love? Qai vivra verra. 
 
16 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 Naturally gifted with a gentle and loving disposition, sympathetic 
 and highly sensitive, Lucy, in her childhood, had been allowed to 
 spring up with little or no training to guide and strengthen her 
 good qualities. Taken by the Egertons from a father who im- 
 plored their charity for his motherless child, at a time when they 
 were in deep sorrow for the loss of their son, no definite plans were 
 formed for her future. A young child, scarcely more than a baby, 
 coming into the niidst of a lonely household, she soon became a pet 
 with her odd little ways, which even then showed themselves; and 
 neither the eccentric Sir Griffith nor his trouble-shunning wife 
 being competent trainers of a female child I, at the time, was in- 
 capacitated by illness from lending my aid she grew up in fact 
 quite as she pleased; now petted and praised; again, scolded and 
 blamed. When she arrived at length at an age when some course 
 in regard to education and her future life could no longer be post- 
 poned, the odd whim seized Sir Griffith of adopting the child as his 
 own, and, overcoming his wife's scruples in that respect, he did 
 so; straightway installed a governess in the house, and forbade 
 that Miss Egerton, as in fact he had long since given orders that 
 she should be called, should be told that she ever had another 
 name. Never from the first moment of her arrival at Bratton Hall, 
 allowed to hear anything of her past life, whatever dim recollec- 
 tions of it she may have had, of course, at her early age, soon faded 
 from her memory, and at this present moment Lucy has not the 
 very faintest suspicion of her origin, but looks upon herself as the 
 true and lawful daughter of Sir Griffith and Lady Egerton. Miss 
 Biggerstaff, the governess, though read in all the book lore, and 
 versed in all the arts and graces, a knowledge of which polite so- 
 ciety deems essential to the well-being of every young lady, was yet, 
 unfortunately for her pupil, a very weak woman. Lucy's mind, 
 though thoroughly educated and accomplished, was not disciplined. 
 I say everything when I say her training lacked 
 
 "A mother's eye a mother's fostering care." 
 
 Sensitive to the smallest kindness, and shrinking from harsh 
 words, yet ashamed to acknowledge what was soft and womanly in 
 her nature, she assumed a brusqueness that was at war with her 
 true feelings; and an impatience of obstacles in her path soon de- 
 veloped into temper. Altogether, the girl was not lovable to those 
 who had not discovered sterling good qualities, when two years ago 
 Alva Ingolsby came to stay at Bratton Hall. At first he and Lucy 
 were good friends; but without warning, and, as we all thought, 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 17 
 
 without cause, she declared war against him, refusing even to bid 
 him good-bye on the evening which ended his last visit here. From 
 that time there was a marked change in her manner: at first becom- 
 ing irritable and shunning companionship, her demeanor soon 
 settled into a pleasing gentleness broken only on rare occasions by 
 outbursts of her old temper; and when Miss Biggerstaff left us a 
 few mouths ago, she was with reason proud of her pupil. 
 
 How much time I have wasted in thought! Only ten minutes left 
 to dress, and then down to the drawing room. I am the first to enter, 
 and I take my place at an open window beneath the heavy damask 
 curtains, from where, not being in the mood for conversation, I can 
 watch the others come in, and, perchance, keep dinner waiting a 
 little beyond the usual time, before I make my appearance. Not a 
 very amiable proceeding, perhaps; but one, in its results, exceed- 
 ingly amusing, if Sir Griffith, according to custom, becomes restless 
 and stamps about, and his wife throws imploring glances alternately 
 at him and at the door, as though that poor piece of wooden use- 
 fulness could aid her. 
 
 Ah! here comes Lucy. She glances around, sees no one, and 
 seating herself at the piano, rattles off a brilliant prelude. Strange 
 that it can be the same fingers which immediately after draw forth 
 soft, pathetic sounds. What a pretty picture she makes, sitting 
 there in a muslin dress of a delicate shade of green, the open sleeves 
 showing her rounded arms, and the color contrasting with the pure 
 whiteness of her skin. 
 
 A ray of sunshine, beaming through a western window, falls on 
 the golden hair, lighting it up and bringing out the auburn tint to 
 perfection. The entrance of Alva Ingolsby is unnoticed as he comes 
 in, looking better than when last seen, for to him, as to most 
 men, full-dress is becoming. He also gives a swift glance around, 
 and, perhaps, a morsel of my dress peeps from under the curtains, 
 or it may only be instinct that causes him to lift it and discover to view 
 my old faded self. A smile, and he drops the curtain into place 
 again without a word, turns toward another window, and regards the 
 scene without. Lucy stops, turns, sees him, and then recommences 
 her music. But now her touch is weak and less decided, and per- 
 haps the air is not pleasing to that dark figure in the window, for it 
 draws him not towards it. A moment, and then it changes to- 
 tones sharp, quick, and defiant a sort of noli me tangere air. All 
 is but dumb pantomime, yet how expressive ! 
 
 Now appears on the scene, gliding into the room in a most lady- 
 like manner, my Lady Egerton, who takes a mirror-studied pose on 
 one of the sofas. As she reclines there, dressed in black velvet and 
 2 
 
18 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 diamonds, the former falling in soft, graceful folds, she looks a very 
 handsome woman, and knows that she does. Of medium height, 
 well-formed, but decidedly inclined to embonpoint; with skin smooth 
 and un wrinkled; eyes and hair black; teeth white and even, she 
 seems no more than forty, though in reality some years older. Of 
 a phlegmatic disposition, she has glided through life, as she now 
 glides through a room, always ladylike, always placid, allowing 
 nothing to enter her mind that may ruffle that brow or whiten those 
 locks. 
 
 The perfect antithesis of herself is her husband, who comes bust- 
 ling into the room with a little, trotting step. A small, wiry man 
 is he, quick and energetic, with a frequent motion of the head 
 bird-like in its briskness of movement. His hair, though snowy 
 white, still strangely retains its stiffness, having none of that soft 
 look so beautiful in grey hair, but being cropped close to the head, 
 stands bristling forth in all directions, covering every inch of scalp, 
 and leaving not one bald spot, in spite of his sixty-five years. His 
 thick, overhanging, and grizzled eyebrows, which seem originally 
 to have run at each other defiantly, are now locked in a close em- 
 brace, leaving no space between, and almost hiding a pair of small, 
 piercing, blue eyes. 
 
 With his negligent style of dress, he looks just what he is an 
 eccentric old gentleman; unfortunately one who has plenty of means 
 to carry out his odd whims and fancies. Were he a poor man, 
 much superfluous energy would be carried off in that grandly sub- 
 lime work of most men's lives money-making. 
 
 As it is he is nothing but a busy idler, always perfectly happy 
 when working over something that amounts to nothing in the end. 
 To-day, he has been overseeing the erection of a sty, built "with 
 all the modern conveniences," for his favorite Berkshires; and, oc- 
 casionally, in his impatience to have it completed, lending a hand 
 himself, as he now informs the company, to my Lady's great dis- 
 gust disgust, shown by a most energetic (for her) curl of the lip, 
 and tapping of one pretty foot. In such glowing terms does the 
 old gentleman speak of his latest hobby, that one can almost im- 
 agine him describing some modern villa or Castle of the Graces. 
 How much more acceptable would the pearl be to a poor family of 
 the village! Interesting as the subject is, yet the thought of dinner 
 is still more so after his afternoon's labor, and now he starts up, 
 pulling out his watch much in the style of Mr. Weller, Senior, and 
 announces in quick sharp tones : 
 
 "After seven, and that child not here yet! " (Well grown " child " 
 think I in my corner.) "Think I'll advise her to begin dressing in 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 19 
 
 time before breakfast might do might give her enough time," 
 and he walks with a fretful air to the fireplace. "Or, I'll give her 
 some work to do that will furnish her with an appetite when dinner 
 time comes/' falling with a thump into an arm-chair. "Suppose 
 you give her a blowing up, old lady/' as he jumps up again, and 
 takes a few quick turns. 
 
 I, in my hiding-place, fancy Lady Egerton blowing one up; Alva 
 looks whimsical and whispers to Lucy who laughs and glances to- 
 wards the curtain that conceals me. 
 
 " You appear to be jolly, young lady," says her papa, " when you 
 are rny age, your good humour will depend more on a good dinner, 
 than it does now. Agnes, you must really lecture Miss Julia Lif- 
 ford, for you women know best how to apply that lash the tongue. 
 In a quarrel, your sly little under-cuts are much more effective than 
 our strong rough language/' and he rushes to one of the windows. 
 
 Should he come to mine! I tremble and wish myself well out of 
 this scrape. 
 
 A few more brisk turns, and he stands in the centre of the room, 
 with hands in pockets, eyes bent on the carpet, and quotes in a low 
 tone: 
 
 "The lords of Creation, men we call, 
 
 And they think they rule the whole : 
 But they're much mistaken, after all, 
 For they're under woman's control." 
 
 and with another drawing forth of the watch, makes directly for my 
 place of concealment. 
 
 A moment he stands, like Nemesis, with arm raised upholding 
 the curtain; with brow puckered and lips pursed; then just as din- 
 ner is announced, with a sort of dive he stoops for my hand, and 
 tucking it under his arm without a word, strides to the door, crosses 
 the broad hall to the dining-room, and dropping me by my seat, 
 takes his place at the foot of the table, leaving the others to follow 
 at their leisure. 
 
20 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Let it serve for table-talk. 
 
 Merchant of Venice: Act III, Scene 5. 
 
 UE last day of quiet;" remarks Lady Egerton, breaking a 
 long silence, as the soup is removed. " To-morrow our first 
 guests of the season will arrive. You know we do not look 
 upon you as a guest, Mr. Ingolsby, but quite as one of the 
 family." 
 
 ' ' Thanks. But I am afraid your ladyship thinks that I have 
 made myself so much at home, as to have become a most unpleasant 
 member of your family. " 
 
 " No, she doesn't, Ingolsby!" cries Sir Griffith. " She told me in 
 confidence the other day, that you were the only man she ever saw, 
 who did not require more waiting upon than any two women. That 
 wife of mine is so fond of quiet, that I often wonder how she 
 ever " 
 
 " Married you, Griffith ? It is strange, is it not? Perhaps I 
 hoped to smooth out the wrinkles in your character, not suspecting 
 that they were too deep to be effaced. I don't know what will be- 
 come of the county, now, that that other oddity, Jolliffe Tufnell, 
 has returned to the neighborhood." 
 
 "He is a most unprepossessing man to me," says Lucy; "and 
 yet he's quite a privileged character, I believe; invited everywhere, 
 just because he has courage to set the world at defiance, and do as 
 he pleases. I suppose people look on him as a sort of fascinating 
 horror." 
 
 " Do you know the story of his life, Miss Egerton ?" asks Ingolsby. 
 " I have often heard it hinted at, but 110 more." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I heard it long before I knew him. When he was a 
 young man of about twenty, he was very wild and unruly, but of an 
 exceedingly generous disposition; and being the cause of a friend's 
 becoming involved in a quarrel with some professional gambler, a 
 noted shot, took the whole affair upon his own shoulders. The 
 friend, I forget his name, was weak and unmanly enough to allow 
 this, and the two met. Jolliffe Tufnell was slightly wounded in the 
 cheek, and still bears the scar; but the other was killed on the spot. 
 It has always been a wonder to me how men of sense can call these 
 meetings ' affairs of honor/ Is murder honorable?" 
 
 " Don't talk of what you don't understand, my child," interrupted 
 Sir Griffith; " no woman can comprehend a man's feelings where his 
 honor is involved." 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 21 
 
 "Perhaps not, papa; but I at least understand this much: Mur- 
 der is always in the intent to kill, and what man with a human 
 nature can stand up before his antagonist's pistol, and not have the 
 wish pass through his mind, though he may not acknowledge it to 
 himself, that he may not be the one to fall, but, necessarily, his 
 adversary. In my mind, it requires more courage to brave public 
 opinion, and refuse to fight a duel, than to stand up as a target to be 
 fired at." 
 
 "If the world was arranged by such as you, Lucy," he replies, 
 "there would be no crime, and peace would reign as it should no- 
 where but in Paradise. This, unfortunately, is not Paradise; there- 
 fore, live in hopes of entering it some day, and take things as they 
 are for the present. Have you anything more to say of Mr. Jolliffe 
 Tufnell?" 
 
 "A very little more/' she says, looking a trifle abashed, and yet, 
 with the air of one unconvinced, and firm in her own opinion. 
 "He became gloomy and peculiar from that time, and deserting his 
 gay companions, has led a wandering, lonely life, until quite lately, 
 when he surprised every one by settling down on his estate. One 
 cause of the great change in him was the loss of his affianced bride, 
 who refused to marry him after the duel and who can blame her 
 for oh, the horror of being united to one with the stain of blood 
 upon his soul!" 
 
 A pause; for Lucy's remarks have brought painful memories to 
 some of us. I glance up presently from my plate, and catch a 
 glimpse of a dusky flush dying out of Ingolsby's face, leaving it 
 very, very pale. Can it be that he was ever a party to one of these 
 affairs? It is possible; for nothing is known of him beyond the 
 facts that he is an Englishman who lived many years in America, 
 from whence he brought letters of introduction from lawyers of 
 eminence to his own countrymen, standing high in the same pro- 
 fession. He shows no desire to break the silence, and after a short 
 interval, Sir Griffith asks, in a constrained tone: 
 
 "Is Squire Strong coming, Agnes?" 
 
 "Oh, of course," Lady Egerton answers. "We expect Lady 
 Caroline Hamilton, you know, and what pleasure for her would 
 there be without her rough admirer with his eight thousand a year?" 
 
 "And we are to have the German heiress, Miss Van Praet," ex- 
 claims Sir Griffith. " Set your cap for her, Ingolsby, and live in 
 idleness the rest of your life." 
 
 "I'm too much afraid of her guardian, with his scowling brows 
 and aggressive features, "is the response. " Nothing but a title will 
 do for him." 
 
22 BEHIND THE A ERAS. 
 
 " ' Sits the wind in that corner? ' " quotes Sir Griffith. " Well, the 
 charming heiress will find plenty here to exercise her powers of fas- 
 cination upon. Let me see. There will be Lord Eversley, with his 
 eternal lisp, and Lord Mortland, Sir Henry Beresford, and Lord 
 Lennox, all quite willing to barter their freedom for a check-book." 
 
 " Why don't you give him a list of the ladies, papa?" Lucy asks, 
 "and let him judge what chance of pleasure there is in store for 
 himself." 
 
 "Because, my dear, when I mention a lady's name, I begin to 
 think of the charming owner, and forget the rest of the story." 
 
 * e Then it is to be hoped you will place your wife at the head of 
 all lists of fair ones," I remark, laughingly. "You tell us, Lucy, 
 what ladies are coming." 
 
 " Oh, the greatest number," she replies, checking them off on her 
 fingers. " Lady Fullerton, and her daughter Jessie; such a pert 
 little thing, but good-hearted in the extreme; Lady Fortescue and 
 her three daughters " 
 
 "Such beauties, Ingolsby!" interrupts Sir Griffith; "tall and 
 gracefully slender as lily stalks, with loveliest shade of amber com- 
 plexions, and blooming noses." 
 
 "For shame, papa! They cannot help their appearance, poor 
 things. Then there are Emily Wilbraham and Ruth Ferrers 
 
 " Dashing, gentlemanly young w r omen," comments Sir Griffith. 
 
 "And Lady Juno Althorp " 
 
 " On the look-out for a third take care, Alva." 
 
 ' ' Lady Lyndhurst " 
 
 ' 'And her daughters," croaks Sir Griffith. 
 
 " Maud, Mabel, and Mildred," continues Lucy. 
 
 "Bather pretty girls," adds Sir Griffith, in a 'faint-praise' tone; 
 " but most exasperatingly alike, in appearance, character and dress. 
 No man would care to marry one of them, and feel that two Sther 
 fellows were as lucky as himself. One likes to think that one has 
 carried off the prize, and not left/ac similes for other less-deserving 
 mortals. Eh, Ingolsby? But go on with your list, Lucy, and ban- 
 ish that deprecating look." 
 
 With a smile struggling on her lips, she proceeds: 
 
 " Mrs. Archibald Smythe, Miss Wilhelmina Sinythe, Miss An- 
 dromica Smythe, Miss Lavinia Smythe and Miss Araminta Smythe." 
 
 " ' Ye gods and little fishes/ what an array! All vitality and char- 
 acter crushed out of them by the weight of their very names, poor 
 things. What induced you to ask such namby-pamby creatures, 
 Agnes? To form the necessary background, I suppose, to show off 
 the other young ladies to advantage useful in their way, anyhow. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 23 
 
 But where are you going to put them all ? They will be frightened 
 out of their wits at some of our ghostly old rooms." Then a twinkle 
 comes into his eyes, and he asks rather abruptly: " Do you believe 
 in ghosts, Alva, my boy ?" 
 
 " Well really Sir Griffith," is the hesitating answer, as aston- 
 ishment takes the place of amusement on Ingolsby's face, "the 
 question is so unexpected, I hardly know " 
 
 "' Know thyself/ says Shakspeare," from Sir Griffith. "So 
 you don't know on the instant what you believe, eh ? And you want 
 time to remember what your opinion is, before you say black is 
 black, eh? Why, you must have your thoughts as firmly packed 
 away as those of Mr. Toots." 
 
 "Don't be so hard on him as all that, papa," says Lucy; "they 
 are only a little rusty for want of use dowrr here in our stupid old 
 place." 
 
 "And pray, who is most unkind and hard in their remarks now, 
 Miss Egerton," asks Ingolsby. " Sir Griffith, now that I have had 
 time to dive into the depths of my mental luggage-room, I find the 
 belief in ghosts quite snugly stowed away." 
 
 "Oh, horrible!" shudders Lady Egerton: "What could have 
 induced you to bring up such a dismal subject, my dear?" 
 
 " Something that I chanced to hear to-day; a rumor; just a little 
 trifle about a wandering spirit, who clanks her chain at the witching 
 time of night. That is, I don't quite remember the sex, but it must 
 be a female, for they say it is troublesome and noisy," answers Sir 
 Griffith, and continues: " Julia, did you ever hear of any tradition 
 or legend connected with a any portion of our mansion?" 
 
 "What, papa?" exclaims Lucy, "a legend this house? Oh, 
 do tell us all about it, please." 
 
 I, rather puzzled and a little alarmed, answer: "No, Sir Grif- 
 fith, I don't remember to have heard of any legend in our family. 
 In fact I have always been rather sorry that we had no romantically 
 haunted chamber, or anything of that sort. But why do you ask?" 
 
 " Perhaps you will feel rather sorry for another reason before 
 long, my dear," he says, with a slight twinkle in his eye. " But In- 
 golsby, you say that you believe in spirits; let us hear your reasons." 
 
 "I have none worth giving. I assure you, sir. I never saw a 
 ghost. I never knew anybody who ever saw one, and yet I cannot 
 but believe in them. In this way: I do not believe that they are 
 able to speak to mortals either with words or rappings; but that the 
 image of a person who is dead can be seen by the living, I do be- 
 lieve. Whether the so-called spirit is the departed soul or a name- 
 less something conjured up by the brain, and only perceptible to the 
 
24 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 one mind, of course no one can tell. My theory is this : The mind 
 when excited, sometimes unconsciously falls into a sudden sleep or 
 stupor, and then the form of a loved or hated one who is gone ap- 
 pears as in a dream, when one sees people life-like yet unnatural. 
 Only that we know when we have dreamed, but in this case of the 
 stupor of the brain we are not aware of having lost consciousness 
 for a moment, but the ghost is said to ' vanish ' when it is simply 
 the mind recovering r itself." 
 
 " A very good theory, my dear fellow," approvingly remarks Sir 
 Griffith; " but one that would not at all suit the Spiritualists, eh?" 
 
 " How can you call a theory 'good' on such a subject, Griffith?" 
 says his wife. " Though I must confess that I consider Mr. Ingols- 
 by's idea far superior to the vulgar superstitions about those nasty 
 cold, clammy, noiseless' creatures, who have not the manners to re- 
 main outside of a locked door." 
 
 "Why it is a perfect theory, mamma," says Lucy, with anima- 
 tion; " just what has been in my mind this long time, only I could 
 not find words to express it." 
 
 "A good reason for its perfection, pet, its having been in your 
 sensible little head," rejoins her mother. 
 
 A pout and a toss of the sensible little head, is the only answer. 
 
 "But good folks all/'' say I, "you seem to have forgotten the 
 cause of this discussion. Tell us, cousin Griffith, of what you were 
 thinking when you frightened us all with your dreadfully mysterious 
 question : ' Do you believe in ghosts ?' " 
 
 "Oh, nothing, nothing/ 3 answers he, rising from the table, the 
 cloth by this time having been removed; "that is, nothing of any 
 consequence, only I don't care to smoke just now, Ingolsby, so 
 you can accompany the ladies to the drawing-room, if you have no 
 taste for a solitary weed." He is at the door now, and turning 
 towards me with a sly look, says: "Only, Julia, I thought it but 
 right to warn you in case that you should hear any uncommon 
 noises in the wing to the left of your rooms" and he pauses. 
 
 We all sit with mingled feelings of curiosity and horror, expect- 
 ing to hear something that will make our blood run cold; I wonder- 
 ing why a goblin should choose my neighborhood of all others, 
 when he opens the door and goes out, but before closing it, puts in 
 his head and continues, "I have given orders for some alterations 
 to be made there, and the men will soon be at work." 
 
 His peculiar chuckling laugh is heard as he passes the open 
 window, while we simultaneously burst into a chorus of hearty 
 laughter all but Lady Egerton who smiles blandly and I know 
 full well that I have received my punishment for that shocking be- 
 havior before dinner. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 25 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Fate is above us all; 
 
 We struggle, but what matters our endeavor? 
 Our doom is gone beyond our own recall; 
 
 May we deny or mitigate it? Never! 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 ATEB in the evening, when Sir Griffith has returned from 
 his twilight ramble, looking as innocent as possible of ever 
 having done an unkind action; and while Lucy and In- 
 golsby are deeply engaged at the piano over snatches of 
 pretty music, his rich baritone and her highly cultivated mezzo 
 soprano occasionally blending in a duet, the question is mooted be- 
 tween the other three members of our party of five : In what manner 
 shall Lucy Egerton's coming /^'-day be celebrated? 
 
 "Let us have a good old fashioned dance on the lawn," proposes 
 Sir Griffith, " with tables set in the grounds for the peasantry. On 
 such an occasion they should have as much enjoyment as their 
 betters." 
 
 " That is all very well in theory, Griffith," returns his wife, as she 
 reclines on a sofa, and fans herself languidly, " but you fail to take 
 into consideration that it is more than likely to rain, and then, how 
 are we to entertain our guests in this gloomy old house on a wet 
 day? And even if it prove fine weather, still, remaining in the 
 open air with thin dresses, which, of course, would have to be worn, 
 we should all catch cold." 
 
 "Like Dundreary's 'birds of a feather,' eh? "Well, Agnes, sup- 
 pose you think of something better suited to you birds of gay but 
 airy plumage." 
 
 ' ' If you try to remain quiet for a moment, Griffith, I'll tell you 
 what has been in my mind all along. Do sit in the chair, not on 
 the edge. You look like Sampson Brass sliding off one of Quilp's 
 uncomfortable seats." 
 
 " Much obliged, my dear," gathering himself up and sinking into 
 the depths of a large arm chair, which almost conceals his small 
 frame. " Now, I suppose, you will say I resemble old grandfather 
 Smallweed." 
 
 "You do very much, dear. However, it doesn't matter, for you 
 never could appear in a comfortable attitude. This is my idea, and 
 it will be so much less trouble than anything else. Have a large 
 dinner party, and in the evening let the young people dance." 
 
 " And who the deuce cares for trouble, or anything of the kind, 
 
26 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 on an occasion like tins, eh? " is the excited answer, as he struggles 
 frt>m the depths of his chair, and stamps about like a caged lion. 
 " I'm sure I don't, old lady; and I don't propose to have any hum- 
 drum old fogy dinner party on my child's birthday, you may be 
 sure. If you can't think of anything better than that, why, I'll 
 make a bargain to pay the doctor's bill for every one who catches 
 cold, and just see if it won't be a success." 
 
 " How very unrest you are," is the cool remark from his wife. 
 1 'Allow me to assume your prerogative of quoting, my dear hus- 
 band, and remark that this scheme of yours is ' the insane root that 
 takes the reason prisoner.' ' 7 
 
 " Madam! " pausing before her, "permit me to reply in the same 
 manner, ' though this be madness, yet there's method in it.' ' ; 
 
 "May I make a suggestion, Sir Griffith?" I inquire, anxious to 
 stop the discussion. 
 
 "Oh, you can make as many as you please, but I won't promise 
 to conform to them/' is the brusque answer as he resumes his walk. 
 " Do you know, sir, I should rather like your plan, if it were not 
 for Lady Egerton's sensible " 
 
 "Fiddlesticks!" finishes he. 
 
 I continue: "I have always thought that in this rambling old 
 place a masquerade " 
 
 " The very thing! " interrupts he, emphasizing each word with 
 a resounding clap of the hands, that makes his wife wince, .and 
 causes the two singers to turn from their music. 
 
 "What's the matter, papa?" Lucy asks. 
 
 " Only a little discussion brought to a strangely happy conclu- 
 sion, my dear. But you go on with your thrumming, and send that 
 young man over here; we want his opinion on a matter of import- 
 ance. Don't look so doleful; I'll return him safe and unhurt in 
 half a minute." 
 
 "Why, you naughty papa/' she says, with cheeks flushing; 
 " how can you have a secret from your own child," and turns away 
 to her "thrumming." 
 
 Alva joins us in our corner, and stands awaiting the pleasure of 
 his host. 
 
 " What may the knotty question be that I'm to have the honor 
 of deciding?" he asks. 
 
 "Hear, hear!" cries Sir Griffith. "Lucy, this young man is 
 making dreadfully bad puns on your words." 
 
 " How could he do otherwise with such poor material?" she re- 
 plies, glancing over her shoulder. 
 
 " Miss Egerton means that her words are so perfect as to be un- 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 27 
 
 susceptible of improvement, and that is why my pun, unpremed- 
 itated I assure you, was so lacking in merit/' explains Alva. 
 
 " That's right, always pay a compliment when you have a chance, 
 my boy/' says Sir Griffith, "flatter in the right way, at the right 
 time, and in large doses, and you'll be a favorite with the women. ' ; 
 
 "Very true," adds Lady Egerton, "but the great difficulty is to 
 hit the right time and way. A flattering remark had better be left 
 unsaid than spoken in a bungling fashion." 
 
 Were it not for her ladyship's good humoured smile, one might 
 imagine a sly hit at Ingolsby's calembour, and accompanying com- 
 pliment. 
 
 "Eight again," returns her husband. " However, it is not the 
 art of pleasing we wish to discuss, but a question less abstruse. 
 Now, Ingolsby," lowering his voice, "we want to celebrate Lucy's 
 birthday in a suitable style. My proposition of a fete champetre is 
 denounced by my old woman here, with remarks on the uncertainty 
 of the weather, and the certainty of our all catching colds. She 
 has no more romance in her composition than a modern young lady, 
 but wishes to have a stiff, formal dinner party, forsooth. Why, the 
 very thought of one makes my hair more on end than ever," running 
 his fingers with a whimsical look through his bristling locks. " This 
 sensible creature here," patting my head, "suggests a masquerade 
 which strikes my fancy; and yours too, Agnes, I'm sure. For if 
 you don't want trouble, what is easier than to bid your guests, and 
 don the skin of some unlucky ancient who can be murdered for the 
 occasion without weapons or blood-spilling. What say you, Alva; 
 or can you think of anything better yourself?" 
 
 "Nothing could be better, sir, and it is sure to give pleasure to 
 the young lady herself. But by-the-by, I heard her express a liking 
 for private theatricals the other day, and why not let the most in- 
 terested person choose for herself?" 
 
 "But my dear fellow, we wish to give her a surprise. Let me 
 see though," pondering, with his forefinger on his nose. "Yes, 
 she shall decide!" He winks, takes out his pocket-book, and after 
 scribbling a few words, tears the leaf into strips, which he places in 
 a small Japanese cup from an etagere, and going over to Lucy, says: 
 " Here child, draw jour fete. Ha-ha ! but for your life don't read it." 
 
 "My fate! Why papa, what's all this about? You surely don't 
 wish me to tempt Fate without learning its edict ? That's hardly 
 fair, is it, Mr. Ingolsby ? " 
 
 " Ingolsby will tell you that c all's fair in love and war/ and 
 don't blush, my dear this is a case of great show of love on my part 
 towards an ungrateful little baggage." 
 
28 BEHIND THE AREAS. 
 
 " But papa dear, I'd rather not draw. I don't like chances of any 
 kind; not even one so simple as this." 
 
 ' ' Nonsense, Lucy, don't be foolish. I bid you draw, and you are 
 simply to carry out the order of ' children, obey your parents,' which 
 is to be found in some good book, and ' when foumd,' et cetera, et 
 cetera." 
 
 " Please, papa, don't ask me. I have a prejudice against anything 
 of this sort, and believe it has more influence on one's life than is 
 imagined. It might perhaps have an effect on mine an unlucky 
 effect." 
 
 " Don't be ridiculous, child. Of course it will have an effect. Be 
 the cause of spoiling your dress, perhaps which I shall have to 
 replace and in the new one you captivate some fine cavalier who 
 falls in love at first sight. So romantic, you know not a bit un- 
 lucky for I'm not an old tyrant, and will not carry out the plot by 
 forcing you to marry him against your will. Don't waste time " 
 this a trifle sternly. 
 
 " No, no, papa, I had rather not. I made up my mind once never 
 to tempt fate to do me an ugly turn, and I never will." 
 
 She turns to the music stand to find a sheet of music, and Sir 
 Griffith still holds forth the cup, an obstinate, angry look about his 
 mouth. 
 
 "Are you gone daft, child?" 
 
 "Not that I am aware of, papa. Only we all have our little 
 prejudices, and this is one of mine." 
 
 ' ' I'm sure Ingolsby here would much prefer witnessing the real 
 thing, than this little parody of Shakspeare. ' Much ado,' indeed, 
 and ' nothing ' with a vengeance." 
 
 " I am afraid I shall lose in your estimation, Sir Griffith, when I 
 say that I have actually never seen the play," says Ingolsby, as he 
 turns over the music upon the piano, with evident disrelish for this 
 discussion. "In truth," he adds, laughingly, "Shakspeare is not 
 much of a favorite with me." 
 
 " Your want of appreciation is nothing to boast of, young man. 
 Come now, Lucy, stop fussing over that music, and do as you're 
 bid. I will take all the responsibility of your broken vow upon my 
 own shoulders." She looks up hesitatingly. " No more nonsense, 
 girl, I command you," he says, sternly, and Sir Griffith can look 
 very stern when he pleases. A quick flush spreads over Lucy's face. 
 She bites her lip and throws back her head. Pride does not relish 
 a command even from a parent. But he is her father and she must 
 obey, so reluctantly she puts forth her hand and draws from the cup 
 a slip of paper, which he takes from her before she can see what is 
 written upon it. 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 29 
 
 " Bemember tlien, papa, it was by your order I did this, not from 
 any wish of ray own. On your head rest the consequences." 
 
 "As solemnly spoken as though you were invoking a curse for 
 some foul crime. Pretty thanks for all my trouble. 5 ' 
 
 "Don't be angry, papa dear," she pleads, throwing her arms 
 round his neck and kissing him. "lam nervous this evening," 
 and she returns to the piano and runs her hands over the keys as 
 she looks up at Ingolsby with a smile, and asks him if he is tired 
 of music. 
 
 Sir Griffith rubbing his fingers on his cheek, and looking at them, 
 mutters: "Tears, by Jove! and not mine either;" and as his hand 
 opens in the act of raising it to his face, the chosen slip flutters to 
 the floor, and as it lies there face upwards, I read the single word 
 Masquerade. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Motley 's the only wear. 
 
 As You Like It: Act II, Scene 7. 
 
 HE twenty-fifth day of September, and Lucy Egerton's nine- 
 teenth birthday. Two weeks of preparation have passed 
 since that evening on which her fete, or, as she persists in 
 
 calling it her fate, was decided upon, and to-night the mas- 
 querade takes place. A busy, busy fortnight has it been to me, for 
 the issuing of invitations to all the halls, lodges, parks, courts and 
 granges in the neighborhood; and the preparation of my own and 
 Lucy's costumes, without her knowledge, has been my share of work. 
 We all have endeavored to keep her in ignorance of the style of en- 
 tertainment, but it seems impossible that she cannot have guessed 
 something of the truth; for, as she says, at her approach, "dark 
 figures scuttle away like mice in the wainscot, leaving scraps of silk 
 and ribbon to mark their passage, and the whole house wears an 
 air of most uncomfortable mystery, while every one seems fully oc- 
 cupied with their own devices." Perhaps that is the reason why 
 she has not been her own equably bright self, but has alternately 
 moped about with drooping head and listless manner, or has been 
 restless and brimming over with fun and mischief* Poor Ingolsby 
 has been the patient subject of all her pranks, for he, having post- 
 poned his return to town until after the ball, and not being a 
 woman, and 'therefore having the making of no dress for the occa- 
 sion to superintend, has been left to the tender mercies of the ca- 
 pricious girl. They have quarreled perpetually; that is, she would 
 take offense at some remark, while he would argue it out for the 
 
30 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 mere sake of argument, not because he thought himself in the right, 
 and she would go off in high dudgeon, leaving him to wonder at 
 her strange irritability. Here is a scrap of one of their many dis- 
 cussions, as I heard it through the open windows of the library, 
 while enjoying the fresh air on the balcony without: 
 
 " May I ask what you have been reading, Miss Egerton?" as the 
 noise is heard of a book sliding into the case. 
 
 " This is only a book I found on the table," is the answer. 
 "Papa always feels uncomfortable when one is out of its place, 
 for he says it spoils the look of the shelves. Did you ever hear 
 such an idea? I have been reading ' Paradise Lost' a work that 
 I don't admire." 
 
 " Why ? It is one of the most beautiful poems in the English 
 language." 
 
 "Yes, I acknowledge that portions of it are surpassingly beauti- 
 ful, and many passages ennobling in their tendencies. But I think 
 that Milton was exceedingly wrong, if not a little blasphemous, to 
 write words of his own imagining as being spoken by the Deity.' 7 
 
 "He was a courageous man to do it, I admit, but not blasphem- 
 ous, for they breathe forth a pure spirit of piety. "Would you be 
 willing to lose such a work from English literature for a few such 
 squeamish scruples?" 
 
 " Indeed, I don't consider myself squeamish, in the least. Were 
 those objectionable parts omitted, the poem would contain nothing 
 to offend a Christian, and it would, to my mind, be perfect. I do 
 not think that religion should, as a rule, be meddled with in either 
 poetry or romance. It should be confined to books of theology." 
 
 " "Were I a novelist," he says, " I should not think it a crime to 
 inculcate religious doctrines between lighter subjects at every oppor- 
 tunity." 
 
 "You don't understand me," she replies, "or rather, I have not ex- 
 pressed myself properly. I mean that by way of instructing their 
 readers, authors should not put down in black and white all the 
 conflicting doubts on questions of religion they may see fit to make 
 arise in the minds of their characters; doubts, which by being read, 
 are impressed on the mind of the reader, and are not generally re- 
 moved or counteracted by sufficiently good and sound reasons. 
 They cannot but have a bad effect on all but very well-balanced 
 minds, and do much harm by suggesting thoughts, which might 
 never otherwise occur to us." 
 
 "Very well; I shall remember to give hints to all my literary 
 friends, that the young ladies of the present day do not approve of 
 moral instruction in novels, but think that all characters should be 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 31 
 
 most unnaturally good, without any religious thoughts whatever, 
 disturbing the even tenor " and the sentence is cut short by a 
 sound very much like the sharp closing of a door, and is finished by 
 a low laugh instead of words. 
 
 However, it is the ball of which I wish to speak. When I bring 
 Lucy's dress to her early in the evening, she puts on a pretty little 
 look of surprise, very becoming, but not quite natural, I fear. Her 
 horror at my costume is extreme. A ragged black dress, mantle and 
 hood, and the wrinkles on my face, arms and neck, made with paint, 
 form a Witch of Endor, which she says will be a horrible success. 
 Fortunately she is pleased with the choice of the character I have 
 made for her: that of Queen Cybele. One of the class of flower- 
 girls, I knew she never would adopt, and selected this for its digni- 
 fied simplicity of style. The dress is a long-trained, plain robe of 
 white cashmere, embroidered around the top of the waist and bot- 
 tom of the skirt, with a Greek pattern in gold. Around the cen- 
 ter twines a myrtle wreath, also in gold embroidery. A band of 
 gold encircling the w r aist is engraved with lions, a symbol of Cybele; 
 and the open sleeves are looped with golden fibula. A blue scarf 
 is fastened on the left shoulder, after the antique; its color con- 
 trasted by a broad band of gold embroidery in that Greek pattern, 
 which is supposed to have been suggested by the waves of the sea. 
 On the head, above the coronet of shining hair, rests a crown of 
 golden towers, and a sceptre and key to be carried in the hand, are 
 also emblems of Cybele. She looks the stately character, and the 
 dress is decidedly becoming. 
 
 Having adjusted her mask and thrown on a white domino, she as- 
 sists me to don my black one, and we descend to the garden by a 
 stairway leading from her suite of rooms. 
 
 It is a beautiful night; the moon in her soft bright glory eclipsing 
 nearly every star, and rendering the lights in the avenue almost use- 
 less. We make a circuit through the grounds without fear of colds, 
 that dread of Lady Egerton's life, find our carriage waiting accord- 
 ing to orders, in a side path near the avenue, and like invited guests, 
 are driven beneath arches of lanterns, up to the grand entrance. It 
 is a lively, pretty scene, as the carriages deposit their muffled treas- 
 ures, and wheel off in an opposite direction, leaving room for a 
 seemingly endless stream to follow. We are ushered up stairs to 
 the dressing-rooms, as though we had not a moment ago left the ad- 
 joining apartments, and thence descend to the reception-rooms, 
 where we are received with a few words of welcome by the host and 
 hostess, neither of whom suspect our identity. They are, of course, 
 unmasked. Lady Egerton is queenly as Cleopatra; and her pearl 
 
32 BEHIND THE AERAS. 
 
 ornaments would be worthy mates to that gem so famous in history. 
 Her dress is white merino, Egyptian, of course, the upper dress 
 loose and belted in, cut low, showing her beautiful neck and arms, 
 and the skirt, with a long, sweeping train, both richly ornamented 
 with seed pearls and jewels. A robe of white tissue, thickly stud- 
 ded with stars, is fastened on the shoulders, falling in graceful folds 
 to the floor; and a tiara of pearls adorns her black hair. A pair of 
 dainty white and gold sandals, complete the custunie. As one be- 
 holds the welcoming smile bestowed upon each new arrival, one can 
 almost believe that " age cannot wither " her. 
 
 Antony Sir Griffith Egerton is, of course, close at hand re- 
 ceiving the guests with less grace, certainly, but in a far heartier 
 manner. His buff shirt, robe, and fleshings are gorgeous; his gray 
 hair is hidden in a yellow wig; his brows bound with a white ribbon, 
 and his feet encased in sandals. My idea of Antony has always 
 been a perfect Apollo, not such but no disparaging remarks on 
 my host. 
 
 Lucy does not remain with me long, for she is led off by a black 
 domino for the first quadrille, and I am left to my own devices. No 
 Saul is here to seek me out, so I take my place alone in a recess 
 near the door, to watch the scene and see the people as they enter. 
 
 The entire floor of this wing is thrown open for the dancers, and 
 the long vistas formed by the open doorways are dazzling with light 
 and splendor. 
 
 Jewels are flashing, and so are bright eyes beneath envious masks 
 that hide the pretty faces from view. Of course, there is the usual 
 incongruous crowd of a masquerade. Spurs of cavaliers catching 
 in the gauzy robes of sylphs and fairies; monks walking with girls 
 of the period; angels and devils meeting unconcernedly; pages of 
 the time of Louis Quatorze, and pages in " buttons; 53 flower-girls 
 and "Nights" circulating by the dozen, with numbers of domi- 
 noes men too lazy to act a part for amusement, though ready 
 enough to do it through life for a good stake. 
 
 But it seems that I am not to enjoy myself in loneliness, for here 
 comes Alva Ingolsby, to whom I confided the secret of what I 
 should wear. He, as he told me he would be, is the Man in the 
 Iron Mask; his dress a black velvet " shape," with glazed calico 
 mask. 
 
 " Do you know who that Cybele is ? " he asks; " she is attracting 
 universal attention." 
 
 "Yes, I know most of the people here," I answer, "but I am not 
 at liberty to tell their names." 
 
 " Why not, if you have found them out for yourself?" 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 33 
 
 " Oh, I am not quick enough for that; and besides, I don't know 
 many of their little peculiarities." 
 
 " Then how do you come to recognize them, pray? " 
 
 " Simply because they told me themselves what they would wear," 
 I reply : ' ' By mutual consent, and under vows of strict secresy , 
 many confided in me that I might warn them if any two chose the 
 same character a plan that I proposed in order that we might 
 avoid contretemps and insure variety. You surely would not have 
 me break confidence ? " 
 
 "Certainly not," he answers; "but at least tell me who they are 
 meant to represent. I am either very stupid, or else that man is 
 so badly dressed that I cannot make out whether he thinks himself 
 a Michael Feeney or a Uriah Heep." 
 
 " He is not one of my confidants, and the characters are so much 
 alike that it is hard to determine; but, judging from the hand so 
 often on the chin, I should say he was the very ' umble,' and very 
 clammy Uriah Heep." 
 
 " There is another of Dickens' characters," says Ingolsby, " a 
 Dolly Yarden. I wonder why none of the ladies try a Miss Miggs 
 or Sairy Gamp?" and the last word is brought out with a jerk; for 
 an immense umbrella hooking into his arm almost pulls him over. 
 
 " Beg parding, sir," says a gruff voice. " For as I says to Mrs. 
 Harris, says I, one does not feel dispoaged" and the old nurse 
 moves on talking to herself. 
 
 "A gentle hint to be careful how one speaks without knowing who 
 are one's neighbors. That was not a woman's voice. All the ladies 
 want to look as lovely as that dear creature over yonder in the short 
 white skirt and the muslin kerchief tied under the arms. See 
 that one in the full crowned white cap." 
 
 " She is Charlotte Corday,'* I remark. 
 
 " And looks exceedingly like a milk-maid," he replies. 
 
 " Well," say I, "if she is too simple, here is a gorgeous one just 
 passing. The yellow-flowered silk bunched up with crimson satin 
 bows over the crimson satin petticoat. That high-pointed felt hat, 
 and that stick in the hand, look uncommonly like Old Mother 
 Hubbard's. I wonder who that tall man is, with wig askew, in the 
 old-fashioned darned coat and blue serge trousers ? " 
 
 "If you once heard him yell ' pro-dig-eous! ' in your ear as he did 
 in mine, I don't think you would long remain in doubt." 
 
 "What! Old Dominie Sampson? And to think that I did not 
 recognize so old a friend ! Doctor Primrose in his black suit, white 
 cravat, black stockings, shoes, buckles and three-cornered hat,, looks 
 something like him, does he not ? " 
 3 
 
34 BEHIND THE AREAS. 
 
 " Yes," he answers, with an absent air. " But tell me, Miss Lif- 
 ford, is not that Miss Egerton in the white and black dress? " 
 
 " That is one of the prettiest costumes in the room," I say with- 
 out noticing his question, " and deserving of a better description 
 than yours. It is white lawn, striped and dotted with black, and 
 covered with little bells that discourse the sweet ' Music' it is meant 
 to represent." 
 
 "I see you will not give me even a clue to Miss Egerton, and I 
 am not ingenious enough to discover her unaided." 
 
 "Then I fear you will have to wait till the unmasking. Do you 
 see that robe of white tissue with the deep point lace flounce ? " 
 
 " Yes," he replies, "I have been trying to make out the pattern 
 of the lace; it is quite odd, is it not?" 
 
 ," She is Marie Laczinska, wife of Louis Quinze. The pattern of 
 the flounce represents the principal events of his reign, and it cost 
 a fabulous sum of money," I tell him. 
 
 " Then she should pin on a card explaining it, for it might be the 
 procession from the Ark, for all an uninitiated person could tell." 
 
 ' ' Pretty work to be at, comparing people as they pass to wild 
 animals leaving the Ark!" exclaims a voice behind us; and we turn 
 to find a little vivandiere, who overhead Ingolsby's last words. ' ' You 
 are not in your element/' she says, " talking to such an old fright. 
 Come and walk with me;" and linking her arm into his, she leads 
 him off, while I breathe threats of vengeance against the young 
 minx, to be carried into effect when I find her out. I should not 
 wonder if it was that saucy little Jessie Fullerton. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Done to death by slanderous tongnes. 
 
 Much Ado About Nothing: Act V, Scene 3. 
 
 EAVING my place, I wander off among the crowd, avoided 
 by all on account of my unprepossessing appearance, but 
 overhearing scraps of most interesting conversation. Two 
 old dowagers are in a corner by themselves, and tiring of my 
 aimless wanderings, I get as near to them as possible, to be amused 
 with whatever choice bits of scandal are told loudly enough to be 
 overheard. 
 
 As I steal quietly up I perceive another listener like myself, a pen- 
 sive figure in a plain brown dress, white apron and jaunty cap. 
 The first words that reach my ears are about an unfortunate member 
 of the sterner sex. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 35 
 
 " He puts on more airs than enough," says the fatter of the two. 
 "And who is he, anyhow?" asks the friend. 
 
 " Oh, an adventurer, I'll be bound. Some pick-up of Sir Grif- 
 fith's." 
 
 " Oh, oh!" think I; "here is something worth listening to." 
 " One of your exemplary young men who are never worth a farth- 
 ing," continues Number One. " The old man wants to get the girl 
 off his hands before her birth becomes generally known, I shouldn't 
 wonder, and thinks it will be an easy matter to palm her off as a 
 genuine article on this unfortunate young man." Her sympathy 
 for the " picked-up adventurer" is truly quite refreshing. 
 
 " Your Matilda was very much taken with him last season, wasn't 
 she ?" inquires Number Two. 
 
 " Oh, no; no, indeed. He was very attentive, but she could not 
 endure him; in fact, she always discouraged his attentions after that 
 evening when your dear Emily showed so plainly innocent girl! 
 that his attentions to my Matilda were making her miserable." 
 Cut for cut; stab for stab. 
 
 "But what do you mean about the girl's birth being known?" 
 asks Number Two, as she smothers her anger. 
 
 " Simply that she is not their own child," is the answer, in a 
 chuckling tone of keen enjoyment. " Everybody knows it; J have 
 always known it, but passed it over. Now, however, circumstances 
 have changed." 
 
 " Strange that I should never have heard it! Are you quite sure, 
 Mrs. Grampus, that you are rightly informed ?" 
 
 "Humph!" (a sniff of confident superiority) "I never speak 
 without good authority for what I say, Mrs. Talons, let me tell you 
 that never. If you care to listen, I will tell you the story." 
 " By all means; dear, dear, I am dying with curiosity." 
 " Don't you remember a long, long time ago sixteen or seven- 
 teen years it must be what a commotion there was when a fearful 
 murder was committed here near Bratton by quite a youth? The 
 boy, you know, was Guy Egerton, the son of Sir Griffith. He 
 killed the husband of that old thing (who still clings to her maiden 
 name, dear knows why; and who, in consequence, Sir Griffith has 
 been obliged to support ever since), and was spirited away in some 
 mysterious fashion, to save his neck from the gallows. Just about 
 that time there was a low drunken fellow in the neighborhood, a 
 man of very low birth, and worse character, if possible a common 
 laborer, or something of that sort, and after his wife had died from 
 the effects of a beating he had given her, he also disappeared, and 
 would you believe it, Mrs. Grampus, left his only child with Sir 
 
36 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 Griffith. The man, it was strongly hinted at that time, knew more 
 of the son's whereabouts, and his manner of getting out of the 
 country, than Sir Griffith would care to have made public, so he 
 took the little brat to keep the man's tongue quiet, and pretended 
 to take a fancy to it. My sister wrote me the whole story at the 
 time, but as the Egertons afterwards adopted the child, and have 
 chosen to regard her in the light of their own daughter ever since, 
 of course, as such, I could not refuse to allow my daughter to visit 
 her. Now, however, I hear the man, Miss Egerton's father, ha, ha, 
 and whose name is Sullivan, or some vulgar name of that sort, is 
 making a fortune in America, and is going to try to get his child 
 back again. Just fancy, my dear, this grand entertainment being 
 given to commemorate the birthday of a navvy's daughter a navvy 
 who beat his wife to death. Don't you think Miss Egerton has 
 good cause to give herself airs? ha, ha!" 
 
 "How dreadful!" croaks Mrs. Talons. "You quite take my 
 breath away, Mrs. Grampus. But as you are so sure of this being 
 true, I wonder at your letting your daughters visit here." 
 
 * ' I could not deny my dear girls the pleasure of coming to-night, 
 my dear; but rest assured, it is the last of their acquaintance with 
 the future Miss Sullivan." 
 
 A movement on the part of the listening figure in brown, and it 
 stands before them. 
 
 "You vile scandal-mongers! Have you no regards for the rules 
 of hospitality, that you cannot refrain from maligning people under 
 their very roof ? For shame! you basest of the base!" and as the 
 indignant words leave her lips, she turns and vanishes in the pass- 
 ing crowd. 
 
 Is it Lucy ? But no, it cannot be. She is Queen Cybele, and 
 happily heard not this story, in many of its features but too true 
 only too true, poor girl! 
 
 "Without a glance at the discomfited old dowagers, I move away, 
 anxious to get out of the crowd and on to the balcony, anywhere to 
 think. 
 
 Yes, the balcony is deserted; and there is one gloomy corner 
 where I can think what is best to be done what cnn be done to pre- 
 vent the circulation of their vile slander. To speak of it to Sir 
 Griffith, or to wait? But wait for what? Little good ever came 
 from delay, and the first evil had better be faced at once than al- 
 lowed to grow and increase with time. What trouble is caused in 
 this world by meddlesome people! "Words spoken lightly, or from 
 a pure love of mischief, how often do they cause misery and sorrow 
 far beyond the intent of those who gave them utterance. Poor 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 37 
 
 Lucy! how will her proud spirit bear this if it gets abroad, even 
 though it is not so bad as those women made it out to be ? - Her 
 mother was a lady, idle and sickly, who had married beneath her 
 station. The child was shamefully neglected, and taken to be edu- 
 cated for a governess, but she so grew into and filled the lonely 
 hearts of Sir Griffith and Lady Egerton, that when her mother died of 
 a rapid decline not from a blow and her father, a man of shady 
 antecedents nothing worse left the country, they determined that 
 she should always be to them as their own child, and should never 
 go into the world alone to fight her way through life. What is 
 that? A moan; and from the brown figure which leans against the 
 railing within two yards of where I sit; but with a now unmasked 
 face turned from me and towards the moon. 
 
 My lips open to speak, when another figure appears, coming 
 towards us. It comes closer, and I see it is Ingolsby. With both 
 hands extended he advances towards the shrinking figure, saying: 
 "Ah, Lucy, I ha ve found you at last in this simple costume, after 
 following every grand stately character in the room, hoping each 
 might be you. But why try to leave me ? I must speak a few 
 words, for to-morrow parts us. I cannot leave here with my future 
 undecided; it is in your hands and you must form it, Lucy, my 
 darling. Will you be my wife and make all the future happy ? 
 Will you give me permission to prepare a home for you to fill and 
 make bright ? Will you return with me to that home when I come 
 for you ? Tears ! sobs ! what is this, Lucy ?" 
 
 Bitter, bitter tears are they which fall on his shoulder for a mo- 
 ment; then she breaks from him, and standing upright in the moon- 
 light, with little hands clenched, gives the answer in a firm voice, 
 almost cold in its suppression of emotion. 
 
 "Mr. Ingolsby, I can never be your wife. Circumstances have 
 come to light which will prevent my ever becoming the wife of any 
 gentleman. Don't blame me; don't think badly of me," and the 
 firm voice trembles; "for those circumstances are not of my mak- 
 ing, are no fault of mine, and were never known to me until to- 
 night. God forgive those who have kept this secret from me ! In 
 that station of life in which I was born, I would have been happy; 
 might have loved an equal. But now Oh Alva, I fear I have given 
 you reason to hope for what I knew not then can never be. For- 
 give me; forgive me! I knew not what I did; I hardly know now 
 what I say! " 
 
 "Indeed, Lucy, I don't think you do know what you say. Be 
 calm, my darling, and tell me what has happened; what is the mean- 
 ing of this raving about birth? Or else, cast it all from your mind 
 
38 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 and think only of this: I love you? Do you love me in return?" and 
 he once more takes her hands in his. 
 
 "Do I?" and there must be assurance in those ambiguous words. 
 Yes, and in that upward glance; for stooping, he imprints a kiss on 
 the soft pink cheek. 
 
 A low cry, the words, " But I can never, never be yours!" and she 
 has freed her hands from his grasp, darted past him and is gone. 
 He turns to follow her, when I start from my seat where amazement 
 has held me spellbound, and catch his arm, thinking it best that he 
 should be told all now, rather than it should come first to his ears, 
 tortured and twisted as it has been to-night. 
 
 " Mr. Ingolsby ! Alva! Let the girl go, give her time to think and 
 grow calm. I can explain this, and I want your advice. The poor 
 child must have changed her costume or she never should have over- 
 heard what she did, while I had power to prevent it;" and I proceed 
 to tell him my own sad history; hers; that of the unfortunate Guy 
 Egerton, and how to-night it all became known to her, after being 
 carefully concealed for seventeen long years. He listens to my 
 tale in perfect silence; his eyes, now dark with emotion, looking far, 
 far away, even beyond the sky it seems, where it is fringed by the 
 poplars in the grounds below. When I have finished, his eyes lose 
 that absent look, and with a deep sigh, he moves for the first time 
 as though awakening from a trance. Turning slowly, he walks with 
 bent head away from me, along the balcony, down the steps and 
 disappears in the shrubbery. 
 
 How the ball ends, I know not. I have eyes only for Lucy as 
 she goes about among the guests after the unmasking, in her re- 
 sumed dress of Cybele, with a light word for all, and receiving their 
 congratulations and good wishes of the day. None but I guess the 
 storm that is pent up beneath that gay exterior, to burst forth in all 
 its fury when the compress is removed. 
 
 Once in passing me she whispers : ' ' Is this true ? Am I adopted ?" 
 
 And thoughtlessly I utter the words that are ready on my tongue : 
 " Too true, Lucy! only too true! " 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 39 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 eagle flight, bol< 
 Leaving no tract behind. 
 
 Flies an eagle flight, bold, and forth on, 
 , beh" 
 
 Timon of Athens: Act I, Scene 1. 
 
 OBNING comes at last after a sleepless night; comes, as it 
 always does, neither delayed nor hastened by the human 
 emotions of joy or sorrow, hope or fear. 
 
 The breakfast hour arrives and the guests string along 
 one after another to the informal meal. The first to come down 
 stairs, after myself, are the rollicking Squire Strong and Sir Griffith, 
 arm-in-arm, laughing and talking of last night's revel. 
 
 "And you didn't know who was in old Dominie Sampson's skin?" 
 laughs the Squire; "how unconcernedly people moved into my 
 neighborhood, and fled with hands to their ears and expression- 
 less faces when I shouted c pro-dig-eous ! ' " and he again tries the 
 strength of his lungs, and nearly upsets Lady Egerton by the mere 
 force of the sound as she enters behind him. 
 
 '"As you are Strong be merciful! '" she exclaims; "I am so 
 fatigued after last night's exertions that the least noise is trying to 
 my nerves; " and she takes her place behind the tea-urn. 
 
 " Why you look as fresh as a daisy," answers Squire Strong. "A 
 perfect Cleopatra still!" 
 
 "Do you know the reason of that?" asks Sir Griffith, standing 
 before the fire with his hands in his pockets. "She was so worn 
 out by the exertion of watching the energetic people about her, 
 that she has not yet felt equal to the effort of throwing off the as- 
 sumed character Eh, my dear Agnes ? " 
 
 "Well, Griffith, if I am behind time in one way, you are also 
 in another; for you are but just beginning to resemble the witty 
 Antony." 
 
 "Ha, ha!" roars the Squire. "She has you there, Egerton. 
 Good, my lady ' Pro-dig-eously ' good!" 
 
 " What, still keeping up the jokes of last-night?" asks the fame- 
 ante Lady Caroline Hamilton, who, entering at the moment, catches 
 the last words, and languidly takes her place at the table. " I 
 never could understand your energy, Mr. Strong, though I confess 
 to admiring it," with a sweet glance from her sleepy-looking eyes. 
 
 "Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, 
 Full and fair ones, come and buy!" 
 
 Gaily sings pretty, romping little Jessie Fullerton, skipping into the 
 room. " Good morning to you all! Do you know I've been listen- 
 
40 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 ing at the door, and I've found out who it was who roared in my 
 ear, and then softened into a whisper, and said all those absurd 
 things in the other ear, that luckily escaped being deafened. Oh, 
 Squire, Squire, I've a great mind to repeat it all ? Shall I, Caro- 
 line?" 
 
 " Egerton, don't you think its high time we paid that visit to your 
 Berkshires ?" demurely asks the Squire. 
 
 " Ah, coward, coward!" cries the little tease. " Come here, my 
 lud!" to Lord Eversley, who just appears, " and console me for the 
 good fun I'm about to lose. Why don't you go before I begin, 
 Squire? I'm afraid you know how good natured I am, and don't 
 fear me as you should. Never mind, Carrie and I will talk it all 
 over by-and-by, and find a way to punish you;" and she glances 
 slyly from him to Lady Caroline, and back again. 
 
 A bevy of ladies now enter: Old Lady Lindhurst and her three 
 meek little daughters; Lady Fortescue, Emily Wilbrahain, Ruth 
 Ferrers and Miss Van Praet. After them come a number of gentle- 
 men: Alva Ingolsby, Horace Gilford, the promising young politi- 
 cian; Arthur Alresford, a rising barrister; Julian Thalberg, the 
 young painter; Sidney Carleton and Reginald Percy, of the Queen's 
 Bays, who are quartered at the neighboring barracks; Sir Henry 
 Beresford, Lord George Mortland and the Honorable Charles Mel- 
 ton, gentlemen of leisure. There follows such an incessant clatter 
 of tongues that one can catch but scraps of conversation, which 
 strangely dove-tail themselves into a most ridiculous incongruity. 
 
 Lady Egerton : " James, muffins for his lordship." 
 
 Lady Fortescue : " I assure you, it created quite a sensation in 
 London, last season " 
 
 Horace Gilford : " The fastest horse on the " 
 
 Lady Caroline : "Piano is my favorite." 
 
 Lady Fortescue: "You were away at the time, I believe. I was 
 her particular friend, and" 
 
 Squire Strong ; * ' I'll trouble you for some more omelette, your 
 ladyship." 
 
 Lord Eversley : " Aw-yeth; blue eyeth-a-a-my weakneth, you know, 
 and" 
 
 Miss Van Praet : " Long ears also, and the most fearful " 
 
 Lady Fortescue : "Case of infatuation; went on the stage under 
 the assumed name of " 
 
 Honorable Reginald Percy: "Chatterbox won the Derby tjiat 
 year." 
 
 Sidney Carleton : " Let me recommend these muffins " 
 
 Jessie Fullerton : "So stale, you know, and " 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 41 
 
 Sir Henry Beresford : " Not in the least dry; the speech was racy 
 and full of " 
 
 Ruth Ferrers: Berkshire pigs, Sir Griffith." 
 
 Lady Caroline : " Quite the thing now, and one might as well be 
 out of the world as " 
 
 "Squire Strong: "Stowed away in the hold of his ship, and 
 mashed out of " 
 
 Arthur Aires ford : " Potatoes never spelled without the e " 
 
 Horace Gilford: "The traces broke; the horses started forward, 
 and amid wild screams and crashing of glass, we were precipitated 
 over the edge of " 
 
 Lady Egerton : A pigeon pie, Sir Henry allow me." 
 
 Emily Wilbraham : "The most exquisite shade of blue silk, trim- 
 med with pearls." 
 
 Horace Gilford: " Dragged through the mire " 
 
 Honorable Charles Melton: "By Miss Fullerton, I believe, and 
 such a pity " 
 
 Lord Eversley: " The nithetht little pair of " 
 
 Sir Griffith: " Caterpillars, my Lord nothing but caterpillars; 
 they eat " 
 
 Lord George Mortland: " Like Lady Caroline about the eyes " 
 
 Sir Griffith : " Gentlemen, would you like to walk down to the 
 stables?" 
 
 Jessie Fullerton : "Now, your Lordship, I won't let you off that 
 game of croquet." 
 
 Lady Lyndhurst : " I want to see your fernary, Lady Egerton, if 
 it will not trouble you too much." 
 
 Miss Van Praet : "Lord Mortland, you must really come to our 
 archery practice on the lawn." 
 
 And those who have breakfasted saunter off, laughing and talk- 
 ing, to the croquet-ground, conservatories and stables. They have 
 been so full of themselves, that none but Ingolsby and I notice the 
 absence of one. 
 
 " Is Miss Egerton not well this morning ?" he asks me. 
 
 " I have not seen her yet, but will go to her room," and I go up 
 stairs and knock at her door. No answer. Again I knock, and 
 still silence. The handle yields to my touch, and I look into Lucy's 
 neat dressing-room. I glance at Cybele's dress folded on a chair; 
 at two little sandals side by side in front of the bureau; at Cybele's 
 crown in its box on the dressing-table, and my eyes light on the 
 open window through which the fresh morning air pours into the 
 apartment between the gracefully-looped blue and white curtains. 
 But I see no Lucy. She has been up some time, and at work with 
 
42 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 her usual neatness, I think. A few steps take me to the door lead- 
 ing into the sleeping chamber. There are the same evidences of a 
 tidy hand, but still no Lucy. She must have risen before any of 
 us and gone out for an early walk, I am now sure. So I tell In- 
 golsby, whom I find in the morning room making himself useful, 
 holding the old ladies' worsted, and picking up stray balls that will 
 roll into holes and corners from the many laps. 
 
 Presently the other guests begin to return to the house, and the 
 previous hum swells into a perfect Babel of tongues. Sir Griffith 
 comes in to ask a question of his wife, and, as he is passing out 
 again, Alva touches his arm, and whispers: 
 
 " May I speak to you a moment, Sir Griffith, on a matter of great 
 importance ? " 
 
 " This is rather an inopportune time, my dear fellow; but come 
 to the library and I will spare you a few minutes before taking Miss 
 Ferrers to see my 'Lady May;'" and they go off together, and I 
 hear the door close behind them. 
 
 Three or four young ladies now gather round me asking for Lucy, 
 and chattering away like magpies; but I hardly hear them, my 
 thoughts are so intent on what is passing behind that closed door. 
 There is no denying the fact that I am gifted with the curiosity 
 peculiar it is said to my sex. If I could but hear them ! And I 
 will; for a closet with a door at either end leads like a passage-way 
 from the library into the adjoining breakfast-room, and through 
 that door one can easily hear what passes beyond. 
 
 So, in about twenty minutes after they enter the library, I am 
 close to them with but a thin partition between us. Ingolsby is 
 speaking: 
 
 " Doubtless, the tale she heard last night was most galling to her 
 pride. However, if you call her now, her mind can be at once 
 relieved! 5 ' 
 
 "Ay, ay! her mind can be relieved, but mine! After all these 
 years of care and protection, my Lucy is to be taken from me, and 
 will soon forget the old fellow who had no claim upon her;" and 
 there is an affecting sob in the old man's voice. " Ah, my boy, you 
 have never been a father, or you would not think altogether of the 
 girl." 
 
 "Forgive me, my dear sir," and sharp pain is expressed in his 
 tones; " I see for the first time how thoughtless I have been. I 
 should have prepared you for this, but I only thought of what the 
 the poor girl's suffering would be after what she had overheard, 
 never remembering that another might love her as well, if not bet- 
 ter, than myself. I cannot forgive myself for this unpardonable 
 want of consideration." 
 
BEHIND THE AERAS. 43 
 
 " Never mind, my boy, never mind. I won't be selfish!" and the 
 stamp of his foot shakes the door against which I lean. " Here, 
 Butters! Watkins! James! somebody!" shouting in the hall; "see 
 if Miss Egerton has returned, and send her here immediately!" 
 
 The steps of the two now silent men are heard beyond, pacing 
 up and down, and I am on the qui vive to hear in what manner her 
 mind is to be relieved. But no one answers to the call. Stealing 
 quietly from my hiding-place, I go to inquire if she has returned. 
 No; she has not been seen. Perhaps she .has come in unperceived, 
 and I go up stairs and through her rooms once more, but without 
 finding her. Pausing in thought before the bureau, something 
 catches my eye which escaped me before; something which makes 
 me feel strangely uncomfortable. Tis only a bit of paper pinned 
 to the cushion, but the sight of it seems to stagnate the blood in my 
 veins. Under certain circumstances, this is the place where a letter 
 is always found. Can it be? Trembling with apprehension, I 
 take it up and read the words: " I have gone ; search will be useless." 
 
 I am stunned for the moment, but quickly recovering energy, I 
 fly from the room, run rapidly down the stairs, knock, and hand in 
 the paper at the library door. Then I am sorry for what I have 
 done, and have not the heart to return and listen to the conversa- 
 tion, but instead, go to my room and lock myself in from the im- 
 pending storm. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your 
 heels, than fortunes before you. 
 
 Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene 5. 
 
 |EKY soon the storms breaks. The murmur of many tongues, 
 the tramp of many feet re-echo through the house, and rush 
 and rumble and grumble through halls and corridors like a 
 $ fierce winter's wind forcing its way between the ruins of some 
 old building. Presently the clamor subsides wears itself out; and 
 all that can be heard is the occasional slamming of a door, or the 
 rapid movement of a pair of feet. 
 
 How I hope and pray that the search for the foolish, impulsive 
 girl will prove successful; but I have my doubts. She is strong- 
 willed, she is clever, and having fled from what she thought dis- 
 grace, is not likely to leave a clue which might lead to her discovery. 
 Fortunately for myself, I can look upon her absence more calmly 
 than the others, for I have much of the fatalist in my nature. 
 I do not think that when misfortunes come, we should sit idly down, 
 
44 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 and, folding our hands, sigh forth " It is my fate! " No; we should 
 fight the battle bravely for success; but, whichever way the combat 
 ends, then say, with a heart relieved by the consciousness of having 
 done all that human power could do, "Kismet! It was to be 
 and I am resigned ! " 
 
 Who can shun inevitable fate ? 
 The doom was written; the decree was passed 
 Ere the foundations of the world were cast. 
 
 A step approaches my door, and I open it to ask what news. 
 
 " Wilson, where are Sir Griffith and every one? " 
 
 "Oh, Miss, they are all off to the town, looking for our Miss 
 Lucy. Just to think, mum, that a young lady like she should go 
 and run away from her happy home an' her good father! " 
 
 "It may appear strange, Wilson, but of course she had good rea- 
 sons," I say, to keep up appearances with the servants; " and it is 
 just one of Sir Griffith's whims to make such a fuss about nothing; 
 for, without doubt, we shall hear from her before long." 
 
 " Very likely, Miss," (and her tone of voice means: " Not much, 
 Miss, I'm no fool.") " But I really do pity poor Mr. Ingolsby, Miss; 
 he must be dreadful fond of her if you will excuse my saying it 
 for he seemed all struck of a heap like, an* the color of his face was 
 more like a piece of white cloth nor sound flesh an' blood. An' oh, 
 Miss Lifford ! The awful look in them big eyes o' his ! They looked 
 as if they were lookin' right straight into the next world." 
 
 " I am not in the least surprised at his seeming anxious, even if 
 he did not feel so, out of politeness to his host;" and I say the 
 words with the same good purpose as before, but with as little suc- 
 cess. For though the woman's eyelids drop over that tell-tale fea- 
 ture, the eyes, she can't control the muscles which elevate her upper 
 lip into an incredulous curl. 
 
 " But where is your mistress, "Wilson? She surely has not gone 
 into the town ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, indeed, mum; my lady is in her room tryin* to keep 
 quiet, for she says the confusion is very tryin' to her nerves an' all 
 the nerves she has! " in a lower tone not exactly meant for my ears. 
 
 " What's that you say, Wilson? " very sternly. 
 
 "Nothing, Miss I mean, my Lady sent me to ask you if you 
 would not go down and see the ladies who is all alone by theirselves 
 in the drawing-room." 
 
 In obedience to this disguised command, I go down stairs and 
 find the ladies with their heads together whispering away at a great 
 rate. They do not perceive me at first as I pause in the doorway, and 
 
BEHIND THE A ERAS. 45 
 
 old Lady Fortescue, unconsciously raising her voice, informs the 
 others that she never could like the girl. To her there was some- 
 thing ill-bred and vulgar about her. 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder if she had run off with one of the footmen!" 
 cries Mabel Lyndhurst. 
 
 "Very likely, my dear, if she has not gone with one of the 
 grooms!" comes from Miss Ferrers, in a yet louder tone. " Indeed 
 I always observed that she had a taste for low company. Only the 
 other day I met her in a lane, walking with a most disreputable 
 looking character." 
 
 Chorus : " Dear dear! You don't tell me so ?" 
 " Indeed, yes," the young lady proceeds. "He was dressed in 
 a seedy old suit of gray, with a slouched hat; and he had red hair, 
 and green eyes, and the most villainous expression of face, and was 
 smoking a nasty pipe ! " 
 
 " For my part, I always guessed from her red-head, what kind of 
 stock she had sprung from/' exclaims Lady Fullerton. 
 
 "Now, mamma/' expostulates her daughter Jessie, "you know 
 very well that you are only jealous because I have not the same 
 lovely shade of hair. There never lived a sweeter, prettier girl; and 
 as to the ruffian Miss Ferrers has so vividly described, it was no 
 other than the eccentric Jolliffe Tufnell, who has recently returned 
 to his estate in the neighborhood." 
 
 After this the silence of discomfiture falls on the entire party, till 
 Lady Fullerton suddenly turns and sees me. 
 
 "Ahem! My dear Miss Lifford, we have all been expressing our 
 sorrow for this sad occurrence, and, believe me, you have my sin- 
 cerest sympathy in this, your hour of trouble. It seems an age al- 
 ready since I saw our pretty Lucy's face ! " 
 
 And they all crowd around me and condole, and chatter, and 
 hum, and buzz, till I am almost distracted, and but little consoled 
 after the recent specimen of their good-will and charity. 
 
 A couple of hours pass slowly by, lagging as hours have seldom 
 done before, and then the tramping of horses' hoofs is heard on the 
 gravel without. 
 
 Sir Griffith enters first and goes directly to his study, without 
 giving us a word. Alva does not appear, but the other gentlemen 
 come in and join us and report that no trace of her" can be found. 
 
 "Iththe queervetht thing gone! Vanithed! And no one thaw 
 her in the protheth," is Lord Eversley's comment. 
 
 "Don't be down-hearted/' says Squire Strong, "it was but a 
 passing freak of the girl's, and she will return of her own accord as 
 soon as she discovers the difference between a home and the wide 
 
46 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 world. It will do her good to experience a few of the ills that flesh 
 is heir to, and make her contented for the rest of her life with the 
 lot that she is heir to." 
 
 "Miss Lifford, I am going up to town by the 4.20 train, and if 
 there is anything you should like done in the way of prosecuting a 
 search for Miss Egerton, I am quite at your service." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Arlesford, but I could not think of troubling 
 you." 
 
 " I am at your service also, Miss Lifford, as I must return to- 
 night," says Horace Gilford. 
 
 "And pray command me," from Sir Henry Beresford. 
 
 And thus many of them, both ladies and gentlemen, equally di- 
 vided between consideration for us and themselves, leave by the 
 4.20 express; and the few who remain pack their trunks in secret, 
 preparatory to an early departure. 
 
 Just before dinner hour, Wilson, her ladyship's maid, knocks at 
 my door. 
 
 " Please, Miss, my lady says, would you kindly excuse her to the 
 company, for she is not able to appear." 
 
 So, I am to have the not very cheerful task of taking the post 
 shunned by Lady Egerton, at the head of her table ! 
 
 When Sir Griffith passes on his way down, I join him. 
 
 " You have had no success?" I ask. 
 
 "None so far," he says, sadly; "none at all. From what the 
 station-master said, we judge that she cannot have left the place by 
 rail, for he saw every passenger from here by the early train to 
 town; and according to an account of one of the servants, her room 
 was empty before six o'clock this morning." 
 
 "Could she be hiding in the town, do you think?" 
 
 "We shall soon know, Julia, for proper inquiries have been set 
 on foot; and should they fail, to-morrow I will send for my legal 
 adviser. Nice trouble I am taking for another man's benefit." 
 
 "Why, you surely don't intend to give the girl up to that man, 
 her her father ?" 
 
 "Of course," he answers, sharply, " what else can I do? But let 
 the subject drop for the sake of our guests, and Ingolsby." 
 
 " And for yours too, poor fellow," I reply, pityingly. 
 
 " Never mind me!" he snaps back, " I am old enough, and ugly 
 enough too, I should think, to take care of myself;" and he makes 
 a sadly failing attempt to assume his natural tone. 
 
 A sad evening it is altogether; for Alva, when he comes, is not a 
 lively addition to our party, and many subjects of conversation are 
 started which, as if by mutual consent, are unsustained, and fall to 
 the ground. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 47 
 
 We separate early, all no doubt glad to be from under the re- 
 straint of each other's society; some, perhaps, anxious to resume 
 their interrupted gossip. It would be amusing, under different cir- 
 cumstances, to watch the white figures that flit about the halls well 
 into the wee small hours, going from room to room with an ever in- 
 creasing budget of scandal. 
 
 The next day the search through the neighborhood is renewed 
 with unabated energy. About noon a telegram is sent to the family 
 lawyer in London to come down without delay. The entire town of 
 Bratton is in a state of intense excitement, people coming to the 
 house ostensibly with offers of assistance, but no doubt anxious to 
 learn the true version of all the rumors afloat. Horsemen gallop 
 unceasingly to and fro, sometimes with word that a clue has been 
 discovered; again, to say it has failed. 
 
 Several times during the day the rumor spreads that Lucy has 
 been found, and when our joyful expectation has reached its height, 
 the report is proved to be false, and our hopes dashed to the ground. 
 
 Sir Griffith seems to be everywhere at the same moment, but con- 
 fused, and incapable of giving instructions. Ingolsby, the main- 
 spring of action, is calm and collected, taking upon himself the 
 responsibility of giving directions, the wisdom of which becomes at 
 once apparent, although it had before entered no other head that 
 such-and-such a thing was unmistakably the one to be done. 
 
 Toward evening a telegram arrives that Sir Griffith's legal ad- 
 viser cannot leave London until the following afternoon. The 
 household is in utter confusion; servants demoralized, and guests 
 departing in twos and threes by every train. 
 
 Some leave with the time-worn excuse of " unexpected letters," 
 (which appear to arrive in the very nick of time,) calling them away 
 much against their wish. Some go without excuse at all, consider- 
 ing it a natural consequence of what has occurred; and a few a 
 very few with unfeigned good wishes, and the promise to complete 
 their interrupted visit under happier auspices. . 
 
48 BEHIND THE AERAS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost ? 
 
 Byron: "Don Juan." 
 
 last guest has gone, and confusion reigns supreme, when 
 Lady Egerton comes to rne in greater tribulation than she 
 has yet shown. 
 
 " What shall I do, Julia ? " she exclaims. "At this time of 
 all others, to think of her behaving badly, and she who has always 
 been so well treated too ! " 
 
 " Who is behaving badly, Agnes what is the matter?" I inquire 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Who'd believe she would act like this, and I always so kind to 
 her! "she proceeds, paying no heed to my question. "I know I 
 can never go through all this trouble; it will kill me, I'm sure it 
 will! "with an effort at tears. But they won't be forced, and she 
 sinks down on the sofa, a picture of unappreciated benevolence. 
 
 "Unless you tell me what is your trouble, I cannot help you, 
 Agnes.'* 
 
 "Oh, will you help me? Will you take this burden off my 
 shoulders? How good you are, Julia !" suddenly reviving. "Just 
 ring that bell, my dear, for Wilson, and reason her out of this 
 freak. It's nothing but a freak, and you have such a persuading 
 way with you, my love, that you will soon convince her, I have no 
 doubt. " 
 
 Snatching thus at the first hint of relief from annoyance, she lies 
 back languidly waiting for Wilson, and for me to settle a matter of 
 which I as yet know nothing whatsoever. 
 
 " Suppose you tell me what I am to say to Wilson when she 
 comes," I quietly remark. 
 
 " Oh, you know best, my dear. You are always better at talking 
 to these people than I; and you can reason her out of this freak," 
 
 " But you have not told me what this freak is, Agnes." 
 
 " Why, don't you know?" elevating her eyebrows, (as though 
 thinking " how stupid you are!") " Well, Julia, she has actually 
 had the assurance, after all these years in my service, she who has 
 always appeared so faithful, to give warning. And not only she, 
 but half the other servants as well. Come in! Wilson, I have been 
 telling Miss Lifford how shocked I am at your behavior." 
 
 The woman curtsys, and then I ask her: 
 
 " What is the reason of this sudden notion of yours, W T ilson ? Do 
 you not think that there is worry enough in the house now, without 
 your giving us more ? I am surprised very much surprised." 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 49 
 
 "Well, Miss, I'm sure I'm very sorry, but indeed, indeed Miss, 
 it's no freak as my Lady calls it at-all-at-all; and I wouldn't add to 
 your trouble for worlds, but but " and she stammers, and pauses, 
 visibly embarrassed. 
 
 " But what, Wilson? Have you anything to complain of ?" 
 "No, indeed, Miss; its right sorry lam to leave, and Watkins 
 says he never was better treated anywhere; but but well, to be 
 honest, Miss, me and Watkins, and James, the groom, an' Sarah, 
 the 'ousemaid, feels as we dare not stay no longer in this 'ouse, 
 mum." 
 
 " Did you ever hear anything to equal that!" exclaims Lady Eg- 
 erton. "Just get her to tell you some of the foolish stories, to 
 which I hadn't patience to listen/* 
 
 " Explain your meaning, Wilson, in not daring to remain." 
 "Well, Miss, I'm sure its right sorry I am to be obliged to say 
 such things; but mum, we all believes," and she looks fearfully be- 
 hind her, and opens her eyes very wide, and lowers her voice to a 
 whisper, " we believe, mum, that the J ouse is 'aunted ! Yes, 'aunted 
 by poor dear Miss Lucy! An' we 'as good reason, and so we 'as, 
 mum, for our suppogicians," she hurries on, "for each of us four 
 'as seen her. The very mornin' after she disappeared yesterday 
 morning, it was I was up betimes to go to early mass, mum, an' as 
 I was a passin' along the 'all to leave a clean- washed combin'-wrap- 
 per in my Lady's dressin'-room, I sees a figure with one 'and all 
 blazin' with fire, a glidin' along, an' it went through the baize door, 
 without openin' it, an' the light vanished, and there I stands all in 
 a tremble, I could not even 'oiler, I was that scared. But I didn't 
 say nothin', Miss, for there wasn't no need to scare the rest of 'em; 
 but at breakfas,' Watkins he said as 'ow his pantry was all hupside 
 down, an' things a lyin' round as if the witches 'ad been there. 
 An' this mornin' he was awful white, an 7 told us as 'ow the night 
 before he was a goin' with a message to Sir Griffith to the library, 
 an' what did he see but the spirit o' Miss Lucy a standin' guard at 
 the door, an' all of a suddint it glides off an' vanishes. An' then 
 James, the groom, he speaks hup an' says, very late at night he 
 hears the black mare as Sir Griffith bought last week, very huneasy, 
 an' as he goes to see what's the matter, he notices a light in the din- 
 nin'-room, and thinkin' as 'ow it might be robbers, he steals up an' 
 looks in, an' what does he see but a figure just like Miss Lucy, on'y 
 brown, an' not white, like ghosts is, a walkin' about, an* all of a 
 suddint a light, as he could not tell where it come from, goes out, 
 an' he runs away scared. An' then, Miss, this mornin', Sarah, the 
 'ousemaid, goes to the luggage-room, to look for a chair as my Lady 
 4 
 
50 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 says we might 'ave in our room, mum, an' when she hopensthe door, 
 there stands the same figure as James had spoke of; and so she 
 turns round and runs away, a thin kin' the old boy (savin' your pres- 
 ence, my Lady), was a'coming after 'er. An' James, he 'as seed 
 lights a movin' habout in Miss Lucy's room, Miss, late o' nights, 
 when you all was asleep; an' so, mum, we've hall made hup our 
 minds as 'ow we'd better go." 
 
 While she has been speaking, I have determined on a course, the 
 only one to pursue with superstitious people, and though it involves 
 a little sacrifice of truth, 'tis the only way to restore harmony to 
 our distracted household. When she has finished, therefore, I 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 " How can a woman of your sense, Wilson, be so ridiculous?" I 
 ask. " Who ever heard of a brown ghost, or of one wandering 
 about in the day-time, or of one pillaging a pantry!" Then I be- 
 come very stern, and continue: "You might go away from here, 
 and set false reports flying, and believe all your life that you had 
 once lived in a haunted house. So it is that legends are founded. 
 It fortunately happens that I can give you a satisfactory explana- 
 tion of all this; and in future be cautious how you allow your im- 
 agination to fly away with your reason. The morning you supposed 
 you saw a ghost, forsooth! I, becoming restless, had been to Miss 
 Lucy's room, and was returning with a candle in my hand, which. I 
 extinguished on reaching the baize door. I had on my br f own dress- 
 ing-gown, and in that same garment I went to the library door in 
 the evening, intending to write some letters, but hearing Sir Griffith 
 within, came away without entering. It was probably as I stood, 
 hesitating a moment, that Watkins passed through the hall, and 
 saw me; and, being excited like the rest of us, mistook me for a 
 ghost." 
 
 I pause to give my words time to become impressed on the mind 
 of the woman, who stands open-mouthed looking at me. 
 
 "That same night," I proceed, "sitting up late, I remembered 
 having left something in the dining-room, and went in search of it, 
 taking no candle, but lighting matches as I went. This morning I 
 was looking over some old trunks in the triangular room, when I 
 heard the door slam, and hurrying to it, saw Sarah speeding away 
 in the distance. There are Sarah's and James's ghosts, and yours 
 and Watkins's. As to the lights in Miss Lucy's room, why I have 
 been there frequently, as you know. Now, I hope your fancies are 
 laid quietly at rest; and if you please, you will repeat in the ser- 
 vant's hall what I have said, and then, if any should not be satisfied, 
 send them to me. You may go now, Wilson." 
 
BEHIND THE AERAS. 51 
 
 Utterly dumbfounded, she mutters something unintelligible, 
 curtsys again, and leaves the room. Then Lady Egerton exclaims: 
 "Just see what trouble you came near getting us into, Julia, by 
 your night-wanderings!" 
 
 " Do you mean to say that my story imposed upon you also? Ha, 
 ha! Why, not one word of it was the truth." 
 
 Her ladyship looks scarcely less astonished than did the woman, 
 and forgetful of the good effect my words have had, begins a lecture 
 on my shocking habit of want of veracity. 
 
 " Shall I ring, and tell them it was all false?" with my hand on 
 the bell-rope. 
 
 "No, no!" she cries; " let it be now, as the evil is done." 
 
 And that is the last of her ladyship's lecture; and also, the last 
 that is heard of ghosts or warnings from the servants. I even learn 
 sometime after from one of the housemaids, that Wilson was dread- 
 fully " high and mighty/' as she expressed it, in the servant's hall, 
 assuming an air of superiority over the unfortunates who had con- 
 fided to her their fears; and spoke with such irony of " imagination 
 flying away with their reason," and of " brown ghosts," that none 
 durst venture to again give expression to their superstitious imag- 
 inings. 
 
 But although I succeed so well in convincing others of the ab- 
 surdity of their notions, many painful doubts and fears are raised 
 in my own mind, by Wilson's strange recital. For what reason is 
 there for disbelieving that the four servants really beheld something 
 supernatural? 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Methought what pain it was to drown! 
 
 What dreadful noise of Avater in mine ears! 
 What sights of ugly death within mine eyes! 
 
 Kichard III: Act I, Scene 4. 
 
 NDER-SIZED, shrivelled and pugnacious, Mr. Jedediah 
 Strutt, of Lincoln's Inn, Solicitor, arrives from London. 
 
 His rule is contrary to the precept, " Be not wise in your 
 own conceits," for no man ever thought more highly of his 
 own opinions, or took less pains to conceal the fact. No matter how 
 he may be worsted in argument, he still holds to it, that he was "right, 
 perfectly right, from the stand he took, and the way in which he 
 looked at the subject." By what process of logic he arrives at this 
 conclusion, is something unknown to all but himself, and, perhaps, 
 beyond the comprehension of lesser minds than his own. 
 
52 BEHIND THE AERAS. 
 
 The train winch brings him to Bratton arrives very late, giving 
 him but a few minutes to make his preparations for dinner, and 
 leaving no time for any discussion of the subject which requires his 
 presence. At the table, all allusion to Lucy is avoided in deference 
 to the apparent wish of Sir Griffith. The conversation, chiefly of 
 politics and questions of law, frequently flags, and all but Mr. 
 Strutt appear to talk without exhibiting the slightest interest in 
 what they or anyone else may be saying. He, however, rattles away 
 with his usual loquacity, ready to enter the lists for a tilt at words 
 with anybody upon any subject whatever; but unfortunately there 
 is no one willing to take up the gauntlet. 
 
 When, at length, Lady Egerton and I leave the gentlemen to their 
 wine, we know well what will be the subject of their talk; and it is 
 long before they seem to resolve upon a proper course to pursue. 
 
 The sole occupants of the large drawing-room, Lady Egerton and 
 I, settle with our books before the fire a welcome luxury on this 
 chilly evening. As I glance slyly from the open pages that I do 
 not care to read, I can guess by her ladyship's fixed look, that she 
 has, like myself, taken up the book for the mere purpose of avoid- 
 ing conversation. Presently the volume slips from her fingers and 
 her eyes rest upon the blazing logs; and then, by degrees, the lids 
 close and she is in the land of dreams, where there are to her no 
 disturbing emotions, but a peaceful life where domestic machinery 
 moves easily and smoothly upon wheels lubricated with the oil of 
 tranquillity. Or else, perhaps, where, with their worst faults mag- 
 nified, untold Lucys, and discontented servants, and argumentative 
 Mr. Strutts, and eccentric Sir Griffiths abound to a tantalizing de- 
 gree, giving her even less chance of a calm life than she has here 
 upon earth. 
 
 How silent is the house! So still and quiet, in fact, that I begin 
 to have a wild fancy that I must have become deaf; that surely a 
 great clamor is going on around, although I cannot hear it; and 
 that should a cannon be fired off in the room it would have no effect 
 upon my ears. But just as the fancy reaches its climax, a sound, 
 mysterious by its distance, breaks the death-like silence, and my 
 delusion quickly vanishes. Yet again and again it returns, each 
 time more impressive, and each time dispelled by some far-off sound 
 a human voice the sigh of the trees without the faint echo of a 
 distant bugle at the cavalry barracks, as watch is set for the night 
 or the shrill whistle of the night-express, passing through the town 
 two miles away. 
 
 How lonely it seems! I wish Agnes would wake up and be com- 
 panionable; for what if and I look nervously over my shoulder 
 
BEHIND THE A ERAS. 53 
 
 what if a brown figure should be moving about the room, and should 
 come and lay its cold hand upon me! And I almost feel the touch, 
 and give an involuntary start. Or, what if a supernatural guard should 
 be looking upon us from the door-way! or some ghostly eye peer- 
 ing in through that crack in the shutter to the right! Can that be 
 a stealthy step upon the stairs ? These idle fancies crowd upon my 
 mind till the silence becomes unbearable, and I poke the fire vigor- 
 ously and noisily, arousing Lady Egerton from her nap. 
 
 " Haven't they come in yet to their tea ? " she asks with the slight- 
 est tinge of peevishness in her tone the farthest limit she ever allows 
 herself; and I am now sure that her dreams have been of magnified 
 evils not tranquillity. 
 
 "No, indeed, they haven't, Agnes; and it's quite eleven o'clock. 
 Hark! There is the dining-door opening, and I hear their voices." 
 
 In another minute Sir Griffith enters alone. 
 
 "I don't know what I should do without Ingolsby," he says plac- 
 ing a chair for himself before the fire. " He insists upon neglecting 
 his own business and attending to mine. As it is best that 1 should 
 remain here to superintend matters, he goes up to London to-mor- 
 row, and he and Strutt have now gone to the library to make ar- 
 rangements about employing detectives, and advertising and all that. 
 They may want me, so I think you had both better go off to bed, 
 my dears." 
 
 " I shall be only too glad, Griffith; but don't you come up at two 
 or three in the morning, as you have lately been doing. It disturbs 
 me dreadfully. You can't bring the girl back in that way, and such 
 late hours will only injure your own health." 
 
 The baronet gives a long look into his wife's placid face; sighs 
 sadly, and taking it between his hands, kisses her with a visible 
 tenderness unusual for him, and then, as though ashamed of the 
 weakness, abruptly rushes from the room. 
 
 Agnes raises her eye-brows at me. 
 
 "Don't you think this trouble is having an effect on his mind? " 
 
 " If anything affects his mind to-night, it is you, my dear. But 
 come, let us take his advice and go to our beds;" and I move to- 
 ward the door, and her ladyship follows." 
 
 We find Sir Griffith in the hall, lighting our bed-room candles, 
 and there we separate for the night. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Early the next morning Alva goes up to town, promising to tel- 
 egraph the first good tidings. He is gone several days, but writes 
 only of failure in the search. 
 
 On the evening of the third of October, one week from the date 
 
54: BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 of Lucy's flight, lie returns; and a glance at his sad weary face, with 
 dark circles beneath the eyes, tells the ill-success of his journey. 
 
 After the most uncomfortable of many comfortless dinners, he, 
 Sir Griffith and Mr. Jedediah Struttmeet in conclave in the library; 
 and I, deserting Lady Egerton, betake myself to my former post at 
 the closet-door, in the hope of learning what has been done. As I 
 take my position, I hear the squeaking voice of Mr. Strutt: 
 
 " I am sorry to inform you, Mr. Ingolsby, that we cannot find the 
 faintest trace of the missing young lady. It is very strange indeed, 
 for, according to my opinion, she started at once for London, and I 
 cannot understand how she managed to pass through the town 
 where she is well known, without being seen or recognized by a sol- 
 itary person. Our only hope now, is in tracing her from the Lon- 
 don railway station. Here, my men give the absurd report that she 
 cannot have left by foot, rail or private conveyance. Now, admit- 
 ting, for the sake of argument, that such be the case, how can we 
 account " 
 
 "Never mind that, just now, Strutt," impatiently interrupts Sir 
 Griffith; " but let Ingolsby tell us the result of his trip. Proceed, 
 my boy!" 
 
 "I followed your instructions, Mr. Strutt," says Ingolsby in a 
 spiritless tone, "and employed the detectives you recommended. 
 They took much interest in the case, and appeared to be greatly 
 mortified at the final report they were obliged to render of their in- 
 vestigations. No such person as the one described could be traced 
 from Euston Square, the terminus of the Bratton trains, and no clue 
 discovered of her whereabouts. Dismissing them, I played the only 
 other card in our hand. I advertised in the Times, and it was with 
 great repugnance to my feelings that I did so, for I felt sure she 
 would dislike the publicity." 
 
 " She brought it on herself," mutters Sir Griffith, as Alva con- 
 tinues : 
 
 "Should this fail to bring her back, there is only one conclu- 
 sion at which we can arrive, and that " 
 
 His voice breaks. 
 
 " 'Tis a very pretty case, Mr. Ingolsby, and, if I may venture to 
 say it, you did wrong in dismissing the police; for a young, inex- 
 perienced girl like her, could not hide herself long from their lynx 
 eyes. 
 
 " With your permission, Sir Griffith, I shall write at once to have 
 the search renewed." 
 
 " Do what you think best, my firiend; only get her back; get her 
 back, that is all I ask." 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 55 
 
 "Most assuredly I shall, Sir Griffith. If she be living, you will 
 have her with you in a few days," replies the lawyer; and in a mo- 
 ment the scratching of a pen is heard. 
 
 " Ah! If she be living," sighs Alva. 
 
 " And who the deuce would kill a pretty, helpless creature like 
 her," is the sharp retort from Sir Griffith. " I beg your pardon, 
 my dear fellow, but something happened yesterday which has quite 
 unhinged me. Do you remember once saying, that you believed in 
 ghosts, though you had never seen one ? What would you say, if I, 
 who do not believe in them, were to tell you," and his voice lowers, 
 " I was almost sure I saw one yesterday morning ? Either a ghost, 
 or our Lucy! I was wandering about the eastern wing, looking for 
 an old book, in one of the unoccupied rooms, and trying to keep my 
 mind off the girl, when a sensation that there was another presence 
 near me, made me turn, and there, gliding off in the distance, was 
 a figure I ought to know, in a water-stained brown dress. Suddenly 
 it paused, the head turned, and, as I stand on this spot, I saw 
 Lucy's face, though persistent search through the rooms found noth- 
 ing! Why, man, what's the matter? Here, drink this water." 
 And then there is silence for an instant in the room beyond. 
 
 "How do you feel, now, Mr. Ingolsby?" queries Mr. Strutt. 
 Ah, the color is coming to your face. The excitement of the past 
 few days has " 
 
 " No, not that," interposes Ingolsby, " not that, but this recital 
 of Sir Griffith; it has strengthened, almost confirmed a suspicion 
 to which I have never given words, of which I have barely allowed 
 myself to think, 'tis so terrible. Sir Griffith, Mr. Strutt, I have not 
 told you of something which occurred on that evening of the masque- 
 rade, which has preyed upon my mind ever since, giving me no rest 
 night or day. During the evening, I chanced to find Miss Egerton 
 on the balcony. She spoke strangely, even wildly, and fled from 
 me. Miss Lifford, who happened to come out at the moment, told 
 me how Lucy had overheard that unlucky conversation, which seems 
 remarkably to have influenced her fate.'' 
 
 "Ingolsby," hoarsely asks Sir Griffith, "do you ever think of 
 her reluctance to choose the slip of paper ?" 
 
 " I thought of it then, sir, as I wandered off through the grounds, 
 my mind disturbed by painful memories. But do not let that dis- 
 tress you; it is but one of those strange coincidences which serve as 
 a foundation for foolish superstitions. I was about to say, that in 
 my ramble I unexpectedl} 7 found myself in the neighborhood of the 
 lake, just by the boat-house. As I leaned against one of the trees 
 in the shadow, the water, rippling in the moonlight, had a soothing 
 
56 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 effect upon me. It could not have been more than a few minutes 
 before there was a rustling in the bushes, and rapid footsteps on the 
 gravel. I turned my head, and there stood Lucy gazing up at the 
 moon, its light falling on her white face. My first impulse was to 
 speak to her; but, on second thoughts, I determined not to pain her 
 by the knowledge of my presence, and remained silently where I 
 was, in the shade of the trees. She moved quickly to the water's 
 edge, and stepping into one of the boats, rowed herself to the mid- 
 dle of the lake. There she dropped the oars, and I could dimly 
 see her standing in the boat, with arms stretched upward. A sud- 
 den movement, a low cry, a splash, and she was in the water! I 
 was scarcely conscious of having moved, before I found myself in 
 the lake supporting her. I carried her to the shore. I don't think 
 she had lost consciousness; but lying there in my arms, she was 
 speechless, frightened, stunned. I took her to the house, up a pri- 
 vate staircase, to her room, and left her with her maid. Then I 
 went to my own room to change my wet clothes, but did not rejoin 
 the revelers. 
 
 " When her absence was discovered the next day, I told her maid 
 not to speak of what had occurred; and perhaps I was wrong in 
 doing so, but my purpose was to save others from the anxiety I 
 suffered myself. 
 
 " The last time I saw Lucy, she was lying on her sofa, a brown 
 dress clinging to her as the water dripped from its folds on to the 
 carpet; her eyes following me to the door, dumbly imploring. This 
 seems almost like a breach of confidence." 
 
 He pauses, but nothing is said by the other two. 
 
 " While we have been searching for her," he presently continues, 
 4 c each day bringing nothing but disappointment, the thought has 
 formed and grown in my mind, was that fall in the water acci- 
 dental? Is it possible that she can have But no, no; I will not 
 allow such thoughts to sully her pure memory. I should not have 
 told you this!" 
 
 11 Compose yourself, my dear sir," says the lawyer. " You have 
 done right to speak. Your only error has been in not informing us 
 of this sooner, that a different kind of investigation might be adopted 
 than that hitherto pursued. The lake must be dragged at once." 
 
 " Come, cheer up, my boy!" says Sir Griffith with forced cheer- 
 fulness. "Don't give way to despondency. Just imagine yourself 
 a Mahometan and look upon all this as having been written in the 
 Book of Fate long before we or our forefathers were born to our 
 inheritance of mingled joys and sorrows. Remember, that all your 
 worrying will not alter the past. Think what the state of my mind 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 57 
 
 would be, did I permit myself to believe that I am tlie cause of all 
 that has occurred from having forced the girl into acting against 
 her wish. I simply believe that I have been the cat's paw of cir- 
 cumstances, and that all was foreknown to a Power above, long be- 
 fore it happened. Mercy on us, how late it is! After twelve; and 
 into what an abstruse subject I have been led. If you'll excuse me, 
 Strutt, 111 leave you here to write your letters in peace. And In- 
 golsby, let you and I go to bed." 
 
 Good-nights are exchanged, and as their footsteps die away in 
 the distance, I steal off to my room. 
 
 When half way up the stairs, I catch their voices returning, and 
 fly back to the dark hall below. Twice or thrice I think they have 
 gone to their rooms, but their footfalls sound again as they pace to- 
 and-fro, now near, and now far. At last, I hear the words, " Good- 
 night, my boy." " Good-night, sir." and then I go up stairs once 
 more. As I reach the last step, a shadow a dark something moves 
 quickly past and is lost in the gloom. What is it ? Frightened and 
 trembling, I reach my room, hurriedly strike a light and glance 
 around. Nothing unusual is to be seen, and I think it an idle fancy, 
 conjured up by my over-excited brain, and go. off to bed, but only 
 to dream of Lucy's body found floating in the lake. Once during 
 the night, I imagine she is beside me with one hand on my pillow, 
 the other, glowing as a ball of fire. Starting up wide awake, I 
 light my candle, but see nothing, hear nothing, but the mice in the 
 wainscot. Everything remains as I had left it, and I lie back fully 
 convinced that it was only a dream, but, nevertheless, keep the can- 
 dle burning beside me till dawn. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 I summon up remembrance of things past. 
 
 Shakspeare: Sonnet XXX. 
 
 SIT alone at my window, looking out on the snow-covered 
 ground, and trees red with berries, contrastiog with the white 
 mantle of mother earth, and reminding one forcibly of the 
 happy day so lately passed the anniversary of that event 
 which brought redemption to the world with 
 
 "Peace, good- will, towards men." 
 
 My thoughts are of that blessed occasion, as I gaze on the lonely 
 scene without the snow, chaste and bright, beneath the cold though 
 brilliant rays of the winter sun, as they glance from icicles which 
 
58 BEHIND THE ABBAS. 
 
 droop and sparkle on leafless trees and evergreens, forming a fringe 
 of hues rivaling the varied tints of rarest gems; and my occupation, 
 that of writing up my diary, is forgotten, and the book lies neg- 
 lected in my lap. 
 
 At length, turning from the view which has so many attractions 
 in my eyes, I re-open the leaves that contain the history of my own 
 life, and events in the lives of many others. For the first time since 
 it was written, I glance over the account of the disappearance of 
 Lucy, and the fruitless search that followed. A little over four 
 months has she been gone, and it seems an age to me, left alone 
 here in this desolate old place which all now fully believe to be 
 haunted by the poor girl's spirit. The holidays have gone by un- 
 celebrated for the first time in the eighteen years since that other 
 disappearance of the son of the house. 
 
 Unfortunate family ! to lose two children in the same mysterious 
 fashion. 
 
 The snow was already deep on the ground, and the pretty little 
 robin red-breasts hopping about, when Sir Griffith was ordered to a 
 milder climate for the benefit of his health, which, after all hope of 
 recovering his lost darling was past, had begun perceptibly to fail 
 in spite of his energetic attempts to hide the fact from us, and ap- 
 pear himself in the face of this second sorrow of his life. But his 
 malady refused to obey his will, the disease would not be thwarted, 
 and by the command of his physicians, he, accompanied by Lady 
 Egerton, went to pass the winter on the continent, much to the 
 satisfaction of her ladyship who took the astounding event of Lucy's 
 flight quite philosophically and with wonderful composure even for 
 one of her phlegmatic temperament. 
 
 Mr. Jedediah Strutt's confident prediction of Lucy's speedy re- 
 turn to her friends remains unfulfilled, notwithstanding his re- 
 employment of the police, and the advent upon the scene of some 
 of the most expert detectives of Scotland-yard. They carefully ex- 
 plored the house, discovering several out of the way passages and 
 secret doors that none of us knew existed, and dragged the lake, 
 but all to no purpose; the only trace of the missing girl to be found, 
 the brown merino dress in which she played the housemaid, dis- 
 covered hidden away in one of many unused rooms, being a clue 
 that ended where it began. Of course, gossip was not idle in the 
 neighborhood at these strange doings, and the old story of Guy 
 Egerton, and his mysterious spiriting away, was revived, and in 
 everybody's mouth. 
 
 Poor Ingolsby! Few would have guessed from his calm, almost 
 cheerful demeanor, all that he suffered; though, to a keen observer, 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 59 
 
 lines of sorrow were perceptible about the firm mouth and beneath 
 the sad grey eyes. He was young; yet, his face showed that this 
 was not the first time sorrow had been met and conquered. 
 
 When the others left, he accompanied them to the south of France, 
 to recuperate his somewhat shattered health, and shortly returns 
 to England to renew the search. He would never give over, he 
 said, till some efficient clue was found. The last words of Sir Grif- 
 fith on leaving home were to the assembled household: 
 
 " On my return," said he, "if it ever takes place, let me never 
 hear the sound of her name; let every reminder of her be removed 
 from sight; let her be as one who has never existed. She may be 
 living or she may be dead; and, in either case, she has acted a most 
 ungrateful, shameful part, and no longer has she any hold upon my 
 heart. I say this openly, and without hesitation to you all. Re- 
 member it!" 
 
 And he was gone; so feeble, yet so stern, and having spoken each 
 word clearly and decidedly in spite of his wife's imploring gestures; 
 for though she loved Lucy less deeply, yet her woman's heart would 
 have spared the poor girl's memory this bitter humiliation. How 
 cruel, and yet I cannot help saying it how just these words of 
 his seem, as I read them over! But to erase them from my mind, I 
 turn the leaves in search of others, more kind and loving, that I have 
 taken down in happier times. 
 
 But what is this that I find between the leaves ? A letter directed 
 to Miss Lifford, which, surely, I never saw before, and never placed 
 in that position. With fingers trembling from excitement, for I 
 recognize the handwriting, I tear it open, and it drops to the floor 
 as, turning to the end, I see Lucy's name! It must be from the 
 spirit-world, I think, and I would cast it into the fire, only my curi- 
 osity that bane of my life tempts me to read. Thrice I stoop for 
 the letter, and thrice it drops from my fingers to the floor. At last 
 it remains in my faltering hand, my foolish fears are dispelled, and 
 my fingers grasp it firmly, as I begin to read: 
 
 "O Julia, Julia! lam going to leave you to leave my home, 
 every one, everything and my heart is breaking. Would that I 
 had courage to brave the humiliation of remaining and being claimed 
 by that man! But I have not. Am I very, very wicked, Julia, not 
 to have any filial feeling toward my father ? O, the misery of find- 
 ing, after all these years proudly imagining myself the daughter of 
 that good old man I love so well, that I have been cruelly deceived 
 by those I loved and trusted most on earth, and that I am nothing 
 but a lowly-born village maiden ! Why was I taken from my right- 
 ful station and given thoughts and tastes that did not of right belong 
 to me ? Why did they cultivate a mind into being ashamed of its 
 
60 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 possessor's true position in life ? It was all cruelly mistaken kind- 
 ness; and now, I have to pay the penalty, by going out into the 
 world and earning my living in that sphere for which my past life 
 has unfitted me; for to return to my father, and sink from a high- 
 bred lady into a village lass in the place where I was born and have 
 lived so many happy years, is more than I could endure. I cannot 
 I will not do it! He has never known a daughter's love and he 
 will not miss it. Sir Griffith will move heaven and earth to find 
 me, I know; and (were I but to speak the words) would sacrifice all 
 he possesses to keep me with him; but that I will not have. If I 
 do not take my true position in life, I will not occupy a false one. 
 He must not find me he shall not. 1 will never consent to live as 
 I did, and I could not exist as his child his / I have laid my plans 
 well, and they can never find me. Besides, I have good reasons 
 for knowing that they will all think me dead. It is far better that 
 they should imagine I am out of this sad world, than living, they 
 know not where or how. There will be a stain on my memory but 
 what of that? Who will care after a very short time? Even Alva, 
 to whom I was at first tempted to write as I am doing to you, even 
 he will soon recover from the blow; for he knows of something 
 which will confirm the general suspicion, and will help to erase the 
 memory of one he must think so wicked from his mind. Oh, Julia, 
 'tis the unkindest cut in my poor heart to think that he believes me 
 capable of the base wickedness and cowardice of taking the life 
 which belongs to my Maker. But it is better so better, far better; 
 and he will forget me sooner, and take one more worthy, though 
 not more loving, to his heart. Ah, never, never will he find one 
 more loving! Good-bye, Julia, dear; you have always been good to 
 me, and do not change now, by telling the secret of my existence, a 
 secret which a wise girl would have kept to herself, but my full 
 heart would have burst, had I not poured it forth to some one. If 
 you knew my plans for flight, which, of course I dare not tell, you 
 would see how utterly futile will be all attempts at recovery. I leave 
 it to your honor to keep my secret, and close these many lines with 
 tears wrung from me for the first time in all these unhappy hours 
 by thoughts of the step I am compelled to take. O Fate Fate ! 
 why so cruel to poor LUCY." 
 
 She is alive! is the first thought that passes through my mind. 
 And she will soon be found! Then I remember the months that 
 have gone by without the occurrence of any such event, and I am 
 filled with grief that this letter, which would have been such a spur 
 to our exertions, should not have been sooner found. It would, at 
 least, have saved much heart-burning and many regrets, if nothing 
 more. But how came it here ? 'Tis surely very strange. She could 
 not have placed it here herself that night, for I was in my room 
 when the ball broke up, and she remained down stairs until the 
 last. The next morning she had gone before I was awake. Had 
 she a confidante amongst the servants ? We never thought of that, 
 and yet, it must have been so; for now I recollect how anxious was 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 61 
 
 Jane Wilson to leave her place as soon as her young mistress was 
 found to be missing. 
 
 This news should be sent to Mr. Strutt at once; and I immedi- 
 ately sit down and write to him, enclosing a copy of Lucy's letter. 
 It seems unkind to disregard her wish for secrecy after the confi- 
 dence she has placed in me, but I cannot allow her to wreck her 
 happiness by any of her foolish whims. The letter must go, and 
 having sent it off to do its work of assisting in the recovery of our 
 pet, I return to my window, and there watching the softly-falling 
 snow, dream of a re-united and happy family. 
 
 cc 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Oft expectation fails, and most oft there 
 Where most it promises. 
 
 All's Well that Ends Well: Act II, Scene 2. 
 
 >ITH paper before me, I am about to write to the Egertons 
 when the post comes in, bringing me a characteristic 
 epistle from Sir Griffith : 
 
 " BASLE, February 4th. 
 
 MY DEAR JULIA: ' The Campbells are coming.' My wife de- 
 sires me to say: Have the town-house in readiness for our return, 
 which, being interpreted, means, immediately proceed to open all 
 the doors and windows; and having thus formed a thorough draught, 
 drench the entire place with soap-suds, to make it moist as well as 
 airy; shroud the furniture, and turn everything topsy-turvy, upside 
 down; then, having got all things into beautiful confusion, perform 
 the laborious task of setting them to rights again; and I give you 
 three weeks in which to accomplish it all. I won't stand this beastly 
 place any longer. I've had quite enough of balmy, humbug, fiddle- 
 stick climates, and am determined to return ' hame, hame, hame to 
 my ain countree/ if it kills me. Better die a violent death at home 
 than be ennuye into one's grave in a place like this. Agnes enjoys 
 it immensely doesn't wish to return, and would stay behind were 
 it not for appearances. We leave here this afternoon for Paris, 
 where my lady intends to replenish her wardrobe, and we will start 
 for home in time to reach London on the twenty-eighth. 
 
 " We have been constantly on the move since Ingolsby left us for 
 Italy, two months ago; and consequently, have heard from him but 
 once. Agnes wishes you to make a few purchases in town. She 
 intends re-furnishing her own suile of rooms, and I inclose a list of 
 articles which begins its expensive career by costing me triple 
 postage. 
 
 "In the name of all the furies, manage to forget the most of 
 them, or you'll leave me beggared in my old age. 
 
62 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 " Agnes forgets to send her love in the excitement of watching her 
 trunks packed, but I send it for her. 
 
 " Expect us in London on the twenty-eighth, remember. 
 
 "I am, 
 
 "Yours, 
 
 " GRIFFITH EGERTOX." 
 
 "P. S. Close the hall, and bring all the servants to town. It is 
 doubtful when I shall return to Bratton." 
 
 Little use in writing now, and I will keep the good news of 
 Lucy's letter for a welcome home. But how unfortunate that they 
 are to arrive so soon, leaving me such short space in which to com- 
 plete necessary arrangements. It is just like Sir Griffith, however, 
 to suppose that others require as little time as himself to form and 
 execute resolves. I only hope that the change of climate at this 
 early season may not be injurious to him. 
 
 Nothing is to be done but to obey orders, and after several days 
 spent in the performance of many duties attendant on shutting up 
 an establishment like this for an indefinite period, I start for 
 London. 
 
 The house in Park-Lane is a dismal old place with, at present, 
 but few habitable rooms kept in readiness for flying visits. The 
 rest of the house having remained closed since the end of last 
 season, all the carpets are rolled up and put away, the furniture is 
 covered closely, and dusty windows are screened by dustier shutters. 
 In the few habitable rooms I take up my abode, and at once set the 
 domestic machinery in motion. Windows are thrown open and the 
 sunlight let in, showing everything thickly covered with a dust that 
 is soon seen stirring in the sunbeams; gloom is chased away by 
 light and air, and the place is beginning to assume an orderly, 
 cheerful aspect, when 1 start out to execute my numerous commis- 
 sions, not daring to follow Sir Griffith's hint, and forget them. 
 Even Lady Egerton would be ruffled at that. 
 
 One afternoon, while I am at Jackson & Grahams, the uphol- 
 sterer's in Oxford street, giving orders about some violet satin 
 hangings for her ladyship's boudoir, a lady enters the shop and ac- 
 cidentally- upsets a cornice, which, falling towards me, just grazes 
 my shoulder. 
 
 " A thousand pardons!" she exclaims; "I hope my awkwardness 
 has not harmed you." 
 
 " Not in the least, I assure you," is my reply, although the shoul- 
 der is a little painful. My excuse for the fib is the beautiful face 
 looking with unfeigned kindliness into mine; a face so fascinating 
 that I cannot forbear glancing at it rather oftener than good form 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 63 
 
 permits, while she stands at a little distance. I may be ordering 
 purple curtains lined with blue, for aught that I know, my atten- 
 tion is so fully occupied with the dignified, yet graceful figure. A 
 window at the back of the shop throws its light on a countenance 
 expressive of all that is womanly in the highest sense of the word 
 amiability, gentleness, love, and tenderness toward all mankind 
 all the soft and winning qualities of woman, mingled with a firm- 
 ness and courage unmistakable; and from the eyes beam that best 
 and rarest gift to human nature, true heartfelt sympathy a fund of 
 it never to be exhausted. The color of the eyes is dark liquid 
 brown, lustrous as a young girl's, beneath the smooth bands of 
 simply parted white hair, which proves the advanced age of an 
 otherwise young-looking face. Her ungloved hand, with its taper 
 fingers and delicate nails, shows high breeding, as does her whole 
 air, and I am quite enchanted by the most beautiful old lady I have 
 ever seen. 
 
 On passing out she smiles and nods another excuse for the acci- 
 dent, and my eyes follow her into a coroneted carriage at the door. 
 
 As the equipage turns slowly in front of the shop, my glance is 
 caught by a small, ungloved hand very like the one I have been 
 admiring, that rests upon the door. A quick flash in the sun- 
 shine, and as the horses step out more briskly, something glit- 
 tering falls, apparently unnoticed, from that hand, and rolls into 
 the street close beside the pavement. "With a bound to the door, 
 following a sudden impulse of curiosity, I dash into the street, to 
 the astonishment of the shopman, who has already regarded me 
 with wondering eyes, and in I plunge amongst the throng of pass- 
 ing vehicles. A policeman is by my side instantly, and idle pass- 
 ers-by stand and gaze. For a moment I am at a loss what to do or to 
 say. Then I tell him I have lost a ring, for I think it the most prob- 
 able article to drop from a lady's hand, and he, requesting me to 
 step on to the pavement, searches for that glittering something. Ah, 
 there it lies! He sees it as quickly as I, and rescues it from the 
 mud. I have one fortunate glimpse of it as he brushes it free of 
 dirt, and, thanks to my clear sight, I recognize it instantly, oh, won- 
 der of wonders, as a ring that I have seen before. 
 
 It is a carbuncle in a peculiar, old-fashioned setting; a setting 
 that is strangely familiar, and, with my heart throbbing from excite- 
 ment, I stretch out my hand to receive it. But the man, with pro- 
 fessional caution, holds it back, and asks me how he shall know that 
 it is mine ? 
 
 A curious crowd is gathering around us. I run a great risk in 
 claiming and attempting to identify this ring, but I am sure that I 
 
64 BEHIND THE AREAS. 
 
 recognized it. I could not mistake what was my own property for 
 years before I gave it as a birthday present to Lucy Egerton. 
 
 "It is a carbuncle ring/' I say boldly with I hope no outward 
 sign of inward tumult; "and inside it are engraved the initials, 
 L. E. from J. L.,' the date, ' September 25, 18-.'" 
 
 The man holds the ring up to the light. Am I right ? I stand 
 holding my breath as he screws up one eye and peers into it. The 
 crowd is increasing, and people press upon and stare at me most 
 unpleasantly, and make uncomplimentary remarks. Some of them 
 evidently take me for a shop-lifter, caught with stolen goods in my 
 possession. 
 
 '"S., S. F.' (how I tremble!) "No, 'L. E.'". (Ah!) " < from 
 I., J. L/ Yes, mum; it's all quite right, mum," and touching his 
 hat respectfully, the policeman hands me the ring, and bids the 
 crowd move on. Very unwillingly it does so, considering itself de- 
 frauded of its rights, no doubt, in that there has been neither row 
 nor arrest to entertain it. 
 
 Clutching my prize tightly, I rush back into the upholsterers. 
 There I have time to examine it, for the clerks are busy with other 
 customers. What a marvelous incident is this. The ring given by 
 me to Lucy Egerton, falling from the window of a private car- 
 riage and coming directly back into my hands. What a mystery it 
 would have been to me but for Lucy's recently-found letter; but now 
 of one thing I am convinced, this ring and the woman who occu- 
 pied that carriage will be clues to the girl's whereabouts. Either 
 she herself was the occupant, or the occupant knows something of 
 her. That is logic. 
 
 Prompted by a sudden thought, I seek out the bead man of the 
 establishment, the man who waited upon the lady who upset the 
 cornice. From him I demand her name. 
 
 "I don't know her name, ma'am," is the aggravating answer, 
 uttered in an indifferent tone by the upholsterer. 
 
 " Don't know it! Why, did she leave you no address?" 
 
 " No ma'am, she is not a customer. Only came in to make some 
 inquiries." 
 
 Greatly disappointed, and with throbbing heart and puzzled 
 mind, I leave the shop. Thinking that I ought to impart my dis- 
 covery at once to Mr. Strutt, I drive directly to his office. 'Tis but 
 a few streets to Lincoln's Inn Fields, and a long flight of stairs takes 
 me up to his chambers, where I find his little wizened confidential 
 clerk who might be a relation of the solicitor himself, from the like- 
 ness between them. 
 
 " Good morning, Miss Lifford, take a chair, Miss; a very pleasant 
 day. Take this chair, Miss; you'll find it more comfortable." 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 65 
 
 " Thanks, Mr. Wiggins, the one I have is very comfortable. Is n'fc 
 Mr. Struttin?" 
 
 "Well, now, Miss Lifford, isn't it unfortunate that you should 
 have all the trouble of coming this long way, and Mr. Strutt not 
 here," rubbing his chin with the feathered end of his quill-pen. 
 " You see, Miss, he was called away suddenly to draw the will of an 
 old gentleman who is supposed to be dying down in Suffolk, and 
 they sent for Mr. S., post-haste." 
 
 " Oh, dear, I'm so sorry! Nothing could be more unfortunate! 
 When do you expect him back ? " 
 
 " I can't say when he'll return, Miss, for the old gent may live a 
 week or two, and he's a reg'lar cranky old curmudgeon, who may 
 insist on having half a dozen or more different wills drawn up be- 
 fore he gets one to suit him. He has given the alarm of dying often 
 before now, Miss, and kept Mr. S. there, day after day hard at work, 
 and when, at last, he had a document to please him all published, 
 signed and witnessed, why Miss, he'd get well again and tear it up." 
 
 " I wonder that Mr. Strutt will dance attendance on such a crazy 
 old man." 
 
 " Well, you see Miss," he replies, using his knife vigorously on 
 the pen, " he gets well paid for it very well paid; for the old 
 gent isn't a miser, Miss, but only wants to leave his money to the 
 best advantage, and he thinks he can use it better himself than any 
 one else, and is afraid to keep a satisfactory will executed when he 
 gets one, imagining as somebody mentioned would be tempted to 
 kill him to get the money at once. For he's very queer a reg'lar 
 old curmudgeon, Miss," and he gives an emphatic nib to the pen. 
 
 " When did Mr. Strutt leave town? " I ask, little interested in the 
 whims of this odd creature. 
 
 " On the fifth, Miss; and there is a letter here for him from you, 
 Miss. I didn't forward it, as he told me not to send him all his 
 letters, not knowing exactly how long he'd be away, but to open 
 them myself and only send to him anything of great importance. I 
 didn't think it would make much difference, if this matter you wrote 
 about was not attended to at once, as so much time has already 
 been lost since the young lady's disappearance; but if you consider 
 it necessary, I will write at once." 
 
 "If I consider it necessary! I should think I did consider it 
 necessary," I answer angrily. " One would suppose that so much 
 time having been lost already, was the very reason that none should 
 be wasted now. How do we know that she is not at this moment in 
 abject misery starving, perhaps and too proud to ask for help?" 
 (As he has been so negligent I choose not to tell him of my adven- 
 5 
 
66 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 ture at the upholsterers' shop-door.) " Your conduct has been most 
 strange, Mr. Wiggins, and I cannot understand your motives. You 
 will oblige me by writing immediately to Mr. Strutt, and telling him 
 there is work of more importance awaiting him here in town, than 
 pandering to the whims of that old will-making dotard," and I 
 sweep from the room, followed to the stair-head by the cringing 
 clerk offering apologies and excuses innumerable. A nice person 
 for Mr. Jedediah Strutt to leave as a judge of the importance of 
 matters in his business ! 
 
 I return home in such a bad humor that I feel tempted to wish 
 that the ' ' old curmudgeon " may this time be obliged to make his 
 last will and testament. If Sir Griffith or Ingolsby were only here ! 
 But they are miles away, and I must trust to my own resources. A 
 whole night I pass in forming schemes for tracing Lucy, but discard 
 them again as unsatisfactory, with even greater rapidity than that 
 old wretch in Suffolk destroys his wills. 
 
 When morning comes, I have determined that for the present I 
 can do nothing absolutely nothing but wait and keep my eyes 
 open and look about me for the reappearance of that coroneted car- 
 riage. Having met it once, 'tis more than likely to cross my path 
 again. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Yet when an equal poise of hope and fear 
 Does arbitrate the event, my nature is 
 That I incline to hope rather than fear. 
 
 Comus. 
 
 UNCTUALLY on the twenty-eighth the Egertons arrive. Sir 
 Griffith but little improved by his trip, poor man; Lady 
 Egerton as calmly benignant as ever, retiring at once to her 
 room, with a few cold words of praise at the general appear- 
 ance of order in the house. Sir Griffith is more cordial in his manner. 
 "Ha, Julia," he says, " how nicely you have arranged things. 
 Wonderful, considering the short time you had ! And just see here/' 
 opening his library door and going in; " everything placed to my 
 hand as you know I like it, and all the little trifles I forgot. You 
 are quite a treasure, Julia, really," looking at me kindly. Then his 
 eyes wander round the room again, and starting slightly, he ex- 
 claims, " But not this, Julia; this must not be here!" He points 
 with a trembling finger and frowning face at the wall where haDgs a 
 portrait of Lucy when a child. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 67 
 
 " Oh, Sir Griffith, I have something to tell you about her," I say, 
 with a slight feeling of diffidence. 
 
 "No, no, "he replies, nervously fingering some papers on the 
 table; " I will hear nothing, Julia. And you will please to remem- 
 ber my parting instructions/' 
 
 "But, Sir Griffith/' I boldly hurry on; " she is alive! and she 
 wrote " 
 
 " Saying where she was, and with whom?" he interrupts, with a 
 shade of relenting in his voice, as his face brightens. 
 
 " The letter was written at the time of her flight, but I only re- 
 ceived it a short time ago. Since then I have heard nothing further; 
 only - " 
 
 "That will do," raising his hand, and his face growing sterner. 
 "If she prefers the society of strangers to that of her benefactors, 
 let her have her own way. I will not be cajoled into speaking of 
 the girl; and I lay my positive commands upon you never again to 
 mention her name in my presence," and he motions me to leave the 
 room. 
 
 With what harshness Sir Griffith judges her conduct! But I have 
 little doubt his feelings would soon change, were he to read her 
 pathetic letter to me; and I still have hopes of a reconciliation, if I 
 can only prevail upon him to listen to me. I can but wait and trust 
 that time may soften him. In the meantime the girl must be found, 
 and the next afternoon I start out to inquire if Mr. Strutt has yet 
 returned from Suffolk. 
 
 As I am leaving the house, Lady Egerton's maid hurries down 
 stairs with the request from her lad} T ship that I will call for a lace 
 flounce at Hayward's in Oxford street. It provokes me not a little 
 to be compelled to go so far out of my way, but the event proves 
 that, for once in her life, her ladyship has been the means to a good 
 end; for when I drive up to the shop, there is that same coroneted 
 carnage before the door! 
 
 The sole occupant is just stepping out, and to my great disap- 
 pointment, 'tis neither Lucy nor the old lady, but a petite young 
 girl. We reach the shop-door together, and she pushes her way 
 past me somewhat rudely, with a haughty sweep of her skirts. Her 
 little head, with its straw-colored hair and watery-blue eyes, is car- 
 ried very high, and a face that might otherwise be pretty is marred 
 by an expression of scornful contempt for everything beneath her. 
 While looking in vain for the eyebrows and lashes, that have either 
 forsaken their position, or are so light in color as to be impercepti- 
 ble to my old eyes, I feel that I would not trust that girl with the 
 life of a dumb animal. I take an intense dislike to her on the spot 
 
68 BEHIND THE AEEAS. 
 
 very absurd, no doubt, but as uncontrollable as is love at first 
 sight. However, she possesses an interest for me, and having lin- 
 gered over silks, and satins, and laces till she has completed her 
 purchases, I give orders to the coachman to follow her carriage 
 from place to place. 
 
 A long and rather exciting chase it is, for often do we get en- 
 tangled in the block of vehicles. Straight on through Oxford street 
 the coroneted carriage drives without stopping again, and we lose 
 sight of it as it turns into Regent street, but catch up again near the 
 Quadrant; thence on up Piccadilly and past Green Park it goes, 
 once more nearly giving us the slip in the crowd at Hyde Park 
 Corner, and I wonder to myself as we toil slowly through the jam, 
 whether it will turn down Grosvenor place, or keep on out Knights- 
 bridge way to Brompton. The former it does, and at last draws up 
 before a handsome house in Eaton Square, and the blonde young- 
 lady, dismissing the carriage, enters the house and the door closes 
 on her small figure. 
 
 Shall I get out and make inquiries for Lucy? Inclination an- 
 swers, yes; judgment says, no. For if she still wishes to remain 
 undiscovered, a glimpse of me may send her off again like a startled 
 fawn. So, with the feeling of a detective who has successfully run 
 his game to earth, and endeavoring to emulate one in the wariness 
 of my conduct, I forbear from making any demonstration whatever. 
 Taking out my tablets, I carefully note down the number of the 
 house, and then drive off with my information to Mr. Jedediah 
 Strutt. He receives me with many apologies for his apparent neg- 
 lect, saying he had just arrived in town, and my letter with many 
 others had been awaiting his return. 
 
 " As the young lady's letter does not afford any clue to her where- 
 abouts, I don't see that we stand any better than formerly," he says. 
 
 "Pardon me, Mr. Strutt, we stand very much better, for I have 
 at last discovered traces of her." 
 
 Then I tell him circumstantially of my finding of the ring, and 
 he laughs over my description of its recovery. My recital, however, 
 evidently makes no change in his opinion, for as he takes up the 
 ring that I have placed upon his desk, and scrutinizes it carefully, 
 he says in a low, unexcited tone: 
 
 "I think, Miss Lifford, that you are much mistaken in suppos- 
 ing "- 
 
 "Mistaken! mistaken in a ring that was mine for years; that is 
 remarkable for its setting ? The letters engraved upon it might pos- 
 sibly be a coincidence, but to think that the setting, combined with 
 the letters, is also a coincidence would be, to say the very least, 
 unreasonable." 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 69 
 
 "Be patient, madam, and hear me out. I do not doubt the 
 identity of the ring " (how very kind, think I, and no doubt express 
 the thought in my face); " but as to its being a clue to the young 
 lady, you are mistaken, lamentably mistaken." 
 
 " But my dear sir, I saw it drop from the carriage not ten yards 
 from where I stood, and it must- naturally have fallen from Lucy's 
 own finger or from the finger of some one who has met the original 
 owner." 
 
 "Not necessarily, Miss Lifford, not by any means necessarily," 
 slipping the ring on to his little finger his nasty, crooked little fin- 
 ger and holding it up before him. Then he looks at me over his 
 spectacles and says slowly and impressively: " Have you ever heard 
 of pawnbrokers, Miss Lifford ? Be patient," holding up his hand, 
 feeling proud of its unusual adornment doubtless, "and I will ex- 
 plain to you my ideas upon this subject. Let me demonstrate. 
 Miss Egerton we will call her Miss Egerton for convenience left 
 her home under the impression that she was the daughter of the 
 man Sullivan. None but a clever girl could have escaped as she 
 did, eluding the most skillful detectives. If she be alive, her mo- 
 tive for having fled must be as strong as ever, or she would have 
 returned; and, under the influence of that motive she has talent 
 enough to keep herself well concealed, and wisdom enough not to 
 go about as you suppose probable, to be seen and recognized by 
 any former acquaintance. But Miss Lifford, I do not believe she is 
 alive she may be found yet, but not among the living." 
 
 "Not alive, Mr. Strutt!" I echo. "You cannot have read the 
 copy that I sent you of her letter to me." 
 
 "Yes, madam, I have read it. Head it carefully, and studied it." 
 
 " Then you must have forgotten it again forgotten that she said 
 'the unkindest cut in her poor heart was that she could be thought 
 capable of the base wickedness of taking her own life/ " 
 
 "Yes, madam, I remember that perfectly; and here is the copy 
 to remind me, had I forgotten." 
 
 " What under the sun then, do you mean ?" I demand, losing all 
 patience. " If you doubt the authenticity of that paper, I will pro- 
 duce the original. I have often heard of the distrust of lawyers, but 
 I did not expect to be insulted by you, who, if you doubt my veracity 
 in general, at least must surely know that I could have no motive 
 for making false statements in this matter." 
 
 "You misconstrue my meaning altogether, Miss Lifford. Had 
 I any doubts, your word would be quite sufficient to remove them," 
 he replies, trying to smooth my ruffled feathers ' with oily words. 
 " I feel firmly convinced that every line of this letter was written 
 by Miss Egerton, apart from any assurance of yours." 
 
70 BEHIND THE ABBAS. 
 
 '* You seem to have forgotten your logic, Mr. Strutt; for if she 
 wrote that letter, and if she meant what she wrote ah!" with sus- 
 picion coming quickly, " can that be your reading of it? that she 
 wrote, not meaning what she said ?" 
 
 "I am an old man," he answered, " and I know something of 
 the world. I have read letters pathetic and soul-stirring, that have 
 been written from the head, not from the heart. As such things 
 have been done before, analogy teaches that they can be repeated. 
 I liked the young lady, and admired her talents, and I think that in 
 this instance, she has used them cleverly." 
 
 " Mr. Strutt!" and I rise indignantly, " I, too, am old and worldly- 
 wise, and I flatter myself know something of human nature also. 
 Besides, I am a woman, and better able to judge of her woman's 
 nature than you, and I would be willing to take oath, that every 
 word of that paper now before you, came from the very depths of 
 her heart. Lucy descend to such subterfuge? Never! You cannot 
 make me believe it! Your experience, I should judge, has been 
 derived from intercourse with people, not of noble natures, such as 
 her's." 
 
 " Well, well, my dear madame, do not get so excited; for my say- 
 ing it does not make it so. I am seldom wrong in my opinions, 
 though," he pompously adds, " and I don't think I am in this in- 
 stance. But I shall at any rate do all in my power; and if you will 
 furnish me with the number of the house in in Eaton Square, I 
 think you said it was I shall let you know in a few days the result 
 of my inquiries." He takes out his note-book and I give him the 
 number. 
 
 " This transaction must be strictly entre nous," I say with regained 
 composure; " for Sir Griffith is still incensed at her for leaving her 
 friends so abruptly and without a word of farewell." 
 
 " I am very sorry to hear that. Believe me, whatever my opinions 
 may be, you have my sincere good wishes for a happy ending to this 
 strange affair. For the ring, it may have been lost, pawned or 
 stolen; sold and resold; for its curious workmanship, bought by the 
 present possessor owner I should say for really, Miss Lifford, 
 you have no right or title to it." 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 71 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Poins. Nothing but papers, my lord. 
 
 Prince Henry. Let's see what they are: read them. 
 
 Henry IV: Act III, Scene 1. 
 
 S usual, late for breakfast!" is Sir Griffith's greeting to me, 
 when I enter the breakfast-room, as he finishes his second 
 cup of coffee. " You'll never catch the worm, Julia." 
 
 "Hot rolls, Watkins!" ordered Lady Eger ton, languidly 
 sipping her chocolate. 
 
 11 It has always been my opinion, Sir Griffith," I say, as I seat 
 myself at the table, " that the birds would gain but little by leaving 
 their snug nests, if the worm itself were not an early riser." 
 
 " Perhaps the worm is of a dissipated turn, and stops out all 
 night," chuckles Sir Griffith. "How then? Fancy a worm sing- 
 ing ' We won't go home till morning! ' Eh ? " 
 
 " Well," I proceed, " suppose some winged fowl should mistake 
 me, as would be most probable, for a worm, and snap me up? I 
 prefer waiting until their maws are filled, and picking up whatever 
 stray morsels may be left after their feast." 
 
 " Had that sentiment come from Agnes, it would not have sur- 
 prised me," he remarks, busily plying knife and fork. " But from 
 you, who are forever worming out secrets and bits of scandal, and 
 varied information, it sounds very strange ' passing strange.' ' 
 
 " You cannot accuse me of ever having wriggled into your con- 
 fidence," I retort. 
 
 " ' That's wormwood." 
 
 "What nobleman, I wonder, has his seat in Avington?" says 
 Lady Egerton, glancing up questioningly from the Morning Post, 
 which she has just begun to read. 
 
 " Where ?" queries Sir Griffith, as he pauses in the act of raising 
 his cup to his lips. 
 
 " Avington," repeats her Ladyship. " Here's a long paragraph, 
 headed ' Romance in High Life' ' Sweets for the British Public,' it 
 should be devoted entirely to the private affairs of a certain Earl 
 
 of A . Some public man, I should judge," running her eye 
 
 again over the article. " Can it be Lord Acreman, I wonder? But 
 no; his two places are Pontfort Court, Moncton, and and 
 
 "The other place is in Ireland, isn't it," I ask. " County Meath, 
 I think." 
 
 "Yes; somewhere in Ireland. Remind me, Julia, after break- 
 fast, to look through the A's in the Peerage; or, you might do it 
 
72 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 for me, if you will. Such execrable taste, isn't it, Griffith, to pub- 
 lish one's family affairs in the public newspapers?" 
 
 "A public man can't always help himself, my dear," he replies, 
 in a voice that makes me glance quickly at him. As he holds out the 
 cup for more coffee, his hand trembles visibly, but his countenance 
 is imperturbable, and his voice again steady, as he continues: 
 "When a man tries to serve the people, they think he belongs to 
 them, and take the right of ferreting out his private affairs, in spite 
 of any resistance he may choose to make. But let's hear this arti- 
 cle, Agnes. What is it all about ? " 
 
 Lady Egerton reads aloud: 
 
 (From the Avington News of March 3.) 
 
 KOMANCE IN HIGH LIFE. We take great pleasure in announcing to 
 our readers the extreme good fortune that has lately befallen the well 
 
 known and popular Earl of A . It has been a constant source 
 
 of regret to us that this universally beloved Earl and his beautiful 
 Countess, upon whose head rest the benedictions of the suffering 
 poor, have had no heir to endow with the rich inheritance of their 
 own good qualities, and to be to a future generation if possible 
 
 what Lord A is to this. Though we can never cease to deplore 
 
 that there is no direct inheritor of the title, yet our regret is much 
 lessened by the fact that a richly deserved blessing has been be- 
 stowed upon Lord and Lady A , in the recent recovery of a long- 
 lost and lovely daughter. Many years ago, this child was stolen 
 from her parents, and bravely did they bear the great and irremedi- 
 able loss, passing a lonely, childless life, with the milk of human 
 kindness unsoured, and with a keener sympathy for the sufferings 
 of others. 
 
 By a marvelous chance, unequaled in the pages of romance, but 
 as yet imperfectly explained to us has this child been returned to 
 them in all the loveliness of early womanhood. Beautiful and ac- 
 complished, may she be to them the blessing that they themselves 
 have been to many; and may the good wishes of the townsfolk of 
 Avington for her own happiness be amply fulfilled. 
 
 " Newspaper hyperbole," laughs Lady Egerton. " Beautiful 
 she may be as regards personal appearance, but where would a 
 stolen child acquire the education, refinement and polish necessary 
 to fit her to fill the position of a daughter of a peer of the realm ? 
 They have my sympathy, and well for them if they are not obliged 
 to close their eyes to the pity likely to be hidden under the congrat- 
 ulations of the world. I must say I consider myself more fortunate 
 in our loss than they are in their gain." 
 
 Without comment, Sir Griffith gathers up the letters that lie be- 
 side his plate and slowly reads the addresses. One letter he selects 
 from the others and puts in his pocket unread; another he tosses 
 across the table unopened, saying: 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 73 
 
 "Here, Agnes, this is for you, not for me. Butters is getting 
 careless." The rest he opens but merely skims them over, before 
 he jumps up from his seat and leaves the room, his face puckered 
 by some annoyance. Then I remember my one letter, hitherto neg- 
 lected, and opening it, read: 
 
 "19 LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, W. C., Monday, March 4, 18. 
 ' ' Miss LIFFORD Dear Madame : 
 
 " If you have no engagement for next Friday, I shall do myself 
 the honor of waiting upon you at an early hour on a matter of im- 
 portance. Friday is the nearest day I can name, being the only one 
 this week from which I can spare a few hours. 
 
 " I have the honor to be, dear Madame, 
 
 " Your obedient servant. 
 
 " JEDEDLAH STRUTT." 
 
 "Do you want to read this, Julia?" and Lady Egerton, handing 
 me the letter thrown to her by Sir Griffith, rises and glides grace- 
 fully from the room. 
 
 "TRAVELERS' CLUB, March 4. 
 "MY DEAR LADY EGERTON: 
 
 "I called at your house this afternoon, and was greatly disap- 
 pointed to find no one at home. Only two days in town, engage- 
 ments of importance have unfortunately kept me from paying my 
 respects sooner, and not having heard from you in nearly two 
 months, I am most anxious to learn the state of Sir Griffith's 
 health, and also what news there may be of the missing one. I 
 have been in Italy, as you know, for some time past, and was 
 buoyed up from day to day by the hope of good tidings that never 
 reached me. Although so anxious, I almost dread to meet you, not 
 knowing what there may be to tell, that you had not the heart to 
 write. However, so soon as I can again ' screw my courage to the 
 sticking-place, 5 I shall do myself the honor of calling in Park Lane. 
 
 " With kind regards to Sir Griffith and Miss Lifford, believe me, 
 
 ' ' Yours very sincerely, 
 
 "ALVA INGOLSBY." 
 
74 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Reproachful speech from either side 
 The want of argument supplied; 
 They rail'd, revil'd as often ends 
 The contests of disputing friends. 
 
 - Gay's Fables. 
 
 N Friday morning, long before the hour for fashionable calls, 
 I am waiting impatiently in the drawing-room for the arrival 
 of Mr. Jedediah Strutt. 
 
 He showed a great ignorance of womankind, for all his 
 vaunted knowledge, in sending his note so long before; for what 
 woman could wait patiently three whole days to hear a matter of im- 
 portance under such circumstances, especially? Or, perhaps, he 
 merely wished to annoy me; in which case I have amply revenged 
 myself by making him answer my three notes a day ever since; 
 though in all his replies, the wily old creature never so much as 
 gave me a hint of what his matter of importance was, but was still 
 curt and secretive. 
 
 I am busily knitting away, when the servant announces, not Mr. 
 Strutt, but 
 
 " Mr. Ingolsby! " 
 
 The first glance at his face as he enters, shows it to be radiant, 
 fairly beaming with some happy emotion, not in character with his 
 recently received note. I confess to a feeling of disappointment, 
 for I had pictured to myself the dark cloud I should lift from his 
 handsome brow, with the news / believe to be true, and my greet- 
 ing is, therefore, somewhat cold. 
 
 "My dear Miss Lifford!" he exclaims, his eyes sparkling as he 
 takes both my hands; " pray accept my warmest congratulations on 
 this happy denouement." 
 
 "lam at a loss to understand your meaning, Mr. Ingolsby/' I 
 reply, coldly. " Will you kindly explain yourself, and say for what 
 I am to accept such enthusiastic congratulations ? " 
 
 "Now don't put on that grandiloquent air it doesn't suit you," 
 he says, sitting down beside me and playing with my ball of worsted, 
 " and it makes me uncomfortable. If Florence were but here now 
 to take the starch out of your manner." 
 
 "And pray allow me to ask who Florence may be? a fiancee, no 
 doubt." 
 
 " Yes," he answers, nodding and laughing with an arch look; and 
 with indignation, I say 
 
 " I don't see why /should be congratulated on such an occasion. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 75 
 
 You are doubtless confused by great joy, and on entering spoke the 
 words you expected to hear from my lips." 
 
 " I most assuredly imagined I should hear them echoed," he re- 
 plies, somewhat reproachfully. " Such a happy event demands 
 something of the kind." 
 
 " I confess to being so obtuse as not to see how * the event ' can 
 affect any one but yourself, Mr. Ingolsby. As to congratulations, 
 it would be to the young lady I should offer them, for her conquest 
 of such a paragon of consistency and constancy as yourself." 
 
 " Thanks, Miss Lifford," he says quite good humoredly, not ap- 
 pearing to notice the sarcasm in my tone. " It's all one or soon 
 will be, I hope sincerely to whom you offer them; and I'm glad to 
 see you fully appreciate me." 
 
 His assurance in talking so coolly and shamelessly quite takes my 
 breath away, and there is silence for a moment as he unravels my 
 knitting." 
 
 " You have a good memory, r I at last remark. 
 
 " I flatter myself I have; and I don't intend to forget your cruel 
 conduct in not letting me know the good news. I am indebted to 
 an accident for my enlightenment, and no thanks to you, Miss 
 Lifford/' 
 
 " Indeed; I am very happy to hear it," I reply, thinking he must 
 refer to Lucy's letter, about which he has probably heard from Mr. 
 Strutt, yet wondering angrily how he dare allude to it in the same 
 breath with the announcement which he has just made, and feeling 
 too indignant to gratify him by speaking of it. " But it strikes me 
 you must have learned the art of exaggeration from jour fiancee, for 
 nothing but very trifling good news has it been my good luck to 
 hear lately." 
 
 " Now what is the use of keeping up that air of ignorance, when 
 I am in the secret ? You are awfully bitter this morning about 
 something. I was never so thoroughly and completely sat upon in 
 my life. I really wish she were here to soften you a little." 
 
 " If I am bitter, Mr. Ingolsby, you are vague and incoherent; and 
 I am utterly at a loss to comprehend what secret you allude to." 
 
 " Oh, very well. Keep up the jest if it pleases you. I suppose 
 you will go so far as to pretend not to know her, when she and her 
 mother come to call?" 
 
 Thoroughly roused, I tell him: "The young woman and her 
 mother will be wise not to try the experiment of calling. Of course 
 they can't though, for Lady Egerton will never consent to call upon 
 them." 
 
 " Indeed!" and it is his turn to look dignified and to speak with 
 
76 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 compressed lips. " Pray, why not?" lam too angry to answer, 
 and he goes on: " Your knowledge of good breeding seems to be on 
 the decrease. I cannot accuse you, Miss Lifford, of possessing a 
 good memory, and I have my doubts of your being troubled with a 
 heart." 
 
 " I beg to inform you, sir, that my heart is here in its proper 
 place not flying around at the beck and call of every one who may 
 ask for it, as is that of a certain person of my acquaintance." 
 
 "As is mine of course. I must really return thanks and observe 
 that I am not aware of having given any signs of fickleness. Whereas 
 your remarks in regard to Florence " 
 
 ' ' How dare you mention that name in the same breath that you 
 deny the charge of fickleness!" and I jump up, no longer able to 
 suppress my anger. "You should be ashamed of yourself, but I 
 don't believe you know the meaning of the word. Do you wish to 
 ins alt me by speaking in this manner when you are aware of how much 
 I know of your pretended love in the past ? You will please excuse 
 me, Mr. Ingolsby, I have an engagement which calls me away from 
 your very pleasant society;" and I am about to leave the room when 
 he places his hand on the door-handle, barring my passage out. 
 
 1 ' Wait one moment, Miss Lifford. It cannot be possible that you 
 are really ignorant of the facts of the case, and that we have been 
 playing at cross-purposes ? I thought at first that we were only 
 having a mock passage-at-arms, but do you mean to tell me you 
 haven't heard the story of Flo " 
 
 "I mean to tell you, young man, that I don't wish to hear that 
 name again; and you will have the goodness to let me pass." 
 
 At this moment the handle is turned from without, Alva moves 
 away, and Mr. Strutt, bearer of important news, is announced. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 77 
 
 BOOK SECOND, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I have heard, 
 
 And from men learned, that before the touch 
 (The common coarser touch) of good or ill, 
 That oftentimes a subtle sense informs 
 Some spirits of the approach of things to be! 
 
 Proctor. 
 
 'O Lucy Egerton Sir Griffith's project of a masquerade for 
 the celebration of her birthday, did not long remain a 
 secret. By her own penetration, by catching occasional in- 
 advertently dropped words, she could not, although without 
 any particular desire to do so, but discover what was the intended 
 surprise that Sir Griffith had planned for her. Then she in her 
 turn began to plot and scheme, and in the retirement of her own 
 rooms prepared a disguise for herself, not being sure that one to 
 her taste had been chosen for her, and determined, in any event, to 
 glean an extra share of the evening's amusement by puzzling those 
 who would expect to see her in another character. 
 
 The costume she formed was not, by any means, complex only 
 the simple dress of a housemaid. With keen anticipation of pleas- 
 ure, she gave odd moments to the altering of a brown merino, so 
 that it might not be recognized as hers, and busied herself with 
 making the necessary muslin apron and little white cap of the order; 
 yet the approach of the eventful evening brought a strange and 
 increasing sense of sadness. For days the jaunty cap and apron 
 lay undisturbed in their box; the brown merino hung neglected 
 in her clothes-press. It no longer gave her the pleasure it had 
 done at first to take them out and admire her handiwork, while she 
 mused on what she should say and do when she had put them on. 
 During this time she might, at any opportune moment, reasonably 
 expect a declaration from Ingolsby, yet, as girls will sometimes do 
 at this greatest and most pleasant crisis of their lives, she avoided 
 a tete-a-tete with him, and when they were unavoidably thrown to- 
 gether, took refuge in argument and in quarreling. These days 
 should have been to her the brightest within her memory, and yet 
 they were not. "Why, she could not have told, unless it were that 
 
78 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 an occasional constraint in his manner, an oft repeated pause in 
 bis talk, as he hesitated over some soft nothing, were sufficient to 
 make her doubtful of his earnestness, and so cause her unacknowl- 
 edged distrust. 
 
 Whatever the reason might be, when the hour at last arrived for 
 the great surprise the grand climax when Sir Griffith divulged 
 his scheme for the evening's amusement", she was unusually low- 
 spirited. Her beautiful dress of Cybele was brought to her, and 
 she tried to fight against melancholy, accusing herself of ingratitude 
 toward those who were seeking to give her pleasure. 
 
 Whatever one's real feelings may be, it is possible, when one 
 makes the effort, to at least appear to be light-hearted and happy; 
 and none would have guessed who heard Lucy's merry laugh, or 
 could have seen the smiling face behind her mask, how heavy was 
 the heart heavy in an unreasonable, persistent, unintelligible way 
 with which she entered the ball-room, clad in the gay dress of Queen 
 Cybele. 
 
 It sometimes happens on a winter's day that a broad belt of 
 clouds, encircling the horizon, leaves a space of blue above, through 
 which the mid-day sun shines down upon earth so brightly, that, 
 if not chancing to glance upward, one would never guess the storm 
 which brews so near. Thus it is that sorrows unseen crowd around 
 us, ever ready to meet above, and come crushing down upon us 
 with a weight of darkness. 
 
 Here stood this girl in all her pride of youth and beauty, and 
 those who saw only the bright and gay surroundings, indicative of 
 wealth and position, how little could they know of the lowering 
 clouds that hung heavily upon her horizon, ready at the very mo- 
 ment to join together and shut out the sun of prosperity that now 
 shed its rays upon her! 
 
 Not long could she sustain the character of Cybele. It soon be- 
 came unendurable, and stealing away to her room, she assumed the 
 simpler one she had herself prepared; and then, hidden in a corner 
 unnoticed and unsought, hoping for pleasure as a mere spectator, 
 she overheard the tale told by the two old gossiping dowagers. 
 
 It was the story of her origin that she heard, and she believed it; 
 but it came upon her so suddenly, and unexpectedly, that at first 
 she did not realize the full force of what was embodied in the narra- 
 tive. But when she had fled from the gay scene, dazzling and con- 
 fusing in, the extreme, and had reached a portion of the balcony 
 without, which had been deserted for the dance, the cool night air 
 calmed her throbbing pulses, and for the first time it came upon her, 
 in all its cruel reality, that she was not what she had always sup- 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 79 
 
 posed herself to be. The thought was unendurable to one of her 
 proud temperament, and never doubting the truth of what she had 
 heard, her memory turned with bitterness toward those who had de- 
 ceived her. What though they had lavished affection and wealth 
 upon her, giving her everything that could be wished for and an- 
 ticipating her eveiy desire, they had deceived her in this! They 
 had fostered a pride of birth and what was she ? Not only the 
 child of a common village laborer, but one who had killed his wife 
 her mother! in a drunken fury. Had they never educated her, 
 never heaped these luxuries upon her, she would not now feel the 
 weight of all this. Could she leave her station in society to join 
 that man Sullivan? Never! Yet, though she could not, her sense 
 of ri-ht forbade that she should occupy a false position; and as 
 these thoughts passed through her mind, she determined on a course 
 to pursue. Taking her fate into her own hands, she would flee 
 assume an humbler position in the social scale, where unknown she 
 w r ould not be pointed at as one who had enjoyed fine feathers till 
 they had fallen from her. She would flee from real and false par- 
 ents alike from friends from society from him! and he just 
 then coming out, disturbed her meditations and told her of his love 
 and asked her to be his wife. Then she found unhappy girl ! that 
 there was something which, though it strengthened her purpose, 
 yet made the pain of this more poignant than it would otherwise 
 have been. Loving him as she did, could she permit him to marry 
 one against whom she knew not what scandal might be erected on 
 the foundation of this one truth ? Would he not have to fight 
 with society for her sake ? Would he not, perhaps, be ashamed of 
 her? and her blood tingled at the thought; and though she could 
 not blame him, yet she felt it would be more than she could bear. 
 And as she put her head down on his shoulder, she thought, ' ' per- 
 haps, if he knew what I know, he would not be speaking so. Shall 
 I tell him all and try him ? and perchance, find him wanting? No, 
 no ! let me carry away into the world the image of one noble and 
 good, as I have always known him; and neither take away all light 
 from my own future, nor, by my selfishness, ruin his." 
 
 Starting away, she told him, with a composure she had not thought 
 a moment before she could have assumed, that his hopes were never 
 to be fulfilled; and yet, unconsciously she let him know that she 
 loved him, and with his kiss on her brow wandered off alone into 
 the garden, self-communing, her mind busy weaving plans for a 
 secret flight. 
 
 Unconsciously her wavering steps took her down over the sloping 
 lawn; down to the lakeside, through the weeping willows, on to the 
 
80 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 bank to the very water's edge. She gazed at the calm surface 
 which seemed to her excited fancy to have a strange fascination in 
 its cold rippling glitter. All was like a night-mare her spirit would 
 have fled from the spot, but the water held her as though by iron 
 bands. Then it seemed as if a hidden power drew her forward on, 
 on towards the glitter and ripple of the water into the little boat 
 that lay upon its bosom. With every nerve quivering, she took up 
 the oars and rowed herself out over the silvery surface toward the 
 one reflection of the round white-faced full moon. She looked at 
 the pale orb as it seemed to lie in the water at her feet, and then 
 glanced up at it overhead, and as her eyes rested there the almost 
 painful silence was broken as a breeze swept gently by, sighing 
 sadly through the poplars. A sudden burst of music came from the 
 ball-room with the hum of laughing, happy voices; a little bird 
 twittered and chirped in its nest near by; a frog croaked hoarsely 
 from among the reeds; an owl hooted in its tree nature seemed 
 with one accord to arouse, and ask this girl what she was about to 
 do. The spell that had bound her seemed to break as the silence 
 was broken, and she put the question to herself. Shuddering, she 
 rose hastily to her feet, forgetful of her insecure position, conscious 
 alone of the horror of herself, and the great yearning for help and 
 pity that swelled in her heart. Passionately she clasped her hands 
 and raised them toward heaven as all her soul spoke in the sobbing 
 prayer: 
 
 "From pride and temptation, oh Lord protect me!" 
 As the prayer was wafted upward, the soft breeze once more came 
 floating by, and in its passage swayed the boat with sufficient force 
 to make her lose her balance, as she stood upright. Tottering, she 
 fell, and as she felt herself nearing the water that had but now ap- 
 peared so attractive, she shrank from meeting that death which she 
 had so recently longed to embrace. 
 
 Ah, human nature human nature! is it not always thus? "We 
 crave, we strive for an object with all our heart, and when it is at- 
 tained, our eyes are opened to its defects, and we would shun it; 
 yet, not learning by sad experience, we still wish with a great desire 
 for others, which in their turn prove as unsatisfactory as those that 
 have gone before. And, alas! after all our wasted hopes and desires, 
 how often will the unpleasing object its charm lost as we grasp it 
 cling to us in spite of all efforts to cast it off. Fortunately it was 
 not to be so for Lucy. Her hand had not yet closed upon that of 
 death. By a lucky chance Ingolsby was near and saved her from 
 the watery grave which he then thought she had sought of her own 
 free will. 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 81 
 
 She Lad not lost consciousness in falling, and as she rose in the 
 water she felt a strong arm thrown around her and knew that she 
 was saved by one who was swimming with her to the bank. "When, 
 dripping and cold, she felt herself laid upon the grass while some 
 one supported her head, she opened her eyes and looked, with no 
 sensation of surprise, into Ingolsby's face. She knew that it was 
 he before she saw him, as you do sometimes feel the presence of a 
 loved one. Gladly would she have died there and then pardon 
 her, she was only a romantic girl for the arms of him she loved 
 were close around her, while his face was bent very near to hers, as 
 he tried to see by the moonlight if she were conscious. When he 
 smiled with relief at her wide-open eyes, and caught her up again 
 hastily in his arms, striding away with her toward the house, she 
 knew that his burden was very dear to him; for he laid his cheek 
 tenderly against hers and called her endearing names. Yet her 
 heart gave no responsive throb of joy. She knew that it was for the 
 last time. If he could ever forget that she was not his equal in the 
 eyes of the world, she could not no, not even now as she lay in his 
 arms. 
 
 She knew that she might trust him not to cause a scene; so she 
 spoke no word, and he avoided as she wished the walks where 
 guests might be loitering, and took her in by a private way through 
 empty halls up to her own room, laid her upon a sofa and rang for 
 her maid. 
 
 " Your mistress accidentally fell into the lake," he said. "Attend 
 to her quietly and don't disturb any one." 
 
 He left her then, and her eyes followed him to the door with a 
 grateful, yet as he construed it imploring glance, that influenced 
 him long in keeping what he thought to be her secret. 
 
 Still her purpose remained unshaken. She would leave this 
 house before her courage flagged, and to succeed she must avoid 
 drawing attention to herself. 
 
 " Hodges," she said to her maid, who had dried her and put other 
 clothes upon her, indulging the while in exclamations of wonder 
 and sympathy; " Hodges, is my hair dry enough to be re-dressed?" 
 
 "Miss?" 
 
 " Is my hair dry enough to be re-dressed ?" 
 
 ' ' Why, miss, you don't surely mean " 
 
 " I mean, Hodges," with determination, " that when my hair is 
 sumciently dry I wish it rearranged. I am going down stairs again." 
 
 ' ' But Miss Lucy, mem ; you'll be sick. I am sure my lady, mem " 
 
 " Never mind 'my lady/ Hodges, but hurry. I want to be there 
 6 
 
82 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 before supper, at the unmasking. If you don't help me I must 
 dress myself." 
 
 ' ' That be somethin' the ladies I 'as served 'as never 'ad to do yet, 
 Miss," with offended dignity. "I knows my dooty an' I does it.* 
 If I persumed over much in hattempting a word of hadvice, I beg 
 parding, I'm sure, Miss; and I shall remember, Miss, not to offend 
 again. " 
 
 J* You have not offended me," said Lucy, wearily, as she sat be- 
 fore her glass watching the rapid fingers that braided and arranged 
 her hair; "but I like to have my own way, Hodges, you know, and 
 I am too tired to argue about it. " 
 
 "Humph!" said the woman to herself; "too tired to argy, but 
 not too tired to dance and caper, and laugh and chatter till day- 
 light." 
 
 Because a brain fatigued does not necessarily include bodily ex- 
 haustion, but is sometimes best served by physical exertion, if you 
 but knew it, Hodges. 
 
 Returning to the ball-room with a vague sense of misery upon 
 her, and with a dull, heavy aching at her heart, she yet forced her- 
 self to laugh and talk, and the flightiness of her words and actions 
 was looked upon by all as being mere exuberance of spirits; but 
 when the festivities finally drew to a close, she fled gratefully to her 
 own apartments, which seemed, in their quiet, a perfect ark of ref- 
 uge. Dismissing her sleepy maid, she sank, with a sense of relief, 
 despite the numbness and leaden heaviness of her heart, into a 
 chair before the fire. The bright firelight played with the golden 
 tint of her hair, as it swept loosely over the hands that pressed her 
 burning cheeks, and as a flame died out, leaving a dark shadow on 
 the falling tresses, another leaping forth, supplied its place, and 
 recalled the shade of gold. And so, minute after minute, the reflect- 
 ion of the flickering blaze played at hide-and-seek in the streaming 
 hair, and in the dark eyes that gazed into its glowing depths, review- 
 ing the happy past, and maturing plans for the future, which seemed 
 so dark and hopeless. The present she cast from her mind, until 
 receding further into the past, it could be looked upon more se- 
 renely from a distance. 
 
 The minutes passed and lengthened into hours, and the flames 
 forgot their game of hide-and-seek, and sank slowly and sleepily 
 back into their bed of glowing coals. Occasionally, one more lively 
 than the rest, would leap forth and try to rouse the others into re- 
 newed play; but at last even they sank into perfect rest, and draw- 
 ing over them their coverlet of ashes, died away for ever in sleep. 
 
 Then the first light of dawn crept slowly into the room, but still 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 83 
 
 the dark eyes looked steadily into the half-empty grate. Not a 
 movement had there been, beyond the stirring of a hair, or the 
 quiver of a muscle, in these long hours. The day brightened grad- 
 ually, the sun rose above the horizon, and a stray beam stealing 
 through the shutters, at last roused the musing girl into life and 
 activity. 
 
 Wildly she started up, tossing back her falling hair. Was it too 
 late for action? Had she wasted too many precious minutes in idle 
 dreams? No, no! there was yet time for everything; and in a 
 moment her busy hands were at work. What was done? A clothes- 
 press was opened, a few plain dresses taken forth, and placed in a 
 small, black, leather traveling-bag, with some books, writing ma- 
 terials, and a few trifles of no intrinsic value only mementos of 
 days gone by. When the bag was closed and locked, she turned to 
 the window, threw up the sash and breathed in the fresh morning 
 air, as one in a fever would drink cold water. The view was so 
 peacefully beautiful, with a mist just rising from tree and hedge, 
 discovering the deer trooping back from their morning draught at 
 the lake's edge; but a glance at the sun showed it to be well up in 
 the heavens, and with alarm, she sprang away from the window, 
 hastily caught up the bag, and threw over her arm a brown dress, 
 water-stained, green with crushed grass, and still damp from its 
 recent immersion in the lake. Moving to the door, she cautiously 
 opened it and looked without. No one was stirring; and drawing 
 her dressing-gown around her, she stealthily crossed the hall, and 
 passed into a long corridor that led past the doors of vacant rooms. 
 A turn to the right, another to the left, up a flight of stairs to an- 
 other long corridor, and a few steps down into a triangular room 
 used as a repository for odds and ends of broken furniture, luggage 
 and unused articles of all kinds. 
 
 Pushing her way through the labyrinth of lumber, she passed be- 
 hind a pile of mildewed books, and with a readiness of hand that 
 proved her perfect acquaintance with its secret, found and touched 
 a hidden spring which slid back a panel in the wall, revealing a 
 small room beyond. 
 
 It was one of her childhood's discoveries, which, with a reticence 
 unusual in children, she had kept to herself, for no weightier reason 
 than that she liked to have a secret, and it was a nice hiding-place 
 and play-room. Many were the stolen minutes she had passed 
 there, first with dolls, then with books; later it had been her favorite 
 spot for meditation when she struggled for mastery over temper. 
 This unruly spirit, a flaw in her character, she fondly thought was 
 conquered; yet still it lived and lingered in her, latent, but ever 
 
84 BEHIND THE AERAS. 
 
 ready to break forth in some new, and, at first, unrecognized form, 
 and fiercely rage in all its fury, until, detected for what it was, she 
 crushed it down once more. Even now had it rushed forth with over- 
 whelming power; for call it what she might pride, sensitiveness, 
 duty it was the fiery, not yet thoroughly disciplined spirit which pos- 
 sessed her that now brought her with a fixed purpose to this wierd, 
 ghostly room. Ah, it was a ghostly looking room, one likely to strike 
 terror to a childish heart, and yet, whatever fear she had ever felt, had 
 been a sort of pleasure to her, and she had always loved the place. 
 The walls were hung with torn and musty tapestry; air, a dim light, 
 and occasionally a little rain, admitted through a broken, stained 
 glass skylight which cast fantastic shadows on the once polished floor. 
 In the far corner stood a high, old-fashioned carved oak bedstead 
 stripped of its ancient hangings; beside it a high-backed chair, with 
 treacherous -looking spindle-shanked legs, slender enough to be 
 suggestive of untimely weakness. To the right of the door hung a 
 mirror, the quicksilver all granulated and streaked, giving forth 
 reflections as dismal and contorted as those of any misguided mind. 
 Just beneath it in a tiny cradle, where it had rested peacefully for 
 seven long years, lay a one-legged, armless, noseless doll, neglected 
 and forgotten. Its appearance brought a faint, quickly -passing 
 smile to Lucy's lips as she paused an instant on the threshhold. 
 Then her glance passed on to the far end of the room, where, upon 
 the dusty wall hung a picture it seemed to be a portrait of a boy 
 with curly hair, and laughing, guileless eyes. Moving across the 
 floor, she clasped her hands and looked up at the innocent young 
 face. 
 
 "Poor boy! poor Guy!" she said,- "Yes, you must be Guy, the 
 outcast from society; or why did I find you, pretty child, so many 
 years ago hidden away from sight. I little knew your story, or who 
 or what you were when I brought you here in secret, from fear that if 
 I spoke you would be taken from me. You have had a strange fas- 
 cination for me, Guy, as child, as girl, and now as woman, for I am 
 a woman henceforth. And you, you are a man now, surely but 
 what sort of a man, poor fellow! You are a comfort to me, Guy a 
 sad sort of comfort; for your fate seems so much worse than mine, 
 that I can take heart and go about the work that is before me. I 
 am going away from you soon, Guy, to leave you hanging here, 
 perhaps never to be seen again by human eyes, till you are faded 
 out of all likeness to yourself. I wish I could take you with me, to 
 be always before me as young and innocent, not as the image my 
 mind will surely form of the murderer. Oh, that fearful word! 
 Forgive me, Guy, that I could have applied it to you, for you must 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 85 
 
 be my confidant and help me to pass the weary hours that I am 
 here. But I must work. It is the best, the surest remedy for a 
 heart-ache like mine." 
 
 She cast off her wrapper then, and put on the brown dress she 
 had brought upon her arm. " If any one sees me by accident," she 
 thought, "they will take me for the uneasy spirit of one who has 
 drowned herself." The correctness of this conjecture was fully 
 proved by the event. Then she sat down upon the dusty chair for- 
 getful of her resolve, and said to herself how much harder to bear 
 than was all else that he should believe her capable of the act. 
 "Yet I was almost guilty when he took me from the lake guilty in 
 thought and not knowing that I fell in accidentally, he will be the 
 more ready to believe that I have made away with myself. Better 
 for him, better for him, that it should be so. He will despise, and 
 despising forget me, and love again as I can never do. Oh, I could 
 bear anything, everything, if he but knew the truth; knew that I 
 fled to save him from the bitter alternative of a miserable marriage 
 or sullied honor!" 
 
 How selfish even the purest love will sometimes make one! She 
 knew it would be best for him to think her dead and gone with a 
 stain upon her name, yet she would have him know that she lived 
 and was innocent. Are there not many who, without a pang of 
 conscience, would shut up a loved one from the world to live only 
 for them, while they lived for everyone, and enjoying all things 
 themselves, without a thought of faithlessness, would yet wonder 
 why the other should experience any feeling of jealousy ? Yet they 
 think they love unselfishly ! Lucy's love was being purified of self- 
 ishness by self-abnegation. 
 
 "Hark!" 
 
 She started to her feet and stood listening intently as a door shut 
 noisily in the distance, and the echo died slowly away. 
 
 " I thought they had discovered my absence already; but if they 
 had there would be confusion and noise enough to reach my ears 
 even here. The time has not come yet, and oh, how I wish it were 
 over." 
 
 With a sigh she turned to the black leather traveling-bag, opened 
 it and took out writing materials, and dusting the table laid them 
 upon it. Then she wrote one line upon a bit of paper. 
 
 " The less I write, the less I shall reveal," she thought. 
 
 But how cold, how heartless the words looked, staring up at her 
 from the paper. 
 
 1 have gone. Search will be useless. 
 
 She hesitated. The Egertons would draw the desired conclusion 
 
86 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 from these abrupt sentences, and no others she could think of would 
 serve her purpose so well; but rather than leave them this, she would 
 write nothing. Ah, but they must be induced to begin the search 
 at once so that it should soon be declared hopeless. These first 
 three words would inform them of her flight, while the other four 
 would prompt them to seek her, at the same time that it prepared 
 them for failure. She closed her lips tightly and rose from the table. 
 
 "If I should be seen in the act of leaving this in my room, I can 
 still return here during the day, though it would not suit my plans 
 so well as that they should think I had had time to get far away be- 
 fore they discovered my absence. It was stupid to forget it, and 
 perhaps I had better run no risks. " 
 
 But still she moved across the floor and, opening the panel again, 
 walked boldly forth into the larger room beyond. Passing cautiously 
 through the piles of abandoned and broken furniture, she gained 
 the long corridor, and stepping quickly and noiselessly along, 
 reached her own door unperceived. A moment she paused on the 
 threshold of this room she had left so lately never expecting to see 
 again, and to re-enter which she knew would entail the taking of a 
 second farewell of the familiar objects within; but while she stood 
 hesitating, voices sounded in the hall beneath, and a footfall was 
 heard on the broad staircase that ended just beside where she stood. 
 To retreat without being seen was impossible; the only way of es- 
 cape lay before her. Quickly turning the door-handle, she glided 
 into her room, and closing the door softly behind her, walked 
 straight to the dressing-table and pinned to the pincushion that scrap 
 of paper with those few curt words : / have gone search will be use- 
 less. At that instant a knock sounded on the door, and she sprang 
 lightly away into the adjoining room, and stood there breathless, 
 just within the doorway. Only an instant she stood, for that paper 
 was there on the table, and if any one entering should chance to 
 read it before coming in to where she was, what would become of 
 her ? Flight might then be impossible. She must recover it at any 
 risk, and even were she seen, they would not see it; and back she 
 darted and snatched it up. As her fingers closed upon the paper 
 she heard the door-handle turn. To regain her former shelter un- 
 observed was now out of the question; but a massive oaken clothes- 
 press stood near at hand against the wall, and quick as thought she 
 sprang into it. Scarcely had she drawn too its ponderous doors upon 
 herself, when the room-door opened and Miss Julia Liflbrd (for 
 it was my step and knock that had alarmed her) looked into an empty 
 tenantless room, and after a hasty glance around, passed into the 
 vacant one beyond. Then from Lucy's hiding-place a hand and 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 87 
 
 arm was cautiously stretched forth, and the paper once more fast- 
 ened to the pincushion on the dressing-table; and when Miss Lifford, 
 returning 1 , went up to the press and glanced in, nothing but dresses 
 hung revealed to view, and it was on a trembling, frightened girl 
 that she closed its heavy oaken doors, and turned the key. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 '"Tis strange how many unimagined charges 
 Can swarm upon a man, when once tjie lid 
 Of the Pandora box of contumely 
 Is open'd o'er his head." 
 
 HAT must have been Lucy's sensations as she heard the 
 ominous click of the lock ! Was she to perish like Genevra 
 in the chest; or must she call for aid, and thus ignomin- 
 iously end her well formed plans ? For the moment she 
 felt more inclined to choose the former fate, and horrible thoughts 
 of how in some far-off day her bones would be found there, were 
 passing through her mind, when an exclamation from without her 
 narrow prison broke the silence, and footsteps were heard hurrying 
 from the room. 
 
 " She has found the paper! " and Lucy listened intently for the 
 alarm which she knew would now be given. How long it seemed 
 before the hum of far-off voices was borne to her ears ! and presently 
 horses' feet grated on the gravel without, and directions for the 
 search came to' her through the open window. "When Ingolsby's 
 voice rose above the rest, firm and commanding, how her heart beat 
 and sank with a still greater weight upon it than before. 'Twas 
 long ere the sounds surging through the house, now near, and now 
 far, died away; and longer even to this girl, shut up here with but 
 two alternatives before her, of death that she actually thought her- 
 self capable of enduring, or the home of that man Sullivan the 
 latter thought branching out into dismal pictures of Alva generously 
 marrying her and being dragged down from his position in society, 
 or proving false and wedding another before her eyes longer to her 
 seemed the hours of that long day than to those waiting in the draw- 
 ing-rooms below, or even to those engaged in the search. And when 
 they returned at last how unsuccessful she well knew she was 
 distracted by the remembrance that she had left the panel of her 
 ghostly room open, and then by the fear that they might come here 
 to seek her. 
 
 Once during the day the room door opened and there came a 
 
88 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 whispering as between two people. Then by degrees the voices 
 sounded more distinctly, as if those who spoke were gaining confi- 
 dence. One voice said: 
 
 " Such a pretty, pretty room! and really arranged with good taste. 
 I wonder if it was her own taste or Lady Egerton's." 
 
 "Not her's you maybe sure, Mabel," spoke the other; "how 
 could one expect refinement from such a source." 
 
 " But, mamma, a home like this must have had a refining influence 
 upon any nature/' 
 
 " Such refinement, like gilding on brass, takes little to rub it off. 
 My dear girl, while I think of it, I want to give you a piece of ad- 
 vice. While you are young, never publicly give an opinion such as 
 you expressed a short time ago before every one down stairs. It 
 passes for unamiability and has no weight whatever with any one . 
 Wait till you are my age and such remarks will have greater force, 
 passing then for a knowledge of the world not for mere spiteful- 
 ness." 
 
 " Oh, it is easy for you to talk like Chesterfield, mamma, but at 
 my age I'm sure you never practiced such precepts." 
 
 "It would have been better for me if I had practiced them; but 
 unfortunately, there was no one to teach me early in youth, and I 
 only learned wisdom by sad experience." 
 
 " But now, mamma, don't you think what I said was correct: that 
 she has run away with one of the footmen?" 
 
 " What you said, my dear, was a mistake in a double sense; it 
 showed a want of tact, and it was improbable. It is far more likely 
 that she has run away for the mere sake of being thought a heroine; 
 and courting publicity for such an affair proves the possession of a 
 vulgar nature. Had the girl brains, she would have endeavored to 
 hush it up, and coaxed old Sir Griffith into buying the man off; but 
 instead she runs away, fondly imagining and believing that she will 
 be brought back and reinstated in her old position. Without a 
 thought for the feelings of her friends, she enjoys the prospect of 
 notoriety; but who ever yet 'made a silk purse/ you know, my 
 dear?" 
 
 " Where do you think she has gone, mamma?" 
 
 "Not very far, Mabel: taken refuge with that Jolliffe Tufnell, 
 perhaps, of whose society it appears she was so fond." 
 
 Oh, the pang of wounded pride that shot through poor Lucy's 
 heart as she listened! To be so misjudged by a woman and by a 
 girl like herself! 'Twas bitter, bitter, this awakening from her first 
 delusion, that all the world would put the right construction on her 
 conduct, understand her motives, and appreciate them; would feel 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 89 
 
 with her, that she could not in honesty retain her position, and sym- 
 pathize with her, that she could not remain in sight of her old home 
 and become the object of their pity. Her first awakening from her 
 first delusion, 'twas the more bitter, for, though she knew it not at 
 the time, with this dream melted away many others she had cher- 
 ished; the bright visions of perfect goodwill and loving kindness in 
 the world, true charity and human sympathy. The iron entered into 
 her soul, and formed the first opening for the entrance of unbelief 
 in the unalloyed goodness of human nature; but her own nature 
 was too pure, though she fancied herself very worldly-wise, to admit 
 more than would serve as a shield against evil in going through life. 
 With a heart that felt bleeding inwardly, she asked herself, if her 
 parentage was so stamped upon her that none could believe good of 
 her. "Were she to die here she could not call to these people for 
 aid; never could she return to the position she had left, to be 
 sneered at by such as they. And the two women went out carelessly 
 as they had entered, little knowing the sting they had left to rankle, 
 and never be forgotten, though it might be forgiven, in one inno- 
 cent heart. 
 
 Still no one came to seek for her. That one move was neg- 
 lected which changed the future of her game of life; and she was 
 left there to suffer undisturbed. So the day passed. The evening 
 came and darkened into night, and still no one else had come to 
 that room. All had been dark to her from the first, and the advance 
 of time not marked by the changing light, but by the striking of the 
 stable clock. After the unsuccessful searchers had returned, six, 
 seven, eight, nine, ten, sounded from the great time-piece, and dur- 
 ing those weary hours she tried in vain to quiet the confusion in her 
 brain, and bring her mind to bear upon some plan of escape. But it 
 would not obey her will, and kept wandering to all subjects but the 
 all-important one of what she should do. Gradually it failed to 
 grasp even these, and she thought of nothing but the horror of her 
 situation, as she crouched down in a sort of daze, watching and wait- 
 ing for the striking of the hours, and striving to keep back the 
 growing sense of womanly weakness and fear. At last the silence 
 and loneliness became unendurable. She felt as though she were 
 dying in that corner, and again she shrank from death as she had 
 done the night before. Was every night in her future life to be 
 filled with ever-increasing horrors ? Slowly and painfully she rose 
 from her cramped position, and, with a faint, wailing cry, full of 
 anguish, yet too low to be overheard, pushed againt the press-door 
 with all her strength, dimly expecting and fearing a strong resis- 
 tance. It was the strength of despair that she brought to bear, but 
 
90 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 the expected resistance was not met; the door yielded and swung 
 back upon its hinges, for, oh, blessed chance! it had only been 
 closed, not shut, and the bolt of the lock had shot harmlessly forth 
 on the outside, leaving a long, narrow opening, through which had 
 entered the air that had saved her from suffocation. With a dull, 
 heavy sound, she fell to the floor, and lay there unconscious. The 
 sudden relief had been too much for her already overtasked nerves. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Alone she sate alone! that worn-out word 
 So idly spoken and so coldly heard; 
 Yet all that poets sing and grief has known 
 Of hope laid waste, knells in that word Alone! 
 
 The New Timon. 
 
 TDNIGHT was sounding from the great clock in the stable 
 tower. The moon, riding high in the heavens, looked 
 down from a cloudless sky; and, bathing all nature with 
 'a flood of silvery light, cast one pale beam through the 
 open window of a dainty little boudoir upon the bent figure of a 
 young girl rising from the floor. Slowly the figure rose to its feet, 
 and gliding noiselessly to the door, stealthily opened it, looked out 
 and listened. All was dark; not a sound to be heard, save the re- 
 verberation of the last stroke of the hour just dying away on the 
 soft night air. 
 
 Presently a shadow, dark even in the gloom of the corridor, 
 groped its way warily along, at times stumbling in the darkness, 
 and then pausing with strained attention to catch the first and 
 faintest sign of alarm. None came, however, and the shadow moved 
 on. On, on it went, traversing the obscure corridors, mounting 
 and descending the long, dark flights of stairs, and cautiously feel- 
 ing its way in and out among the debris in the lumber-room and 
 so, at last, Lucy reached her place of refuge in safety, and closed 
 the secret panel behind her. A weird light was in the little room, 
 throwing strange shadows about her; for the moonbeams struggled 
 in through the dusty skylight above, and in their dim light Lucy 
 might well have passed for a ghost, as she wandered purposelessly 
 about. 
 
 " I wonder why I am so timid now," she said aloud, with no fear 
 of being overheard here. " Having gone so far successfully, why 
 should I feel this fear and trembling ? Are not my escapes of last 
 night and to-night signs that I shall succeed in the end?" Yet a 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 91 
 
 chill of horror crept over her as she thought of the death from slow 
 suffocation that would have been hers had the press door but closed 
 more tightly, and her cries for assistance been unheard in the gen- 
 eral excitement. " It must be want of food that makes me so faint- 
 hearted and undecided. I will not turn back now." And out into 
 the silent house she went once more. 'Twas no easy task to find 
 her way in the intense darkness, but a perfect knowledge of every 
 turn and stairway assisted her in reaching the butler's pantry at 
 last. She opened back the window-shutters, and by the light of 
 the now sinking moon, gathered together a supply of food sufficient 
 to keep her from starvation till she found another opportunity for 
 a like expedition. Then, from its nail in the corner, she took down 
 a dark-lantern, and lighting it, pictured to herself, with that keen 
 sense of the ludicrous in her nature which brought a smile to her 
 lips in times even of greatest sorrow and pain, for 
 
 "Some things are of that nature as to make 
 One's fancy chuckle while one's heart doth ache," 
 
 the consternation of poor Watkins when he found his larder so 
 mysteriously devastated, and wondered, with a little compunction 
 of conscience, on whom the blame would fall. Closing the shutters, 
 and letting a mere thread of light stream from the lantern in her 
 hand, she went back up the broad, grand staircase, an incongruous 
 figure in her brown, stained dress, with the basket of food on her 
 arm, and munching a biscuit as she went; for let romantic ideas be 
 what they will, heroines, even in the midst of greatest trouble and 
 distress, feel the pangs of hunger like other human beings, and 
 practical and unpoetic as it may seem, must eat to sustain life. 
 On she went, up to that spot which now seemed all that was left to 
 her of home; and having deposited her basket upon the floor, came 
 out once again. After many trips to and from one of the vacant 
 rooms off the long corridor in the east wing, she succeeded in bring- 
 ing a mattress and bed-clothing for the old-fashioned canopied bed- 
 stead in the corner. 
 
 Cautiously, tirelessly, and almost noiselessly, ever on the alert 
 for a surprise, yet with firmness and determination she toiled, and 
 it was not until the first grey streak of dawn appeared in the east 
 that her difficult task was completed. Then with a weary, weary 
 sigh, she lay down for a well earned rest; but long she tossed to 
 and fro before sleep closed her hot and aching eyes. A dreamless 
 sleep of utter exhaustion, bodily and mental, it was, that lasted 
 through the morning hours, and well into the afternoon. And the 
 search for her went eagerly and fruitlessly on the search for this 
 
92 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 girl who reposed peacefully and unconsciously within the very walls 
 from which her sorrowing friends went forth to seek her: 
 
 "So near, and yet so far." 
 
 that distance could not have erected a more effectual barrier be- 
 tween them. 
 
 When at last she awoke refreshed from her long sleep, it was with 
 renewed strength and energy she set about making her arrangements 
 for her final departure. 
 
 For six days longer she remained, going boldly about the house 
 in the dark, still hours of the night, sometimes even stealing up to 
 the library door to listen to the footsteps of Sir Griffith, as alone he 
 paced restlessly within (for Alva was gone up to town, and Lady 
 Egerton and I shut up in our rooms). Lucy's heart yearned to- 
 ward the old man who had been to her all that she had ever known 
 of a father, and who was suffering now for her sake. But the 
 thought would come to her of how cruelly misjudged she had been 
 by others, and that he might misconstrue her motives as they had 
 done; and she felt that if she had but been told the truth from the 
 beginning, and had grown up with a proper humility of mind, this 
 could never have happened. And so, a barrier which a mere trifle 
 so often raises between two hearts that love, and would fain be 
 one, but for the invisible bulwark that separates them, kept these 
 two apart, and she remained steady to her purpose. Once she met 
 him face to face. Venturing forth one morning early into the lum- 
 ber room, she was stooping over an old trunk in quest of some article 
 which she needed, and was so absorbed in the search that approach- 
 ing footsteps were unheard. The door opened and Sir Griffith en- 
 tered. A pile of trunks between them partially shielded her from 
 view, and he walked across the floor, without observing her, to an 
 old book-case in one corner, and reached for a dust covered tome 
 on the uppermost shelf. As he did so, an old glazed print on one 
 of the walls, swayed by the draught from the open door, broke 
 from its fastenings, and fell heavily to the floor. He, looking 
 round to see what it was, did not perceive the figure that started up 
 within a yard or two of where he stood. She, white and trembling, 
 stood for a moment unable to move; then darted quickly away like 
 a hunted deer to the open panel, and as she turned in the act of 
 closing it, beheld a face, white as her own, with eyes and mouth 
 wide open, gazing at her in blank dismay. 
 
 With hands tightly clasped and beating heart she stood behind 
 the thin partition, listening, as she heard the old man stamping about, 
 muttering to himself and overturning everything that stood in his 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 93 
 
 way, in his frantic endeavors to solve the mystery of her sudden dis- 
 appearance. He came and beat upon all the panels of the wainscot 
 with his hands, and she felt sure that discovery was now inevitable. 
 But on he passed still searching, and thumping with his knuckles; and 
 again returned, and went away, and came again; but all his efforts 
 proved unavailing, for presently the noise ceased, and he was gone. 
 Then her color and courage, partially returned, but all that day and 
 night she spent in fear and trembling not daring to venture forth; 
 and afterwards her expeditions were fewer, farther between and 
 made with even more caution than before. 
 
 Nothing came of the adventure however, for poor Sir Griffith felt 
 convinced that 'twas naught of flesh and blood that he had seen, but 
 a veritable ghost. It was no wonder that all the household firmly 
 believed the house to be haunted. 
 
 Could any one have looked down through that dim skylight, the 
 strange sight beneath would have puzzled them. There sat Lucy 
 with clothes strewn about her on every side, a needle and thread in 
 her fingers, sewing, sewing, sewing; and the style and appearance 
 of the garments she thus formed would have been a stranger sight 
 still. But strangest of all would have been the figure that appeared 
 there one afternoon after the work was completed and the needle 
 laid aside. Where was Lucy? Gone! and in her stead was the 
 queerest, quaintest little old woman imaginable. A black dress, 
 short, skimpy and untrimmed; an enormous cloak; a white cap, and 
 over it a huge old-fashioned bonnet; a stick; a hobbling gait; a 
 wrinkled old face under a brown veil, and a pair of very, very 
 bright black eyes, made a most enchanting old lady indeed; and 
 when a pair of rosy lips were folded inward and something unintel- 
 ligible was mumbled between them, who could look at her without 
 feelings of veneration and kindliness stirring in their bosoms. But 
 when, a few moments afterwards, there stepped from out those an- 
 cient garments a slight girlish figure with a halo of shining hair 
 about the still wrinkled face, these feelings would doubtless change 
 to admiration for the genius that had formed from the scanty means 
 within her reach so complete and baffling a disguise. 
 
94: BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Vanished like dew drops from the spray 
 
 Are moments which in beauty flew; 
 I cast life's brightest pearl away, 
 
 And, false one, breathe rny last adieu! 
 
 G. W. Clark. 
 
 HE time had come when Lucy must go. Seven long and 
 weary days had gone by, the search must now have been 
 given up, she thought, and everything was in readiness for 
 her flight. Now or never must the yearning, lingering fond- 
 ness for all that was familiar and dear to her be crushed from her 
 heart every sacred tie which bound her affections to the dear old 
 place be severed perhaps forever. It was pain, intense pain, to 
 part even with the lifeless objects about her; from the portrait of 
 Guy Egerton, which seemed to her excited fancy to plead with be- 
 seeching eyes for her to remain; from the old mirror that appeared 
 to give forth a more kindly and less distorted reflection of her own 
 white face, and from the stiff-backed chair that looked comfortable 
 and easy for the first time. The entire room all at once assumed a 
 more enticing appearance in her eyes. And if it was pain to part 
 from these, and to feel that old associations could never be renewed, 
 how much more painful the thought of leaving those she loved with- 
 out a word, without a glance of kind farewell! With a cry of an- 
 guish, and the first tears she had shed through all these bitter days, 
 streaming from her eyes, she drew paper before her and poured out 
 the agony of her soul in writing. Long she lingered over the pages 
 that told so much of her secret, and had she obeyed the promptings 
 of her heart, to him would they have been addressed; but in the 
 hope that he might think her dead, she refrained. At last the task 
 was done, and with bowed head on her folded arms, she lay and 
 sobbed away the hours. And when the shadows of night had dark- 
 ened the room, and the calm of exhausted nature hushed the pas- 
 sionate sobs, leaving naught but an occasional quiver to give sign of 
 life to the quiet figure that had lain there so long, she raised her 
 head and stretching forth her hand in the darkness for the letter, 
 she rose quickly, lighted her lantern and passed from the room. 
 Her purpose was to leave the letter in some spot where it was most 
 certain to be discovered yet not immediately by her alone to 
 whom its contents were addressed. To accomplish this, undetected, 
 was a most hazardous step, she knew; but her life of late had been 
 but a succession of risks and she had encountered them all so vic- 
 toriously, that she did not hesitate now that she was required to 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 95 
 
 subject herself to one more. Besides, there was a sort of excitement 
 about these chances of detection which she took that seemed to 
 buoy her up, and which she had grown to regard as almost necessary 
 to her existence. 
 
 Pausing at one of the bedroom doors near the head of the grand 
 staircase, she knocked sharply, listening intently for a response, 
 and prepared upon the faintest sound from within to dart away 
 under cover of the darkness. No sound came to her from the room, 
 and then she knocked again, but with the same result. Yet a third 
 time did she repeat her summons without a reply, before she felt sat- 
 isfied it was safe to venture in. Opening the door softly, she cau- 
 tiously looked in, and, sweeping the room with a stream of light 
 from her lantern, saw no one. Then she entered and glanced around 
 for some place to put her letter. Upon a small table beside an 
 escritoire lay an open diary and between its leaves she inserted it. 
 
 "She will find it here/' she said to herself, "the first time she 
 writes, and no one else will be likely to open the book/' That it was 
 not till months afterwards it chanced to come to light the reader al- 
 ready knows. 
 
 As Lucy turned to leave the room she heard voices on the stair- 
 case. Hurriedly drawing the shade across the lens of her lantern 
 she stood motionless, but listening with a beating heart. It was 
 Sir Griffith's voice she heard and then an answer came from Ingols- 
 by. " No danger of their coming here," she thought, and stealing 
 to the door she closed it gently, leaving a slender chink through 
 which she peeped out at the two figures coming slowly up the stairs. 
 Arm in arm they came, and paced along the hall to and fro, the older 
 man erect and firm in step, the younger with bowed head and eyes 
 never raised from the carpet. 
 
 " True true;" were the first intelligible words from Sir Griffith; 
 "time passes and we find her not; but from that very fact I gather 
 most hope. If she be alive we cannot but find her eventually, and 
 if she had destroyed herself, long before this some tangible proof 
 would have been discovered to confirm the suspicion. So you see 
 that when I bid you hope, it is not without reason; " and they passed 
 out of sight and hearing. 
 
 A wild desire to rush out, and falling in their arms, ask that this 
 load of care might be taken from her, as her presence would take it 
 from them, came to the listening girl with almost irresistible force. 
 The two had turned in their walk and as they passed back again 
 Sir Griffith was saying: 
 
 " Did right in telling me ? Of course you did right; and honestly, 
 my dear boy, you have always seemed a true son to me; and now 
 
96 BEHIND THE A ERAS. 
 
 more than ever do I feel the need of one. This is a sore trial at my 
 time of life, for I love the girl dearly, and cannot bear to think that 
 she is suffering. It makes me absolutely furious that people should 
 have it in their power to gossip about her." 
 
 As they passed on, tears of something very like remorse streamed 
 from Lucy's eyes, and faster they flowed and more and more she 
 wavered in her purpose, as she caught his slowly-uttered words. 
 
 " The loss of my son was, until now, the one great sorrow of my 
 life, and it almost crushed me. People call me eccentric, but I can 
 say to you, my boy, what I have never before admitted to human 
 being; my odd ways, like many anothers, have been but a mask put 
 on to hide a sorrow which it would be unmanly to show." 
 
 The door moved on its hinges, and had their eyes turned that 
 way as they went slowly by, they would have seen a dim figure 
 hesitating in the doorway, checked in its mad impulse to fall at 
 their feet by the words that now fell from Alva's lips. 
 
 "I could not marry Lucy now," he said. "Under existing cir- 
 cumstances, considering her position and mine, it would be out of 
 the question not to be thought of for an instant/' 
 
 " In yourselves, you are equals, and love should remove all such 
 obstacles," argued Sir Griffith. 
 
 " Not in these days," Ingolsby answered, with a sneer in his voice. 
 " What is love weighed in the balance with wealth and pedigree, 
 and spotless name? A chimera! the delusion of some poor, half- 
 starved wretch in a garret!" 
 
 "Of course, of course," assented Sir Griffith. "I understand 
 that perfectly; I don't blame you for the feeling. This affair has 
 become so deucedly public that it will take at least an earl's coronet 
 to make it be forgotten. To tell you the truth, my heart begins to 
 harden toward the girl for all the unnecessary pain she has given 
 those to whom she owes so much. She's an ungrateful hussy! To 
 think that I have reared and educated anottier man's child for this ! 
 But go you to your bed now, and dream of happiness, if you cannot 
 feel it. Good-night!" 
 
 " Good-night, sir." And then they separated and went off to 
 their rooms, leaving a second arrow to rankle in the girl's soul. 
 
 Ah! quiver with pain, poor heart; shrink in agony, throb with 
 each new pang, and bleed with every stab! Wounds from those we 
 love are not so few but each must have his share; and if to thee 
 comes more than is thy portion, remember this: It is a trial of thy 
 goodness. Hardened wilt thou be into adamant; deadened to pain 
 thyself, and to pain in others; or else, the better alternative, soft- 
 ened in like proportion, alive to sorrow, pain, and misery in other 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 97 
 
 hearts, then will all poisoned arrows lose the power to do thee 
 harm. Choose the better, nobler lot, poor heart, and soften, soften 
 as thy wounds increase. 
 
 An instant Lucy lingered on the threshhold, and then, hearing 
 another step upon the stairs, glided off into the friendly, sheltering 
 darkness of the corridor the gloom that told no tales to her who 
 followed after. 
 
 All hope of happiness seemingly over for her in this world, her 
 resolve, strengthened with each passing day and by every chance 
 word, now irrevocably fixed, she entered the tapestried room for the 
 last time. There was no sleep for her that night, neither was there 
 any tumult in her mind. Her senses happily deadened by this last, 
 heaviest blow of all those cold, cruel words of Alva's that had 
 sounded as the knell of dying hope she lay upon the bed, motion- 
 less, numb in mind and body, and utterly incapable of thought, 
 
 yet, 
 
 " Over all things brooding slept 
 The quiet sense of something lost." 
 
 The first faint light of early dawn was the signal for renewed 
 working of her brain. "Wearily she arose, and casting aside her own 
 attire, dressed herself by the light of the lantern in the costume 
 that had cost her so much time and labor to contrive. Deadening 
 her complexion with a dye she had found in one of the old trunks, 
 she make a few dark lines upon the forehead, about the eyes 
 and mouth, and a dark spot upon each cheek; but still fearing the 
 strong light of day, she threw an old-fashioned figured lace veil 
 over her bonnet, so that no eye could detect aught beneath but 
 what appeared to be the wrinkles of veritable old age. She had 
 fifty pounds in notes, her birthday gift from Sir Griffith. For the 
 future her money was to be of her own making, but this she must 
 take to use until such time as she could earn enough to replace it, 
 as, indeed, she felt she would like to do everything that had been 
 lavished upon her. This sum, with a few articles of clothing she 
 placed in the black leather traveling bag. Her mind was in a sad 
 state of bitterness toward all mankind, poor girl, as she turned to 
 go. It was not with the agony she had expected to feel, but with 
 scarcely a pang that she found herself now about to leave this once 
 happy home. Her last illusion had been dispelled; and leaving 
 a heap of water-stained brown merino lying upon the floor the last 
 discarded relic of the old life she turned coldly away, even from the 
 portrait of the boy she so long had pitied, and went forth alone 
 out into the wide, wide world. 
 7 
 
98 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The frighted chase leaves her late abodes, 
 O'er plains remote she stretches far away 
 Ah! never to return! 
 
 The Chase. 
 
 IGHT o'clock of a bleak, gray morning, and the early London 
 express, speeding noisily on its way up to the great me- 
 tropolis, carried passengers, cold, gloomy and irritable from 
 the effects of the weather; their minds destitute of gratitude 
 for the blessings of steam, that saved them from greater hardship 
 and inconvenience than an hour or two of a rapid, bustling trip on 
 comfortably-cushioned seats. 
 
 Growl as ye may, ye British public, at what you are pleased to 
 call the discomforts of your railway system; at the long stoppages 
 and crawling pace of the accommodation and slow mail, on the one 
 hand, and the lightning rattle, and no-such-thing-as-reading-in-it 
 whiz of the express on the other; at (if you don't smoke) the vile 
 odor of tobacco that always hangs about the cushions, or, (if you 
 do) the utter impossibility of enjoying a quiet weed all to yourself, 
 without having some grim-visaged female get into your compart- 
 ment, of all others, at the next station; at the rudeness and " dress- 
 ed in a little brief authority" swagger of the guards; at the squaling 
 babies thrust in upon you just as you have closed your eyes for a 
 nap; at the non-adoption (as yet) of the continental and trans-atlan- 
 tic method of checking your luggage, and the consequent chances 
 of some one else walking off with your trunk at some station where 
 you don't remember to look out; at the horrors of solitary confine- 
 ment in a box, or imprisoned companionship with a beetle-browed 
 villian of chloroforming propensities; yet who is there among you 
 who would willingly go back to the suffocation, and cramp, and 
 horn-tooting of the old coaching days in exchange ? Not one among 
 you if it came to the point of sacrificing your present unacknowl- 
 edged comforts. 
 
 This early train carried away from the town of Bratton a woman, 
 aged and quaint in appearance. Not many hours before had this 
 same person passed down a narrow flight of steps at Bratton Hall 
 to the grounds beneath, and after a rapid flight across the lawn and 
 a tedious trudge in a hobbling gait through the fields, where the 
 harvesters were gathering to their labor, and from whom many a 
 hallo and laughing inquiry as to " granny's" health and busi- 
 ness greeted her ears unheeded, reached a turnstile set in the wall 
 half a mile from the lodge gates, and passing out, gained the high 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 99 
 
 road. On down the dusty road she kept, not stopping to rest until 
 she reached the "Alnwick," a small inn in the town near the railway 
 station. Here a story had to be coined for the landlady about a 
 granddaughter lying dangerously ill in a distant town, and of how 
 her son had driven her over from the neighboring village of Whitby, 
 and left her at the station, as he was obliged to get back to his work; 
 and she, finding she was nearly an hour too soon, as the London ex- 
 press was n't due till 7: 49 (so the station-master told her), had wan- 
 dered over here to " get summat to eat/' as she was very hungry, 
 having only taken a bite before she left home. Such deception was 
 new to Lucy, and a sore trial to her frank and truthful nature which 
 rebelled against using it even though absolutely necessary. But her 
 tears were unfeigned, and though their genuineness somewhat en- 
 dangered the condition of her disguised face, by their aid she suc- 
 ceeded in gaining the sympathy of the little household. So full, 
 indeed, of pity and compassion for the "poor old soul" was the 
 landlady that she would not leave her to eat her breakfast in soli- 
 tude, and a sad quandary was the " poor old soul " in, not daring to 
 expose her uncovered face to the other's keen eyes in the morning 
 light. Perplexed and annoyed at the dilemma in which she found 
 herself placed by the good woman's mistaken kindness, a happy 
 thought came to her rescue, and in the high shrill voice she had as- 
 sumed with her disguise, she cried out as she put her hand to her 
 face: 
 
 "Ah, my poor old eyes! my poor old eyes! little sleep ha' they known 
 o'late, an 3 now they be revengin' o' themsels, so they be, wi'smartin' 
 pains an' waterin'. Just obleege me, good friend, and draw the cur- 
 tain across yon window an' shut out the glarin' light. More, more, 
 shut it out entirely; there, that'll do nicely, thank ye; " and then she 
 raised her veil, and while the landladj^'s eyes blinked and strained in 
 the unaccustomed gloom, ate and finished her meal long before the 
 distant whistle of the train announced its near approach. 
 
 The usual din and confusion that succeeds the stoppage, and con- 
 tinues during the brief stay of an express, surrounded Lucy on her 
 arrival at the station; the babel of tongues, the rushing of feet, the 
 crying of babies, the hissing and panting of the impatient engine, 
 the trundling of the luggage-barrows, the multitudinous " How d'ye 
 do's?" of the comers, and "Good byes" of the goers, heartfelt and 
 heartless, spoken and shouted; the howls of the struggling dogs 
 being thrust into their long, narrow cells beneath the seats, and the 
 barking and yelping of the others just let loose, the rush for tickets 
 and scramble for window seats, the muttered growls at the "en- 
 gaged" compartments with one occupant, the groans of the " baccy " 
 
100 BEHIND THE AREAS. 
 
 chaps at the absence of a smoking-carriage, the dragging and grat- 
 ing and slamming of trunks, portmanteaux and boxes, the warning 
 cries from the carriage windows to the old party at the book-stall, or 
 the young one in the refreshment-room, the unchecked insolence of 
 the flymen after unsuccessful extortion, the jostling, crowding, 
 elbowing and shoving, and over and about all that peculiar odor of 
 coal, smoke, steam and hot oil, without which a railway station 
 would not be a railway station, nor a train a train. In the midst 
 of the noise and tumult Lucy bought her ticket, and found a seat in 
 a second-class carriage, unassisted. The bell for starting rang, the 
 guard shouted: 
 
 "Any more going on?" the engine shrieked, and, with a tug, the 
 train went whizzing on its way again. 
 
 And as it sped on through the green hedge rows and yellow 
 fields of swaying grain, dashed over bridges, whisked under road- 
 ways, shrieked into tunnels and clattered past intermediate stations, 
 Lucy sat in her corner by the window, looking out at the laborers 
 busy in the fields, and the buxom lasses and ruddy-faced mothers, 
 who stood in the cottage doorways, watching the train as it whirled 
 swiftly by; and a ray of sunlight seemed to penetrate the cloud that 
 enveloped her, as she thought how happy they appeared in their hum- 
 ble sphere; how much happier, indeed, than those in the one she was 
 leaving. But and the cloud grew dense once more what tastes or 
 feelings could she, brought up in luxury and refinement, have in 
 common with these people who had no thought beyond their simple 
 cottage homes ? Yet they had a home and she had none. 
 
 Home ! of which so much has been said and sung, but which no 
 language can define as it is pictured to our mind at the mention of 
 the one little word that stirs all the deepest and purest pulses of our 
 being; alas! never more was there to be a home for her in this 
 world, unless she made one for herself by the labor and toil of her 
 own hands. 
 
 The sound of voices aroused her from her reverie, as two men, 
 whom she had not before noticed at the other end of the compart- 
 ment, got up and took their seats opposite to her. Small farmers 
 they looked, in holiday attire. 
 
 After the first rude stare at the shabby old woman, they paid little 
 heed to her, but went on with their talk about crops and cattle and 
 different breeds of sheep; and the monotonous hum of their voices was 
 gradually soothing her to sleep, when a name spoken by one of them 
 awakened her with a start. With beating heart and strained atten- 
 tion she listened to what followed the mention of "Sir Griffith 
 Egerton." 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 101 
 
 " Wot a fuss it ha' excoited, to be sure. Aw th' warlt knoas o'it 
 an tawks o'it; an' yo'd be sorprois'd at aw the stories they tell, fo' 
 be me troath, lad, they be o' aw sorts an' seizes." 
 
 "With a grandiloquent air, the other man answered: 
 
 " Theaw'd nah foind me makin' a toirne abou' noa chilt o'moine. 
 Hoo moight' a' dun what she loike an' she didna disgrace hoo fey- 
 ther. An ey heert say t' lass wa' noa chilt o' he noather." 
 
 "Ay; sot' say." 
 
 "Boh wheer dun yoa think she be goane to?" asked the second 
 speaker. 
 
 "Well, soame say she ha' made awoay wi' hursel, an' soame t' she 
 be goane wi' a young chop; boh moast o' aw' say, an' me wi' 'urn, 
 beloike she be a hoidin' i' th' toawn o' Lonnon. An' t' p'leece be on 
 t' loak owt fo' hur aw' owr Lonnon. Be t' mess, ey 'ope t' win catch 
 t' lass; an' t'be a goade whoapin' ey'd gi' hoo wi' hoo freaks an' 
 foncies. Whoy, a protty 'somple hoo be t' onest fooks gurls t' run 
 auf an' scare 'm ef aw things dunna plees 'm a' whoam." 
 
 "Eh woander 'ow hoo win git hoo livin', Zacheriah, aw' bey 
 hersel?" 
 
 " Eigh, Jem, she be able t' moind hursel, fo' ey ha' heert as how 
 hoo tuk trunks an' boxes o' siller an' joawls an' money an' aw t' 
 foine duds o' me lady wi' hur." 
 
 " Yo dunna sa' soa! Be th' hokey, lad, ey ha' got t' vary roate o j 
 t'aw, noaw!" slapping his companion's knee and gesticulating glee- 
 fully into his face. " T'owd mon ha' got in t' trouble an' debt, an 
 ha' sent hoo t' furren parts wi' aw he cud scrape an' gother, an' 
 protty soan t' Hall win be shut, an' they win aw goa t' furren parts 
 an' ha' ease an' cumfort fo' t' rest o' t' loives while t' croditers may 
 whostle f o' 't pay. Eigh eigh, mon ? " 
 
 "Ey shud na wonder, Jem, boh theaw'd guest it. 'Twould be 
 boh honest noaw t' gi information toa t' croditers, an' mayhap, Jem, 
 t' moight gin us a trifle fo our troable, eh, lad? " 
 
 " Hist! we be owerheert, Zacheriah," and they looked suspiciously 
 at the old woman who was leaning forward, listening eagerly to 
 their conversation. 
 
 "Whot ye be doain', oald woaman ? " demanded one of them 
 roughly; " lossnin' toa ower tawk, eh? Lossners nay hear goad 
 o' thersels, soame toimes." 
 
 Without answer she shrank quickly back into her corner, thinking 
 how apt was the proverb the man had so unwittingly quoted, and 
 accusing herself, poor thing, of being the cause of all this indignity 
 to Sir Griffith. She felt no resentment at what they had said of her- 
 self, for had she not overheard from the lips of those who knew her 
 
102 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 far more bitter words than any they had spoken, and why should 
 these rough, uncultivated men understand her motives better, and 
 interpret them more charitably, than those above them in refinement 
 of feeling ? Yet, as they continued their talk, in cautious whispers 
 now, she felt hurt grieved that all classes all people should be 
 against her in their judgments. She might be called strong-willed 
 as no doubt she was, for it would take many an obstacle well nigh 
 insurmountable to turn her from her purpose but for all that, her 
 heart yearned for one kindred soul to sympathize with her, one hand 
 to help, one arm to lean upon. 
 
 "Alone, alone, all, all alone," 
 
 She must fight the battle of life, with none to love and cherish her, 
 none to love and live for in return . And what value has life with 
 no one to live for but oneself ? It is scarcely life it is mere exist- 
 ence. Nor can it be a fit preparation for the world to come. 
 
 To mortals is given the capacity for loving, the desire for com- 
 panionship, and the faculty to enter into one another's joys and sor- 
 rows, hopes and fears. But solitude and a selfish life in oneself 
 must needs lessen the power of love and charity and human kind- 
 ness, and deaden all the most sublime emotions of the heart, leav- 
 ing one even more imperfect more unfitted for the life hereafter. 
 It is surely meant for none to live always for themselves alone; some 
 one they must find to take an important place in their minds, and 
 sooner or later, though she knew it not, could not have believed it 
 at the time, some one must be found to be to Lucy a subject of in- 
 terest and thought. 
 
 But a new difficulty had arisen in her path; detectives were 011 
 the watch for her in London, the men had said. It might not be 
 true perhaps as untrue as the rest of their story; yet it was possi- 
 ble, she thought, that some steps of the kind might have been taken 
 by Sir Griffith; London, then, was no place for her. But it was too 
 late to turn back, or get out at a by-station, for the last way stop- 
 page had been made a half hour ago, and the train was already en- 
 tering the suburbs of the great city. She must go on; but she 
 would follow out the idea that had first come to her mind when she 
 had determined on flight: she would cross the channel at once and 
 go to some place on the continent where as a stranger none would 
 question her, none pity her, and where, fewer being on the roll of 
 necessity than in the monster London, a subsistence might be more 
 easily obtained. 
 
 At last the train rolled in under cover at Euston Square, and 
 stopped with a sudden jolt, and the two farmers left the carriage, 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 103 
 
 and hurried away to seek out Sir Griffith's imaginary creditors, 
 no doubt, and impart to them their valuable information. Lucy 
 stepped boldly out upon the broad platform, and though she knew 
 not but that each man who looked at her might be an emissary 
 from Scotland-yard, yet she felt safe in the disguise which had BO 
 successfully passed through the ordeal at the " Alnwick," and going 
 out with the crowd, took the first cab that offered itself, and drove 
 across the city to Charing Cross, fully resolved to go on to Folkes- 
 tone, and cross to Boulogne without delay. But, as others have 
 experienced before her, events do not always coincide with our 
 designs, and she found that the Tidal Train was not to start for two 
 hours. Two long, weary hours to wait! Slowly and tediously the 
 time crept by, while trains arrived and departed, and the bustle 
 and noise continued, now increasing, now subsiding, and through- 
 out it all, in a dark corner of the ladies' waiting-room, passive and 
 motionless, her mind a chaos of contending thoughts, sat the shab- 
 bily dressed old woman. People came in and looked at her cur- 
 iously, and some even questioned her, but to all she paid no heed, 
 gave no answer, for it was the easiest way to avoid conversation. 
 At length people with foreign labels on their luggage began to 
 swarm in, and, for the dozenth time since she sat there, the din of 
 departure grew loud again; the porters ran round more briskly with 
 their trucks; the guard came out and swaggered up and down the 
 platform; the passengers clustered around the carriage doors, and 
 the engine backed up and hooked on. Then the old woman, with 
 her ticket clasped tightly in her hand, hobbled across the platform 
 to an empty compartment, and got in. Hardly was she seated 
 when she heard the clink of money, and a voice outside say: 
 
 "Remember, guard, no one else in here." 
 
 (t Yery good, sir." 
 
 Then a dark body scrambled in, and the guard slammed the door 
 to, and locked it as the train began to move. And as the spasmodic 
 kugh! kugh ! kugh! of the engine grew of shorter interval, and the 
 train emerged from the long dark terminus into the light of day, 
 Lucy looked up, and, seated before her, beheld Jolliffe Tufnell. 
 
104 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none 
 Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 
 
 Essay on Criticism: Part I. 
 
 ES, there lie sat, in a rough corduroy shooting- jacket and 
 leather leggings, his hands on his knees, his Glengarry cap 
 off, beside him on the seat, and his abundant crop of red hair 
 exposed to view. Not golden, not auburn, but veritable red 
 it was, so vivid in color as to give one the impression that his florid 
 complexion was the result of its bright reflection. He was short, he 
 was awkward; his hands and feet seemed too large to be disposed of 
 comfortably, his ears were obstinately expansive; his eyes ah ! there 
 was his one redeeming feature 
 
 "Blue, darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," 
 
 large and bright, in expression, sympathetic and benignant. But 
 it was seldom that one could get a chance to look into their marvel- 
 ous depths, for, as if ashamed of this one oasis of beauty in the 
 desert of his ugliness, they were always covered by spectacles. 
 They were not weak, as their clearness showed even through the 
 glasses; they were not short-sighted according to his own confes- 
 sion, and he was certainly not old enough to require an optical 
 assistant. And so, people wondered, and some even ventured to 
 inquire, what induced him to assume this badge of age. His invar- 
 iable answer was, that he thought them in keeping with his per- 
 sonal appearance. But this concealment of nature's gift was cer- 
 tainly not in keeping with his character, for one more frank; and 
 more willing to disclose every thought and feeling, were they com- 
 plimentary or derogatory to the person whom he might be addressing, 
 it would be difficult to find. 
 
 The shipping in the Thames had scarce passed out of view, when 
 leaning forward with his hands still upon his knees and his elbows 
 bent outward at an acute angle, this redly-tinted creature addressed 
 his companion: 
 
 " Candor compels me to say that this costume is not so becoming 
 as the one you wore at the masquerade, Miss Egerton." 
 
 "When she had first recognized him a vague dread had come upon 
 her, but at this speech, worse in its import than anything she had 
 feared, she forgot all prudence, her discretion deserted her, and 
 clasping her hands imploringly, she sat upright. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Tufnell! you are naturally kind-hearted, and I am 
 sure " 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 105 
 
 "All, lam not mistaken!" he broke in, leaning back with the 
 pleased expression of an ogre who has discovered a delicate morsel, 
 in the shape of a baby, for his breakfast. Then she saw the faux pas 
 she had made, and paused, eagerly hoping against hope that she 
 had not completely betrayed herself. 
 
 "Well, young lady, this is pretty behavior, isn't it?" he said, 
 moving over beside her, and very quietly but firmly taking her hand 
 from which he drew the old woolen glove. "Humph! this is con- 
 firmation, for no old lady ever possessed such a pretty, plump, 
 white hand. No need to snatch it away so fiercely, my dear child; 
 the harm's done. The secret's out, and no help for it, you see; so 
 you may as well make the best of it. Would you like to return 
 from the next station? that will be Croydon, I think; or go on all 
 the way to Folkestone for the night? Now, that I think of it, per- 
 haps we had better go on, as a whiff of sea air will do you good, 
 and besides it will give me time to reason with you a bit." Taking 
 out his watch, he looked at it, and went on: "Two hours and ten 
 minutes more together. There's plenty of time for talk, and as 
 you don't seem in the least disposed to sustain a conversation just 
 now, let me tell you a pretty little story, to beguile the time it 
 takes you to compose yourself. 
 
 " This morning at daylight I went out shooting. A most unsea- 
 sonable, not to say heathenish, hour to go banging about one's pre- 
 serves, I'll confess not the correct thing nowadays, of course; but 
 then I am given to doing things differently from the rest of mankind, 
 I fear; so taking my gun and ' Fanny' Fanny's a pointer, you know 
 off I started, see, just as I am now. But somehow, once I got out, 
 for some reason or another, I didn't seem to care a straw about shoot- 
 ing, and let the birds get up and go whirring over my head untouched, 
 while the poor old dog pointed till she must have been sick and tired. 
 I suppose I must have had a premonition of the larger game I was to 
 come across, which made the partridges look too uncommonly small 
 to waste cartridges upon," and he gave a diabolical grin; "but I 
 anticipate. Well, I kept wandering on and on in a sort of gloomy 
 abstraction, for the morning was gray and dismal, and the first thing 
 I knew I found myself at the confines of my land. I stopped, and 
 for the life of me I can't tell what made me do it stood looking 
 over the dividing hedge between Sir Griffith's land and mine. 
 Suddenly I heard a rustling in the bushes on the other side. 'If 
 this be the big game coming now,' thought I, ' I fear I shall be 
 sadly tempted to play poacher for once in my life.' The rustling 
 continued, and grew nearer, and I kept my eyes glued on the spot 
 from whence the sound came, thinking ifc might be a hare, at least; 
 
106 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 though I confess that I had my doubts as to that, for, beyond a 
 slight elevation of Fan's ears, when she heard the noise, the old 
 girl gave no sign. I hadn't long to wait to find these doubts were 
 well founded, for the next minute there emerged from the thicket 
 into the open, no hare, but a queer, quaint-looking old woman 
 who glided past and off with a most suspicious rapidity for one of 
 her apparent age. Instantly it flashed across my mind what was 
 up, and off I started in pursuit. Keeping you well in sight for it 
 was you, Miss Egerton and thinking I should fall in with one of 
 my gamekeepers as I went along, and give him the dog and gun, I 
 followed your steps on my side of the hedge until you reached the 
 road, and thence tracked you all the way to the 'Alnwick.' Not 
 one of my men turned up, however, and a pretty figure I must have 
 cut tramping along the dusty road at that time of day, with a gun 
 under my arm and a dog at my heels, and looking for all the world 
 like some itinerant poacher or gamekeeper out of place; though, 
 perhaps, my spectacles saved me from such an appearance, for I 
 don't think anybody ever saw a poacher or a gamekeeper with 
 spectacles. 
 
 "When you came to the field where the harvesters were at work, 
 and I saw your quick steps change to a hobble, I thought my sus- 
 picions were confirmed beyond a doubt, but when you boldly en- 
 tered the inn, I confess I was staggered nonplussed. If you were, 
 as I suspected, Lucy Egerton though I had no earthly reason for 
 fancying anything so improbable from the first, beyond a sort of in- 
 tuition but if you were Lucy Egerton in disguise, how had you the 
 courage to go into that public house and subject yourself to the 
 close scrutiny of so many inquisitive eyes? It puzzled me immensely, 
 I assure you, and I had half a mind to turn about and go home. 
 Yet I waited loafing about the place till you came out again, and 
 when I saw you go to the station and take the train for town, my 
 suspicions were rekindled; and leaving my dog and gun to the ten- 
 der mercies of one of the porters, I got into the train myself, deter- 
 mined to see the thing out. I was on the point of getting into the 
 same compartment with you and trying the same experiment I have 
 tried here, but I found those beastly farmers had got ahead of me. 
 On our arrival in London, I followed you in a hansom from Euston 
 Square to Charing Cross, as indeed I would have done from one end 
 of the world to the other till I found an opportunity of speaking to 
 you in private without chance of interruption. That I couldn't do 
 as you sat in the waiting room, for the people never stopped coming 
 in and out. And a nice tiresome- two mortal hours I had of it, I can 
 tell you. I couldn't leave the Terminus and go anywhere in town in 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 107 
 
 the rig I was in, and besides I didn't want to lose sight of you. So 
 I sat in the men's waiting room and read and re-read the sauce and 
 cocoa and corn-flour posters until I got them all by heart, and then 
 I got up and paraded the draughty platform, watching the trains 
 come and go, and getting in everybody's way, until they must have 
 thought I was an escaped lunatic with a pedestrianic mania. Lucidly 
 I had my short clay along, but a man can't smoke all the time, so I 
 filled up the rest of the time eating sandwiches in the refreshment 
 room. Positively I don't think I ever got away with so many sand- 
 wiches at one sitting before in my life. By-the-bye, I noticed that 
 you took no refreshment, and so I bought these for you," and he 
 drew a large parcel of sandwiches from a capacious pocket in his 
 shooting-jacket, "thinking they would be acceptable to any old 
 woman, even if said old woman did happen to be Miss Egerton. 
 Allow me to offer you some." No answer beyond a shake of the 
 head. " Nonsense; you must be hungry, and they are really very 
 good. Do, now, take just one," still holding the tempting package 
 toward her. 
 
 " I am not hungry/' she said, visibly irritated. 
 
 "No? why how very odd. Notwithstanding the vast number I 
 have already consumed, do you know that I actually still feel un- 
 commonly peckish; so as you will not, with your permission, I 
 will," and half a sandwich disappeared in his enormous mouth. 
 " Come, now, won't you be tempted? " as after a moment's interval 
 of vigorous munching, he held them out once more. 
 
 Very snappish, it must be confessed, was the " No" that escaped 
 from Lucy's lips, but conclusive it was in its effect on her com- 
 panion. He pressed her to eat no more. And as he sat and ate 
 the sandwiches himself, alternately taking big bites and talking, 
 her anger and vexation gradually gave way before the genuine good 
 nature and odd kindliness of manner of this man who, with what 
 would have been cool effrontery in another, took to himself the 
 right of doing in his own peculiar way, what he thought was most 
 for her good; and before he had ceased speaking, her thought, 
 " This man is insufferable," changed to the conclusion, "He means 
 it all for kindness." 
 
 "You don't know what you're missing, young lady," continued 
 Tufnell, taking another bite; "they're good, remarkably good; in 
 fact, no end goo ' His teeth closed on a sinewy piece of ham, and 
 his laudations suddenly ceased. " I suppose, now, you have been 
 wondering," he went on after a pause, which he devoted solely to 
 the mastication of the sinew, and, with a more serious air, broach- 
 ing the subject he most desired to talk to her upon, "why it was 
 
108 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 that I wished to speak with you alone without fear of interruption," 
 munch, munch "why, in short, I couldn't have said all I wanted 
 to say to you" munch, munch "in the waiting-room at the sta- 
 tion. In the first place" bite " I knew we couldn't talk there"- 
 munch, munch "without attracting attention, for it's against the 
 rules for men to invade the ladies' rooms, and that I imagined you 
 wanted to avoid. But setting that reason aside" bite " it would 
 not have suited my purpose" munch, munch * ' to speak to you 
 there, for to tell you the truth I never could tell a lie" munch, 
 munch " I knew I was powerless to force you to return against 
 your will" munch, munch " so I determined to have a good long 
 talk with you, and by calm, dispassionate reasoning try to persuade 
 you to abandon this foolish freak of yours," bite, munch, munch. 
 "There! the last sandwich is gone, and now I'll make a bargain 
 with you. We will take hold of this subject of your running away 
 from home, and argue it thoroughly. If I convince you that you 
 are in the wrong, you must promise to return with me to-morrow. 
 If you convince me that you are in the right, I promise to aid and 
 abet you to the very limit of my power. Will you consent, my 
 young friend ? " 
 
 "I am no child, Mr. Tufnell," Lucy replied, still a trine angry at 
 him; " I can see how much you keep in your own power. I am not 
 so simple but that I can tell that you would never own to being con- 
 vinced; and that you merely want to extract my promise by means 
 of this farce." 
 
 " My dear Miss Egerton! I never dreamt of such a thing! I give 
 you my word of honor as a gentleman, that I will be a perfectly im- 
 partial umpire of the two sides, and give a fair and honest opinion. 
 To tell you the truth, I feel tempted to help you without further 
 argument, for I know well what it is to have all the world against 
 one when one is striving to find the right path of duty. But we 
 must go through with the form to satisfy my conscience; and, per- 
 haps, we shall find that you are mistaken in the path you have 
 chosen, and I may help you to find a better. Come, say you agree 
 to the plan." 
 
 Not long before, she had been wishing for some one to confide in, 
 some one to talk to of her grief, and he came at the right moment; 
 for although Jolliffe Tufnell was not one whom she would have 
 chosen to fill such a position, yet her heart was so sore that even a 
 trifling act of kindness was sufficient to win her at once and forever. 
 At one time she had thought she rather disliked this man, but so 
 much did she feel the loss of all she held dear upon earth, her 
 home, her friends, her day-dreams of happiness, that his disinter- 
 
BEHIND THE AERAS. 109 
 
 ested kindness thawed her out of her dislike and distrust. She 
 answered: 
 
 " Yes!" heartily, and gratefully. 
 
 " Very well, then," he said, smiling; "it is agreed." 
 
 "Agreed," she echoed. 
 
 " And shake hands on it." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak 
 Whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break. 
 
 Macbeth: Act IV, Scene 3. 
 
 "N the first place," said Mr. Jolliffe Tufnell, folding his arms 
 and settling himself comfortably as though with a keen relish 
 for the discussion about to begin, " I will briefly state the 
 facts of the case as they are known to fme, and you will 
 kindly suggest any necessary correction. You, the young person 
 beside me, have been brought up by the Egertons of Bratton* as 
 their own child, and from the first dawn of reason you have always 
 looked upon yourself as Lucy, only daughter of Sir Griffith and 
 Lady Egerton. For nineteen years a very long time, young lady 
 no word, no hint was dropped that you were other than what you 
 supposed. Last week a ball a masquerade was given to celebrate 
 your nineteenth birthday, and at that ball two old ladies had, as is 
 their custom all the world over, a quiet gossip about things that did 
 not concern them. You played eavesdropper, a character of ques- 
 tionable propriety, and taking for gospel truth what you had every 
 reason to believe to be a tale, manufactured, prepared, for the occa- 
 sion, swallowed it, not cum, as you should have done, but sine yrano 
 salts; and putting aside the evidence of your senses for the past well 
 say seventeen years, for you can't very well remember further back 
 than that not pausing to consider that evidence, you took the other 
 alone, consisting of a mere gossiping statement, unsupported by a 
 single fact or circumstance, so far as you are aware, and which 
 amounted to positively nothing, and fled. Phoebus! was there ever 
 a more idiotic proceeding! for even admitting, for the sake of argu- 
 ment, that the old women's tale was true, in every particular, how 
 could it possibly mend matters to fly away from the soft, snug nest 
 fortune had found and feathered for you so lavishly, and wander out 
 into the cold, heartless world?" 
 
 He paused, and his quiet attitude with arms calmly folded con- 
 trasted strangely with the energy of his language. 
 
HO BEHIND THE AREAS. 
 
 "All you have said, Mr. Tufnell, is quite true," Lucy answered, 
 with visible emotion; " all true, with one exception. I did not rely 
 solely upon the mere statement of those women. At first it was a great 
 shock to me, and I believed it; but as the evening passed, doubts of 
 its truth, suggested by what } r ou have thought I did not consult 
 my recollections from infancy entered my mind. After the un- 
 masking I sought out Miss Lifford, who had also overheard what 
 the women had said, and asked her if it was true. She answered, 
 ' Too true, Lucy only too true! ' Those were her precise words." 
 
 " That woman's an idiot," he muttered, with a shake of the head. 
 
 " She told me all I wished to know," warmly; "and I can never 
 be sufficiently grateful to her. But as though that was not enough 
 proof, I overheard others speak on the same subject even Sir Grif- 
 fith and and some others, for I hid in the house a whole' week." 
 
 " "ou don't say so!" he exclaimed. "They must be uncom- 
 monly not to put it too strong stupid, not to have discovered 
 you." 
 
 " I was too well hidden for that, Mr. Tufnell; but let me go on. 
 Every night after dark I wandered about the house, for my hiding 
 place was so lonely/' with a sigh, " and in that way I heard many 
 talk and give their opinion of my disappearance. From scraps of 
 the servants' talk I learned beyond a doubt that a large number of 
 people knew of my having been adopted by Sir Griffith when I was 
 a baby, and that at one time it had been the chief topic of conversa- 
 tion in the neighborhood, though now in a measure forgotten. For 
 that matter, something I overheard Sir Griffith say is proof positive 
 of the fact." 
 
 "Yes? and that?" 
 
 " Speaking of me, he said, ' think that I have reared and educated 
 another man's child for this ! ' What doubt can I have after that ? 
 I am no Egerton, Mr. Tufnell, but a Sullivan." 
 
 "Humph! Well then, I suppose we must admit as a fact, though 
 on evidence not by any means the most satisfactory, that you are 
 not Lucy Egerton but Lucy Sullivan." 
 
 For all that she had imagined that she had become accustomed to 
 the name from her own mental repetitions of it, she winced as she 
 heard it now pronounced from the lips of her companion; but the 
 sensation of repugnance was scarcely felt, ere she thrust it aside 
 with a powerful effort." 
 
 "Do not you, Mr. Tufnell, who were a young man and in the 
 neighborhood at the time, know it to be a fact?" 
 
 " I did not think you could be so spiteful, my young friend, as to 
 remind me of my forty odd years. I was as you say, a young man, 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. HI 
 
 then, but not in the neighborhood, although I had recently come 
 into possession of Knocklofty Hall. I was a half-crazed wanderer 
 at that time, and not till years afterward did I hear of the murder 
 of my friend, Louis Dunraven, which occurred but a short time be- 
 fore your adoption by Sir Griffith. I went down there a year or 
 two ago, when you were between sixteen and seventeen, to ask Sir 
 Griffith for particulars of the murder. The subject was a painful 
 one to him, but when I informed him of my reason for making the 
 inquiries, that I had a certain object in view, he not only gave me 
 all the information in his possession, but joined with me heartily in 
 my efforts to gain a knowledge of all the facts connected with the 
 crime. This, of course, has nothing to do with the present subject 
 beyond the fact, that during one of our talks together, he told me 
 that you were not his own child, but an adopted one. I asked him 
 if it was generally known, and he said that it could not be other- 
 wise, as he had taken you from the town of Bratton, but that peo- 
 ple were aware that he did not wish you to know it, and strange to 
 say, you were still ignorant of the truth. He also said, that his 
 adoption of you as his daughter had caused great wonder, not so 
 much at his whim as at his wife's consenting to it; he believed they 
 had been censured, but all that had ceased when you turned out 
 such a credit and ornament to the old name of Egerton. But what 
 an idiot I am to tell you all this ! It is my misfortune that I never 
 can keep anything to myself." And as he stopped suddenly in his 
 recital, he moved uneasily in his seat, but happily for his peace of 
 mind, did not see the tears that streamed silently down his compan- 
 ion's face, making sad havoc with the wrinkles beneath the old 
 lace veil. " Well, well, it's out now, and can't be helped," he 
 went on; "but this is not by any means an end of our discussion. 
 We have yet to prove whether you, as Lucy Sullivan, were right or 
 wrong in flying away from home. "What could have been your 
 purpose ?" 
 
 "To earn my living by the work of my own hands," was the an- 
 swer, in a low, trembling voice. 
 
 ' 'A girl brought up as you have been ? Ridiculous nonsense ! I 
 bet a sixpence you don't know how to do a blessed thing beyond 
 playing the fine lady, and then to talk of earning your own living! 
 You intended to work roses on canvas, I suppose, and get a farthing 
 for a week's labor; or knit worsted thing-em-bobs, and sell a guinea's 
 worth of materials for tuppence ha'penny. A thriving girl you'd be 
 at the end of a month! My dear young friend, you are much too 
 sensible to have ever thought seriously of such a thing. You per- 
 haps thought to turn governess or school-mistress, or go on the 
 
112 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 stage, and live by the labor of your brains and not of your hands. 
 "Wasn't that it?" 
 
 1 ' No, I meant what I said. To live by hard, honest labor, as my 
 parents did before me, was and still is my intention." 
 
 Tufnell looked at her for a minute in silence, with a laugh in his 
 blue eyes : he seldom laughed aloud. 
 
 "If you are so very proud of your parents' honest toil, why don't 
 you go to your father and be his pupil as well as his daughter?" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Tufnell, I could'nt. It was partly from him I fled. 
 How could I change a home of refinement and luxury for the con- 
 stant companionship of a man I had never known, never loved, who 
 had deserted me, put me voluntarily away from him when I was 
 young and helpless; who had oh, horrible! killed his wife, my 
 mother? I am heartless, unnatural, what you please; for I have no 
 feeling of filial tenderness for the man, nothing but dread, aversion, 
 horror. Yet, though no tie of kindred binds me to Sir Griffith or 
 Lady Egerton, as I think of them, the alien blood in my veins throbs 
 with love and gratitude. Oh, with what shame do I remember how 
 bitterly I felt tow r ard them at first! for in the frenzy of the moment 
 I accused them of being the cause of all my pain; but now that feel- 
 ing has passed away, and nothing but unbounded love remains." 
 
 "I must confess that I become more and more puzzled every 
 minute;'"' and in his excitement, Tufnell pushed up the glasses 
 from his eyes, revealing them dim with a moisture drawn forth by 
 the girl's words. "Don't you know that that man Silliman, Sulli- 
 van what's his name? has no can have no legal control over you 
 that he willingly gave you up to adoption, and that anyhow you are 
 of age, and allowed by law to choose for yourself where and with 
 whom you shall live?" 
 
 " I know that very well, Mr. Tufnell, but " 
 
 " Then why the hem!" All in a blaze of wonder and impatience 
 he caught himself just in time, and taking out a huge red silk 
 pocket-handkerchief, proceeded to mop his face in silence, and let 
 his excitement cool. Then putting his hands on his knees, in his 
 favorite attitude, he went on, with partially regained composure: 
 "Why, let me ask, if you feel toward the Egertons as you profess, 
 did you not remain as you have been for the past seventeen years ? 
 You have not suffered hitherto from your position, and why should 
 you now ?" 
 
 "Ah, that is just it," sighing deeply. " So long as I was ignorant 
 of the truth, I was happy, but once I knew it there was no more 
 peace for me. I grew up with -a pride of pedigree, and this is per- 
 haps a just punishment for my pride. Am I in any way different 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. H3 
 
 now from what I was as Lucy Egerton ? People liked and petted 
 .me 'then; but when it became known to them that I was another 
 man's child of humbler origin and lower station yet the same in 
 myself as ever, my bringing up, which alone makes or mars man or 
 woman, was cast aside, forgotten; and simply because less worthy 
 parents had brought me into the world, no longer was I a fit com- 
 panion for young ladies. You do not know all I have heard said of 
 myself, Mr. Tufnell, that was unspeakably galling; you would scarce 
 credit it were I to tell you. But I am humble now, very humble; for 
 what have I of which to be proud? Well may the pauper sons of 
 earth sneer at pride of birth and ancient pedigree ! What name, 
 what fame have they to shield and keep from dishonor? But elevate 
 them to a high station, give them wealth and power, and will not 
 the sense of pride grow and increase with their ascent? ay, as would 
 mine this moment were I raised once more to all I have so lately 
 lost. And I dared call myself humble ! No more humble than he 
 is Christian, who, good when nothing tempts, is weak when evil 
 tries him . What virtue in humility when there is naught to make 
 one proud? A name I have, but not Name with its attendants of 
 honor, power, position, friends, wealth, fame. Name that in itself 
 alone oftener deters great men from crime than any sense of moral 
 rectitude within. 'What's in a name?' In my case, not these 
 things, but dishonor, low birth, enemies, poverty, shame, weakness. 
 These are the surroundings of Lucy Sullivan!" 
 
 She fell into silent thought, while Tufnell looked with pity at the 
 bowed head beside him. How sad it was, he thought, to hear the 
 young philosophize; they to whom all the world should be bright, 
 and fair, and pure; and Lucy was very young to be learning by sad 
 experience the weaknesses of human nature. He had himself passed 
 through the furnace of contumely and sorrow, and knowing what it 
 was to suffer in its fire, pitied her with all his heart. He let her 
 muse awhile, and then spoke: 
 
 " Young friend" she started " we have wandered from the point 
 of ' why did you leave home ?' Suppose we go back to it." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Tufnell, when I first hid myself in the old house I 
 simply felt that I wanted to get away from all who knew me, at 
 once and forever. On mature deliberation, I would have acted in 
 the same way not on impulse, but for these reasons: Although the 
 law would permit me to choose between two homes, my conscience 
 would not. My father had forfeited all claims upon my affection, it 
 is true, but he was still my father, and, if he called me to him, 
 moral law would force me to obey. I ran away, for one thing, to be 
 out of hearing of that call. But putting him out of the question, 
 8 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 there were other reasons quite as powerful, perhaps even more so, 
 which were strengthened each day by what I overheard. I could 
 never hold up my head under the weight of unkind words and looks 
 that would be heaped upon me by the outside world, once my true 
 origin became known to others than the townsfolk and neighbors to 
 whom it had been an old familiar story well-nigh forgotten. Even 
 from them might I expect little mercy now that the story had been 
 revived. But if in time I came to endure it all patiently and some 
 one should ask me to be his wife he is" faltering, "I mean, he 
 might be, sensitive a callous nature could never win me and then, 
 don't you see, if he ever became ashamed of me, if he felt the 
 sneers of society, if he grew unkind oh, it would kill me!" Then 
 forgetting her companion, everything but the sorrow weighing most 
 heavity on her heart, now that it had found words, she burst wildly 
 forth: "To drag him down in the eyes of the world; to know that 
 he winced at the sound of my name and lost all ambition, as he 
 would have done avoidance, neglect, mutual recriminations per- 
 haps oh, horrible! horrible!" with a convulsive shudder. "If I 
 had staj^ed, had yielded to temptation beyond my strength to resist, 
 kept my secret from him and married him, all my fears w r ould have 
 been fulfilled to the uttermost, for, oh, he is false, false to the core; 
 not sensitive, but weak weak and unmanly ! ' I could not marry 
 her under existing circumstances, considering her position and mine ' 
 those were his words. If I had not found him out until too late ! 
 If I had told him the truth and he, fancying himself strong, had 
 persisted in marrying me, what an end what an end would have 
 come to all my dreams! And yet, did I say he was weak? No, no, 
 it is I, wretched girl, I, who am weak! for false though he be, I 
 I" 
 
 Her head sank upon her hands, and she burst into passionate 
 sobs which shook her whole frame with their violence. 
 
 They were kind and gentle, albeit awkward hands, that forced hers 
 from her face, loosened her bonnet- strings, and opened the window 
 to admit the refreshing air. 
 
 "Come, young lady, don't be ridiculous. What a foolish child it 
 is, to cry so. Now, don't, please, my dear. No man is worth such 
 tears. Dear, dear, what shall I do with the girl! She'll have 
 hysterics, and I have no idea what to do for a woman in hysterics, 
 except to give 'em salts. Have you any salts, my dear? She's too 
 far gone to heed me, poor thing; and what can I do for her! No 
 salts, no cold water, no nothing! She'll get worse! she'll faint! per- 
 haps die, and I be tried for murder! A pretty scrape for a respect- 
 able old bachelor to be caught in ! Hush, hush, don't cry, my dear 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 115 
 
 child, if you don't want me to take you home again. How would 
 you like to turn about and go back in the next train to that man 
 Sullivan? No effect, no effect; she does n't even hear me. I'm 
 afraid I'll have to yes, I must, I will summon the guard!" and he 
 made a frantic plunge at the alarm. 
 
 But Lucy had heard him; his excited words and movements had 
 helped to bring her to herself, and she strove for mastery over her 
 feelings. She caught his arm before he touched the alarm. 
 
 "I a-am all ri-ri-right, Mr. Tufnell," she sobbed; "d-don't, 
 please d-don't mi-mind me." And then she buried her face in the 
 cushions, and with all her strength kept back the swelling sobs; 
 and it was only occasionally that one overpowered her and made 
 itself heard. She suffered doubly now, for had she not told her 
 secret to this man ? The hot blood surged with shame and throbbed 
 in her temples as she imagined what he must think of her. How 
 could she ever again meet his eyes with hers that had never before 
 shrunk from mortal gaze? She wished, for the moment, that some- 
 thing would happen, some accident, a collision, a broken rail, any- 
 thing that would separate them. Why had he interposed in her 
 affairs, with his meddling curiosity? Why had he come with his ill- 
 judged kindness to unsettle her mind and undo the work of all these 
 days; to break down the bulwark of pride and scorn she had raised 
 around her aching heart? By what right did he take upon himself 
 to thwart her wishes, to argue, to threaten, to betray her into ac- 
 knowledging her secret? Oh, to think that he knew that secret! 
 All else she could forgive, but that. To have the most sacred feel- 
 ings of her soul brought under the observation of another; to be 
 laughed at, sneered at and held in derision! Then she tried to re- 
 member what she had said. She could not. All was vague beyond 
 the cautious beginning; and here came a ray of light. If she had 
 begun cautiously, why, perhaps, she had ended in the same manner, 
 and had been carried away by thoughts she had not expressed in 
 words. Perhaps, after all, he had not understood what she had 
 said, and thought her the more foolish for crying about an imag- 
 inary personage. Ah, she would not mind that in the least, if only 
 he did not know the truth. Balm of Gilead in the idea! and she 
 raised her head to look at him. Quietly he sat, and innocent he 
 looked of the knowledge she feared he possessed, as he tranquilly 
 read his newspaper. He looked up and met her tearful eyes full of 
 a pathetic meaning he could not understand; but a kindly smile lit 
 his face, and then as her head sank once more he broke the long 
 silence. 
 
 "These things are becoming much too common. Let me read 
 you about this fearful colliery explosion." 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 As lie read she heard of death coming in its most frightful form, 
 unexpectedly and painfully, to young arid old, the happy and the 
 miserable alike; of others maimed for life; of, the most to be pitied 
 of all, those whose loved ones perished, or were crippled and thus 
 became a constant source of sorrow to themselves and all around 
 them. She forgot her own troubles, as he intended she should, 
 while she listened to this tale of suffering, alas! but of too frequent 
 occurrence; yet like the old, old tale of love, ever soul-stirring, 
 rousing our best feelings, and making us better for the time. When 
 he had finished, they sat in silence until the train began to ap- 
 proach Folkestone. Then he told her to put on her bonnet, and she 
 sat up meekly and did as he wished; and when presently the train 
 stopped at its journey's end, he stepped from the carriage, helped 
 her out, and together they walked away; he chatting pleasantly, she, 
 silent and thoughtful, her hand resting trustingly on his arm, much 
 the better, more humble, and less sore at heart for her recent out- 
 burst of emotion. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear; 
 And 1 will Stoop and humble my intents 
 To your well-practiced, wise directions. 
 
 II Henry IV: Act V, Scene 2. 
 
 HAVE not yet decided the important question as to your 
 being in the right or in the wrong," said Jolliffe Tufnell, as 
 he and his companion walked on through the principal streets 
 of Folkestone. 
 
 He had been telling an amusing anecdote for her diversion, but at 
 its conclusion turned abruptly to the "much-vexed question. " 
 
 " I must sleep on it," he continued, " and in the meantime your 
 incognito must, I suppose, be preserved. This dress you wear is 
 too remarkable. Give me your promise to make no attempt to es- 
 cape from me, and I will do all that is necessary and right, and 
 proper for you, as regards your concealment. 
 
 "You are kinder to me than I deserve," she returned, with tears 
 in her voice, " and I will not leave you without your knowledge." 
 
 "And permission," he added; "remember that I have your prom- 
 ise to abide by my decision." 
 
 ' Yes; and I yours to judge impartially. You have failed to con- 
 vince me that I am in the wrong; and if I have failed to convince 
 you that I am in the right, why, our compact is at an end, and we 
 part." 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 117 
 
 " We will not talk about that until to-morrow," he replied. " I 
 must have time to think it over, and I asked for your promise not 
 to run away, in order that I need not act as your keeper. What I 
 want you to do is to change your appearance without further delay. 
 Go into that hairdresser's there and buy yourself a black wig, for 
 yonr own hair is too remarkably pretty and uncommon to escape 
 attention; I will go into the shop beyond, and when you have made 
 your purchase, walk slowly up the street until I catch up with you. 
 Do you ahem need money? " 
 
 "No, thanks," she answered a trifle haughtily, and entered the 
 hairdresser's shop. 
 
 A few minutes later they were again walking on together. Tuf- 
 nell had bought a shepherd's grey plaid shawl, and folding it around 
 Lucy, created a marked change for the better in her antiquated 
 appearance. 
 
 "Now, there remains but one other thing to decide upon," he 
 said, " except the momentous question which I have reserved. You 
 must pass for somebody or other at the hotel. It would never do 
 to acknowledge you as a young lady. You must call yourself Mrs. 
 something or other a widow would not Mrs. Mrs. Whym do ? " 
 
 "Very well, indeed, except as regards its aptitude." 
 
 " Therein 'lies its only merit, child. But let us settle on a line 
 of conduct to pursue. We must not appear too intimate Mrs. 
 Whym. If you want me to take tea or breakfast, luncheon or din- 
 ner with you, you must send me a request for the pleasure of my 
 company, by a waiter. Do you understand ? " 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 c ' And do you think you can play your part until we come to some 
 other arrangement ?" 
 
 "Quite sure, Mr. Tufnell; and I am deeply grateful for the 
 trouble you are taking on my account." 
 
 " Trouble ceases to be trouble and becomes pleasure in gratifying 
 a "Whym," he said, bowing. 
 
 They had reached the Pavilion Hotel now, and were registered 
 as "Mrs. Whym, Liverpool," and " Jolliffe Tufnell, Esquire, 
 Knocklofty Hall, shire." 
 
 As they went up the stairs together, he whispered, " Say that 
 your trunks have been sent on to Lyons, Paris anywhere;" and 
 then they separated, and went to their rooms. 
 
 The hotel was not full, and Lucy having her choice of some of 
 the best rooms, selected a sitting-room with bed-room adjoining 
 that looked out on the pier, and harbor, and the blue water of the 
 channel beyond. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 "When she had succeeded with no little difficulty in washing the 
 tear-streaked paint marks from her face, had put on a plain black 
 dress from her traveling-bag, and covered her bright head with the 
 black wig, she wrote on a card : 
 
 "Mrs. Whym's compliments to Mr. Tufnell, and hopes he will 
 give her the pleasure of his company at dinner this evening at 6." 
 
 But before she rang the bell, she returned again and again to the 
 looking-glass to take one last look, and make sure that no golden 
 hair peeped out under the black wig; no vestige of a wrinkle re- 
 mained. It was a startlingly changed face one she herself could 
 scarcely recognize, that looked at her from the glass; finally, gain- 
 ing a little confidence, she summoned the waiter, and nervously 
 awaited the result of his coming. Would he notice any difference 
 in her appearance ? No. With a careless, though respectful glance 
 he took the card, and after receiving her orders for dinner, left the 
 room. She wondered at herself for having been so foolishly nervous, 
 as she stood at the window looking out at the water with the vessels 
 gently swaying on its surface. There was not much that was pleas- 
 ing to the eye in the masts and coils of rope, lobster baskets, and nets, 
 oars, sails, spars, and luggage strewn about on the pier, nor in the 
 tarpaulin-hatted boatmen loitering about the docks. Perhaps her 
 thoughts were following the smoky track of the fast receding Boulogne 
 steamer, the one she would have taken had she kept on her way as 
 she had at first intended, and thinking how much better off she was 
 under the protection of this man whom she began to like, and whom 
 she felt intuitively would help her in her purpose, than if she were 
 now approaching the French town, alone, friendless, without an 
 idea of self-maintenance, beyond the wish for work of some un- 
 known kind. 
 
 Whatever were her thoughts, here it was that Jolliffe Tufnell 
 found her when he opened the door after a thrice-repeated and un- 
 heard knock. As his foot struck against a chair, she turned with a 
 start, and came towards him . 
 
 "What's the matter, young friend, turned suddenly deaf like 
 Miss Pross? Phoebus!" with a step backwards and both hands 
 raised, a huge bulwark of defense. "Is this the fair-haired angel 
 I knew at Bratton this witch, this black-haired, black-eyed sor- 
 ceress? Avaunt, dark spirit! thou makest me feel as Duncan might 
 at the approach of Macbeth, or he at sight of moving Birnain wood. 
 By Jove ! " as he retreated laughing, and sank into a chair, 
 " mother nature knew what she was about when she provided that 
 golden fluffy stuff to soften the outlines of your face. With your 
 dark eyebrows and lashes it made a pleasing sunshine and shadow; 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 but now you are positively all shade. Grand and wicked-looking; 
 decidedly handsome when your color deepens as it does now; but 
 for all that, were such beauty natural, I would consider my life 
 safer in the keeping of a Sicilian bandit than in your hands, should 
 your ebon locks wave in anger. "What a change a mere wig has 
 wrought in you ! I wonder if it could do as much for me ?" as he 
 rose quickly and strode to the looking-glass. " I'm awfully ugly, 
 and no mistake! And yet I would hardly change in appearance 
 with the handsomest man in England," spreading his coat-tails be- 
 fore the fire. " There is much comfort in feeling that one has some 
 slight defense against the machinations of obedient daughters 
 whom my repulsive looks make almost rebellious, for once in their 
 lives, to the wishes of designing mammas. It is an enormously 
 pleasant sensation to be run after, even if money be the magnet; 
 but when it comes to matrimony, if a man has plenty of the golden 
 loadstone, he wishes it at the top of Mount Blanc for a time, if 
 only until after the ceremony. Moderate wealth, although by no 
 ;means the synonym of happiness, believe me child, is nevertheless 
 one of its necessary concommitants and Hark! I hear the clatter 
 of dishes in the hall premonitory signs of dinner, so be on your 
 guard, Mrs. Whym." 
 
 In the presence of the waiter and during the progress of dinner, 
 the conversation turned upon topics of the day Lord So-and-so's 
 speech the last motion in the House the recent indisposition of 
 the Queen and probable consequences of her death Tennyson's new 
 poem the failure of Cheat, Steal & Co. the success of young Thai- 
 berg's "Aphrodite" advancing civilization of the Japanese the 
 coming Centennial celebration in the United States, and so forth and 
 so on. Tufnell, either from motives of kindness to his vis-a-vis, or from 
 a mere love of exercising his conversational powers perhaps it might 
 have been from a combination of both kept the talk very much to 
 himself. Narcissus was not more enamoured of his own beauty 
 than this man appeared to be with the sound of his own voice, as 
 Proteus-like he changed with marvelous and never flagging rapidity 
 from subject to subject. But when they had left the table and 
 drawn their chairs before the fire, and there was no apathetic but 
 open-eared waiter in the way, it was silence and not confidential 
 talk that fell upon the two. Long they sat and watched the coals 
 drop through the bars into the ashes beneath, and perchance to one 
 or other of them came the thought that in like manner would they 
 one day drop from the noisy active world, where genius blazes forth 
 for a time, giving light to those around, sometimes igniting with its 
 fire other and more sluggish souls, oftener seeing those around shine 
 
120 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 wi 
 
 ith the reflected lustre of its own unnoticed flame drop from tins 
 bright world, worn out by the inward blaze which takes its flight 
 into eternity, leaving naught but ashes behind. At length, with a 
 sigh which roused Lucy and made her look up, Tufnell brought his 
 mind back from the land of dreams, rolled his chair back a few 
 inches, placed his arms at the favorite angle and spoke: 
 
 ' 'Mrs. Whym by-the-bye altogether too appropriate a name in a 
 world where every one is playing at odds Mrs. Whym, I suppose 
 you have heard the popular saying, ' turn about's fair play ' ? All 
 popular sayings are true, and this one is particularly applicable to 
 the subject of my thoughts. Young lady, you have told me a great 
 deal to day, of which it must have been most painful to speak/' A 
 vivid flush crimsoned Lucy's face at the remembrance of that last 
 unwittingly acknowledged secret. "I had no right to your confi- 
 dence and I am most grateful for your trust in me it was not mis- 
 placed. Now, although you may not care a farthing for the affairs 
 of an old fellow like me " 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Tufnell," deprecatingly. 
 
 "It is not natural that you should, my dear." 
 
 " Then mine must be a very bad nature," she said, softly. 
 
 "Well, well, so much the better if you can feel interested; for 
 what I wish to tell you of my own life may be of service to you in 
 proving that you are not the only one in the world who has met 
 with sorrow. I have never before spoken on the subject and it is 
 rather painful to probe the wound." 
 
 "Oh pray, pray, do not speak about it now, Mr. Tufnell, if it will 
 cause you pain." 
 
 "Nonsense, child! It will do me good in the long run. The 
 human heart needs sympathy, but I have always shunned it, be- 
 cause until now I never met one whom I thought likely to give the 
 genuine article. You have suffered recently, are suffering now, poor 
 child, and will know how to pity. Besides, I have another and 
 stronger reason for speaking, which I will not tell you until to-mor- 
 row morning. It is early yet;" looking at his watch, " and I will 
 make my story short." 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 121 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ' ' Beneath an exterior which seems, and may be, 
 Worldly, frivolous, careless, my heart hides in me," 
 He continued, ' ' a sorrow which draws me to side 
 With all things that suffer nay laugh not," he cried, 
 
 "At so strange an avowal." 
 
 "Lucile." 
 
 'OLDING his arms and leaning back in his big arm-chair, 
 Jolliffe Tufnell told the story of his life, as though in the 
 fire, which lent its reflection to his glistening spectacles, his 
 attentive eyes saw the whole in panorama. 
 "I was always ugly," he began; "that fact was the first idea 
 grasped by my infant mind, and, therefore, I use it as a starting point 
 in my narrative. It was forever dinned into my ears by my good 
 humored, not very handsome father; by my cold, proud, beautiful 
 mother; by my brother Ralph, six years my senior, and who from 
 an early age gave promise of great manly beauty. Even the serv- 
 ants ventured to jest upon the subject, for I was not a pet, scarcely 
 like a son of the house, but a neglected little monster of ugliness. 
 Two sisters younger than Ralph, had died in infancy, and my 
 mother hoped for a girl in me. I, the last child, was a sore disap- 
 pointment to her; she had set her heart upon a daughter and from 
 me, a hideous urchin, it turned with repugnance. The estate, not 
 a large one, for my father was a younger son, was, of course, settled 
 upon Ralph; yet notwithstanding he would have it all, I was re- 
 garded by him with undisguised disfavor, as something that nec- 
 essarily increased our father's expenses, and, consequently, de- 
 creased the sum total he would be able to leave at his death. My 
 brother wanted no one to share his pottage. And so I came into the 
 world an incumbrance, a hindrance, a bore to every one, a load of 
 misery and unhappiness to myself. All superfluous cash went upon 
 Ralph's education, and then to give me one, for without it I could 
 not be expected to make my way in the world, my father was obliged 
 to scrimp and save. It was hard upon him, but he made me feel it, 
 not with the intention of being unkind, but because he did not un- 
 derstand, did not take the trouble to understand, my unfortunately 
 sensitive disposition. Unconsciously he would wound me with un- 
 thinking remarks, and send me off to cry my heart out with child- 
 ish misery in some out of the way corner. 
 
 " Sometimes Ralph, who looked down upon me with contempt from 
 his own height of happiness, would find me in my hiding place, and 
 jeer and laugh at the ' great big girl.' Ah, how often have I wished 
 
122 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 I was a girl! For many a long day I believed that the little girls 
 who occasionally came with their mammas to the house, were, when 
 at home, kept upon pedestals like statues to protect them from 
 harm. "Whenever they chanced to come, I was always brought into 
 the room for their amusement; not to play oh, no, but to be 
 laughed at by them and their mammas for my uncouth appearance. 
 My name, even, sent people into convulsions. Jolliffe Jolliffe! 
 Oh, Phoebus! what a name! and taken in conjunction with Tufnell 
 it was diabolical. My father's choice, it was; and little thanks to 
 him, for a man too fond of fun at another's expense. His favorite 
 amusement was to have me brought in after dinner, place me on the 
 table, and, while I stood there in an agony of shame, tell the laugh- 
 ing company how I had but one natural gift my beauty; and that 
 my one hope in life was to marry some beautiful heiress who would 
 take me for my charms alone. My mother sometimes pitied me, and 
 saved me from these scenes, but oftener she was too much occupied 
 with my handsome brother who was her idol now, to have thoughts 
 to spare for me. Ah! it was cruel cruel to torture a child so. 
 And yet they were good people as the world goes: charitable, hos- 
 pitable, In sickness, no one could be kinder than my mother so 
 far as my bodily needs were concerned; but beyond the tips of her 
 fingers on my pulse, her hand never touched mine in caress. No 
 kisses, no loving words were for me. To minister to my soul she 
 knew not how. My father would say : c Feel better, Jolliffe ? Hurry 
 up and get well, for I have a large dinner party next week and want 
 to exhibit my curiosity/ They never sought my love, but they had 
 it they have it now, for they knew not what they did. 
 
 They sent me to Eton, where I was the butt of my form, of course, but 
 at this school I found my first my only friend Louis Dunraven, a 
 boy in the sixth form. I was his fag; or rather, he called me such to 
 protect me from the cuffs and blows that would have been unsparingly 
 bestowed upon me had I fallen into other hands. He had passed 
 through that wretched period of boy life at a public school, in the 
 service of a tyrant; but when it came to be his turn to exercise 
 power, instead of revenging upon another what he had suffered him- 
 self, he saved me, the weakest in spirit of the whole school, from 
 many a thrashing. We lodged in the same house, and, despite the 
 disparity in our ages, formed a strong and lasting friendship. Of 
 course mine was the advantage, for I had nothing to give but my 
 whole heart a very worthless and scanty return for all his goodness 
 to me. He helped me in my studies, corrected my Latin verses for 
 me, turning my spondees into dactyls or dactyls into spondees as 
 occasion required, taught me to bowl slow twisters and keep wicket, 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 123 
 
 for lie was captain of the eleven; in fact I may thank him for all that 
 I know, for I had no talent, no genius, nothing but perseverance 
 brought into play by gratitude for his kindness, and the wish to 
 please him. He was a good boy, a good man, and when I think of 
 the way in which his life, which from a human point of view should 
 have been filled with happiness, was brought to a conclusion, I dare 
 not murmur at my own hard luck. Ah, Louis! noble-hearted, high- 
 minded, generous Louis! to him I owe the little that I have, and his 
 life I nearly ruined. When he left Eton and went up to Cambridge, 
 I had risen in the school and was able to hold my own. Even then, 
 his kind interest in me did not cease. He wrote me encouraging 
 letters full of advice and hopes for my future. He was reading for 
 holy orders, and I determined to follow in his footsteps. When I 
 timidly broached the subject at home, my father laughed, Ralph 
 sneered, but my mother said, ' let him have his own way/ So it 
 was settled and in due time I went up to Cambridge. Dunraven 
 was still there and expected to take his degree in a year. Formerly 
 we had been like elder and younger brothers; now we were more on 
 an equality, for I had grown older in mind more rapidly than in years. 
 He was greatly liked and respected, not only by all the fellows of 
 his own college, but of the others who knew him, and was an im- 
 mense favorite with the authorities. Again he was of service to me, 
 for as his friend I was spared much that a shy, unsociable, ugly fel- 
 low like myself was likely to encounter. I was just nineteen and in 
 two more years would have taken my degree, when my father died. 
 Ralph came into possession of the property, and his first act was to 
 marry a vain flaunting woman of shady antecedents. Broken- 
 hearted at her son's misalliance, my mother left the house without 
 a word of reproach or farewell to the idol who had so illy repaid her 
 motherly love. I traced her out, and found that she was living 
 comfortably but plainly and in great retirement on her small jointure. 
 Of course I did not wish to pain her by my presence, and she never 
 knew of my having discovered her place of abode. 
 
 " Ralph's wife was extravagant, and spent more than his income. 
 One day he wrote me a heartless letter saying that I had had quite 
 enough education; that it was humbug my going into the church, 
 as he knew of no patron from whom a living was to come, and that 
 I must give up the idea unless I chose to starve. He would buy 
 me a commission in the line, and then I might go my own road to 
 ruin as fast as I pleased; but anything else to assist me he would 
 not do. My choice then lay between the army and the poor-house. 
 What was I to do ? All my worldly wealth was the meagre legacy 
 left me by my father too little to enable me to remain at college 
 
124 BEHIND THE A ERAS. 
 
 until I was prepared to take orders. He knew well his advantage, 
 and lie took it. I was naturally submissive, and I yielded to neces- 
 sity. Beading for the church, I entered the army, and you may 
 guess the result. With no taste for dissipation, poor, unprepossess- 
 ino" and diffident, I soon became a target for the heartless chaff of 
 the barrack-room and mess-table. Those who tormented me now, 
 brothers in arms, but brothers in naught else, held my heart with 
 no ties of kindred, and my blood often rose in anger. I could not 
 afford to quarrel with them, however, and bore their jibes as best I 
 could. 
 
 " Dunraven was ordained now, and about to be married. And in 
 his brotherly letters of sympathy and advice, his feelings occa- 
 sionally carried him away, and he would write in glowing terms of 
 his fiancee. She was radiantly beautiful, he said, sweet tempered as 
 an angel and as good, and all lovers talk alike, I suppose and in 
 six months they were to be married. Poor Louis! his bright dreams 
 of happiness were never to be fulfilled. His betrothed is an old 
 maid now Miss Julia Lifford." Not noticing Lucy's start of sur- 
 prise, he went on, quiet and motionless, his voice alone expressing 
 varied feeling as the scenes of his life passed in review. " Now was 
 the wedge inserted which eventually shivered his happiness and my 
 peace of mind. He lost his father and the marriage was postponed. 
 My father's elder and only surviving brother, an old bachelor, was 
 taken down with a sudden attack of gout in the stomach, and went 
 the way of all flesh. The Kuocklofty estates being strictly entailed 
 in the male line, fell to Ealph; but not long did he live to enjoy 
 them. He was thrown from his horse while hunting during the 
 following winter, and broke his neck. He died childless, and I 
 thus, suddenly and unexpectedly, came into ten or twelve thousand 
 a year, and a place of my own. Would he had lived and saved me 
 from what I became! Hitherto I had suffered only through others; 
 now, came a time when I myself was to be the tormenting demon 
 and destroyer of my own peace. Of course, I could not have that 
 woman, Ralph's wife, in my house; my house! think of it! and do 
 not blame me if my sudden fortune nearly turned my brain. I, who 
 never before had, or expected to have, a superfluous shilling. Well, 
 when she was comfortably settled elsewhere, much against her 
 will, too, for she couldn't comprehend that I was master now, 
 I obtained leave and sought out my mother, and offered her a 
 home under my roof. She accepted it. All her old hopes buried 
 in the grave, she gave what remained of her affections to me. The 
 human heart must have something to love, and when all else was 
 gone, she turned to me. Oh, it was exquisite pleasure to feel that a 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 125 
 
 mother's love was mine! and I was as a nappy child for the first 
 time. It would have been cruel to thwart any wish of hers, and 
 perhaps have lost me the new-found treasure. To her every desire 
 I yielded. I would have left the army now, /md followed out my 
 cherished plan; but no, she would not have it. ' The head of the 
 Tufn ells enter the church like any beggar? Never! My duty was 
 to my tenants, my mother, society, to my country; I should go to 
 Parliament; I must leave the army, of course, but not yet; it was 
 her wish, her command that I remain in it another year; I could ex- 
 change if there was any talk of foreign service, and for that matter 
 I could go into the Guards or some swell cavalry regiment, or the 
 Kifle Brigade any crack corps, now that I was rich enough to go 
 the pace with any of them; but stay in the army I must, and learn 
 something of life. Intimate association with polished, well-bred 
 men of the world, and entrance into fashionable London society, to 
 which my possession of a handsome income now enabled me to have 
 access, would cure my morbid sensitiveness, rub off the queer cor- 
 ners of my character, and polish me down into something like a 
 gentleman. See how much improved I was already/ That was 
 salve to the wounds she gave me. I was improved then ? ay, but 
 not by the means she supposed. It was the knowledge that I had 
 become of consequence to some one in the world, that made me a 
 happier man; and assured of my power to give pleasure, I was con- 
 sequently more self-possessed and perhaps a little less gauche in 
 manner. I am naturally weak, and I yielded to importunities 
 which, while they took much of pleasure from life, yet enhanced the 
 value of it by proving that it was a subject of interest to another. 
 I joined my regiment at Maidstone, a different being from the one 
 but recently snubbed and mercilessly chaffed in the mess-room. 
 My brother officers were now kinder, more friendly, and all at once 
 seemed to take an immense interest in me. Some, even, fastened 
 on me like leeches. It was easy to see that my new position in 
 life was the cause of this sudden change, and I might have shaken 
 them off and returned to my old existence. No; it was too lonely; 
 the new life was too enchanting. It was delicious to find myself 
 run after, and made much of, and to hear my sayings laughed at 
 and repeated as bon mots. It was all so new, and strange, and de- 
 lightful, that I forgot cause in effect, and was completely carried 
 away by the tide of endless dissipation. Unconsciously I was led 
 deeper and deeper, by light-headed thoughtless companions into all 
 kinds of folly until I was almost afraid to look back. At last, it 
 seemed impossible that I could ever retrace my steps. I played 
 more heavily and drank deeper to deaden thought. 
 
126 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 " The London season opened. My mother had come up to town 
 and taken a house for the season in Bruton street, and I, as much to 
 be near her, and in for all the gaities of London, as to cut away 
 
 from the wild set I had been in, exchanged into the th Lancers, 
 
 then quartered in Hounslow and Kensington. My mother being in 
 mourning went out but Kttle, and at first, I managed to devote 
 much of my time, when not on duty, to her; and for a time I fondly 
 imagined that I had succeeded in altering my former mode of life, 
 and away from the old influences and temptations, hoped to accom- 
 plish a complete reformation. If my mother had aided me in my 
 good resolves, perhaps all would have been well. On the contrary, 
 she insisted that I should go out as much as I could; she wouldn't 
 for the world be a tie upon me, and what was London in the season 
 without London life? Of course, I gave way again, and weak as I 
 was, I needed slight persuasion. I was soon drawn into the giddy 
 whirl of pleasure, and what with dinners, and balls, and parties, and 
 opera suppers, by night; and dejeuners and garden parties, and I 
 was going to say kettledrums, but they hadn't come into fashion 
 yet by day, I soon had time for little else, and sometimes I didn't 
 see her for weeks together. Besides, I quickly discovered that I 
 had made a sad mistake in another matter. I had thought rny com- 
 rades in the old regiment reckless and dissipated; but they weren't 
 a tithe to my new brother officers. The th was a ' fashion fam- 
 ous ' corps, and regarded as the fastest set of men in the service. 
 Meeting them only at mess and on duty, I might have held myself 
 aloof from their rapid style of life, but mixing in society with them 
 it was impossible. All my hopes of altering for the better vanished 
 with the temptations that now beset me; all my good resolves went 
 to the winds, and the old story of brainless dissipation repeated 
 itself with me, only to a tenfold degree. 
 
 "Bich and unmarried, my ugliness was forgotten, and I had my 
 pick and choice of the prettiest girls the prettiest were generally 
 the poorest at the balls; and I might have had the same in matri- 
 mony. For one alone I felt anything beyond a mere liking. For 
 the first time in my life I was in love, and all things now become 
 tinted with rainbow hues. She was not poor, she had a snug little 
 fortune of her own, so that I felt sure she would not many for 
 money. Little as I cared what brought the butterflies of society 
 about me, so long as they came, I could not bear that this nature's 
 butterfly should be attracted by the same light. Her mother and 
 mine were old friends, and I was intimately received at their house, 
 where Mildred showed to even greater advantage than in the ball- 
 room. A year before, I would not have had courage to fall in love, 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 127 
 
 and now I actually asked a good, pretty girl to marry a fellow who 
 was ugly, weak minded, utterly devoid of strength of character, 
 and without a single redeeming trait. And she loved me me! the 
 worthless scapegrace. From her own lips I heard the confession, 
 and it lifted my mind above the life I was leading. With shame and 
 remorse I determined on a new course. The demon that pos- 
 sessed me was strong, but love was yet more powerful. Fatally for 
 me love had to do its work alone, unaided by moral courage, a virtue 
 that was not mine. 
 
 "Nothing to do but to cast off wild associates, you will say, an easy 
 task. Not so. Once intimate with young men of fashion, 'twas no 
 easy matter to break away from them, and the company they led me 
 into. With moral courage, the thread of intimacy might have been 
 snapped at once, but without that all important essential of a man's 
 character, one loiters upon the road of good intentions, never en- 
 tering the city of good acts; fortunate, if at last, one does not stray 
 into the region of crime. 
 
 " Each day with increasing repugnance I resolved to leave these 
 companions, but not just now, I would say; 'tis hard to lose all I 
 have gained, and again be looked upon as a milksop, and a ' Miss 
 Molly/ Wait; it will be easier by-and-bye, to slip stealthily out of 
 this net. Once I am married none will wonder at the sudden change 
 in me. What possessed me I know not unless it was the fiend him- 
 self. 
 
 " At leng'th my mother began to look grave at my delinquencies 
 whenever we met. She, who had urged me to the edge of the preci- 
 pice ! Was it my fault that I had fallen over ? I worked guilty 
 conscience into anger and the belief that all were to blame but my- 
 self; and yet the burden that I placed upon other shoulders made 
 mine feel none the lighter for its division." 
 
 He paused an instant r and then in a lower voice, deep and hoarse, 
 continued : 
 
 "At last the clay was set for my wedding, and I decided as the 
 first step in the right direction to retire from the army, and sent in 
 my papers .to sell out. Feeling already half a reformed man, I went 
 to see my mother. She met me with reproaches, which in my then 
 frame of mind seemed so unjust that they annoyed me and I angrily 
 left the house. I went at once to Mildred, thinking in her society 
 to forget all trouble. She had evidently heard rumors, perhaps ex- 
 aggerated, reports of my doings, for she was constrained, even cold 
 in her manner. In no mood for asking an explanation, I fled from 
 her to men who received me with open arms. 
 
 "I dined at mess that night for the last time. My retirement I 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 knew would appear in the morrow's Gazette, so, as it was to be my 
 last appearance there as one of the cloth, it was made a sort of fare- 
 well affair to me. After dinner some of us went to the opera. Al- 
 most the first person I saw was Mildred in one of the boxes, and a 
 man whom she knew I hated paying her marked attention. The 
 sight maddened me, and leaving the house with one of my compan- 
 ions we wandered into a gambling house, a low sort of a place, where 
 I am ashamed to say I had been before. With repugnance and yet 
 with less reluctance than usual I sat down to play. My opponent 
 was a semi-gentleman of notedly bad character. At first he let me 
 win, the usual tactics of course, and then as the stakes increased the 
 tide turned and I began to lose. This angered me. Mad, mad, 
 mad I was that night; goaded to insane fury by my mother and 
 Mildred the more mad, the more furious that I knew they were not 
 altogether wrong and that I was far from altogether right. I drank 
 deeper than any there, for had I not more harrowing thoughts to 
 drown ? Play ran high, and luck, as ever, was against me. I lost 
 heavily heavily. Madder still with drink and excitement, half my 
 fortune was about to be staked, when a hand was laid on my shoul- 
 der, and a familiar voice sounded in nry ear. I looked up and be- 
 side me stood Louis Dunraven. 
 
 "A hush fell on the assemblage. A sense of shame almost sobered 
 me; and when he whispered to come away I rose quickly to obey. 
 Then the silence was broken by the clamor of the low habitues of 
 the place who had been waiting patiently for the time to arrive when 
 they might fleece me of my all. ' The stake was up/ they said. ' No, 
 it was not yet put up,' answered Louis. They knew it was not, but 
 still persisting that it was as good as done, and my honor in peril 
 ah, I think it was! they added taunts to me and him. To him, a 
 clergyman for coming to such a place; to me for being weak, un- 
 manly and dishonorable, to be thus controlled by the will of another. 
 With Dunraven at my side their sneers were pointless shafts, and 
 more by the insults heaped upon him than by their language to me, 
 the good angel within me was roused, and stood forth to help me in 
 this hour of need, conquering the demon that had ruled so long. 
 One man, one of the worst characters in the room, a sort of profes- 
 sional gambler grasped me by the arm as if to force me into my seat 
 again. I wrenched it from his grasp, and with all my soul up in 
 arms aimed a blow that laid him sprawling at my feet. In another 
 moment he was up and upon me, and we were struggling together 
 in the midst of overturned tables and chairs, to the sound of crash- 
 ing glass and excited human voices. I heard the click of a pistol,, 
 and was hardly conscious that a third had joined us before I found 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 129 
 
 myself separated by the width of the room from my antagonist, and 
 beheld Dunraven standing between us, the rescued pistol in his hand. 
 " ' Gentlemen,' he said, 'this commotion may bring the police. 
 It will be worse for you than for us, if it does.' Completely cowed 
 they slunk away, and the crowd thinned perceptibly. Unmolested 
 we left the place. Kind brotherly words, free from reproach, I lis- 
 tened to that night. I asked him how he had known of my where- 
 abouts. Passing through London, he said, he had called in Bruton 
 street. Into his ear my mother had poured all her fears for me and 
 my future, beseeching his help in reclaiming me. At once he had 
 set out in search of me, no procrastination in his character, and had 
 succeeded in tracing me from place to place." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Then black despair, 
 
 The shadow of a starless night, was thrown 
 Over the world in which I moved alone. 
 
 The Revolt of Islam. 
 
 UNKAVEN was obliged to leave town the next morning; 
 but assuring me that he would return in a few days, he 
 made me promise to keep away from temptation in the 
 meantime. Gladly and gratefully I gave the pledge. 
 Parting from him at the railway station, I returned to my rooms in 
 Curzon street, it being too early to go, as he had advised, to see my 
 mother; and there I found a man waiting for me with a challenge 
 from the fellow I had floored the night before at the gambling- 
 house. I had no intention of accepting it and told him so. He 
 then coolly informed me that if I refused satisfaction to his friend, 
 reports, exaggerated and highly colored, would be set flying of 
 Dunraven's exploits in a gambling-house. Seeing that such reports, 
 if once set afloat, would have sufficient foundation of truth to blast 
 his character forever, I began to waver. Here were two inevitable 
 results of my folly, and between them I must choose. Greater dis- 
 grace to myself, or immense injury, perhaps ruin to my friend. 
 There is nothing in friendship, in life, or in charity, without sacri- 
 fice. Could I allow him to be the one to offer up the sacrifice to 
 friendship? No! if I was ever again to hold up my head I must 
 keep it free from a weight of selfishness. My brain confused, and 
 unable to think clearly, the thought never occurred to me that even 
 my fighting this duel might not save Dunraven's name, but would 
 be the most likely thing to bring the whole affair before the public. 
 9 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 Idiot that I was I accepted the challenge. The following morning 
 at dawn we met; and would it had pleased Heaven that I might 
 have been the one to fall! But no, it was intended that by living I 
 should expiate my faults. My adversary was dangerously, perhaps 
 fatally wounded at the first fire, and I fled at once to the Continent. 
 Then followed days and nights of sleepless misery while his life hung 
 in the balance, for I had now fully awakened to the realization of 
 what I had been what I might be guilty of. Dunraven, my true 
 friend still, came over to me there, and soothed and comforted me 
 as a father might. He owned that stories of his connection with the 
 affair had begun to be whispered about, and his character assailed, 
 but consoled me with the assurance that in my power it would be to 
 set him right before the world. Oh! those days and nights of sus- 
 pense, remorse and penitence days and nights never to be forgot- 
 ten! Long, long they were, but not without end; for just when it 
 seemed as if I could endure them no longer, the clouds began to 
 lift; news came that the wounded man was out of danger; then he 
 was recovering and the clouds rolled higher farther still they 
 rolled, for he was almost well. Then I thought it safe to return, 
 and coming back to England, lived in retirement for a short time 
 longer. 
 
 " One night before the man was completely recovered, I went with 
 Dunraven to see him, and but never mind about that now. At 
 last he was well; and then I came out from my seclusion, and did 
 all that lay in my power to clear Dunraven, writing a true account 
 of his connection with the gambling-house fracas to the newspapers, 
 and giving my personal assurance of his innocence to such of my 
 friends as did not shun me. His previous character for honor and 
 integrity stood him in good stead, and he stepped forth unscathed 
 by the furnace of scandal. 
 
 " In all these days I had not seen nor heard from Mildred. How I 
 longed to go to her! but I durst not. I asked my mother's advice 
 on the subject. ' It was her place to make the advance, not mine,' 
 she said; ' I had better wait.' I did wait, day after day, week after 
 week, with heartsick yearning, but nothing came of it. During* 
 this time I noticed that my mother seemed naturally to turn against 
 the woman, who, if she truly loved me, could not have deserted me 
 now. Slowly and warily, though I guessed it not at the time, knew 
 it not till long afterward, she tried to undermine nay love, but she 
 only succeeded in sapping all my love for life. 
 
 " At last, one afternoon in the park, I met Mildred face to face. 
 We were in the Kow. With a joyous bounding of the heart at be- 
 ing in her presence once more, I urged my horse to her side. Her 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 131 
 
 eyes flashed angrily upon me, and giving a cut with her whip upon 
 her horse's flank, she dashed ahead without a word. I could not 
 have been more surprised, more stunned had her whip come down 
 upon my head. In a sort of daze, I passed the hours until a note 
 came to me from her. I tore it open eagerly, hoping against hope. 
 ' As- your ungentlemanlike behavior of to-day/ she wrote, ' proves 
 that your feelings are not fine enough to enable you to understand 
 a tacit breaking off of our engagement, I write to inform you be- 
 yond your power to misconstrue, that I consider myself freed by 
 your conduct from all promises of an alliance with you. In the 
 future we will meet, if meeting be inevitable, not as friends, but as 
 strangers/ 
 
 "All that night I lay upon the floor where I had fallen, not less 
 crushed than the crumpled note in my clenched fingers. With the 
 morning light my sense of manhood asserted itself. Outwardly 
 calm, I sat down and wrote to Mildred, saying that for her I could 
 have no reproaches; she had acted, no doubt, wisely; I for- 
 gave her freely for the pain she had given me, and in order that her 
 dreaded meeting with me might not be inevitable, I was going away 
 to the wildest parts of the world to seek I knew not what. Then 
 a few words of farewell to my mother. I could j not trust myself to 
 bid her good-bye, for her prayers might have had force to keep me 
 against my will. Then alone I left home and civilization, and went 
 forth into voluntary exile. For months I wandered in the wilds of 
 Africa, endeavoring by danger and bodily fatigue to still the pangs 
 of memory. Partial success was all I achieved. Of my adventures 
 I could tell you to-night and to-morrow night, and the next, and 
 yet again the next, night after night, for perhaps weeks; but for 
 that style of narrative I am not in the mood. 
 
 " Let us pass them over in silence, and come to the time w r hen en- 
 tering Cairo I was obliged to apply to my bankers for money. For 
 weeks I lingered in Egypt, impelled by some unreasoning motive to 
 wander through the country of the Nile. Perhaps the verdure-giv- 
 ing river reminded me of the love which had at one time flooded 
 my barren life with promise of a rich harvest of bliss, yet had left it 
 more sterile than before, but unlike this faithful stream never to re- 
 turn. There I wandered and there came to me a letter from my 
 mother. It commenced with reproaches to the cruel, cruel boy who 
 had left her so long in anxious suspense, without even a line to say 
 he was alive, and whose whereabouts she only by an accident learned 
 from his bankers. Then came entreaties for my return, followed 
 by prayers for forgiveness for something yet unmentioned, that she 
 had done. It had been all for my good, she said, and with the 
 
132 BEHIND THE AREAS. 
 
 ft 
 
 best intentions for my welfare, that she had acted as she had, and I 
 could not refuse pardon for the fault which had sprung alone from 
 her love for me. Long drawn out was her letter, as though to ward 
 off, as it were, till the last possible minute, the confession begun 
 upon the fourth page; a confession of a wicked plot against my 
 happiness, interspersed with innumerable excuses for the double 
 part she had played. Condensed I will tell it to you. My marriage 
 with Mildred had never found favor in her eyes, for her ambition 
 had led her to believe that I could make a more eligible match 
 one that would add greater consequence to the Tufnells, by giving 
 me powerful connections. There was such an alliance to be made. 
 Lady Jane Montague was one of thirteen daughters poor, or she 
 would not accept me but she was of one of the oldest and most in- 
 fluential families in England. My mother was well aware of the 
 futility of trying to reason with me, and with the patience of a wily 
 woman, waited her opportunity to cause a breach between Mildred 
 and me. After the duel she had felt that the reasons that I should 
 marry into this family were stronger than ever, and it was this time 
 she chose to carry out her scheme. She pretended to make a con- 
 fidant of Mildred, and into her ear the mother poured complaints 
 against the son. By inuendos and half-finished sentences, sighs 
 and tears, she conveyed far more than she could have done in a 
 straightforward tale; and effected her purpose far better than by 
 the latter mode of action. Poison administered drop by drop 
 found its way insidiously to Mildred's heart; whereas from one large 
 potion she would have turned with distrust, doubting what it shocked 
 her to believe. When the man I had wounded was well, she sent 
 me word by my mother to come to her that I might have the chance 
 to set myself right if I could. Failure loomed before my mother if 
 she allowed us to meet, so she never delivered the message. To 
 Mildred she affected to make excuses for me, yet in such a manner 
 as to leave the inference that I would not come. During these days 
 she talked to me of the virtues of this other woman. I thought that 
 in the kindness of her heart she was but seeking to fill the void in 
 my affections, and received her words in the same spirit. Ah ! if I 
 had only had firmness then to crush the thought in her mind! She 
 might have relented and rejoined the broken thread of my love. 
 But sufficient of this scheming. It is painful to tell such things of 
 one's mother; but bear it in mind, as I do, that her motive was my 
 welfare. Enough to say that she succeeded in her purpose, and we 
 were enstranged, as you already know. Hardly had she begun to 
 see, as she thought, clearly to the end, when I was gone. As time 
 passed and she heard no word from me, the fear seized upon her 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 133 
 
 that some evil, she knew not what, had befallen me. Filled with 
 guilty remorse, she confessed the truth to Mildred, beseeching for- 
 giveness; and that angel of goodness forgave her. They mingled 
 their tears, each comforting the other with the hope, which neither 
 felt, that I would soon be heard from, and that all would yet be 
 well. It was when news arrived that an adventurous party of Eng- 
 lishmen and Americans one of them of the name of Tolfree, 
 which was at once construed into Tufnell penetrating into the 
 Arabian deserts had been murdered and robbed by Arabs, that they 
 gave up all hope of ever seeing me again. My Mildred, my flower, 
 began to droop and fade, slowly, painlessly, yet surely, and oh! 
 bitterest drop in my life-long draughts of sorrow, this letter of my 
 mother came too late! She she was dead." 
 
 Overpowered by emotion Tufnell bowed his head and covered his 
 face with his hands. When he again spoke, his eyes were still 
 shaded, his voice husky. 
 
 "Again my unfortunate mother cried for merciful forgiveness; 
 but no, my heart was hardened against her, I could not forgive. 
 "With a cruelty greater than hers, so great that it is with shame I 
 confess it, I wrote but two lines to say that she had killed one, and 
 would soon have another death upon her conscience. I went once 
 more upon my travels. Purposelessly I wandered over the world to 
 America, China, Japan, the Indies, a great weight upon me, a great 
 void in life. Years went by and I was still an aimless wanderer upon 
 the face of the earth; but do not think that in all this time I went 
 about haDging my head and sighing. True sorrow does not parade 
 its woe. There were times when I even laughed, when I seemed to 
 others a pleasant companion this without egotism and there were 
 moments when mere trifles pleased me. Yet, through it all remained 
 the sense of something wanting, something lost. Thoughts of my 
 mother had constantly risen in my mind, and at first I strove to put 
 them aside, but as time passed I thought of her less hardly, and 
 one day I wrote to her, not kindly, I grieve to say, but still duti- 
 fully and with no harshness. The expected answer did not come. 
 I wrote again in vague alarm. This brought a response from one 
 who called herself my mother's companion, saying I must return 
 home at once if I wished to see my mother alive. I went where 
 home might have been, but was not; a place so full of happy mean- 
 ing to him who has one, conveying such painful thoughts of impossible 
 bliss to the wretch who knows no hearthstone. What a terrible 
 change in my once beautiful mother! A single glance and the face, 
 lined by remorse and sorrow even more than by age, was pillowed 
 on my bosom, the shrunken form clasped in my arms, and she was 
 
134 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 forgiven, thoroughly heartily. How peaceful to me, as I know they 
 were to her, might have been these last days of her life, had it not 
 been for something which had happened in the past, that I now 
 learned for the first time. My truest friend, he to whom I owed so 
 much, Louis Dunraven, had been foully murdered in the woods near 
 Bratton, it was supposed by Guy Egerton. I had written to him 
 frequently while away, but at length became offended at his strange 
 silence, and discontinued my unanswered letters. The murder had 
 been committed so long before, that with difficulty I obtained any 
 information on the subject, and my mother who at the time had 
 been in trouble about me and oblivious to all else, could give me 
 but few particulars. I had doubts of that poor boy being guilty, 
 and with the hope of solving the mystery of the murder and the 
 boy's disappearance arose a new interest in life. A work was be- 
 fore me at last, and to it I determined to devote all my energies. 
 While my mother lived, which was longer than had been expected, 
 my presence was too precious to her to allow me to do much else 
 than to give my time to her; and in those last days by her bedside 
 reading and talking on religious subjects, my lost faith came back 
 to me, and before she died she had my promise to try to live a Chris- 
 tian life. Still young, yet utterly estranged from the world, I was 
 very lonely, but I had purposes now in life, and the resolve to do 
 some good to others before I too quitted this earth. What would 
 I not have given to leave the busy world and spend the rest of my 
 days in retirement! But I felt that there were duties before me 
 which I must not shirk; that where I could do most good, there I 
 must be; and putting aside inclination I mingled once more in so- 
 ciety. In these last few years I have been enabled to save many 
 young men from my own fate, or perhaps, a worse one; and in one 
 way and another to do more good, very little it is true, yet far more 
 than I had ever hoped to accomplish. 
 
 " I am not unhappy now, and when the one great purpose of my 
 existence is achieved, I dream of a quiet, peaceful old age in retire- 
 ment at Knocklofty Hall a battered worthless old ship coming into 
 harbor after a long and tempestuous voyage, to drop slowly to pieces 
 till the place thereof shall know it no more. 
 
 " Do you know that I never see a steamer sailing over the water with 
 a great cloud of smoke in her wake, that I do not think of human 
 sorrow. As the dark and heavy mass leaves the funnel, at first it 
 spreads above the vessel like a great black pall, darkening all be- 
 neath by its shadow; but by degrees, as the ship speeds onward, it 
 forms into a train, and hangs behind as more springs forth to take 
 its place, thinning slowly, melting into air, that which is farthest 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 135 
 
 fading first. And at last when a tranquil haven is reached, the 
 smoke no longer issues forth, and of what has before darkened the 
 air, soon nothing remains but specks of soot upon the water. 
 
 " Does not sorrow come ever fresh and new, the griefs of to-day 
 thrusting aside the woes of yesterday, until, as we advance in life, 
 those that have come first fade into insignificance? Peaceful har- 
 bors there are, where, if we have not foundered in the tempest of 
 affliction, or been wrecked upon the rocks of despair, we may find 
 rest while present trouble sinks into the past, and we gain strength 
 to renew our voyage into the troubled waters of the future; where, 
 at last, worn out with buffeting the billows of adversity, we may 
 drop anchor and slowly fall to pieces. 
 
 " It is my one hope that in some quiet harbor I may find my rest, 
 and, when the last timber crumbles and falls away, that all my 
 worldly wealth may go to freight a better craft than I myself have 
 ever been." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 This narrow isthmus twixt two boundless seas, 
 The past, the future, two eternities. 
 
 Veiled Prophet. 
 
 NOCK knock knock at the door of one of the private 
 sitting-rooms in the Pavilion Hotel, Folkestone. It was 
 ^=*/\$/ breakfast hour, and according to appointment, Jolliffe Tuf- 
 T nell had come to share the morning meal with his friend 
 Mrs. Whym. The breakfast table, with its snowy cloth and hissing 
 urn, was laid when, in response to a gentle " Come in " from within, 
 he entered; and Lucy was reading over the advertisements in the 
 supplement of yesterday's Times, while she awaited his coming. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Tufnell," she said, as she laid down the 
 newspaper, and came forward to meet him with a smile; " I am glad 
 to see you so punctual; see, the clock on the chimney-piece has only 
 just struck." 
 
 " Punctuality, my dear, in keeping one's engagements, I regard 
 as a virtue; quite as much of a virtue indeed as patience, if we may 
 judge, I am sorry to say, by the infrequency of its practice among 
 mortals. You slept well, I need not ask, for you are looking re- 
 markably well this morning. I was right, you see, in thinking a 
 breath of sea air would do you good. " 
 
 It was true; there was a vast change for the better in Lucy's 
 looks, since they had last met. Her face had lost much of the ex- 
 pression of settled gloom it had worn the day before, and the first 
 
136 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 faint rays of the sunshine of hope and a contented heart seemed to be 
 peeping forth in her smiles. But the recital she had listened to the 
 night before, had, perhaps, more to do with the improvement than 
 the saline tonic of the atmosphere. 
 
 " Yes, I do feel wonderfully light-hearted this bright, beautiful 
 morning; wonderfully light-hearted, I'm ashamed to say;" and she 
 hung her head. 
 
 "Nonsense, child! why shouldn't you? But come," changing 
 the subject as he saw the old shadow creeping back; " suppose 
 though you are the hostess, and it's manners in a guest to wait to be 
 asked suppose we go to breakfast. I'm awfully hungry." 
 
 " Oh, dear! I forgot," the shadow gone again, as she ran over to 
 the table; "I waited to make tea till you came. I did't think " 
 
 " You didn't think, my dear, that like the ghost in Hamlet, I'd 
 come so carefully upon my hour; that was it, wasn't it? Well, so 
 much the better, for if there is one thing more than another I like 
 to see, it is a young lady engaged in the domestic occupation of 
 making tea;" and he followed her over to the table, to superintend 
 the operation. " One spoonful for each person, is the formula, I be- 
 lieve. But that won't be enough when there are only two people, 
 will it ? I hate weak tea." 
 
 " And one for the pot, you know;" said Lucy, taking a third spoon- 
 ful from the tea-caddy. " There, that will do famously; besides, 
 strong tea is bad for one's nerves, they say." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know they say so; but it's just like everything else 
 they say, you'll find; all rubbish. Do you know, my dear young 
 friend, that I've observed, as a fact, that the old women, who are re- 
 garded as the proverbial tea-drinkers of the world, bar the Chinese 
 of course, are, some of them, the coolest, most deliberate, nerveless 
 old hands going. Let me give you a bit of this broiled ham, Mrs. 
 Whym? I can recommend these rolls, too, they're really very fair 
 for a sea-side hostelry. Thanks; yes, its quite strong enough, I 
 confess; a trifle more sugar, please. By the bye, talking of tea and 
 the Chinese, reminds me of a yarn I heard when I was in Hong 
 Kong." And so, while Lucy did the honors gracefully, and lis- 
 tened, Tufnell rattled on, feeling strangely happy in his present 
 frame of mind, this man of moods, and determined that the talk 
 should not lag, so far as he was concerned. He put off the con- 
 sideration of serious matters until the waiter had taken his final de- 
 parture; for he had a fixed belief that all servants of the "male per- 
 suasion" as A. Ward puts it were cast in the yellow-plush mold. 
 But at length, when he had finished his second cup of tea, and the 
 waiter with his Tower of Pisa-like tray of crockery and Britannia- 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 137 
 
 ware had descended to the regions below, he drew two chairs, for 
 himself and Lucy, before the window, intent upon the discussion of 
 the business of the day. 
 
 " I want to have a little talk, now, about your affairs, " he said; 
 " and in the first place I must tell you, that after a night's reflec- 
 tion on all that you said to me yesterday, I have determined to assist 
 you in your project. You are of age, your own mistress, and though 
 frankness compels me to say, that I cannot but censure your con- 
 duct in leaving those who have been all in all to you, yet, feeling as 
 you do at present, I cannot advise you to return to them. Try 
 your plan of life: I have no doubt that in time, when your mind 
 becomes more tranquil, andyou have thought over the matter 
 seriously, you will see it all in a far difterent light, and feel better 
 able to endure what now appears to you to be unbearable. I would 
 be sanguine of a happy future for you, if it were not for one thing. 
 It troubles me. Misunderstandings, springing from some slight 
 cause, so often lead to life-enduring sorrow and regret, that I cannot 
 feel quite satisfied about Is it not possible that you misjudge Mr. 
 Ingolsby ? that you did not rightly interpret his words? His conduct 
 during the search for you was not what one would expect from a man 
 who spoke as you suppose. Would it not be wise to seek an expla- 
 nation ?" 
 
 "Mr. Tufnell," and as Lucy answered, her flushed face was turned 
 aside, and her fingers closed tightly upon each other, " this is the 
 last time that that man must figure in our conversation. He should 
 not do so now, but that I feel it my duty to speak without reserve 
 to one who has won my perfect trust, by his disinterested kindness 
 and confidence in me. The expression used in reference to me, to 
 which you refer, was explained, if explanation it needed, by Sir 
 Griflith's response. I remember it perfectly, and it convinces me 
 of his meaning. To you I can never cease to be thankful for all 
 your goodness, and willingly will I take your advice; but on this 
 one subject Oh, forgive me! forgive me! if I seem ungrateful/' 
 and her eyes sought his in supplication; "for I cannot allow any 
 one to dictate to me modes of conduct, which my woman's nature 
 will not sanction; on this subject my own heart must be guide and 
 mentor." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, child. 'Tis I who should apologise for my 
 apparent intrusiveness; but believe me I only wish to assist you, as 
 I would have liked some one to have aided me when I was young in 
 adversity. As you wish it, then, we will not again refer to the 
 matter. And now to decide on a future course of action. Have 
 you any idea in what manner you can support yourself ?" 
 
138 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 " What I want, Mr. Tufnell, is a position which can be obtained 
 without having to furnish recommendations or references; where I 
 will be seen by few, and those few unlikely to discover my identity, 
 with work that I am capable of performing, not too hard, yet re- 
 munerative, and where I will be so situated that I can remain dis- 
 guised." 
 
 " And where on the face of this earth, where the right niche for 
 the right person is seldom, if ever, found, do you expect to find such 
 a place ?" 
 
 "There is not only such a niche in this world for me, but I also 
 intend to enter it," she said, smiling. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " In the service of a lady of rank." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "As a lady's maid." 
 
 " Well!" and after this third monosyllable, a final ejaculation of 
 wonderment, conveying a meaning the very reverse of what the word 
 itself expressed, Tufnell rose abruptly from his seat, and thrusting 
 his hands deep into his pockets, paced the room. " Young woman, 
 young woman, this will never do. Be your birth what it may, you 
 are a lady by education and refinement, and you must not take the 
 situation of a menial. Be what you will, but not that. It goes 
 against me to consent." 
 
 " It is not your consent I ask, but your assistance," she said, 
 quickly; then fearing she had wounded him, for she thought she 
 saw him wince at the brusqueness of her words: "What else can 
 I do ? For a governess I would require recommendations refer- 
 ences; and even if I succeeded in obtaining such a situation without 
 them, I would live in hourly dread of detection. T have been told 
 that my voice could make my fortune; but even supposing such an 
 assertion to have been more than mere flattery, what concealment 
 on the public stage? There is much work to be done in the world, 
 but none other than what I suggest, that I am in a position to seek 
 or accept, or am competent to perform. There is no alternative, and 
 I must accept the only mode of living that is open to me." 
 
 "My dear child, there is one alternative you can marry." 
 
 "Marry!" she exclaimed in utter amazement; "and whom, 
 pray?" 
 
 He had paused in his walk directly before her, and stood looking 
 over her head into the waters of the English Channel, far beyond. 
 
 " I told you the story of my life with a purpose. I thought that 
 it was not right that a young girl should be cast adrift upon the 
 world, and when once you knew me as I was, I determined to offer 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 139 
 
 you a home. I cannot say that I love you; but I do like you like 
 you very much; and if in a few months time you are still of the 
 same mind in regard to the Egertons, and are devoid of feelings of 
 repugnance toward me, a home is open to you, and I ask you to be 
 my wife;" then lowering his eyes for the first time to her face, where 
 varied emotions were so rapidly changing its expression that he tried 
 in vain to detect which held the strongest place, he went on without 
 waiting for a reply: " You no doubt think me a very queer fellow, 
 to be making such a proposal at such a time, and on our short ac- 
 quaintance; but one must use extraordinary measures in an extreme 
 case. I have little doubt that in time this affair of yours will come 
 all right; but if by any chance it should not, and you remain de- 
 pendent upon your own exertions, the best possible thing you can 
 do is to accept a home from me. I have no one to care for in the 
 world, and I will spend my life in trying to make you happy; and 
 in doing so will find happiness myself. I do not want you to an- 
 swer me now, for you may not at present see clearly the merits and 
 demerits of my proposition, as I wish you to do; but a few months 
 hence, leaving sufficient time for everything to take place that is 
 likely to happen, you can tell me ' yea' or ' nay.' And now, will 
 you allow me to inquire into the state of your finances?'* 
 
 " Fifty pounds, minus my traveling expenses up to the present 
 time," she answered, grateful that he did not ask her to speak on the 
 other subject he had just left. She could not have done so then- 
 she knew not how. 
 
 " And will you not permit me to assist " 
 
 " No, no," she interrupted; " it is enough to support me until I 
 can earn more." 
 
 " But if you should by any chance require help in this way, you 
 will allow me the pleasure of being useful ? " 
 
 " I hope and trust the necessity may never arise; but if it should, 
 I promise to apply to you." 
 
 " Thank you," he said as heartily as though she had granted him 
 some great boon. " Had you not better cross over to Boulogne to- 
 day ? " he added: " I will join you in Paris, for I must run home to 
 show the servants that I have not been kidnapped or otherwise made 
 away with, as my sudden and unaccountable disappearance might 
 lead them to suppose; and more important still I want to get a 
 change of clothes. I might telegraph to have them sent to me, it is 
 true, and that would show that I was alive besides, but I really 
 think it best that you should continue your journey alone. Should 
 all come right again, it will be better for you, believe me, than if it 
 were known that I was with you all the time. I will see you off, of 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 course, but we must first find out when the boat leaves," and he started 
 for the bell-rope. " Oh, the very thing! here's a Bradshaw on the 
 chimney-piece. This is a wonderfully well-appointed place of en- 
 tainment for man and beast, I must say: two capital chimney orna- 
 ments, a clock a clock that strikes, and a Bradshaw. Now, let's see. 
 South Eastern Railway, page 326; here it is: ' London and Paris in 
 10 hours, Thursday, October 4th, Tidal Express leaves Charing 
 Cross and Cannon street, 1 : 25 p. M. Folkestone, 3:50' we have 
 abundance of time ' arrive in Paris 11:30.' That's rather late, I'm 
 afraid; but you can drive directly to the Magnifique in the Italiens 
 the best hotel is the safest. Are you afraid to travel alone ? " 
 
 " If I were, I should not be so far on my way already. Have no 
 anxiety, pray, in that respect." 
 
 "I am glad you have so much confidence in yourself," he said, 
 closing the book and putting it back in its place beside the clock; 
 "for I confess to having felt decidedly nervous myself at letting 
 you cross the Channel and go on to Paris alone. I must remain 
 here till to-morrow." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "A very good reason, my friend. When I went out shooting yes- 
 terday morning, as a matter of course, I had not the faintest idea 
 that I was starting on a journey to Folkestone, and had but a small 
 sum of money in my pocket; luckily, enough to carry me as far as 
 this, for I traveled third-class when I found the farmers in your car- 
 riage. I can't very well leave here, you know, without paying my 
 bill; for they don't know me, and my style of dress, you will con- 
 fess, is not exactly the thing to inspire confidence in a landlord's 
 breast. I would telegraph to my bankers in London for a small 
 draft, but for the very same reason I don't know a soul in the 
 place who would or could identify me. If it was known that I was 
 here, it would, of course, be all right; but in transactions of a mon- 
 etary character the British banker is a very careful animal. So the 
 only thing I can do is to write, for happily they know my signature, 
 and wait for the return post. I'm blessed," and he emptied the 
 contents of his waistcoat pockets on the table, " if eighteen pence 
 three farthings is not the sum total of my present cash on hand !"- 
 
 " This is most unkind, Mr. Tufnell," Lucy said in a hurt tone; 
 " you shower kindnesses upon me, and yet will not give me the 
 pleasure of making even a poor return. You will not condescend 
 to borrow from me to whom you would offer your bounty." 
 
 As she spoke, she drew forth her purse and placed it in his hand. 
 Silently he took a sovereign, and returned the rest, his man's heart, 
 no doubt rebelling at receiving assistance of such a kind from a 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 141 
 
 woman, yet his gentleman's nature forbidding him to pain her by a 
 refusal. 
 
 " I will meet you in Paris in two days at latest," he said, as a few 
 hours later they stood together on the deck of the Boulogne steamer, 
 amid the throng of passengers just come down by the " Tidal" from 
 London. "In the meantime you can be on the lookout for your 
 'lady of rank;' but if you do not succeed in finding one desirous 
 of your services, I must once more come to the rescue; that is, if 
 you will still accept my humble assistance. There goes the last 
 bell, and they are drawing in the gangway bridges, so I must go 
 ashore. I won't say good-bye, but au revoir." 
 
 And, as the mooring-lines were being cast off, and the paddles 
 were beginning to turn, he gained the pier, leaving Lucy looking 
 wistfully over the rail the old sense of loneliness gathering about 
 her heart and dimming her eyes, now that she was again alone, and 
 the one true, honest-hearted friend who had shed the only ray of 
 sunshine upon her past week of sorrow, and lifted so much of the 
 weight from her heart, gone from her side. 
 
 Tufnell stood on the end of the pier and watched the steamer 
 till it was but a speck in the offing, and its black smoke a mere blur 
 against the distant sky; and then, after wiping away with his red silk 
 pocket-handkerchief a haze which had gathered upon his spectacles, 
 he lighted his short clay pipe, stuck his hands into his pockets, and 
 walked slowly back to the hotel. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Honest labor bears a lovely face. 
 
 ' Patient Grissel " : Act I, Scene 1. 
 
 UCY, registered as " Mrs. Whym, England," had arrived at 
 the Hotel Magnifique, Boulevard des Italiens, Paris. 
 
 The coming of a plainly-dressed English " Mrs." thus unes- 
 ' * corted, unattended, and luggageless to the fashionable French 
 hotel, happily for her, did not excite the remark or attract the at- 
 tention it would have done in conventional, straightlaced old Eng- 
 land; for so long as her manners and address appeared to be those 
 of a lady, and she gave other and more tangible and satisfactory 
 evidence of the possession of means wherewith to meet whatever ex- 
 penses she might incur while she remained under his roof, the 
 voluble and volatile landlord troubled not his head, if she had 
 chosen to leave her husband or her maid at home, or had seen fit 
 
142 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 to travel abroad with no articles of raiment or personal adornment, 
 beside those she wore, than what might be contained within the nar- 
 row limits of a small black leather traveling-bag. As for the people 
 stopping at the hotel, nothing surprises a Frenchman; the English 
 guests regarded a thing that might have surprised , or even shocked 
 their ideas of propriety at home, as unworthy of note in Paris; and 
 the Americans "minded their own business." 
 
 The rough passage across the channel; the reaction from the 
 excitement of traveling for the first time in a strange country 
 unattended; the depressing influence of the feeling that she 
 was alone in a strange city, where even the blind beggar in the 
 street had a companion in his dog, and every one of the throng fill- 
 ing its gay thoroughfares, appeared to act in concert with some- 
 body else, while she remained solitary among them all, made her 
 feel miserable and sick at heart. To one who had always been an 
 object of solicitude, this sensation of being " one apart" was inex- 
 pressibly painful. For what more utterly dispiriting to any one, 
 than the enforced consciousness that with those one is thrown 
 amongst one has nothing in common, except it be the belief that 
 from henceforth and forever it is to be thus. 
 
 Are there not times when there seems to fall upon all nature a dark, 
 disfiguring pall; when all things lose their charm; when there appears 
 to be nothing worth living for, nothing to keep one plodding on 
 through this dreary, dreary world ? The mind grows weary, and the 
 soul asserts itself and calls for something nobler, more satisfying far, 
 far beyond this monotonous every-day life. A mere trifle, a word, 
 a glance unkind, the book we have been reading, the first view of 
 some grand scene any of these, trivial in themselves, may on a sud- 
 den cast a spell upon what before had given greatest delight, till in 
 a moment it dwindles into nothingness, and dark dissatisfaction, 
 with all that was, or is, or may be, usurps the place of light. We 
 feel that 
 
 "It is not all of life to live, nor all of death to die." 
 
 We cannot resist, we cannot conquer the shade that falls upon 
 our heart; strive as we may, the spell still holds us slaves, until re- 
 laxing of itself, the human instincts spring into place once more. 
 
 Lucy was under this strange influence, and her courage sank; and 
 though blame her we must for the unacknowledged pride which had 
 brought her to this pass, yet pity her we can for the pain that she 
 suffered. 
 
 Bright, therefore, was the sunshine that Jolliffe Tufnell brought 
 with him, when, resplendent in a blue frock coat, pearl gray trousers, 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 143 
 
 and a tall bat, he came at last; for it dispelled the gloom which op- 
 pressed her. 
 
 It was only his good-humored smile, his cheery words and odd 
 ways, but sunshine it was to her, and once more she took heart, and 
 looked forward with firmness and courage. Was she already unfaith- 
 ful to her first love ? She put the question to herself, and the an- 
 swer came back: "Not so. I fear lvalue the mere human pres- 
 ence more than the man, good and kind though he has been to me." 
 
 When no pleasing visions come to beguile our hours of loneli- 
 ness, but crowding thoughts of unhappiness harass the mind, a 
 human presence then seems all in all; unless it be that we have 
 reached that morbid state, when brooding on our sorrows gives us 
 something akin to pleasure. Lucy, fortunately, had not reached 
 the latter state; hers was a nature which though it could of neces- 
 sity stand alone, yet craved human sympathy and protection. 
 
 Almost his first question was about the " lady of rank." 
 
 She had been too far from well both in body and in mind, Lucy 
 told him, to make any inquiries as yet, but at once she would set 
 about doing so. 
 
 "You, a lady, stopping at this swell hotel," he said, "cannot 
 step directly from such a position into the character of a lady's 
 maid. The fact, too, that you were staying here, if known to those 
 from whom you might seek employment, would be apt, at least, to 
 excite suspicion as to your true character, and be almost certain to 
 prevent the very result you wish to accomplish. I thought it safer 
 for you to come here at first when you were alone and unprotected, 
 but I only intended that you should remain until I could join you 
 again. What you must do now, is to take lodgings, change your 
 name again, and prepare some suitable clothing. The lodgings, 
 you yourself must find, for, of course, I must not be seen or known 
 in the matter. A young woman in the station you are to occupy, 
 has, or should have, no gentlemen friends. The sooner you can get 
 away from here the better, for, if there was no other reason, it is 
 confoundedly expensive." 
 
 He watched her narrowly as he spoke, with the hope that now it 
 had come to the final point of really sacrificing her position, that 
 her courage and determination would forsake her. 
 
 " And am I no longer to have the benefit of your advice?" she 
 asked anxiously, but with no sign that could be construed into 
 wavering from her purpose. 
 
 " We can write," he answered, laconically. 
 
 So it was settled, and Lucy with little difficulty found humble 
 lodgings in the neighborhood of the Faubourg Montniartre. There 
 
144 BEHIND THE AERAS. 
 
 she remained five days without seeing- or hearing from Tufnell; and 
 the sense of loneliness that had again come upon her, was less pain- 
 fully felt, as her mind was occupied by work which kept her inex- 
 perienced fingers busy. Not quite new to such work however, they 
 were also ready, supple fingers, guided by an ingenious brain, and 
 at the end of these five days her maid's slender wardrobe was com- 
 pleted. The other lodgers whom she met on the stairs as she went 
 to and from her meals, knew she was English, in spite of her per- 
 fect accent; and having apparently had some experience of the cold- 
 ness and reserve of her nation, from other Britishers with whom 
 they had come in contact, beyond a " bon jour, madame," or " apres 
 vous, mamselle," left her to herself. She was not sorry, for it freed 
 her from the annoyance of idle questions, idly asked. In busy sol- 
 itude, therefore, she passed the time away, only going out for her 
 modest dinner, and simple breakfast, to a quiet little restaurant in 
 the next street. On the morning of the fifth day, as she was re- 
 turning from the latter meal, the concierge put into her hand a letter 
 addressed to " Miss Sullivan." She opened it quickly, and read: 
 
 "My DEAR CHILD: 
 
 " I was thinking of the advisability of advertising for a place for 
 you in a French family, when by the luckiest chance, I found what 
 I doubted -with reason if you would ever find; viz: just the place 
 you want. The Amtenhursts (Earl, Countess and niece) are here, 
 arrived yesterday, en route for Italy, and last night while passing 
 through the hall I met Lord A. who took me to their rooms. "We 
 were talking together when Miss Courtenay (the niece) came into 
 the room, and informed her ladyship that ' Jones was no better and 
 refused to go with them any farther, considering her illness a bad 
 omen/ No more was said on the subject, but my head running on 
 ladies' maids, I began to wonder if this Jones could be one, and 
 then an idea struck me. I questioned a chambermaid, who no doubt 
 puts me down as infatuated with Miss Courtenay misguided creat- 
 ure! (that is, the chambermaid) and this is the" result of my in- 
 quiries. Jones is a lady's maid Lady Amtenhurst's own; has been 
 taken suddenly sick, and refuses to go a step farther. They are 
 traveling with no other servants but a French courier, so I would 
 advise you to apply for the place, its advantages being that travel- 
 ing will do your mind good; in an English family you will feel more 
 at home than in a French one; they do not know the Egertons; 
 Lady A. is a kind good woman; and you will not have to mix with 
 servants. Come as soon as you get this say you heard she wanted 
 a maid, and refer her to me for a character or any necessary recom- 
 mendations. A man does not generally know much about it I sup- 
 pose (I'm blessed if I do) but never mind, 111 manage to make it all 
 right for you, if you will trust. 
 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 "JOLLLFFE TUFNELL." 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 145 
 
 One hour later Lady Amtenhurst was sitting alone in one of their 
 appartement an premier at the Hotel Magnifique, when a plainly- 
 dressed woman was ushered into the room. 
 
 " What is it you would speak to me about, my good woman ?" 
 her ladyship asked as the other stood silent and embarrassed. 
 
 " I heard, my Lady, that you were looking for a maid," and the 
 voice trembled slightly. 
 
 " Not exactly that. My present maid is sick and I fear will be 
 unable to remain with me; still I had not yet thought of filling her 
 place. But sit down: you will be tired standing." 
 
 There was something in the tone of her voice that gave a kindli- 
 ness to the words, in themselves but commonplace, and caused Lucy 
 for it was she to put aside her veil, as she sat down." 
 
 " I have even thought seriously," her ladyship went on, " of con- 
 tinuing our journey without one." An unmistakable shade of dis- 
 appointment crossed the face she was scrutinizing, and she asked: 
 " Is it for yourself you want the situation ? " 
 
 "Yes, my lady." 
 
 ' ' You are young to have much experience, and you seem above 
 the position." 
 
 The color rose painfully in that sad young face as Lady Amten- 
 hurst waited for an answer to her half interrogator}?-, half assertion. 
 
 " I was educated above my station, it is true, and with no thought 
 that I should ever work for my daily bread, but but I assure you, 
 my lady, that I was born of very humble parents." 
 
 The look of wistfulness and truth in the soft black eyes, changed 
 the other's glance of keen scrutiny into one of compassion. 
 
 " Poor girl; and after your mind having been elevated and given 
 a taste beyond your sphere, you are now compelled to earn your 
 bread. I was right, then, in supposing you had little experience; 
 and much as I like your appearance, I am afraid you would not suit 
 me. I want a woman thoroughly competent to take all trouble off 
 my hands in traveling." 
 
 " I am not so ignorant as you think, my lady." 
 "Were you ever in service before? I thought this was your first 
 trial." 
 
 A moment Lucy paused before she answered, to ask herself if it 
 were wrong, in speaking the truth to imply what was false ? Her 
 intention was not to injure or defraud any one; she felt herself cap- 
 able of performing all that would be required of her; if she let this 
 place slip through her fingers, would not the same question be 
 asked by others ? and she knew of no other way in which to earn 
 her bread. It was one of the necessary evils of the course she had 
 10 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 cbosen, and adopting for the time being the doctrine that " the end 
 justifies the means," though it went sorely against her conscience, 
 she answered: 
 
 " I lived in one family several years." 
 
 "Their name?" 
 
 "Egerton, my lady." 
 
 "Egerton Egerton. Have I not heard that name lately?" 
 mused Lady Amtenhurst. " What was it I heard in connection 
 with the name? Oh, yes; I remember now: a daughter eloped or 
 ran away with somebody. Are these the same people?" 
 
 "Yes, my lady/' and the tell-tale blood bathed her cheeks. 
 
 " Unnatural girl to run away from her father and mother. Were 
 you with them at the time ?" 
 
 " Yes, my lady/' 
 
 "Why did you leave them?" and her ladyship's eyes were once 
 more keen and watchful. 
 
 It was evident that she was imperfectly acquainted with the story 
 of Lucy's disappearance, and it was not likely that she would sus- 
 pect this applicant for a situation as her maid, to be the runaway 
 daughter of the Egertons; but to remove any doubts that might by 
 chance have entered her mind, Lucy determined to make a bold 
 stroke, and still adhering to the dubious maxim she had resolved to 
 be governed by, tell what was true, yet so word it that a very dif- 
 ferent conclusion from the actual fact would be drawn. 
 
 " I left them when the young lady did; and because, my lady, it 
 was with my assistance that Miss Egerton escaped. Without my 
 help she could not have done it." 
 
 " Oh, indeed! You are a frank young woman, to tell me this." 
 
 " I tell you because I feel convinced that, had you been in my po- 
 sition, your ladyship would have acted in the same way. Oh, my 
 lady! if you could have known the poor thing's sufferings, being in 
 my place, you would have done as I did." She paused abruptly, 
 conscious that her feelings were carrying her away from her assumed 
 character. 
 
 " But are you not sorry for it now? Would you not undo your 
 work ?" 
 
 "No, my lady," she answered, looking up steadily. "I acted 
 truly by her who was my mistress. She was the one to decide for 
 herself between right and wrong not a poor servant." 
 
 " But you are not an ignorant menial to serve as a tool in other 
 people's hands. Your appearance, your language, everything is 
 above your position, and you should have used the discretion given 
 you by Providence." 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 147 
 
 " Perhaps so, my lady, but," with a sigh, " I acted according to 
 my lights." 
 
 "And you expect me to take you into my service after this con- 
 fession ?" 
 
 " My lady, if I have been true to one, does it not follow that I 
 can be true to another ? If you take me into your service I will be 
 true to you till death." 
 
 She did not know what a powerful pleader was the sad sweet look 
 which met the searching gaze fixed upon her. 
 
 Lady Amtenhurst rose quickly, and took a few steps to the centre- 
 table, and resting her hand upon it, stood in thought. As quickly 
 she turned again, and came back to Lucy, who had risen. 
 
 " I know not what possesses me," she said with a puzzled look. 
 " Had another woman spoken as you have done, I should have rung 
 and had her turned from the room. Were you discharged when your 
 young mistress was missed, or did you leave with her?" 
 
 " I left with her, my lady." 
 
 "Where, then, is she now?" 
 
 " I cannot tell your ladyship." 
 
 "And why did the silly girl leave her home ?" 
 
 " That is her secret, my lady. Were it in my possession, I am 
 sure your ladyship would not have me tell it." 
 
 "Will you not try to induce her to return ?'' 
 
 "It is not my place to advise, but to serve, my lady. I have 
 done that which I thought right, and I must go through with it to 
 the end;" and sad was her voice, as with something of disquiet, she 
 thought of the path which once chosen, she must now follow. 
 
 " Edith!" called Lady Amtenhurst. 
 
 A minute's silence, while she and Lucy stood with looks bent 
 upon the floor. Then the door of an adjoining room which had 
 been ajar, opened wide, and a small, fair-haired woman entered. 
 
 " Did you call me, aunt?" 
 
 "Yes, Edith, come here." 
 
 As she came forward, staring somewhat rudely at the stranger, 
 Lady Amtenhurst drew her arm within her own, and led her to the 
 window. Her ladyship spoke in a low voice, and then her com- 
 panion left her side, and going to the table for a photograph al- 
 bum, her eyes rested upon Lucy, as she passed back with it to the 
 window. 
 
 "A remarkable face!" she audibly whispered; " not by any means 
 remarkable, auntie. A very ordinary face, I call it; if not posi- 
 tively ugly. I would strongly advise you to take her. Jones posi- 
 tively refuses to go on, and where else shall we find another? and 
 I want so much to leave here to-morrow." 
 
148 BEHIND THE ARRAS, 
 
 Her aunt said something about " going without one," at which 
 Edith pouted and jerked her shoulders. 
 
 " Impossible, auntie!" she exclaimed, leaving the window. "I 
 could never manage to get on without a maid, whatever you might 
 do. Do you know how to dress hair, young woman ?" to Lucy. 
 
 It was something she had always had a fancy for, and now she 
 could honestly answer: 
 
 "Yes, Miss." 
 
 ' ' And you know all about dressing one for parties, and altering 
 dresses, and packing, and all that sort of thing ?" 
 
 Not quite pleased with her new interlocutor, Lucy replied : 
 
 " I can do all that may be required of a lady's maid, Miss." 
 
 "We want to leave Paris to-morrow, so this afternoon would be 
 the best time for you " 
 
 " Come, come, Edith, not so fast, my dear," interrupted Lady 
 Amtenhurst, coming forward and laying her hand upon her niece's 
 arm. " I cannot at present make up my mind whether or not to take 
 this young person. I will think about it, and let you know to- 
 night," to Lucy. "Do not form any hopes that I will engage you, 
 for it is very doubtful. But if I should, can you be ready to leave 
 with us the day after to-morrow ?" 
 
 "No, no; to-morrow, ami tie. 3 ' 
 
 "We leave Paris the day after to-morrow," said her ladyship, 
 quietly but firmly; and Edith, evidently but too well acquainted 
 with her aunt's quiet firmness, turned away with a gesture of ill- 
 concealed impatience. 
 
 "I can go any day, my lady," said Lucy. 
 
 " Your address ?" 
 
 "27 Kue Jacqueline." 
 
 "And name?" 
 
 Promptly came the word " Sullivan;" although prudence was 
 whispering, " She may know more of this story some day, and sus- 
 pect the truth." But conscience answering, "You have imposed 
 upon this kind woman enough mislead her no further," conquered 
 prudence, and she repeated: 
 
 " Sullivan, my lady." 
 
 She left the hotel, and walking rapidly along the gay Boulevard 
 with its crowd of fashionable promenaders, brilliant shops, and 
 handsome equipages, turned into the Rue Laffitte, and passing on 
 through the quieter and humbler streets of the Faubourg Mont- 
 martre, reached her lodgings, wondering as she went at the liking 
 for Lady Amtenhurst that had sprung up in her heart, and sur- 
 prised, now that the dreaded interview was over, at the courage which 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 149 
 
 had come to her so quickly when once she found herself in the 
 room she had entered with such nervous anxiety, scarcely knowing 
 what she should say. But the conviction that in the new life there 
 would be hardly less deception than had she retained a position 
 that was not rightfully hers, forced itself upon her, and did not fail 
 to alloy with fresh misgivings, the hopes she had been indulging of 
 peace and rest come at last. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The leaves of memory seemed to make 
 A mournful rustling in the dark. 
 
 " Fire of Drift- Wood." 
 
 "T was that hour between day and dark when the world slowly 
 resigns itself to night, parting reluctantly with the last lin- 
 gering rays of light which break the fall of sudden darkness. 
 That twilight hour, sad, yet not melancholy, when, the 
 present all forgotten, past moments of bliss are lived again, and the 
 future rises bright and beautiful; when thoughts chime in of joys 
 long passed that are now but sweet and lingering memories 
 thoughts of tranquil happiness thoughts of what we are and might 
 be of what we are not of what we would be thoughts of loved 
 and lost ones thoughts of loved ones not yet ours of what might 
 be, of what can never be; thoughts of an ideal perfect world as we 
 would have it, but can never know except in dreams; so that when 
 the hour is passed and gone, and we realize that life and dreams are 
 not as one, life by contrast loses half its charm. Exquisitely happy 
 and doubly precious because so rare, are some moments in life, but 
 in their reality worth far more than those we dream. If thou wouldst 
 find them, oh, reader, and feel their true value, beware of thoughts 
 which crowd into that little hour, when day departing, in gentle- 
 ness gives way to coming night. 
 
 When twilight fell upon Paris that early October evening, little 
 of its beauty found its way to the humble room where Lucy sat. 
 But though the tall surrounding houses shut out the gorgeous sight 
 of richly-tinted clouds in fantastic groupings, above where the God 
 of day had sunk to rest, the influence of the hour stole softly in, and 
 fell upon her half closed eyelids. 
 
 No view from the window, no fire in the grate, no beauty in the 
 
 room; nothing for the eyes to rest upon with pleasure, she closed 
 
 them upon the outer world, and looked upon the inner. Shadows 
 
 of by-gone happy times gathered round her, and began their tale of 
 
 "Days that are no more," 
 
150 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 while the stars came out one by one, and the night, gradually clos- 
 ing in, filled the room with its darkness. Then in interruption 
 came a step upon the stairs; slowly and heavily it ascended while she 
 waited to hear it pause at her floor and go to one of the other rooms, 
 or keep on to the story above, that she might resume her musing in 
 silence. The step paused when it reached the top of her flight, and 
 then she heard it approaching her room. Wondering who it could 
 be, she was half tempted to jump up and lock the door, when a tap- 
 tap-tap was given on the panel outside. 
 
 " Oh, it is the concierge with the letter from Lady Amtenhurst," 
 she said, reassured by the thought, as she hastily struck a match 
 and lighted her lamp. ' ' Entrez ! " 
 
 The door was thrown open wide, revealing not the slovenly old 
 concierge but a strange, dark figure in the shadow without. 
 
 " Who can it be? " she thought; " a messenger from her ladyship, 
 perhaps." 
 
 Taking up the lamp in order to discover from a closer inspection 
 who her unknown and hesitating visitor might be, she moved to- 
 ward the doorway, and the light fell upon a middle-sized man, 
 dressed in that peculiar loudness of style which always betokens the 
 absence of taste, if not of gentility. A short cutaway coat, buttoned 
 so as to show an expanse of yellow waistcoat below, and a gaudy 
 crimson scarf in which was stuck a huge horse-shoe pin, above; 
 trousers of the most gigantic check; an eye-glass screwed into one 
 eye; a small cane twirled lightly under one arm; and, to crown all, 
 a tall white hat with a wide black band, tilted knowingly over one 
 ear, and displaying on the uncovered side of the head, a staring crop 
 of bright red hair. 
 
 Lucy looked a moment at the remarkable figure, in inquiring 
 doubt, and then started back in surprise. 
 
 "Mr. Tufnell!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "The same," he answered. 
 
 " You here! Did you not say " 
 
 " That you were not made for this life," he interrupted. " But 
 1 season your admiration for a while/ as Sir Griffith would say, and 
 I will explain. Put on your things, child/' he added, as he entered 
 and shut the door after him, " and come out for a walk. Whew! 
 what an atmosphere! They evidently do their own cooking some- 
 where on this floor essence of garlic predominant." 
 
 "Have you anything very important to tell me, that you come 
 here to-night, in this guise ?" she asked, smiling in spite of herself. 
 
 " Nothing; except that I gained you the place you so nearly lost; 
 that's all. I am glad my elaborate toilet amuses you. I did it to 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 151 
 
 prevent the people below, and those I might meet on the stairs, 
 from taking me for a gentleman. I am not a very elegant specimen 
 at best, and I tried to dress myself as much like a swell-mob gent 
 as I could. These yellow gloves and flaming scarf, to say nothing 
 of this Palais Eoyal watch-chain, which I purchased with the cane, 
 ' for this occasion only/ are about the correct things in that line; and 
 as I spoke the very worst French I could manage to utter not a 
 very difficult task for me, by-the-bye to the concierge, I have n't 
 a doubt but that he put me down for a cad of the first water, or 
 whatever the French for that animal is. Do you know it's been aw- 
 fully hard lines getting this beastly glass to stick in its place but 
 spectacles would have spoiled all, and I had to have something of 
 the kind to keep me from breaking my neck, or being run over at 
 every street-crossing. This brute of a cane, too, I mean to throw 
 away after to-night. I never carried a walking-stick in my life, and 
 I'm too old to begin, or rather, more properly speaking, not old 
 enough, I hope. But get on your bonnet, or hat, or whatever you 
 call it, this moment; for I will not tell you another thing till we get 
 out of this hole into the street." 
 
 Lucy straightway obeyed, and ten minutes after they were walk- 
 ing arm-in-arm in the quiet streets of the neighborhood some of 
 the quietest in the gay metropolis. 
 
 "I would take you along the Boulevards," Tufnell had said, as 
 they left the street door, " but they are too bright and full of peo- 
 ple, and as there are no end of people, I find, in Paris just now, 
 whom I happen to know, some one would be certain to turn up who 
 would recognize me, for all my caddish get-up. We must only hope 
 for a promenade there together at some future day under happier 
 auspices, and content ourselves for the present with as they say in 
 America * a walk around the block.' I came to bid you good-bye/' 
 he continued, as they walked along, and looking at her through the 
 inevitable spectacles, which had now replaced the discarded eye- 
 glass. " There is no knowing when we shall meet again; for who 
 can tell what will be the next freak you will take into your head." 
 
 "Are you going away?" Lucy asked. 
 
 <{ It is you who are going away, not I, child." 
 
 " I ?" she exclaimed. " Why, nothing is settled with Lady Am- 
 tenhurst." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he replied; "everything is settled in that 
 quarter, and you leave with them the day after to-morrow." 
 
 " You know more about my affairs, it seems, than I do myself," 
 she said, smiling. " How does it happen?" 
 
 " Why, the truth is, I was anxious to know how you had sue- 
 
152 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 ceeded, so this afternoon I ran in to see Lady Amtenhurst and her 
 niece. I suppose you know I have the reputation of being very odd, 
 and therefore I can say or do almost anything, and people only 
 shake their heads and laugh. Without danger of exciting sus- 
 picion, I asked directly who was the woman in black I had seen 
 leaving their rooms this morning. ' It struck me I had seen her 
 face/ I said, ' somewhere before, but my memory for faces was truly 
 wretched.' " 
 
 "How could you?" 
 
 ' ' By-the-bye, that is a question I want to ask you presently. But 
 let me go on, please. Miss Courtenay at once informed me that it 
 was impossible that I could know the woman, for she was only a 
 servant." A flush overspread Lucy's face. "I asked her if she 
 thought I had never seen a servant whose face I might remember? 
 * Isn't that strange,' she said, 'Auntie insists that it is a remarkable 
 face, and you seem taken with it, while for my part, I saw nothing 
 but very ordinary flesh and blood.' Thus it is that different people 
 regard the same object. Then she went on to tell me in her usual 
 confidential manner her aunt interrupting ineffectually to say I 
 could take no interest in their domestic concerns that they could 
 not leave until they had secured a maid in place of the sick one, 
 and they would miss some people they wished to join somewhere if 
 they delayed any longer. Here had this English woman turned up 
 in the most providential manner, and ' Auntie ' did not want to 
 engage her because she had assisted some girl to run away from 
 home. ' Just as though I was likely to take pattern by a scatter- 
 brained damsel,' she added, ' and leave my comfortable home with 
 the assistance and at the instigation of this woman; it's too absurd!' 
 
 " My astonishment at this information must have been visible in 
 my face; and to give a reason for it, I exclaimed, ' Why, the face 
 now vaguely connects itself with a story I have heard! What was 
 the name of the girl who absconded ?' ' You know her, I have heard 
 you speak of her;' replied Miss Courtenay, 'Lucy Egerton. By-the- 
 bye, what sort of looking girl was she?' ' Quite pretty,' I answered; 
 'a blonde;' and I knew that a vision arose before them both, quite 
 at war with black eyes, even should the idea of a black wig come 
 into their heads. Then she went on, with a profusion of strongly 
 emphasized words : 'How could she do anything that would cause 
 public talk about her! Anything like publicity would kill me, I know ; 
 for 1 have one of those sadly sensitive natures that shrink at the least 
 thought of notoriety.' ' As the spider at a touch on his web,' thought 
 I, mentally supplying a simile. While she was dilating on the beau- 
 ties of her own nature, my thoughts were busy upon the nature of 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 153 
 
 your communications to these people, and too much occupied to 
 take an interest in this extremely sensitive young creature. ' Oh, I 
 remember it all now!' I exclaimed, ' this woman was ' I paused, 
 quite certain that Miss Courtenay would supply me with the clue I 
 wanted; and she did. She finished my sentence for me ' Was 
 Miss Egerton's maid/ she said. 
 
 " And now while I think of it, let me ask you, with a few of Miss 
 Courtenay's emphases, that question: How could you tell such a 
 story?" 
 
 " I told no story/' cried Lucy, dropping his arm with an indig- 
 nant flush, as she halted abruptly. "I said I lived with the Eger- 
 tons several years, which was true; and called Miss Egerton my 
 mistress. Her ladyship found her own meaning in my words, and 
 I did not take the trouble to explain that I was my own mistress. 
 My only fault was in speaking of Miss Egerton, when no such per- 
 son exists." 
 
 " And you call it no fault to mislead without an absolute lie?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " We will not argue that point," she answered, with a sigh, " for 
 I have doubts myself that might lose me the argument." 
 
 "You were honest, at least, in giving the name Sullivan; as 
 for the mistress question, it strikes me that the events of the past 
 fortnight have pretty clearly demonstrated that if you will excuse 
 the slang for the sake of its expressiveness the boot is on the other 
 leg. Miss Sullivan has, I think, fairly proven herself the mistress 
 of Miss Egerton. But come; don't let us stand here any longer. 
 I have not half finished what I wanted to say; at all events, we can 
 select a more secluded spot, not so near a gas lamp, if you insist. 
 We are attracting attention; at least, I am." 
 
 She silently took his arm again, and they walked on. 
 
 " Where was I ? Oh, yes. I went on to say," continued Tufnell, 
 " that this woman, this maid, was greatly prized by Lady Egerton; 
 even Sir Griffith thought her a treasure; that they were not at all 
 surprised at her having served their daughter so faithfully. Lady 
 Anitenhurst then asked me what induced the girl to leave her 
 home. I began to answer, * She made the discovery that-' when 
 by the most fortunate chance, Miss Courtenay interrupted, saying: 
 ' Just think! Sullivan must know where she is, and won't tell.' At 
 the name Sullivan I started, and asked, ' Who?' < The woman, the 
 maid, her name is Sullivan/ replied Lady Amtenhurst. ' Ah/ I 
 said, not knowing exactly what else to say, and cutting my remark 
 as short as possible, for I now saw that the wisest thing I could do 
 was to give them no information whatever on the subject, not know- 
 
154 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 ing how it might tally with what you had said. I eluded all further 
 questioning about you, the young lady; but the praises which be- 
 longed to that personage, I lavished upon you, the waiting-maid. 
 My grand coup was this little sentence the last 'on the subject be- 
 fore I took my leave. ' I am sure your ladyship, in fact I am posi- 
 tively certain, that were this Sullivan to return to the Egertons, 
 they would receive her gladly for her own sake, with no reproaches, 
 and freely forgive the past/ You see the spirit of your prevarica- 
 tions had entered me, and this last equivoque was effective. ' I 
 think I will engage her,' said Lady Amtenhurst; 'and in that case 
 we leave here the day after to-morrow; so will you give us the 
 pleasure of dining with us to-morrow, Mr. Tufnell?' I accepted, 
 went to a theatrical costumer in the Hue Lepelletier, picked out 
 this dress, arrayed myself in it in a room off the shop, and stole out 
 in the dusk to bid you farewell." 
 
 "Are you not surprised/' asked Lucy, "that they had no sus- 
 picion whatever of the truth?" 
 
 " I should have been more surprised if they had. When a woman 
 hears of a girl running away from home, she does not look for her 
 in every pretty waiting-maid who may thereafter chance to be in 
 her service, though she will expect to see her in every beggar she 
 meets in the street. If one were reading a novel in which the 
 kitchen scullery-maid was a tolerably good-looking girl, one would 
 set her down at once as the heroine; but when in real life, a lady 
 dismisses a maid, she is not likely to suspect every one who applies 
 for the place, of being a princess in disguise. Oh, no; it is not the 
 fear of discovery that troubles me; but the thought of what you 
 may have to endure; not from Lady Amtenhurst, for she is too true 
 a lady to hurt the feelings of any one; but of that affected little 
 piece of goods, Miss Courtenay, I have my doubts." 
 
 " Who is this Miss Courtenay ?" asked Lucy. 
 
 " The orphan child of a younger brother of the present Earl, who 
 married beneath him. Having lost their only daughter when. an 
 infant, the Amtenhursts have made one of her, and she affects the 
 airs of a young duchess, without the graces, I am sorry to say. 
 Now that all is arranged, 5 * he continued, " my conscience begins to 
 prick. If I had left you to yourself, you would have been obliged 
 to return in the long run. But you are like a horse that has got 
 the bit between his teeth; you are your own mistress, and nothing 
 can stop you. Nothing was to be done but to guide you clear of 
 the pitfalls." 
 
 ' Without your aid, I don't know what I should have done," she 
 answered gratefully. " Do not regret your generosity. What you 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 155 
 
 have done was for the best, and believe me, you will find it so. You 
 do not know all I have suffered, and how you have lessened the 
 pain. I felt so hardened toward all mankind, judging all by a few 
 poor examples, when you came to prove that there is kindness and 
 goodness in the world. I do not even now think there are many 
 like you. You have done me good in many ways, and I thank you 
 sincerely." 
 
 " Don't say any more, child/' he interrupted. " You make me 
 happier than I deserve to be. May the event prove that I have done 
 right. Will you not allow me to relieve the anxiety of your friends 
 by telling them that you are alive and well ?" 
 
 "Friends?" she said, with a sudden expression of pain; "I have 
 none. Every one, even those I loved best, turned from me in the 
 hour of trial. What anxiety can they feel who care not for me? 
 No, no, Mr. Tufnell, not a word to them, I com I beg!" 
 
 ' ' Command " came easiest, but she chose the milder word. 
 
 " Well, well," he said, with a sigh; " be it so; though it is not as 
 I would wish. Is there nothing more that I can do for you before 
 you go ?" 
 
 "Nothing, thanks." 
 
 "You will join the Amtenhurst's to-morrow morning, so we are 
 not likely to meet again before you leave Paris." 
 
 They were approaching the lodging-house now. 
 
 " Will you keep me acquainted with your movements?" 
 
 "If you wish it yes," she said. 
 
 "And promise me one thing, child," he added. "Do nothing 
 rash; go off on no tangents, at least, without letting me know your 
 purpose." 
 
 " This is the last romantic act of my life," she answered, giving 
 him her hand as they reached the doorstep; " all the future is to be 
 the quiet, uneventful life of a lady's maid." 
 
 "Not with one of your disposition; and remember, you have 
 Miss Courtenay to please as well as her aunt, and I pity you, and 
 doubt your success. But keep your temper, child, whatever you do. 
 Just one thing more let me say before we part." He took both her 
 hands now, and held them as he spoke. " You remember the offer 
 I made you? Think of it, and three months hence give me your 
 answer. Fate may frown, life may prove difficult; whatever hap- 
 pens, do not forget that at any moment you can end it all by one 
 word to me. Good-bye, child; God bless and prosper you." 
 
 Before she could speak, he had dropped her hands, and his dark 
 figure was striding down the street. 
 
 A moment hesitating she stood; the next, a hand was on his arm, 
 a breathless voice in his ear: 
 
156 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 "Mr. Tufnell I I give you leave to tell one on ly one Sir 
 Griffith that I am safe I can trust you to tell no other. Make 
 Mm promise to keep it a secret from every one even his wife she 
 does not love me much." 
 
 Then Tufnell in his turn watched a figure disappear in the dark- 
 ness, and went on his way, saying to himself, " There is genuine 
 goodness in her, though she tries her best to hide it." 
 
 And she, as she paused on the threshhold, and glanced up at the 
 sky, fancied that the stars in twinkling expressed a gladness for the 
 softening of her heart. 
 
 " He lost a son he has lost a daughter," she thought. " Is not 
 his loss even greater than mine ? To lose one's children is a great 
 trial, but O, Alva! Alva!" 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 There is a letter for you, sir. 
 
 Hainlet; Act IV, Scene 6. 
 
 The letter, as I live, with all the business 
 
 Henry VIII: Act III, Scene 2. 
 
 i OLLIFFE Tufnell sat over his toast and coffee in the break- 
 fast-room at Knocklofty Hall. The mail-bag was late that 
 December morning for the first time in the history of the 
 London and Bratton railway line, and he sat minus an ex- 
 pected letter from his London solicitors who had the investigation 
 of an important matter for him in their hands minus his Times, 
 minus his Field, for it was Saturday; and while he munched his 
 toast and sipped his coffee, he looked out at the white, snow-covered 
 ground, and bare leafless trees beneath the leaden sky, and mused: 
 "Two months and not a line, but a couple of brief notes, which 
 might as well have been telegrams, from their remarkable brevity. 
 Can it be possible that I have been mistaken in her ? that she is 
 no, I'll not think it. She promised to write, it's true; but, poor 
 child, who can tell how her every moment may be taken up ? I 
 must not forget that she really has two mistresses to serve, and one 
 of them that Courtenay minx would alone be enough to employ the 
 time of two maids with her die-away airs, or I am no judge; besides 
 she must have her own needs to attend to, as well as her own troubles 
 to occupy her thoughts. I am too exacting; I'm a despicable old 
 brute, that's what I am. The poor child has had a sufficient share 
 of misery to endure, without expecting her to add to it by having to 
 write to a hideous old scare-crow like me. After all she only 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 157 
 
 promised to keep me posted as to their whereabouts, and so she has, 
 poor thing; quite enough to satisfy any one but a grasping extor- 
 tionate old duffer. What right have I to expect a pretty young girl 
 to be writing to me, and giving up what little time she may have to 
 look about her in strange lands? to compel her to draw upon her 
 slender means for postage? It's scandalous, outrageous of me, and 
 I ought to be ashamed of myself for having written her the com- 
 plaining letter I did. But what else could be hoped for, from an 
 inconsiderate selfish old beggar! 
 
 " Heigho! There it goes snowing again: no hunting for days to 
 come that's very evident. How many poor creatures may there be 
 at this moment, perishing from cold and hunger, and here am I, 
 comfortably housed, clothed and fed, and growling, and whining 
 because, forsooth, a nice, sweet, pretty girl, doesn't happen to write 
 me a long letter. Bah! Jolliffe Tufnell, I am positively ashamed of 
 you, you ought to be well kicked, that's what 
 
 "Mail, sir," interrupted the old butler, as he entered with the 
 leather bag in his hand. "Train was stopped by a snow-drift at 
 Sawbridge Cutting, sir," he added, handing the bag to his master; 
 " stopped a hour and a J arf, sir, and that " 
 
 "Accounts for the delay, I have no doubt/' said Tufnell. "Leave 
 the bag on the chair, Boffins: I shall open it shortly. That will do." 
 
 "Yes, sir;" and Boffins, cut short in his narrative, and impeded 
 in his observation of the bag's contents, took his departure with dig- 
 nified pomposity. 
 
 Tufnell gave him time to reach his pantry, lighting a cigar to fill 
 up the interim, and then took out his bunch of keys and unlocked 
 the bag. Besides the newspapers there were two letters: one ad- 
 dressed in a round business-like hand, and with a London post- 
 mark; the other in the angular caligraphy of a woman, and covered 
 with foreign postage stamps. The latter he picked up eagerly with 
 a gratified smile about his lips, paused a moment to knock the ash 
 off the end of his cigar and mutter, "what a brute I was!" and then 
 opened it and read : 
 
 "EoME, December 12, 18. 
 " PEAK MR. TUFNELL: 
 
 "Your reproachful letter lies beside me. No, it was not negli- 
 gence, my failing to write to you as I had promised. 
 
 "My time is not my own, as you are aware, and when we are not 
 passing from one place to another, and between the intervals that I 
 am allowed for sight-seeing, Miss Courtenay manages to keep me 
 constantly busy with one thing or another: brushing her hair while 
 she reads, or reading to her myself as she seems to have discovered 
 that I have a talent that way; packing and unpacking, etc., etc., etc. 
 
158 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 " Truth to tell, I have had a few leisure moments; but when I 
 had time to think, what is called ' homesickness ' came upon me, and 
 I was not capable of the exertion of writing. 
 
 " Do not think that I am unhappy; but at times, the ' blues ' get 
 possession of me, and do battle with the spirit of contentment that 
 would otherwise reign supreme; and then I can but sit and think 
 till they tire of me and take their flight. But sometimes they are 
 so persistent that it is only when some duty calls that they will be- 
 gone. 
 
 "On the whole I think you are fortunate to have got the two 
 short notes from Cologne and Frankfort telling where and how I 
 was. Now, however, I am going to make you sorry for your im- 
 portunity, by boring you with an account of our travels, and the 
 discoveries I have made in this new sphere of action. 
 
 " Although I am longing to pour forth a descriptive torrent of 
 enthusiasm regarding all the wonders of this Eternal City, mercy 
 for you, who have seen all and much more, bids me refrain. I will 
 give but a bare account of our course, with whatever digressions it 
 will be impossible to restrain. 
 
 "We have been nearly two months in coming from Paris to Rome, 
 stopping of course en route for days and even weeks at different 
 places of interest; and as this is my first trip abroad of any length, 
 my enjoyment is in proportion to the space we traverse. Under 
 other circumstances I could be perfectly happy roaming over the 
 world, but although Lady Amtenhurst always allows me time to see 
 everything of interest, yet, as a serving-woman, there are many 
 places that I cannot enter. "Whenever I accompany them, it is as a 
 servant, allowed a position in the rear, and of what I do see, I am 
 not able to converse. Interchange of ideas is half the pleasure 
 of life, particularly when viewing new and historical scenes, and 
 here where so many are to be gleaned, mine have to be held in close 
 confinement. Lady A. is kind beyond expression, but it is the kind- 
 ness of a superior to an inferior, of course, and all the time there 
 exists a barrier between us with the words in great glaring letters of 
 admonition: 'Thus far shalt thou go and no farther!' But what 
 right have I to complain? If cultivation of the mind gives one a 
 fund of peaceful enjoyment, by furnishing a stock of thoughts and 
 ideas from which to draw mental employment in moments of bodily 
 idleness, I should be grateful for past and present advantages. I 
 feel that I could be happy in perfect ignorance, with those around 
 me I love; but if that be impossible, this other source of happiness 
 is left me, and I try to be thankful, and pray daily for a contented 
 spirit. It will come in time, but until it does, bear with my change- 
 ful moods you, the only friend I have. 
 
 " I was about to tell you of our journey, when I (nothing uncom- 
 mon, you will say,) 'went off on a tangent' to thoughts and feelings 
 the natural consequence of traveling, I suppose; but I have re- 
 versed the order of things by placing effects before their cause. To 
 begin at the beginning let me tell you what you know already: 
 We left Paris on the seventh of October. Miss Courtenay, for 
 whose benefit this trip is taken, chose the route along the Rhine in 
 preference to the more direct one through France, and we reached 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 159 
 
 Brussels that evening. I was sorry to be obliged to pass the pretty 
 town of Valenciennes, with its avenues of tall trees intersecting 
 the fields, an improvement, I think, on our low hedges, fragrant 
 hawthorn though they be. At first I wished to see everything, and 
 pass nothing by unnoticed; but now I have learned to be satisfied 
 with a sight of the more important objects of interest in our course, 
 feeling it beyond the power of human mind to grasp every detail of 
 even a part of this great world. 
 
 " The next day we drove to the battle-field of Waterloo (by the 
 goodness of Lady A., I being of the party), along the road by which 
 Wellington marched. It was with mingled awe and repugnance 
 that I looked upon the scene awe for the arena where nations had 
 struggled for power repugnance for the ground where had been 
 sprinkled human blood, shed by human ambition. We remained 
 in Brussels over Sunday, and I was surprised to see all the shops 
 open and street-hawkers as busy as the tradespeople. On Monday, 
 they went to Antwerp, leaving me to await their return; and I took 
 advantage of their absence to explore the town, visiting the church 
 of St. Gudule, the cathedral of Notre Dame de Chapelle, and a lace- 
 manufactory, where I could not but pity the poor women who 
 destroy their eyesight in dark rooms with but one ray of light to fall 
 upon their work. From Brussels w r e went to quaint, antiquated 
 Mechlin, with its grotesque-looking houses, and on to Liege famous 
 in history; thence to Viviers, Aix la Chapelle and Cologne. I was 
 never so glad to leave any place as Cologne, after three tedious 
 days; it is so dark and dismal at night when the shops are all shut, 
 and one feels such continual need of eau de Cologne, which is not 
 prevalent in the atmosphere. 
 
 " However, one glimpse of the Rhine, which we came upon here, 
 repaid us for wandering through dirty streets to see the unfinished 
 Dom Kirche and its relics; the churches of St. Ursula and of the 
 Eleven Thousand Virgins, and St. Peters, which contains the fam- 
 ous altar piece of Rubens; a Roman ruin, a botanical garden, etc. 
 We went by rail to Bonn, the birthplace of Beethoven, where the 
 beauty of the river really begins, and there were delayed two weeks 
 at the Hotel Bellevue by the indisposition of Lady A. I stayed 
 with her, while the earl and his niece drove out to see the sights 
 every day; not many they said. Our best way to Mayence and the 
 quickest, would have been by steamboat, but Miss C. preferred the 
 land, and so we went, resting in different towns along the line. 
 How abundant and weird are the legends of the Rhine ! Our guide 
 had them at his fingers' ends, and they were called forth by every 
 crumbling tower and castle; and love, murder, ghosts or demons 
 seemed to be connected with every beetling crag. From the forti- 
 fied city of Mayence we passed on to Frankfort, where I took greater 
 pleasure in exploring the old town, with its narrow streets and 
 gabled houses with lofty peaked roofs, than in the modern part 
 where streets are broad and well paved, and the houses almost pal- 
 aces. I was vastly amused by the custom of raising the hat to all 
 classes, and it seemed so strange to see persons of rank, bowing 
 politely to shopkeepers. We stopped at Heidelberg to see its famous 
 castelated ruin, and the celebrated Heidelberg tun, which they tell 
 
160 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 me used to be filled with eight hundred hogsheads of wine when 
 the Electors held their court there; and also visited the church di- 
 vided into two sections for Protestant and Catholic worship; and 
 then passed rapidly through Carlsruhe and Baden-Baden (where we 
 are to make a stay on our return; so Miss C. says) to Strasburg, 
 where we remained ten days at the Hotel de Ville, waiting for some 
 people who failed to come, why, I know not, nor who they were, 
 but it was apparently a great disappointment to Miss Courtenay. 
 Our next stopping place was Basle, a larger place than I expected 
 to find, and some of the scenery picturesque and beautiful. It was 
 
 E revoking in the extreme, resting here upon the verge of Switzer- 
 ind, the land of mountains, glaciers, cliffs, cataracts, lakes, rivers 
 and forests what a vast combination of the beautiful in nature! to 
 feel that it would all have to be passed so close and left unexplored. 
 Next summer, I believe, we are to go through the Tyrol, but it was 
 too late in the season now, and, indeed, the cold during our ascent 
 to Berne was intense, and warned us to hurry on. Parting with 
 little reluctance from the bears in stone, and bears in flesh, that met 
 us at every turn in this town of bears, we moved on to Geneva, 
 passed through the twelve miles of tunnel under Mont Cenis, into 
 Piedmont, made a stay of two days at Turin, and on by rail to 
 Genoa-.L Superba. We remained there a week for the sake of see- 
 ing the palaces and villas of its Doge and noblemen; the cathedrals, 
 churches, colleges and universities; academies of arts and sciences; 
 manufactories, statuary, paintings and monuments. Being in the 
 birthplace of Christopher Columbus inspired me with the wish to 
 visit America, and see, if in their homes, Americans are as kind- 
 hearted, generous and chivalrous as I have been led to believe 
 from the few specimens I have met with. 
 
 " By steamer on to Leghorn, whence we went by rail in less than 
 an hour to Pisa again Lady A. taking me when I could have been 
 left behind and our heads were thoroughly upset by one glance 
 down from the top of the Leaning Tower. The belief that the pile 
 was falling made us make a hasty descent, and Miss Courtenay ac- 
 tually screamed with nervous dread, although her courage is her 
 greatest boast. Returning the same afternoon to Leghorn, we 
 started on our way once more, and spending a few days in Civita 
 Vecchia, reached Rome last week. Here we are, and here we re- 
 main until after the Christmas Holidays, the programme then being 
 that we are to go to Naples for a glimpse of Vesuvius, come back to 
 Rome for a few days, and then on to Florence, Venice, Vienna, the 
 Tyrol and home. And all this is for the benefit of Miss C. Lord 
 and Lady A. having been over this ground many times before. And, 
 do you know that I sometimes fancy that her ladyship dislikes Italy, 
 and she certainly avoids one portion of it Florence. I have often 
 observed an expression of pain at the mere mention of its name, 
 probably attributable to unpleasant associations; but she is so thor- 
 oughly unselfish, that as her niece insists upon visiting the place, 
 she has consented to go with her at, I really believe, great cost to 
 her feelings. Hers is a beautiful character, and each day I feel 
 more drawn toward her; and a wild fancy sometimes seizes me to 
 tell her all about myself, and ask her pity, her sympathy, and her 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 help. She would give them, I think, and from her it would be 
 welcome; but I dread to make the test, for so many illusions have 
 been dispelled, that if this be one, I would have it last, and look up 
 to her as long as I may, as the most perfect type of womanhood I 
 have ever met with. Here, at least, is a well-matched couple. 
 Lord A., with his genial warmth of manner, thaws even the coldest, 
 and yet, withal, there is a certain air of refinement about him which 
 marks the line between the manly bonhommie which puts all classes 
 at their ease, and the demonstrative camaraderie which jars upon 
 gentle nerves, and invites the 'hail-fellow-well- met ' portion of so- 
 ciety to rough familiarity. He is innately proud, and the existence 
 of the feeling is proved by its very suppression. Too proud of the 
 characteristic to acknowledge pride as it were no trace of it is to 
 be found in his manner; yet there is nothing of carelessness for his 
 own fair name and fame to prove its absence, and it is as surely in 
 his nature as in mine. 
 
 " In him, it is a virtue, a shield; in me, I fear, a vice, a peace- 
 destroying power; but with him before me for an example, why may 
 I not bring it under subjection, and free it as completely from its 
 outward visible form and inward pricking points as is his, and make 
 it a guard, an armor, against ' the slings and arrows of outrageous 
 fortune/ rather than a secret tormenting magnifier of the wounding 
 powers of every-day trifles ? 
 
 "Had I remained with the Egertons, it should have protected 
 me from feeling the sneers and slights of the world, and braced me 
 against unkindness by the consciousness of good in myself, and 
 superiority to the rank from which I was taken. But instead, listen- 
 ing to all that was said against me, it urged me to the course I 
 pursued. Without the help of humility to bear meekly, even if 
 painfully, niy lot in life, it was impossible to remain, although, too, 
 I discovered before I left, that my principal motive for leaving was 
 without foundation. I still say impossible, and so silence the doubts 
 which torment me. Do you understand me? I hope so, but 
 doubt it. 
 
 "My chief amusement is studying Miss Courtenay's character; 
 and yet, be as studious as I may, I cannot fathom it. She is de- 
 cidedly of an open disposition; ever ready to tell her most secret 
 thoughts to any one who asks them, and as she appears perfectly 
 well acquainted with all her own traits of character, and frequently 
 makes them a subject of conversation, it is all the more strange that 
 I cannot make her out. Profiting by your advice to keep my tem- 
 per, we get on capitally together; and though she is something of a 
 task-mistress, I feel grateful to her for taking my thoughts from 
 myself. I fear I do not show much gratitude by my words, but my 
 excuse is your knowledge of her failings; and you don't know what 
 a relief it is to think and write of anything but the subject that now 
 troubles me, that of my having left the Egertons. Yet, see what a 
 loadstone it is, for I am getting back to it again. I cannot write 
 without expressing the thoughts uppermost in my mind, and as 
 I have no wish to punish you, I will bring to a conclusion this test 
 of your powers of endurance. Your letters are always welcome, and 
 for the next month will reach me here. 
 11 
 
162 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 " Many thanks for informing me of the movements of the Eger- 
 tons. I am almost sorry now that you wrote to tell Sir Griffith of 
 my existence. I only hope (as you are kind enough to do), that 
 they will not extend their tour to Italy. 
 
 " Believe me, 
 
 "Yours, very sincerely, 
 
 "LucY SULLIVAN." 
 
 "P. S. The name is not yet familiar to me, though losing much 
 of its first strangeness. You cannot subscribe to the popular fallacy 
 that the pith of a woman's letter lies in the postscript, after this/' 
 
 Tufnell thought he could, as he laid the letter down with a smile, 
 and opened the other, which ran as follows: 
 
 " 8 GRAY'S INN, LONDON, W. C. 
 
 "December, 14, 18. 
 " JOLLIFFE TUFNELL, ESQ., Sir: 
 
 " We are this day in receipt of a communication from the Chief 
 of the Police Department at San Francisco, California, in reply to 
 ours of the twentieth ult. , informing us that a man named Martin 
 Silliman, and answering in every particular to the description you 
 furnished us with, even to the scar under the eye, was living in that 
 city, and following, as was suspected by the police authorities, the 
 business of a professional gambler. 
 
 " We are now in a position to submit the evidence you have accu- 
 mulated of the man's guilt to the law officers of the Crown, so that 
 the whole matter may be laid before the Foreign Office, and the requi- 
 site steps taken for his apprehension, under the treaty of extradi- 
 tion between Great Britain and the United States. 
 " Awaiting your reply, 
 
 " We are, sir, 
 
 "Your obedient servants, 
 
 " BLUEBAGGE & PARCHMENTS. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 1(33 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers 
 And heavily in clouds brings on the day, 
 The great, the important, day. 
 
 " Cato:" Act I, Scene I. 
 
 RAINY day in Borne. Something one seldom thinks of in 
 connection with the proverbially blue and sunny vault of an 
 Italian sky; yet the clouds hung as dark and heavy, the 
 wind moaned as drearily, and the rain was as persistingly 
 monotonous in its drip, drip, drip, and certainly quite as wetting 
 and dispiriting in its effects as on any day in less favored old Eng- 
 land, two-thirds of the year through. Dismal and dreary beyond 
 measure were the deserted streets, and seeming doubly so by 
 contrast with the pageantry that had made the city gay during the 
 so recent Christmas holidays. The peculiar-looking Calabrian min- 
 strels, the Pifferari, in their wild and striking dresses and huge zam- 
 pogne and high-peaked caps, decked with sprigs of heather and rib- 
 bons gay, lounge and sleep no longer on the steps of the Piazza di 
 Spagna; the Trasteverini, in picturesque costumes, who boast of 
 being the only true descendants of the ancient Eomans; the fierce 
 bandit-like men; the peasants from the deserted tombs of the Cam- 
 pagna, are no longer seen none of the gay throng that at the firing 
 of the cannon from the massive castle of St. Angelo on Christmas 
 Eve, nocked to the Basilicas for vespers; that assembled on Christ- 
 mas morning in St. Peter's to hear the beautiful Pastorella sung by 
 the whole choir, and at a later hour crowded in gorgeous array to 
 High Mass, and to see the Pope in his flowing scarlet robes, spark- 
 ling with jewels, borne above their heads in his chair of State, pre- 
 ceded by his guard of sixty Roman nobles, surrounded by cardinals 
 in scarlet, bishops of Eastern churches, priests in purple and white, 
 swinging golden censors as they moved, and carrying lighted tapers, 
 and the Great Cross. The splendid ornaments removed from the 
 altars, images of the Virgin stripped of their gayest dresses, the 
 papal banners taken in, the shops despoiled of their floral dec- 
 orations. 
 
 The Amtenhursts had left Rome for Naples when all was over, 
 but now, returned once more to the Eternal City, were moping 
 through this rainy day at the Hotel d'Angleterre, waiting for a 
 glimpse of sunshine to light them on tteir way again. 
 
 Lady Amtenhurst, with " Coningsby" in her hand, sat inter- 
 rupted in her reading; Edith Courtenay reclined on a sofa, with her 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 
 
 eyes half closed, dreaming away the hours, and sighed and grum- 
 bled at the weather; the Earl was busy over some important corres- 
 pondence at his writing-desk, and Lucy, the paleness of her face 
 increased by the contrast of her black hair, stood just within the 
 threshhold. 
 
 "You have a strange fancy for these art galleries, Sullivan," said 
 Lady Amtenhurst. "You may go, of course; but don't be late, as 
 we dine out this evening. It is very wet/' she added, glancing at 
 the window, "and you had better wrap up well, and not catch cold." 
 
 " Bain never hurts me, my lady," answered Lucy, bravely. 
 
 " "What on earth can you know about paintings, Sullivan?" asked 
 Miss Courtenay from her sofa, without opening her eyes. "Are 
 you going to write a book on art, for the benefit of persons in your 
 sphere of usefulness?" 
 
 " Edith, take a book and read," quietly remarked the Earl, still 
 busy with his letters, and with the nearest approach to sternness 
 his kindly voice could ever reach. 
 
 "You may go, then, Sullivan," said Lady Amtenhurst, "and I 
 hope you will enjoy yourself." 
 
 " Thank you, my lady;" and Lucy's flushed face left the doorway. 
 
 With an umbrella over her head, and her dress lifted above her 
 stout boots, Lucy tripped along the Yia della Fontanella to the 
 Palazzo Borghese, heedless of the down-pour, her mind filled with 
 thoughts of the treasures of art she was hastening to look upon for 
 the last time, and wishing that to her had been given genius like 
 these masters, whose master-pieces she had learned to love. 
 
 Almost all her spare moments in Rome had been passed at the 
 rooms of the Palazzo Borghese, and this was to be her farewell visit. 
 
 A couple of hours went swiftly by as she wandered from picture 
 to picture, gazing with wonder and admiration at the gems which 
 adorned the walls of the Palazzo's thirteen rooms. 
 
 At length it was time for her to go, and with a last lingering look 
 at her especial favorites : Albano's Four Seasons, Backhuysen's mag- 
 nificent sea-piece, and Raphael's entombment, she passed reluct- 
 antly from this wonderful world of man's creation to the cold and 
 dreariness without. 
 
 It was still raining when she reached the Piazza and the wind 
 freshening into a gale. But it was not far to the hotel, and open- 
 ing her umbrella she stepped bravely out. She had not taken many 
 steps when one of those heavy showers which come in the midst of 
 a rain storm, came upon her with all its violence. The rain poured 
 down in torrents, and, blown into sheets of water by the. fierce gusts 
 of wind, drove her pitilessly before it, along the deluged pavement. 
 
BEHIND THE AERAS. 165 
 
 Her umbrella a mass of tangled whalebone and torn gingham, the 
 result of an attempt to retain its possession at a more boisterous 
 street-crossing, her cloak and hat dripping and her boots soaked 
 through, she sought the shelter of a shop's awning until the force of 
 the shower had spent itself. With a gasp of relief and a reproach- 
 ful glace at her demolished umbrella, she was about to retreat far- 
 ther back from the driving wind, to the alcove between the door 
 and window, but she found it already occupied. Another person, 
 a young girl, had like herself taken refuge there from the storm. A 
 slight girlish figure in a dark sealskin jacket a pretty, anxious 
 face with large sad eyes peering wistfully from beneath a little fur 
 cap at the streaming torrent without : by far too delicately pretty an 
 object to be out of doors on such a day. 
 
 As Lucy stood regarding this little flower in the midst of such 
 bleak surroundings, the wistful look gave way to one of quickly- 
 coming brightness, the lips parted, and the girl's whole face lighted 
 up as she eagerly bent forward. Turning to see the cause of this sud- 
 den change, Lucy's eyes fell upon the figure of a man enveloped in an 
 Ulster, his face half hidden behind his umbrella, as, battling with 
 the wind, he struggled along the Via de Condotti and on toward 
 where they stood. Her heart gave one bound into her throat, while 
 the rushing blood went surging and throbbing up into her brain, 
 and then ebbed quickly back, leaving her cold, white and frigid. 
 Would he pass on? Shrinking farther back to the wall she looked 
 again. No; he was close at hand and coming directly towards them. 
 Did he see her recognize her? He was looking over and beyond 
 her, and now, in passing, brushed against her skirts and went straight 
 to the girl in the alcove with outstretched hand and smiling face. 
 
 "Florence!" 
 
 "Alva!" 
 
 Strange heart of woman! When Lucy thought it was she he 
 sought, all her mind was on avoidance; but as he failed to recog- 
 nize one with veil-covered face so different in appearance to the Lucy 
 Egerton of old, her feeling was one of mingled anguish and anger. 
 Anywhere and under any circumstances would she have known him, 
 and now he had passed her so closely as one never seen before. 
 
 " What on earth brings you out of doors this fearful day?" In- 
 golsby asked. . 
 
 " I was on my way to get this prescription made up for papa: I 
 did not like to trust any one else," the little voice answered. " But 
 when did you arrive?" 
 
 " I only arrived in Eome half an hour ago, and was just on my 
 way to your hotel. You must have wondered at my delay in com- 
 
BEHIND THE A ERAS. 
 
 ing, but I started immediately on receipt of your letter. I was with 
 some friends in Basle, and by the luckiest chance returning to Lon- 
 don about some business matters, found your summons lying at my 
 club. I did not wait an hour after I got it, and traveled post-haste 
 in terrible anxiety, lest I should find little Florence alone in this 
 strange place. Is there really no hope ?" he asked, sorrowfully. 
 
 " None, the doctors say/' she answered with a sob. " Poor, dear 
 Papa! it is so hard to lose him, and we so far away from home too; 
 and I have no one else in all the wide, wide world." 
 
 "You forget, Florence," Ingolsby said, in a gentle tone, bend- 
 ing down; and as his companion caught his whispered words, a 
 blush spread over her fair face, and a smile shone through her tears. 
 
 The gesture the whisper the mute rejoinder were too much 
 for Lucy. From where she stood, she had seen all, heard all, and 
 giving her own interpretation to it the one she most dreaded was 
 the surest to suggest itself staggering as from a blow, she turned 
 and left the friendly shelter, and regardless of the pelting rain and 
 driving wind, fled through the* narrow streets, pursued by thoughts 
 that almost maddened her. 
 
 Now in one street, now in another, heedless of where her steps 
 turned, the one haunting vision bewildering her brain, on, on she 
 dashed. "When there were such in the world as this gentle, lovable 
 little beauty to ensnare men's affections, who could care for her f 
 Pitiless was the picture she drew of herself as she fled through the 
 dark and cheerless streets hardly less to be pitied in her suffering 
 than the maidens of old, who had marched, footsore, weary, and de- 
 graded, through this very city, to grace while they shamed the tri- 
 umphs of their tyrant conquerors. Not less powerful a tyrant had 
 conquered her Love; and vain had been her struggle for freedom. 
 Its golden chains still upon her, crushing her down with their 
 mighty weight, on, on she went, and it was not until chance led her 
 back into the Via del Corso, that she awakened to a consciousness 
 of surrounding objects. Dripping, saturated, heavy-hearted and 
 foot-sore, she reached the door of the hotel. 
 
 To go quickly to her room, lock the door, and fall upon her knees 
 by the bedside was the impulse that she followed. Beyond that, 
 what her thoughts, what her actions during the time she remained 
 there, she herself could never tell, and none else could ever know 
 
 " That anguish which is to sorrow what ecstasy is to joy," 
 
 must have been hers. Let it rest in oblivion. 
 
 The early January night had come and darkened all about her, 
 when some one knocked at her door. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 167 
 
 " Sullivan! Sullivan! Are you asleep or dead? Sullivan! Sullivan! 
 "Will you answer?" 
 
 Lucy stirred and shivered, wondering vaguely what it could mean. 
 The wind moaned dismally without, and the rain pattered and 
 splashed against the window panes; again came the voice, as the 
 door handle was violently shaken : 
 
 " Sullivan, I say! Open the door or answer this minute!" 
 
 All at once a sense of her forgotten duties dawned upon her, and 
 she started up to open the door; then remembering that her wet 
 clothes were still upon her, she answered hastily but with difficulty, 
 for the words seemed to stick in her throat: 
 
 " I will come in one moment, miss.'' 
 
 " So you have returned from your gadding, have you? But I 
 wouldn't hurry, if I were you," replied Edith Courtenay's voice, in 
 its most sarcastic tones. "Ladies' maids of elegant leisure, with 
 tastes for the fine arts, should not be disturbed from their before- 
 dinner naps, by any manner of means! But come at once, and 
 don't keep us waiting any longer do you hear?" 
 
 " Yes, miss," hoarsely, but meekly. 
 
 "Don't wait to finish the chapter, if you've been reading," Miss 
 Courtenay added as a finisher, and then rustled and swept from the 
 door. 
 
 Lucy, with all the dispatch that stiff, cold fingers, aching bones, 
 and a swimming head would permit, and with nervous dread of an- 
 other commanding summons from without, changed her wet and 
 sodden garments, and hastened to Lady Amtenhurst's apartments. 
 
 Lady Amtenhurst was alone, sitting before the glass in her dress- 
 ing-room waiting to have her hair dressed. 
 
 "You are a little late, Sullivan," she said kindly, as Lucy en- 
 tered. " I suppose you forgot that we dine out to-night. Did you 
 see everything you wished ?" she asked, as Lucy's nervous fingers 
 began their work upon the soft white hair. 
 
 " No, my lady," Lucy answered, striving hard to steady her voice 
 at recollection of the scene she had witnessed. 
 
 "Were you not then pleased with the paintings ? As Miss Cour- 
 tenay says, it requires a highly cultivated taste to appreciate the full 
 beauties of the master-pieces, and you have had so few opportun- 
 ities of seeing fine paintings 
 
 " Yes, my lady," Lucy replied at random, her thoughts far away. 
 
 " That whatever taste you have, must be natural to you rather 
 than acquired?" 
 
 Mechanically filling the pause, Lucy answered: 
 
 "Yes, my lady." 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 " To which gallery did you go to-day ?" 
 
 Slowly and dreamily : 
 
 "Yes; my lady?" 
 
 " The Borghese, the Collona, or the Badin which one?" sharply. 
 
 " No, my lady!" 
 
 "What to none of them? Then where did you go? What 
 paintings did you see ? " 
 
 "Yes, my " 
 
 " Don't ' my Lady ' me so much, Sullivan, but answer my ques- 
 tion." 
 
 "I I beg your pardon, my Lady, I did not quite catch what 
 
 your Ladyship said ? " 
 
 "I asked you to which gallery you went to-day, and what you 
 saw." 
 
 " Went to-day?" repeated Lucy slowly and absently. " I don't 
 quite know. It was all among strange streets, and I think I wan- 
 dered about and lost my way." 
 
 " Where are your wits, Sullivan? You don't seem to know what 
 you are saying," said Lady Amtenhurst, and looking up she caught 
 sight of Lucy's face reflected in the glass, and noticed for the first 
 time, her extreme pallor, heavy eyes, and drooping mouth. " Good 
 heavens ! what a pale face ! Are you ill ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, my Lady: only a headache," pressing her cold hands on 
 her hot, throbbing temples. "I cannot think, it aches so badly, 
 that is all, my Lady; and please excuse me if I am a little stupid." 
 
 "Poor thing. You really look ill. There, that will do no, I 
 can do everything else myself very well. Miss Courtenay will be 
 waiting for you, and then you had better get to bed as fast as you 
 can. I am afraid you have taken cold." 
 
 Miss Courtenay was, on this evening, as Lucy had already had 
 some evidence, in one of her disagreeable and unamiable moods. 
 Her temper, at best, was not the most angelic, although in her own 
 estimation she needed but wings to complete her fitness for a celes- 
 tial habitation. Character she had none imaginations many. Con- 
 stant novel reading, acting upon a mind naturally imaginative and 
 a trifle weak, had led her to draw comparisons between herself and 
 every heroine of romance from Bulwer to " Ouida," comparisons 
 which ended in a firm conviction, that she was formed for one, and 
 that each and all of their good qualities with none of their bad 
 were embodied and exemplified in herself. But certainly, her prac- 
 tice was not in accordance with her manifold precepts, imagination 
 not being quite strong enough to carry her beyond the verge of 
 mere assertion into actual proof by action of the truth and sincerity 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 169 
 
 of her professions; yet strangely enough she never seemed conscious 
 of failure in performance, but still remained firmly convinced of 
 her own perfection. 
 
 She was reading before the fire in her room when Lucy made her 
 appearance. 
 
 " So you have come at last," she snapped out, throwing her book 
 into a corner, and seating herself at the dressing-table. " Of course 
 Lady Amtenhurst had to keep you to put in the last pin for her, and 
 will still expect me to be ready in time. Gracious! you needn't pull 
 my hair out by the roots. I want puffs and curls. Here, pick up 
 that book first, and give it to me. Now, go on." 
 
 A long pause, while Miss Courtenay read, and Lucy's fingers 
 worked slowly and painfully. 
 
 " Those puffs are frightful, Sullivan!" she cried at last, looking 
 up suddenly. " Take them all down this minute, and make a 
 braided coronel." 
 
 Then she read once more while Lucy with aching head and break- 
 ing heart worked on. Another glance in the glass. 
 
 " The braid is too rough, I tell you; do it over again." 
 
 Lucy silently obeyed, and while her difficile young mistress read 
 on, finished th'e task. 
 
 Miss Courtenay raised her eyes again from her book and contem- 
 plated herself with every imaginable pose of the head for five min- 
 utes at least. Then in a pettish whimper : 
 
 " It is not becoming, after all, so I will have the puffs and curls." 
 
 The puffs and curls were just completed, when Lady Amtenhurst 
 came in, preventing, no doubt, by her presence another change in 
 her niece's coiffure. 
 
 " Now, my dear aunt, don't hurry me, please. It is all Sullivan's 
 fault if I am late. I never saw any one so awkward as she is to- 
 night; her fingers are all thumbs. Sit down there before the fire, 
 and while she dresses me, I'll tell you a bit of news. The waist be- 
 fore the skirt, always, Sullivan. What do you mean?" with a 
 stamp of the foot. 
 
 "Don't be cross, Edith; the poor girl is not well," said Lady Am- 
 tenhurst. 
 
 " It's her own fault for going out in the rain and mud to look 
 at pictures, forsooth. I never feel any sympathy for fools. You 
 know that old humbug, what's-his-name, in the next passage, who has 
 been dying ever since we came back? "Well, as I was passing this 
 afternoon I stopped a minute to inquire how he was. He's not 
 dead yet, and his daughter, would you believe it Oh! good gra- 
 cious, Sullivan, do you want to pull my hair all down again with 
 those hooks ?" 
 
170 BEHIND THE A ERAS. 
 
 " I ain glad to hear the poor old man is better, for his daughter's 
 sake, if not for his own." 
 
 " I didn't say he was better. I simply said he wasn't dead. As 
 for his daughter, I wouldn't waste any compassion on her. She 
 seems wonderfully cheerful. Would you believe it, she positively 
 smiled, while I stood there with as long a face as I could manage, 
 thinking it the correct thing on such an occasion. If it were Flossy, 
 my poodle, that was sick, / should be quite overcome with grief, but 
 I suppose it's. the way with these Americans; they have no feeling. 
 Perhaps it would be better for me if I was not so sensitive. Unfor- 
 tunately, on the contrary, I am all heart, all feeling and Good 
 heavens! Sullivan, do you take me for a pin-cushion?" 
 
 "But what is your bit of news, my dear?" asked Lady Amten- 
 hurst. 
 
 " I will tell you, if you will allow me. She came to the door 
 grinning and grimacing, as I told you, and hardly giving herself 
 time to say, ' her father was in less pain, thanks', when she blurted 
 out with even a broader grin almost a giggle, in fact that Mr. In- 
 
 golsby Oh! do you want to murder me, Sullivan? It's lucky 
 
 that pin had a head or something to stop it. I wish you would be 
 more careful. Where was I? This awkward, clumsy thing keeps 
 putting me out so. Oh, yes. She blurted out that Mr. Ingolsby 
 had come at last, and she was so happy so happy. Did you ever 
 hear such a thing!" 
 
 " Who is Mr. Ingolsby, my dear?" 
 
 " Oh, you know. I met him at the Ogilvie's last year. A hand- 
 some, manly-looking fellow, with the loveliest violet eyes. But of 
 course you never notice those things. The man whom they all said 
 was engaged to that runaway Egerton girl you remember. I never 
 believed it though never. Betwixt you and me, aunty dear, I 
 think he was awfully spoons on me and I never gave him the least 
 encouragement. But that's always the way with men: the more 
 you snub them, the more they like you. They do say some girls are 
 the same way, though I can scarcely credit it. Were any man no 
 matter how I loved him to offer me a slight, that would be the last 
 of it between us, I can tell you my necklace, Sullivan I hate a 
 spaniel's nature in a girl. Did I say necklace or bracelets ? Be 
 good enough to give me my necklace, will you, and don't stand 
 there looking vacantly into empty air ? And now he's engaged 
 to this American girlfather's rich, of course at least she told me 
 before we went to Naples that she was engaged confiding little 
 idiot and I suppose it must be to this Ingolsby, she went into such 
 ecstasies about his coming, as I told you. What on earth is the mat- 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 171 
 
 ter with you, Sullivan ? Can't you stand without clutching the bed- 
 post like that ? Now, my bracelets. Isn't it romantic ? father dying 
 in a strange land consent given absent lover called to take his 
 bride, and the old man's dollars a marriage by his death-bed 
 bless you, my children et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Bracelets, 
 1 told you not slippers. My gloves too. Ingolsby is a fortunate 
 fellow, I think, for besides the father's money, the girl is rather 
 pretty, though I confess to admiring blondes far more, myself," 
 with a side-glance at the looking-glass. " Are those my gloves? If 
 you are not enough to try the patience of Job! Give me my fan, 
 and don't look for it among my boots. I am thankful to get from 
 under your awkward hands at last, and I feel as though my clothes 
 had been thrown at me, as indeed they have been. If I was 
 not naturally good-tempered, I do believe you would have made me 
 cross. Put away all those things, and you had better pack my 
 trunks, for we may have to leave here to-morrow, if the weather 
 changes. Come auntie, I'm ready." And Miss Courtenay swept 
 from the room, without a thought of kindness for poor suffering 
 Lucy, to play the angel amongst strangers. 
 Lady Amtenhurst staid a moment behind. 
 
 "Never mind those trunks till to-morrow," she said kindly. 
 "You look dreadfully sick, poor girl. Button this glove for me, 
 please. How hot and feverish your hands are, and they were so 
 cold a short time ago," she added, with real concern. "You've 
 caught a bad cold, child, and must take some gruel; ring and order 
 some made, and go directly to bed." 
 
 " Do come, auntie !" sounded from the hall. 
 
 " Do as I tell you," said Lady Amtenhurst, stopping in the door- 
 way for a parting admonition. "Do not pack a thing to-night." 
 Then she followed her niece, and Lucy was left alone with her con- 
 fused thoughts. 
 
 At once she set to work packing. 
 
 " It is better to have it over and done, for to-morrow I may not be 
 able," she thought. "I feel so strange as though reason were 
 going from me." And as she bent over her work, while the objects 
 about her whirled and danced, and a cord seemed to be tightening 
 across her forehead, she wondered vaguely to herself, why it was 
 that she placed such faith in the truth of what Edith Courtenay had 
 said. It might all be but an idle exaggeration of hastily assumed 
 facts. Ah, but had not she herself, seen and heard with her own 
 eyes and ears ? There was corroboration. 
 
 ' On any other subject she would have doubted; but on this one 
 that concerned her so nearly so dearlyshe accepted every trifle as 
 a proof of what it brought untold agony to believe. 
 
172 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Peace hath her victories 
 No less renowned than war. 
 
 " Samson Agonistes." 
 
 iISPOSITION is inborn, unchangeable this side the grave. 
 Character, on the contrary, formed alike by every trivial cir- 
 cumstance and great event, at first a diamond in the rough> 
 is dependent mainly on those who shape it for its lustre. 
 
 "Wrought upon in a bungling fashion 'tis ruined; formed by a 
 master hand its beauty is assured; and the sharper the instruments 
 lent by Providence sorrow privation sickness loss the clearer 
 are its hidden beauties brought to light, and the nearer it approaches 
 to perfection. Yet there are those, the exceptional provers of the rule, 
 totally devoid of stamina, upon whom nothing has a lasting effect; 
 not that they are adamant, but so impressionless, as it were, from 
 the very excess of their ductility, that the occurrences of every pass- 
 ing moment sway them by their influence, and wounds which seem 
 to penetrate to the core, are quickly healed, and no effort of fortune 
 can form a scar upon the surface. Wavering and uncertain as a 
 flickering light, they are the sport of circumstances, be their disposi- 
 tion what it may. Character and disposition are without doubt 
 strongly combined, yet art can separate the two, and mold the one 
 while it has no direct power over the other. 
 
 Take a little child born of fiercely-passioned parents teach it, train 
 it; the character formed, will, in a manner, control the disposition 
 it no doubt inherits, by the knowledge of right and wrong, though 
 the instincts of passion are still there, powerful to break all bounds 
 when temptation comes. Ingratitude and the world's baseness 
 harden a truly benevolent man bat in appearance. Within the 
 fence of distrust, the generous heart still lives, and impulses of 
 good are as strong as ever, though restrained by the belief gained 
 by a sad experience, that they will meet with no response. 
 
 Who has not met with gentle kindness in those renowned for 
 hardihood and strength of will, as in the timid and shrinking and 
 infirm of purpose; and are not the weak and vacilating often as 
 cruel as those of sterner make? Though each is, in a degree, under 
 the influence of the other, character and disposition are, therefore, 
 not inseparable. Each distinct in itself, they go rather hand-in-hand 
 together; character, when rightly formed and molded, holding in 
 check, guiding by its intellectual vigor if not indeed keeping sub- 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 173 
 
 servient to its dominion the animal propensities, the natural bent 
 of disposition, be they good or bad. 
 
 Of a naturally good disposition, anxious to find the right course, 
 but apt to be led astray by an over-sensitiveness, Lucy's character, 
 forming almost completely of itself, could not be perfect. With 
 strength in herself to change it to a certain extent, she had mastered 
 passionate outbreaks of temper. But something more was required 
 to make her what she should be, and sorrow and trouble had pre- 
 pared the way for the greatest of all reformers, sickness; and the 
 chances were that with courage to persist in the changes wrought 
 by this messenger of Providence, lasting benefit to her character 
 would be the result. All unknown to herself she had been strug- 
 gling between life and death; and now when she had returned to 
 consciousness, and her eyes rested, at first vacantly, but with grow- 
 ing perception, upon all the inevitable appurtenances and untidi- 
 ness of a sick room, her great weakness was no longer a marvel to 
 her. Where she was with whom what had ailed her she knew 
 not. Everything about her was strange and unfamiliar. That she 
 had been sick and well cared for was evident, and with so much 
 knowledge she was satisfied to close her eyes once more, and with 
 no thought in her mind but of present passive comfort, perfectly 
 content to rest quietly, almost unconsciously in the coolness and 
 silence of the darkened room. 
 
 Gently as an infant she breathed; sometimes she slept, sometimes 
 stirred not in pain, but to relieve the tedium of perfect comfort, by 
 a change from one restful position to another, revelling, as it were, 
 in the very abundance of ease. 
 
 Presently her hand passed into a strong grasp; fingers pressed her 
 pulse. It was too great an effort to raise her eyelids. A murmur 
 of voices fell softly upon her ear, and then footsteps passed from 
 the room. Another hand was upon "hers, but this time soft and 
 cool, and a light kiss fell upon her brow. In an instant her black 
 eyes, now languid and weary, were opened and gazing up on the 
 face bent over her. 
 
 "Dear child," murmured Lady Arntenhurst's gentle voice, "I 
 am so thankful you have been spared. Do not fret and worry your- 
 self with idle thoughts, for I will tell you everything when you are 
 strong enough to listen. Go to sleep now, darling, and you will be 
 well all the sooner." 
 
 The days went by in quick succession, and as Lucy gained in 
 strength, crowding thoughts came pressing on her mind. When 
 the first apathy was over, she found that her black wig was gone! 
 The discovery of that fact brought to her the recollection of her 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 disguise, and then all the forgotten past flashed quickly up before 
 her. The vision of the stormy day in Rome came too; but to her 
 wonder, it brought no pang. She was still too weak to feel in- 
 tensely; but as strength grew, an aching pain that she could not 
 master came gnawing at her heart, and she lay and thought, and 
 showed no wish to speak. The doctor, a French physician resident 
 in Florence, was surprised annoyed. Her recovery was slower 
 than he wished for had expected. It was strange; he could not 
 account for it. Would the "young rnees" tell him how she felt? 
 "Was there anything that troubled her mind ? She would be well in 
 time, she said, and turned away her head. 
 
 Such a state of things could not last. Dr. Latour insisted that 
 she should leave her bed. In obedience to his mandate, and as- 
 sisted by an old nurse, she rose, and day after day, lay upon the sofa, 
 propped up by pillows, to outward appearance still weak and faint. 
 Lady Amtenhurst with anxious solicitude proposed a drive a walk 
 even, across the room, leaning upon her arm? No; she preferred 
 perfect rest and quiet. Would she not like to talk, to be told how 
 she came where she was, to have the blank in the past filled up ? 
 
 "Not now, please," she would answer with a beseeching look. 
 "By-and-bye I should like to talk and give some explanation of my- 
 self, as well as hear all about my sickness. But not now : I am not 
 able." 
 
 Then she would lapse into dreamy silence and Lady Amtenhurst 
 would go away in despair. Dr. Latour was a nervous, irritable 
 man, albeit a clever practitioner, and the tardy recovery of a patient 
 always put him out of the little patience he possessed, especially 
 when the delay was unaccountable. " Dis is absurd, young Mees," 
 he said to Lucy once. " Uzzer people have had ze brain fevaire, 
 and got well so while I snap my fingaires. You are young you 
 have one good constitution. Why then is it zat you fail to find 
 strong hels ? Sacre tonnerre I because you have not what ze Engleese 
 call ze ' vim/ Quite sure, it is in yourself to say, 'I will be seek or 
 I will be well/ You say, ' I will be seek/ and lie here. Parbleu! 
 young Mees, you are one grand absurdity : you have nosing to ail 
 you, and you play to be ze invalide. Stand up dance seeng 
 laugh play on ze piano go out to drive and walk talk and be 
 gay zat is ze way to get well. You mope yourself here all ze day, 
 and quite sure, you always be no bettaire." 
 
 Lucy raised her drooping head. 
 
 " Have patience with me, doctor, and I will do all you wish. Not 
 now, for I cannot, but by-and-bye." 
 
 "Ah, dis ' by-and-bye ' dis ' have patience!' You take all I have, 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 175 
 
 and sacre tonnerre ! you cry for more. You have one grand insan- 
 ity! Bon jour, young Mees; when ze doctaire's advice is refused, ze 
 ^loctaire is in ze way/' and indignantly the old fellow rushed from 
 the room. How little he understood the workings of her mind! 
 
 The next day he returned, thoroughly determined that extreme 
 measures should be taken to rouse her from her apparent lethargy. 
 But what was his surprise his " grand satisfaction " to find a light 
 in her eyes and a faint color in her cheeks. She laughed, she 
 chatted, she jested with the light-heartedness of a merry school girl, 
 and the sense of returning happiness within seemed to lend a strange 
 beauty to her face, and brought back all its lost dimples. She gave 
 a promise to drive out the next day, and the doctor went away en- 
 chanted. 
 
 Something had prevented Lady Amtenhurst from paying her 
 usual early visit to Lucy's room; but the doctor had scarcely gone 
 when she came hurrying in. Lucy sprang up to greet her with a 
 smile, and so delighted was her Ladyship at the marvelous change 
 -in her sad face, that she threw her arms around her and kissed her. 
 " My dear, dear child, how much better you look this morning. It 
 was so good of you to try and rouse yourself. We shall have you 
 well now, in a few days. I am so glad I prevailed upon the doctor 
 to spare this," she said, smoothing back Lucy's hair from her fore- 
 head. " He had ordered it all to be cut off. It would have been a 
 sin." 
 
 Tears were in Lucy's eyes as Lady Amtenhurst sat down beside 
 her on the sofa, 
 
 "You have been so good to me," she said. "I don't deserve 
 your kindness, indeed I don't, for I have been such a wicked, wicked 
 girl." 
 
 " Oh, no, my dear, I cannot believe that, although I do not think, 
 in regard to one matter, that you have done wisely." 
 
 " You know who I am then ? " asked Lucy. 
 
 <Yes that is, I think I do," said Lady Amtenhurst smiling. 
 " When you were delirious you raved about different people, your 
 own hard fate and fear of discovery; and when I found your black 
 hair was a wig, and knowing that Lucy Egerton was a blonde, I 
 guessed how it was. You are she, are you not, dear?" 
 
 " I was once, but am not now," Lucy replied, looking down. 
 
 " Nonsense, Lucy I may call you Lucy? I had hoped that all 
 those delusions had vanished that you no longer harbored those 
 foolish ideas." 
 
 "You do not understand me, dear Lady Amtenhurst, and you 
 cannot until I have told you all my story, and who, and what I am." 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 "You are excited, my dear child, and it is perhaps not well for 
 you to talk. Lie down and rest, and don't think any more of this 
 unpleasant subject." 
 
 "You think my mind is wandering," said Lucy, meeting Lady 
 Amtenhurst's anxious look with a smile. "Put your hand on my 
 forehead and feel how cool it is. It will be a great relief to me to 
 tell you all." 
 
 " Very well, Lucy, as you please. But let me arrange these 
 pillows more comfortably for you." And Lady Amtenhurst sat 
 down to listen with a rather dubious air, not doubting that the fever 
 had returned to the convalescent. 
 
 As briefly as possible Lucy told her of the discovery she had 
 made on the night of the masquerade of her hiding in the house, 
 and overhearing conversations of her subsequent flight and meet- 
 ing with Jolliffe Tufnell in the railway train, and of all his kindness 
 to her. 
 
 "These are the bare facts," she went on, "but my motives in 
 leaving Bratton oh, Lady Amtenhurst, I feel as though I could 
 tell them to you, if you have patience to listen. My leaving home 
 as I did, must seem such a foolish act to one who does not know 
 the workings of my heart." 
 
 "Tell me all, Lucy; I would gladly hear it. And, my dear, there 
 was one name very often on your lips when you were ill what had 
 he to do with all this?" 
 
 " That is just what I would tell you," Lucy answered, as her head 
 rested, oh, so naturally! upon the other's shoulder, and an arm was 
 passed affectionately around her waist. " Can you not guess how it 
 was ? He stole away my heart, and then cast it from him, and it 
 came back to me all seared and scarred and bruised. He was first 
 in my thoughts when I learned who I was, and I thought how 
 wicked it would be to marry him under a false position and a false 
 name, or to tax his honor by telling him the truth; and I, in my 
 pride, could not bear that he should be ashamed of me. 
 
 " In the madness of the moment I determined to run away and 
 hide where, I knew not, but I trusted to my wits. Then I over- 
 heard what strengthenedjn stead of weakened me as it should have 
 done in this resolve. I heard oh, it was cruel I heard, w r hat 
 came as the last great blow. He told Sir Griffith in my hearing that 
 he could never marry me! It was, perhaps, better, I fancied, that 
 I should thus know what would prevent me from ever returning; 
 and then I fled fled from shame of my birth, in anger at all around 
 me, and for lack of strength to meet him again. I felt as if I 
 should never wish to return and renew the old life, never again see 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS: 177 
 
 the scenes of so much unhappiness, and in my selfishness I forgot 
 the sorrow I might be inflicting upon others who had made them- 
 selves dear to me. I told myself that no one cared for me or would 
 feel my loss. I forgot right and wrong and the duty I owed to 
 those who had made me what I was, and had tried to make me 
 happy. I forgot all but my own trouble and sorrow and fear of the 
 world's tongue, and kept down the whisperings of conscience. I 
 was my own mistress, I said; my father had cast me off; I had a 
 right to do what I pleased and was accountable to no one for my 
 actions, if I earned my bread honestly and injured no one. So I 
 argued so I have argued with myself since but I have not been 
 happy. 'Twas an argument that while it convinced the head, failed 
 to reach the heart. I had thought, too, that I had conquered my 
 love for one who had shown himself unworthy of it. That fearful 
 day in Rome, I met him, and when I knew that he had given his 
 heart to another, I found to my cost how great a place he still held 
 in mine. I have been very ill, but I know not how I came to be so. 
 That I have been near to death I feel instinctively, and I have been 
 roused to earnest, serious thought. 
 
 "All these days that I have lain here, I have been thinking and 
 repenting and forming a great resolve. I see my error now, and I 
 would atone for it. I am going back, humbly to ask forgiveness for 
 my fault, an.d to let those to whom the right in its truest sense be- 
 longs, decide what I am to do in the future. If they will take me 
 back, gratefully will I go. If they send me to my father, I am re- 
 signed, and determined to accept the decree. If they tell me to work 
 I will do it gladly; and if, as I richly deserve, they cast me off en- 
 tirely, then oh, Lady Amtenhurst " 
 
 " Then come to me, child, if anything so unlikely ever happens," 
 said Lady Amtenhurst, kindly, as Lucy faltered. "In my house 
 you will always find a home. Poor child, how you must have suf- 
 fered! And this is a noble victory over your own wrong impulses. 
 It has been a hard trial, but I have no doubt a wise one, sent by 
 Providence to chasten and subdue. Do not lose hope, Lucy; there 
 may be a bright and beautiful future before you," she added; "a 
 future that you dream not of now." 
 
 "Ah, no; quietly, peacefully happy it may be, but more I do not 
 I cannot expect. From the relief I feel, now that I have decided 
 to give up my own will to others, I know that I will be far more 
 contented than I have been. Now that I have made up my mind 
 to do what is right, and that I feel a consciousness of some little 
 good in myself, I am much stronger and abler to bear and to suffer. 
 12 
 
178 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 You cannot conceive the relief of renouncing a project, that your 
 conscience was forever condemning." 
 
 "Ah, Lucy, 'tis the error of young people to believe that none 
 have experienced such suffering as their first trial brings them! I 
 can understand your feelings but too well, and give you my fullest 
 sympathy, for my own has not been a happy lot. But my chief 
 sympathy is with those who must have loved you as a daughter, 
 and mourned for you as one. May you never know the sorrow, 
 darling, of losing a child ! " 
 
 "Dear, dear Lady Amtenhurst, have I given you pain?" cried 
 Lucy, throwing her arms around the other's neck, as she saw the 
 tears well up into the soft, dark eyes: "am I forever to give pain 
 to those I love best ? Oh, Lady Amtenhurst, I do love you so 
 dearly, and I would bring smiles to your lips rather than tears to 
 your eyes I" 
 
 "Then, behold them, Lucy," she said smiling, "and invoked 
 by your own words. Do you know I was drawn toward you from 
 the first, and although I could not imagine why it was, I have ever 
 felt a certain unwillingness to ask you to perform menial duties. 
 Your disguise was excellent, but you could not conceal your refine- 
 ment. That is something that clings to one. I never yet saw a 
 person who could assume it, nor one who, having it, could cast it 
 aside at will. You cannot imagine Edith's surprise and consterna- 
 tion when she heard of your sudden change from a chrysalis into a 
 butterfly. She is very anxious to see you." 
 
 " Is she?" said Lucy, laughing. " Let her come and satisfy her 
 curiosity to-morrow, for I am beginning to feel tired now. I hope 
 she bears me no malice for having detained her here so long we 
 are in Florence, are we not?" 
 
 "Yes. Would you like to hear how it all happened how you 
 were taken ill ? " 
 
 "I should, indeed," Lucy answered eagerly. "I remember 
 nothing since that rainy night at the hotel in Home. All is a blank 
 since then until I found myself here." 
 
 " I tried to tell you all, before now, dear, but you would not hear," 
 said Lady Amtenhurst. "That wet day in Rome which you speak 
 of, you caught a violent cold. I noticed you were feverish and ill 
 that night. The next day was bright and pleasant, and we left for 
 this place. You, poor child, insisted upon attending to your duties, 
 though I could see from your wild manner, that the fever had 
 already begun its work. 
 
 " Before we arrived here your mind began to wander, and you had 
 to be lifted from the carriage into the hotel. I, myself, nursed you, 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 179 
 
 with the assistance of a woman whom the doctor sent, and every 
 one has been so kind in their inquiries after the young English 
 lady; for they all think you are traveling under my charge. It is, 
 perhaps, as well that they should have this idea, for it would not be 
 pleasant for you to have your wild freak noised about. Do you in- 
 tend to write to your friends in England ?" 
 
 " Oh, no; I want to go to them and take them by surprise. It 
 will be harder for me, I know, than if I prepared the way by letters; 
 but it is only right that I should feel the weight of their displeasure 
 when I so richly merit it." 
 
 "Very well, my dear; it shall be as you please. But you have 
 talked too much, I fear. We must not forget that you are still far 
 from strong; and that flushed face reminds me that I am not to al- 
 low you to become excited. Lie down, child; I will darken the 
 room, and get a book and read you to sleep." 
 
 With a great weight lifted from her heart, Lucy lay and watched, 
 with loving eyes, the kind and gentle face of Lady Amtenhurst, and 
 listened to the words she read until they became a distant murmur 
 in her ears, as her eyelids slowly closed, and she passed off gently 
 into dreamland. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Happy those beloved of Heaven, 
 To whom the mingled cup is given, 
 Whose lenient sorrows find relief. 
 Whose joys are chasten'd by their grief. 
 
 "Marmion.' 
 
 HAT a world of truth is expressed in that little French 
 phrase " L'homme propose mais Dieu dispose!" Never 
 yet did an event occur as planned or pictured by man; 
 and still he schemes and toils and makes his programme 
 for the future, his mind ever busy with visions of what is to be, 
 learning only by repeated experience, the fallaciousness of his 
 hopes; but never is the lesson so well learned, that he has not still 
 some slight lingering faith in the complete fulfillment, eventually, 
 of his designs. 
 
 Lucy was young and inexperienced, and the difference in her pres- 
 ent position from the one she had expected to occupy when her 
 flight was planned, left her with no doubt as to the result of her reso- 
 lution to return. The Egertons would take her back, and she would 
 go to them in meekness of spirit, and lead a quiet useful life. Such 
 ^would be the future, she felt convinced, as she fell asleep that 
 
180 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 bright and beautiful day in Florence. Would her slumber have 
 been as tranquil had she known what thoughts were in the mind 
 of one, who, with impatient longings to see her eyelids unclose, 
 bent lovingly over her as she lay ? Ah ! who can doubt the good- 
 ness which allows the mind such rest, when great and unexpected 
 changes come in life, that it may gather strength to bear the sud- 
 den tidings of good or ill ! 
 
 For many hours Lucy slept, while through the closed blinds of 
 the open windows came the subdued hum of voices from the Lung 
 Arno, oftentimes lost in the louder sound of passing vehicles; and 
 upon the hot window panes, the buzzing of flies told of the warmth 
 without and enhanced the pleasant coolness of the rooms by their 
 noisy revel in the intense heat beyond the boundary of the Vene- 
 tian blinds. Beside the sofa where she lay, her senses unaffected 
 by the drowsy, slumber-inviting surroundings, patiently watching 
 and waiting, sat Lady Amtenhurst. At last Lucy stirred, and 
 opened her eyes; and as they rested upon the gentle face bending 
 down so near her own, she fancied for the moment that her illness 
 was once more upon her. Then consciousness returning, remem- 
 brance came, and she answered the look of tenderness with a smile. 
 With a cry of joy, Lady Amtenhurst threw her arms about the half- 
 risen figure, and as her cheek rested against the soft flushed one of 
 the girl, her tears fell on Lucy's face. 
 
 ' ' Lady Amtenhurst, what is the matter ? " was all Lucy could say, 
 in her great surprise. 
 
 " They are tears of happiness, darling, not of sorrow. Try to join 
 me in my gladness, if you can, for great joy has come to me to-day. 
 Oh, my darling my darling! 'tis a joy I have never in my wildest 
 moments dared to hope for." 
 
 "And may I not ask what that great joy is, dear Lady Amten- 
 hurst ? " asked Lucy, as tears of sympathy stood in her eyes. 
 
 " I was admonished not to excite you, my child, but what can I 
 do? Oh, Lucy, I must tell you! While you were asleep, my hus- 
 band called me from the room look up at me, darling and imparted 
 to me the tidings which have brought me this happiness. When I 
 was younger than you, Lucy, I had a child and I lost it. To-day 
 I know that it is alive, and once more to be my own! What greater 
 blessing could I wish ? " 
 
 A thrill of wonder and undefined pleasure, and a feeling she 
 could not quite understand half of jealousy, half of a wild intan- 
 gible wish passed over Lucy as she looked into the flushed, 
 excited face above her. 
 
 As she lay there she felt a keen sense of shame for her apparent 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 coldness and want of sympathy with her friend's new-found happi- 
 ness; but it was an utter impossibility for her to express in words all 
 that she felt, and in silence she waited till Lady Amtenhurst found 
 voice to speak. 
 
 "Yes, Lucy, I will tell you everything," she said; "everything 
 from the very first, and then you can judge how great must be my 
 happiness. I will tell you of a time when I was as young, and 
 pretty, and lovable as yourself. I had a father, then, Lucy; we 
 were alone together in the world, and all in all to each other. To 
 others he was cold and stern, but not to me. He was a man of 
 strong passions, but he kept them so thoroughly under control by 
 the power of his will, that few ever guessed with what intensity he 
 could love or hate. For some reason that I never learned, the bit- 
 terest enmity existed between him and my husband's father, the old 
 Earl of Amtenhurst, and therefore it seemed a strange freak of fate 
 that caused him, while he went over to Ireland on business one au- 
 tumn, to leave me with some friends the Duncumbes of Lieceister- 
 shire. It was the first time we had been separated, and there at 
 Bletchleigh Manor I met Arthur Courtenay, Lord Amtenhurst's 
 second son, a handsome young lieutenant in a fashionable Hussar 
 regiment, and who, among others, was down for the shooting. 
 Knowing my father's prejudice I tried to avoid him; but people are 
 thrown so much together at a country house, and he sought me out 
 so persistently that I found it impossible to succeed. It was one of 
 the tricks that Cupid often plays. In spite of duty and wishes and 
 fears, my unwilling heart opened to receive him. When he asked 
 me to marry him I told him of my father's dislike to his family. He 
 said he knew of it, but we loved each other, he was independent in 
 fortune under an uncle's will, and no one had a right to keep us 
 apart. It would be easy to obtain my father's forgiveness, once the 
 knot was tied. 
 
 At eighte'en one seldom doubts the likelihood of success. We 
 were married in secret, and I trusted to my powers of persuasion to 
 reconcile my father to the match. I did not know him as well as I 
 thought. His first passionate outbreak when I acknowledged my 
 act, was fearful. He cast me from him, bidding me go to my hus- 
 band. He refused to listen to my entreaties, and our intercourse 
 was severed, for he would not see me or speak to me again. The 
 barrier that thus arose between us destroyed much of my happiness, 
 for love cannot completely absorb the pain of breaking old ties. Nor 
 did I have my husband long. We had been married but four 
 months when his regiment was ordered to India. My physician 
 would not allow me to accompany him, as I was unfit to bear the 
 
132 BEHIND THE AREAS. 
 
 climate of Bengal at that season, and I was well nigh broken- 
 hearted at the separation. How painful was our parting you can 
 imagine; but he was scarcely gone when my father came and offered 
 to take me abroad. I was surprised and delighted at the idea of a 
 reconciliation. I went with him, and our old life was renewed. It 
 would have seemed as though the past few months were a dream, 
 had it not been for the memory of Arthur, my husband, and the 
 birth here in Florence of my child." 
 
 " Here in Florence!" cried Lucy, as the recollection of Lady Am- 
 tenhurst's antipathy toward the place flashed across her mind. 
 
 " Yes, dear; it is an extraordinary coincidence, is it not, that in 
 its birthplace, the place where it was lost to me, after nineteen long 
 years I find my child again ? It was a sacrifice of my feelings to 
 come here now, for the town has always seemed hateful to me ever 
 since; but I came to please Edith, and for the sacrifice I made I 
 have, indeed, received a blessed reward. "Well, dear, when I was 
 nearly recovered from my illness, I was told that both my baby and 
 my husband were dead. My baby had lived but two days after its 
 birth, and my husband had been mortally wounded, in an engagement 
 in which a portion of his regiment had taken part shortly after its ar- 
 rival in India. To be thus bereft of husband and child at one fell 
 swoop, as it seemed, was more than one in my comparatively weak 
 condition could bear up under, and for days I wavered between life 
 and death. Health and strength slowly came back to me, and as 
 soon as I was able to travel we left Florence for Rome. 
 
 11 It was then the unhealthy season of the year, but I never thought 
 of that, until my poor dear father was stricken down with the Roman 
 fever. It seemed as though fate was never to be satisfied with my 
 losses. On his deathbed he said something to me that I could not 
 then understand, but which has since been made plain to me. ' All 
 connection between you and the Amtenhursts is severed,' he said; 
 * and I can die happy thinking that my daughter is not as one of 
 them. You will never know what I have done for you, child, and 
 what care and anxiety I have saved you. You are very young, and 
 should marry again; but make a better match and be happy.' I re- 
 turned to England, mourning for a father, a husband, and a child, 
 believing it to be a punishment for my undutiful conduct; and I lost 
 all interest in life. But what was the astounding news that greeted 
 my return ! The report from India had been incorrect : I was not 
 a widow, for my husband was alive! The announcement of his 
 death had been premature. He had been dangerously wounded it 
 was true, and had been at death's door for weeks, he wrote me, but 
 he was now fast recovering, and had applied to be invalided and 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 183 
 
 sent home. The next steamer from Bombay brought him to me, 
 looking thin and pale; but I had my Arthur again, and was happy. 
 If my child could only be returned to me in the same manner, I 
 thought, then nothing would be wanting to make my happiness 
 complete. But it was not to be then; that joy was reserved by Prov- 
 idence to gladden my heart in later years, as it has this day. The 
 months slipped quickly by while Arthur gradually regained his 
 strength, and the day approached for him to leave England again 
 to rejoin his regiment. 'Twas a clay that never came. Two weeks 
 before the Transport in which we were going out, (for I had deter- 
 mined to accompany him this time) was to sail from Plymouth, his 
 elder brother, the Earl, was thrown from his horse in attempting to 
 force the animal over an impossible jump in a steeple-chase he was 
 riding, and received injuries from which he died in a few hours; and 
 Arthur thus became the Earl of Amtenhurst. Then followed years 
 of happiness, unalloyed save by the remembrance of my child hap- 
 piness as perfect as can be known in this world. But I tire you 
 darling, so I will be brief. One day when going about among the 
 tenantry, I noticed a strange woman whose face yet seemed familiar 
 to me. She had come to visit her sister, the wife of one of Arthur's 
 tenants, and I fancied it was but the resemblance between the two 
 sisters that had struck me. But the next day she came up to the 
 house asking to see me, and said that she had once been my maid. 
 " I remembered her then, as the woman whom I had taken to the 
 Continent when I went with my father, and who had been with me 
 here when my child was born. She said she had a secret to disclose 
 that had weighed heavily upon her conscience for many years. She 
 had long tried to find me, but only knowing me by the name of 
 Courtenay, had never succeeded. 'Twas a secret she had promised 
 my father to keep from me, but she could not rest contented until 
 she told me. Imagine my surprise, darling, when she informed me 
 that at that moment my child might be alive ! I don't know whether 
 it gave me, at the time, most pleasure or pain, but now I can never 
 cease to be grateful. She told me a long story of how the very day 
 my child was born, the intelligence of my husband's death arrived, and 
 that my father came to her and said that some people in the place 
 who had recently lost their child were going to adopt mine. She 
 brought it to them that evening and the very next morning she was 
 sent home to England by my father, with a large sum of money in 
 payment for her promise never to reveal the circumstance to me. 
 The woman tried to excuse herself for the part she had taken in the 
 proceeding, by saying that she had a large family to support, the 
 money was something she could not resist, and that she thought at 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 the time my father knew what was best for me, and it was not her 
 place to question his acts. Ah, Lucy, it was hard to forgive her! 
 I told my husband all, and in trying to appease his indignation I 
 forgot my own. "We got all the information we could from the wo- 
 man. The name of the people to whom she gave the child was Sil- 
 liman; that was all she knew of them except that they were English. 
 My father had had the child christened before parting with it, call- 
 ing it Florence, after the town where it was born. What a strangely 
 complicated character was his! He thought of the welfare of the 
 child's soul, while giving no heed to what its future earthly life 
 might be. To this day I can but guess from his last words what 
 were his reasons for doing as he did, for he never told them to human 
 being. Thinking Arthur was dead, I suppose he wished to break 
 off all connection with the family of Amtenhurst at once and for- 
 ever, and perhaps thought it best that I should have nothing to re- 
 mind me of the past or to recall the hated name. Whatever his 
 reasons were, and however he erred in judgment, I am sure he had 
 solely my good at heart. 
 
 "With these slender facts, my husband immediately started for 
 Florence. The Sillimans had gone away. With great difficulty, he 
 succeeded in tracing them from place to place, to London, where the 
 clue was broken. We advertised and employed detectives, and at 
 last discovered that Silliman. had sailed for America about two 
 years after receiving the child. The information was given by a 
 man who had made the passage with him in the steamer to New 
 York, and who, on his return to England, had seen our advertise- 
 ments. This man knew no more, and could not even tell us 
 whether he had a wife and child with him or not. They had 
 formed a slight acquaintance on the ship, and had never met again 
 after parting on the dock in New York. It was encouraging, how- 
 ever, to have learned so much, and my husband's solicitor wrote 
 over at once to institute inquiries. Arthur even crossed the ocean 
 himself, but was obliged to return unsuccessful, leaving the matter 
 in the hands of a lawyer. Years passed and we lost hope; it faded 
 away by degrees, and at last passed entirely from our hearts. Until 
 to-day, I knew no more than what I have told you, and the rest of 
 my story I learned from my husband but an hour ago, for he told 
 me nothing of what was coming to light in America, fearing to raise 
 hopes that might never be fulfilled. The lawyer with whom the 
 matter had been left, and who had exhausted every means of tracing 
 out Silliman, without success, went to reside and practice his pro- 
 fession in San Francisco. One day in a trial in which he defended 
 some man who was being tried for the murder of a gambler, one of 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 185 
 
 the witnesses was an Englishman named Silliman. Remembering 
 the name, he sought the man out, and questioned him. At first he 
 answered with reluctance, but at last, after a promise of being well 
 paid for any information he might give, made a full statement, which 
 he swore to, and which was sent over by the lawyer to my husband. 
 His statement was to this effect: 
 
 "In September, 18 , the month and year I was here with my 
 father, he and his wife were also in Florence. Their only child, an 
 infant, died while they were here, and shortly after its death/ he re- 
 ceived an anonymous letter, asking him if he and his wife would 
 take a child, and adopt it as their own. If so, they must take it at 
 once to England, and five thousand pounds would be given them. 
 
 " They accepted; the child a golden-haired little girl two days 
 old and five thousand pounds in Bank of England notes in a 
 packet, were brought to them by a woman who would not answer 
 any questions. He and his wife returned to England taking the 
 child with them, but knowing nothing of its parentage, and rented 
 a place near Bratton, the owner of which was obliged to retrench by 
 living on the continent for a few years. Here they established them- 
 selves, slowly winning recognition from the neighbors roundabout. 
 They had lived thus over a year, when Mrs. Silliman died of a rapid 
 decline, and her husband's funds running low, he determined to try 
 his fortune in America. The child was his sole encumbrance. How 
 you tremble, my dear! listen quietly, I am near the end now. Sir 
 Griffith Egerton, who was one of his neighbors, and whom he knew 
 slightly, was reputed to be a benevolent and eccentric man. He 
 had recently lost his only son. Silliman went to him, told him how 
 he was situated, of his lack of money, and his intention of going to 
 America a child of eighteen months was a thing it would be im- 
 possible for him to take with him, and what to do with it he knew 
 not, unless Sir Griffith would consent to adopt it in the place of his 
 own lost son. Sir Griffith consented; he adopted the child, chang- 
 ing its name from Florence to his own favorite one of Lucy. And 
 so it was that Florence Courtenay, called Florence Silliman not 
 Sullivan became Lucy Egerton ! My daughter oh, my daughter ! " 
 
 Long before the last words were spoken, mother and daughter 
 had been clinging to each other, their tears mingling, as Lucy mur- 
 mured through her sobs: " My mother my mother." 
 
 Oh, the unspeakable love, and peace, and joy that filled Lucy's 
 heart, soothing all the wounds of past sorrow! To be wrapped in a 
 mother's arms, to feel warm loving kisses pressed upon her tearful 
 eyes, to see a manly form enter the room and know that a father 
 stood before her, and, turning toward him with a strange sense of 
 
186 BEHIND THE AREAS. 
 
 shyness, feel herself clasped in that father's embrace! A dream- 
 surely, a dream ! and she trembled at thought of the sad awakening. 
 But 'tis no dream, Lucy. Guided through mysterious ways to 
 your own rightful home, a haven far happier than any in your wild- 
 est dreams, what more can you wish for? The joyful heart, with a 
 little pang answers quickly: " One more to love me only one!" 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Why did she love him ? Curious fool, be still, 
 Is human love the growth of human will ? 
 
 "Lara." 
 
 VINGTON COUKT is a grand old place, with its miles and 
 miles of undulating park-land studded with oaks, larches, 
 elms and beeches, stretching away on one side to the dim 
 blue-gray hills, and on the other to the cliff-bound sea. 
 At the head of its mile of winding beech-bordered avenue stands the 
 house, a great red brick pile of the time of Elizabeth, that nobly 
 bears its -weight of years, and is just sufficiently modernized by plate- 
 glass windows and internal improvements to give it an air of the 
 comfort and luxury of advancing civilization without detracting in 
 the least from its antique beauty. Here, in the most perfect har- 
 mony, taking example by the lives of the master and mistress, reign 
 the Lares and Penates; and not a spot is to be found in this great 
 mansion to which exquisite taste in the arrangement of its belong- 
 ings does not lend a charm. It is the chief feature of this house 
 the blending of minor details into a pleasingly harmonious unity. 
 
 Look into the dainty breakfast-room, where the morning sun 
 creeps warmly in through the half-closed blinds, casting bright gold 
 upon the carpet, and dancing merrily in reflected rings upon the ceil- 
 ing, lending an extra whiteness to the snowy table-cloth, extracting 
 a delicious perfume from the roses which cling around the casement, 
 and peep slyly in at the open sash, breathing an incense through the 
 room look, and if the sunlight playing among the curling, golden 
 hair, dazzle not your eyes, you will see, there by the window, bend- 
 ing over a full-blown rose, a girlish figure, robed in softly-falling 
 folds of white, with a gentle face, of strength and sweetness, con- 
 tentment and peace contending with a certain sadness of expression, 
 and when you are told that it is the Amtenhurst's newly-found 
 daughter, Lady Florence Courtenay, you can scarcely doubt that 
 here stands the one object long needed to complete the beauty of 
 the entourage. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 187 
 
 When news of the Amtenhursts' good fortune spread through the 
 county, Avington Court was the scene of liveliest rejoicing, and all 
 day long, for many days, crowds of people had come streaming to 
 the house to offer congratulations, and gratify their curiosity by a 
 glimpse of this daughter. All went away more or less pleased, to 
 discuss manners, appearance, and family likeness, and each and all 
 agreed as to the facts that she was unmistakably like her father, a 
 lady, and evidently well educated. 
 
 On the whole, Florence's advent was a great success, although 
 there were those who, of course, found unkind things to say; and 
 she herself was intensely amused, and not a little pleased, at becom- 
 ing such a lionne. As soon after her illness as possible, the Amten- 
 hursts had returned to England, changing all their plans for the 
 ensuing spring. They had remained but two days in London, and 
 it was on one of these days that Florence, driving with her mother, 
 from whom she could not bear to be parted, even for an hour, lost 
 from her finger the ring that I had given her. 
 
 Jolliffe Tufnell knew nothing'of their arrival till he met Lord Am- 
 tenhurst at the Club, and when the Earl thanked him for his kind- 
 ness to his daughter, the man's astonishment was unbounded. His 
 lordship asked him to dine in Eaton-square, that he might bear 
 the whole story, and in delighted surprise he listened that evening 
 to the tale. When it was over, he drew Florence aside to tell her, 
 in his own odd way, that though his hand was still at her disposal, 
 he gave up all hope of her accepting it now; and notwithstanding 
 that he should like to have so nice a little wife, his happiness, he 
 candidly avowed, was not dependent upon her answer. 
 
 Laughingly, she thanked him for his kindness, and then, with 
 an unfeigned solemnity, assured him of her determination never to 
 marry. And so it came about that they made a compact for a last- 
 ing friendship. 
 
 From him she learned that the Egertons were still away from 
 home, but were expected back very soon. 
 
 " Miss Lifford," he said, " has, I think, gone to meet them; at any 
 rate she has left Bratton, and I do not know where she is to be 
 found." 
 
 Florence never dreamed that the house in town would be pre- 
 pared for their reception, as she was aware of Sir Griffith's distaste 
 for London life. Therefore, it happened that I learned nothing 
 of her presence in town; and in two days the Amtenhursts left for 
 Avington Court. 
 
 Thinking of her old friends, and all their kindness to her, Flor- 
 ence stood caressing the rose, and it was not till her father came 
 
138 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 close beside her, that she was aware of his having entered the 
 room. 
 
 Lord Amtenhurst was a tall, soldierly-looking man, of a command- 
 ing air, with one of those closely-shaven, peculiar faces, which in 
 youth make a man seem older than he is, and in riper years delude 
 one into taking much from his real age; without coldness of expres- 
 sion, but having great command of feature; with nothing of stern- 
 ness, but much of dignity, in his manner; without guile himself, 
 but a keen observer of humanity; a man not given to deception, 
 but never to be deceived few men disliked him, for though he sus- 
 tained the dignity of his position, it was with a manner free from 
 arrogance, and all trusted him, for all knew his worth. 
 
 As he took his daughter's hands in his and smiled down into her 
 upturned face, the sunlight shining upon his auburn hair, wonder- 
 fully increased the likeness between father and daughter. " What 
 were the thoughts that seemed to be troubling my little one ? " he 
 asked her. 
 
 As she looked up at him, she longed to throw her arms about his 
 neck, and tell him how much she loved and revered him; but it was 
 not as though she had known him all her life, she still felt a little 
 timidity in manifesting her filial affection. So she simply drew him 
 to his chair and brought him his letters and the morning papers, 
 chatting away the while. 
 
 " Troublesome ^thoughts are not proper guests for an exquisite 
 morning like this, are they, papa? They really remind me of some 
 people who come into the midst of a pleasant group with long lists 
 of grievances, and unpleasant remarks, and unkind little speeches, 
 casting a shade where all before was bright; and they are quite as 
 difficult to exclude, for they come pushing and forcing their way in 
 spite of one. Let me read you the news, before mamma and Edith 
 come down," she added, unfolding the Times and seating herself on 
 a stool at his feet. 
 
 " I would far sooner. hear what your thoughts were about." 
 
 "What! You would have me play the part of those I have con- 
 demned, and parade imaginary troubles in the midst of so much 
 brightness ? " 
 
 "You cannot dim the sunshine, Florence, and I can be no 
 duller." 
 
 "Can I not? See! see!" she cried; "a cloud passes over the 
 sun in anticipation, even." 
 
 " It is being eclipsed by your brilliancy, little one," he retorted, 
 pleasantly. 
 
BEHIND THE AERAS. 189 
 
 " It hides its diminished head, lest it be further insulted by such 
 comparisons. But won't you be good now, and let me read to you ? " 
 
 " No! the papers can wait, but my pleasure cannot;" and he jest- 
 ingly puckered his pleasant brow into a portentious frown. " Con- 
 fess now, to disloyal thoughts." 
 
 She clasped her hands across his knee, resting her head upon 
 them as she sat at his feet; and all her gayety gone, replied: 
 
 " I was thinking of the Egertons. I wish so much that they 
 knew of my good fortune." 
 
 " They do know, in a measure," he said. "As I told you, I was 
 sick when news of you came to me from Silliman, and I instructed 
 my solicitor to go down to Bratton in my place. I always under- 
 stood that he had done so, but arrived too late. When I took Edith 
 up to town the day before yesterday I had a long talk with him, and 
 as we are on the subject now I will tell you what I learned. Par-v 
 kins had urgent business on hand which would not allow of his ab- 
 sence, and therefore he wrote to a friend of his, whom he knew was 
 staying at Bratton Hall, to break the news to Sir Griffith. His let- 
 ter did not arrive in time to prevent your flight, but this person (I 
 suppose it must have been the Mr. Strutt I have heard you mention 
 I didn't ask his name) nevertheless informed Sir Griffith of the 
 fact that you were my daughter. So you see that they know who 
 you are, and have given up all hope of ever again claiming you as a 
 daughter. Tufnell relieved their minds of anxiety, a long time ago, 
 by writing to Sir Griffith that you were safe, well and happy. 
 "What more can you wish ?" 
 
 Perhaps it may be as well for me to say here, what was not known 
 to me for some time yet, that though Sir Griffith was possessed of 
 these facts, for some private reason, or it may have been from a mere 
 freak of his odd nature, he did not impart his knowledge to either 
 his wife or me. Had he but told what he knew even to Jolliffe Tuf- 
 nell, Florence might long before have found her parents; but all 
 things seemed to conspire so that it might not be until she saw the 
 error of her chosen way, that she should regain what she herself 
 had unwittingly cast aside and fled from. 
 
 Florence was thinking while her father spoke, of that conversation, 
 so well remembered, heard in the corridor at Bratton Hall. This 
 letter from Parkins could not then have reached them. Ingolsby, 
 who had so soon after learned what was her birth, must before long 
 know of her reinstatement, and she wondered bitterly if he would 
 still sneer at love and lowliness, and if her father's coronet would 
 make it at last possible for him to extend his hand to the girl whom 
 he had once thought too far beneath him for that honor. She 
 
190 BEHIND THE AREAS. 
 
 wanted to see him and test him; yet she felt that whatever way 
 the trial ended, it could bring no happiness to her. If he^resumed 
 his old manner and tried to assert pretensions to her favor, he 
 would be far too despicable any longer to occupy her thoughts; 
 but if he loved this other girl and was true to her, all hope for her- 
 self was equally at an end. To one of her nature, however, the 
 knowledge that her love was not misplaced, even though hopeless, 
 would at least bring a strange sort of proud pleasure, and merely 
 thinking of the chance of its possibility brightened the expression 
 of her face. Glancing around the cheerful room, and up in her 
 father's face, she felt ashamed that she could not feel perfectly 
 happy for all her good fortune; and determined to appear so at 
 least, that she might not pain those who loved her, she said, smiling : 
 
 "How strangely everything has come about! I promise you not 
 to fret any more, papa, but to wait patiently for all things to come 
 right of themselves, as my efforts in the past seem to have altered 
 the face of things, and but increased a confusion that I tried to 
 lessen." As she rose and walked to the window, humming the 
 light, sparkling music of "La belle Helene," her father's thought- 
 ful eyes followed her across the room. He was trying to under- 
 stand his only child and found it no easy task, sunshine and shadow 
 followed each other so quickly in her moods. Just then Lady Am- 
 tenhurst came down, her presence bringing additional warmth and 
 brightness to the pleasant room. 
 
 "I overslept myself this morning," she said, returning Florence's 
 caress. " I find it so very nice to be once more in my own happy 
 home, that I am becoming dreadfully lazy. What news, Arthur ? 
 You have not yet opened your letters ! " 
 
 "I had quite forgotten them," he replied laughing, and as they 
 sat down to breakfast, he began to look them over. Two begging 
 letters, three on business, one from a friend put aside for future 
 reading, and then came one which brought a smile to his lips. 
 
 "Good news for you, Florence! Parkins writes me word that he 
 hears the Egertons are in town, and that they are going to remain 
 in Park Lane. 
 
 Florence answered nothing, but her face expressed all her pleasure. 
 
 "Then had we not better go up to town at once, Arthur?" asked 
 Lady Amtenhurst; "Florence is of course anxious to see them." 
 
 "Yes, mamma," she said, "but I don't like to give you the 
 trouble of going; papa could take me." 
 
 " It is best that I should go, darling, and call upon Lady Eger- 
 ton. Edith," as that young person hurried into the room, "what 
 do you say, to our all spending a week or two in town ?" 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 " Oh it is not for me to choose, dear aunt; my pleasure is a second- 
 ary consideration now that we have Florence to please," she replied, 
 and even before she spoke, her manner of seating herself at the 
 table, proved to discerning eyes that she had given great offense this 
 morning to her right foot, by allowing the left one precedence in 
 rising. "Besides," she added with an air of martyrdom, " it is my 
 nature to make sacrifices, even though they are not appreciated." 
 
 " It is not absolutely necessary for you to go with us, Edith," re- 
 marked her uncle; " you can remain here alone if you like." 
 
 "I was not aware that I had the credit of an unsociable disposi- 
 tion, and a fondness for a deserted house. But of course it shall 
 be as you wish; oh, certainly, I'll remain here, and associate with 
 the rats;" and she tossed her head, as her voice was checked by a 
 lump in her throat. 
 
 " You misunderstand, my dear/' said her aunt. " "VVe wish you 
 to do only what will be most agreeable to yourself. Come to town 
 with us by all means." 
 
 " I'm sure I'd do anything to please your ladyship. If I must go, 
 I will strive to do it with a good grace," and a second lump dis- 
 placed the first one in her throat. 
 
 An expression of despair passed over Lady Amtenhurst's face. 
 The Earl put down his knife and fork, and very quietly said to 
 his niece: " Edith, will you be kind enough to tell me in plain terms 
 what it is you wish to do, and we will arrange our plans accord- 
 ingly. "Will that convince you of the strength of our regard ? " 
 
 " Thank you, uncle, but I have no ambition to be made the bear 
 in the cellar. I know my place, and my duty now is to obey; not 
 to propose what may prove disagreeable to others," and a third lump 
 struggled fiercely for place, as she cast a glance of injured innocence 
 at her cousin. 
 
 Florence had taken up iheAvington News as the discussion began, 
 and now as her father's color rose, hers rose too, but not from the 
 same cause. 
 
 " Oh, papa! " she exclaimed, almost piteously : " they have me in 
 the paper!" It was a fortunate turn to the conversation, for the 
 question was immediately asked what she meant, and with many 
 blushes she read aloud that piece, copied into the Morning Post the 
 next day, which so startled Sir Griffith, although unintelligble to his 
 wife and to me. 
 
 What a laugh they had! Not so much at the article as at Flor- 
 ence's consternation on finding herself famous. Even Edith joined 
 in, though her laugh had not the ring of true merriment. 
 
 " They took enough time to discover your perfections," she said 
 
192 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 rather spitefully, " or else they failed until now in forming a eulogy 
 worthy of the subject. Were it about me, I know I would never 
 have courage to show my face again in public. Poor child, what 
 an object of ridicule you will be! " 
 
 "Do you really think so, Edith? 1 ' asked Florence, in dismay. 
 
 " Never mind, Florence," said her father, rising, " you will have 
 the benefit of your cousin's experience in the art of enduring ridi- 
 cule; and you will find her a very competent teacher for the knack 
 of sharpening your weapons of defense." 
 
 " Good, gracious me " began Miss Courtenay, in indignation. 
 
 "Your pardon, Edith," interrupted the Earl; "but really I do 
 not like to hear terms misapplied. You seem far from good this 
 morning, and anything but gracious," and he calmly lighted a 
 cigar. 
 
 As Edith appeared to be upon the verge of taking refuge in tears, 
 Florence, goodnaturedly, tried to change the topic by asking: 
 
 " "Well, papa, dear, which of us then go up to town ?" 
 
 e ' Your mother, you, and I. Edith must decide for herself. We 
 will start to-morrow morning." 
 
 He left the room puffing at his cigar, apparently unruffled, al- 
 though he often confessed that these brushes with his niece were 
 most trying to the temper. The only visible effect that they ever 
 had upon him was to loose his sarcastic powers upon the world for 
 an hour or two afterwards. Lady Amtenhurst followed him, saying: 
 
 " Get your hats, girls, and come." 
 
 In a few moments the three passed out on to the terrace, Edith 
 stalking ahead majestically. A pretty little grey-hound came run- 
 ning to meet and fawn upon them. Edith gave it an angry poke 
 with her parasol. 
 
 "Nasty little brute!" she cried. 
 
 Florence, out of compassion for the whining dog, began to play 
 with it. They chased each other up and down the broad terrace, 
 the animal spirits of both raised to the highest pitch. The graceful 
 little creature capered and barked. The hardly less graceful girl 
 clapped her hands, and laughing, ran nimbly over the gravel. 
 They reached the edge of the terrace, where stone steps led to the 
 lawn beneath. She turned to go down them, tempted by the green 
 grass below; the dog leaped against her, she stumbled, fell forward, 
 and caught at a stone urn; but missing her grasp, came down upon 
 her bent ankle. Lady Amtenhurst ran to her daughter's assistance, 
 for she sat unable to rise, her lips quivering with pain. 
 
 " I cannot stand, mamma. Please call papa." Her father came 
 and carried her into the house, and it was many days before she 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 193 
 
 could rise without his aid from the couch where he placed her. He 
 would have delayed his trip to town, and the proposed explanation 
 with the Egertons, on account of her accident, but she begged him 
 to go alone. 
 
 "Go to-morrow as you intended, please papa," she said, "but 
 come back to me soon. You won't stay more than a day, will you? 
 
 " No, darling; I will return as soon as possible; it may be, to- 
 morrow evening. " 
 
 He wrote at once to Sir Griffith saying that he would like to see 
 him on a matter of interest and importance ; and that, as he 
 would be but a few hours in town, and as the chances of finding 
 him at home were slight, he took the liberty of asking him to meet 
 him at his solicitor Parkin's office, in Lincoln's Inn Field, at any 
 hour from eleven till two on the following day. The next morning 
 he went up alone to London, and Sir Griffith receiving his letter at 
 the breakfast- table, they met in Parkin's office at eleven o'clock. 
 
 With no doubt as to what was to be the subject of the conference, 
 Sir Griffith went to the rendezvous. Long was the talk of the two 
 men about the girl who was almost equally a daughter to both of them; 
 and they parted mutually pleased with each other, and regretting 
 that the Earl's promise to Florence forbade his remaining to dine 
 with the Baronet in Park Lane. 
 
 " I wish you could stay and tell the women-folk," said Sir Griffith, 
 "I can't. They would deluge me with unanswerable questions, so 
 that I should lose all patience before my story was half finished. I 
 know what I'll do!" slapping his knee. " I'll go directly to Strutt, 
 and tell him, which will be easy enough, and he can retail it all at 
 home. It was only yesterday I gave him permission to tell that 
 double-distilled essence of curiosity, Miss Lifford, to whom Lucy 
 really belonged, and he need but add a word or two more. The 
 furies protect me when it is discovered that I have kept a secret 
 from my wife and cousin all this time ! I must take a run into the 
 country till their anger cools." 
 
 " Run in my direction, Egerton. The ladies will be only too de- 
 lighted to see you." 
 
 " Without my wife and Julia? That would be fanning a blaze 
 with a vengeance, and destroying all chance of my ever again being 
 taken into favor. Wait a few days, and we will come down en 
 famille. Eh, my lord?" 
 
 "By all means, my dear fellow. You could not do anything 
 that would give us all more pleasure. I only beg of you not to 
 defer your visit too long." 
 13 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 "Very well; we'll come," Sir Griffith said. "Tell Lucy- 
 Florence, I mean that I have forgiven the offense, and am prepared 
 
 to hug the offender." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining 
 Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; 
 A dreary sea now flows between. 
 
 " Christobel." 
 
 'HE sun had gone down behind the tree -tops where they 
 stretched far away to the west, and was sinking to rest in 
 the distant sea; but his beams which had but a moment be- 
 fore lighted up the tall, red brick chimneys, and glistened 
 on the upper window panes of Avington Court, glancing and gleam- 
 ing upon turret and gable, and throwing long, straggling shadows 
 athwart the walls, still lingered in a flame of blazing colors in the 
 sky above lingered, and then faded slowly and reluctantly into the 
 sombre gray of neutral-tinted twilight. The cawing rooks were 
 whirling through their last aeriel quadrille before taking up their 
 quarters for the night among the beech-tops; the flowers were fold- 
 ing their delicate leaves about them, unconscious of the coming 
 dewdrops 
 
 *' Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun," 
 
 which were soon to fall gently and tenderly upon the darkening 
 earth. The occasional hoarse note of a bull-frog sounded from the 
 grass, night birds began to wake and plume their feathers, the air 
 grew still and soft, saddened by the death of day, and the stars one 
 by one peeped forth dimly in the deepening blue above. 
 
 At an open window of her own room, her eyes not wandering 
 over the landscape, but with a steady gaze fixed upon one particular 
 opening in the trees where the view stretched far, far away, sat 
 Florence. There was a strange longing and unrest within, for all 
 her outward quiet. Her ankle was painful, and she was feverish 
 and unreasoningly desirous of something anything she knew not 
 what; but with a vague, though abiding sense of certainty that the 
 evening would bring it to her. All the afternoon she had sat and 
 watched that opening in the trees, and now, as the hour approached 
 when the London train was due at Avington station, she looked out 
 into the gathering gloom, and strained her eyes more and more to 
 catch the first glimpse of smoke that would tell of the coming of 
 the toiling iron monster. 
 
BEHIND THE AERAS. 195 
 
 " The train must be late, mamma/' she said, without turning her 
 head. " What time is it now? " 
 
 Lady Amtenhurst, who sat reading by her side, glanced for the 
 half dozenth time, at least, in fifteen minutes at the ormolu clock 
 on the chimney-piece. 
 
 " It still wants five minutes, my dear, of the time. But I really 
 doubt, Florence, if your father will return to-night." 
 
 "Yes, he will, mamma. I know he will," Florence answered with 
 the simple assurance of a child. " Hark!" 
 
 Her face brightened as she bent forward, an4 a faint distant 
 whistle echoed through the still air : then a quickly-passing dark 
 line crossed the opening, with a wreath of white smoke floating up- 
 ward, and the long-looked-for train had reached the little station 
 down there behind the trees. In silence Florence and her mother 
 waited while the ticking of the clock on the chimney piece told of 
 the tediously passing minutes. Five ten fifteen minutes: what 
 an age! and then upon the gravel the faint sound of coming wheels, 
 came to them through the window, and Florence held her handker- 
 chief ready for waving. Then, in a turn of the drive out from be- 
 hind a row of beeches, appeared the carriage, and Florence's hand- 
 kerchief fluttered from the casement. In a moment an answering 
 flutter came from the carriage window; another moment and a sec- 
 ond flag of truce was seen waving beside the first. 
 
 "Papa has brought some one with him!" she cried, and her face 
 flushed and her heart beat as she thought, "who is it?" Then as 
 the carriage whirled up the drive, and passed round the house 
 and out of sight, she sank quietly back. Lady Amtenhurst had gone 
 to meet the new comers. 
 
 Presently there were footsteps in the corridor without and Lord 
 Amtenhurst came hurrying into the room. 
 
 "And how is my Florence, now?" he asked, bending over her 
 and kissing her tenderly. 
 
 "Immensely anxious to hear the news, papa, dear. "Who did you 
 see ? Were they glad or sorry ? What did they say ? Were they 
 not awfully angry with me? and oh, I forgot! who was that you 
 brought with you Sir Grimth ? " 
 
 " Question upon question, after the manner of your sex. And 
 pray, how do you happen to know that I brought any one down 
 with me?" 
 
 " I saw two handkerchiefs." 
 
 " Ergo et cetera, et cetera. And your logical brain refused to ac- 
 knowledge the possibility that one man might carry two handker- 
 chiefs?" 
 
196 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 "He wouldn't wave them both together, if he did, I'm sure 
 would he ? " 
 
 " Hardly, my dear; you're right," her father answered, laugh- 
 ingly; "that is, your deductions are. "Well, little one, I shan't 
 keep you in suspense any longer. I saw only Sir Griffith in town. 
 He asked me to dine with him; but I thought of you waiting here 
 for my return, and I declined. My news, however, was no news to 
 him, for he had seen the whole thing in the Morning Post, and 
 though he tried to make his congratulations warm, I could see that, 
 poor old fellow, he felt your loss very keenly." 
 
 "And how are Miss Lifford and Lady Egerton?" 
 
 "Both quite well, I imagine. I did not see them; but Sir Grif- 
 fith promised me to bring them both down here very soon, for a long 
 visit; so you must make haste and mend this troublesome ankle. 
 But there was another old friend of yours whom I met. He came 
 up to me in the street with a face all aglow with wonder and ex- 
 citement, and poured forth a torrent of questions equal to yours. 
 He, too, had been reading the Morning Post at his Club, and as a 
 matter of course, had chanced upon that oft-recurring article on my 
 and your mother's happiness, and your virtues." 
 
 "He, papa; who?" Florence asked in a low voice. "Who?" 
 
 "Why Ingolsby, of course, who else?" 
 
 " Alva Ingolsby ?" The tone of her voice as the name left Flor- 
 ence's lips, was, to the ear of her father, one of utter indifference; 
 yet a sudden pallor, unseen by him in the gathering darkness, over- 
 spread her face, and though its expression was one of surprise 
 and contempt, there was yet a strangely mingled look of pleasure in 
 her eyes. 
 
 " Alva Ingolsby ?" she repeated, dreamily. 
 
 " Yes; Alva Ingolsby. And a charming young fellow he is, too. 
 I positively never saw a man so anxious as he was to hear of one 
 not related to him, nor about to be. Well, my dear, I must run off 
 now and dress for dinner. One musn't be late in one's own house, 
 you know. 
 
 " Oh, but you haven't told me yet who it is you brought with 
 you!" 
 
 " So I haven't. Well, child, it is But why not come down and 
 see for yourself ?" 
 
 "I'm almost afraid to venture. The poor ankle is very weak yet, 
 and I do so hate to go hobbling about with a stick. Oh, I'll tell 
 you what, papa," and a happy thought seemed to strike her; "if 
 you could only manage to carry me down stairs, I think I might 
 venture. Do you really think you are strong enough, papa? I'm 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 197 
 
 an awfully heavy girl, small as I look, I can tell you; do you really 
 think you could manage it?" and she looked up hopefully. 
 
 "Without the slightest difficulty, I'm sure, my child. Very 
 well, then," looking at his watch; "I'll give Putnam just twenty 
 minutes to get you ready, and then I'll come back for you. There 
 I have rung for her. And you might tell her to put on some of your 
 most becoming ribbons, child. Twenty minutes, remember, not a 
 second longer," and the Earl was gone. 
 
 Florence had enough of the feminine desire to please, not to re- 
 quire any hint as to the toilette she should select; and, thanks to 
 the agile fingers of Putnam, the last pin was inserted, and the last 
 lace tied, when Lord Amtenhurst came back. 
 
 It was, indeed, a most enchanting vision of blue and white love- 
 liness that his strong arms bore in them down the broad staircase, 
 and into the drawing-room below. 
 
 How her heart beat as they approached the door! and how it 
 sank when she saw only her mother in the room. But she was 
 scarcely settled on a sofa, and the cushions arranged by loving 
 hands, in the most luxurious manner possible, when some one else 
 entered the room. Yes, she was right! It was as she had thought, 
 nay, hoped, from the first moment that she had seen the second 
 handkerchief waving on the evening air, but had not dared ex- 
 press to her father it was Alva Ingolsby; and looking just as she 
 had seen him so many, many times in the old days, save that there 
 was an unusual flush upon his face. 
 
 As he approached, her eyelids fell, and she put forth her hand 
 without looking up. He took it, murmuring some almost indistinct 
 words about "pleasure," and " congratulations," and "being 
 deeply grieved at her accident/' and a more constrained greeting on 
 both sides it would be difficult to imagine. Both greatly embar- 
 rassed and striving to command their feelings, each felt the cold- 
 ness of the other's manner, and neither doubted but that they alone 
 were assuming indifference; and each, nettled by the other's cold- 
 ness, lost in consequence something of their embarrassment, if not 
 of their frigidity. 
 
 Florence's womanly pride came to the rescue. In her eyes In- 
 golsby's manner expressed a fear that she felt more for him than he 
 could return; for ever-present in her mind was the vision of that 
 scene in Home under the shop-awning, its shadow falling upon all 
 things. She would not play the part of the forsaken damsel, but 
 would prove to him beyond the peradventure of a doubt, that his 
 egotistical fears were groundless, his compassionate solicitude with- 
 out cause. No one should ever guess the truth until she had con- 
 
198 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 quered this wild fancy; and, looking up, she caught her mother's 
 eye, and felt with keen pleasure that she and no other could under- 
 stand her feelings, and sympathize with them, and aid her in her task. 
 
 "Papa did not tell me you were here, Mr. Ingolsby. This is an 
 unexpected pleasure," she said, with the cold civility of a hostess to 
 a stranger-guest. 
 
 " Did I not see you, or rather your signal, at the window as we 
 drove up ? It was you, was it not ?" 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it must have been, if you refer to seeing a hand- 
 kerchief waved. No one else would be so silly but then, you see, 
 I have a way of doing foolish things." She stopped short, fearing 
 he might take some meaning from the remark she had no intention 
 of conveying when the words were uttered, and added quickly: " I 
 did not see you, though. Were you with papa ? Oh, was it Mr. 
 Ingolsby you brought with you, papa ? " turning to her father, with 
 just a shade of disappointment in her voice a tone Ingolsby did 
 not fail to detect. " You wouldn't tell me who it was, you remem- 
 ber you naughty papa." 
 
 "I thought the pleasure of meeting as old a friend as Mr. Ingolsby 
 would be so greatly enhanced by the surprise of seeing him, that I 
 hadn't the heart to forewarn you, my dear," replied the Earl, play- 
 fully. 
 
 There was an awkward pause as Florence hid a very red and an- 
 noyed face behind her fan, and Ingolsby bit his mustache in silence. 
 
 "You are very old friends, are you not?" continued Lord Am ten- 
 hurst, looking from one to the other. ' ' Sir Griffith told me you 
 were." 
 
 " I have known your daughter, Lord Amtenhurst, since she was 
 scarcely more than a child," Ingolsby answered quietly, with a 
 reproachful glance at Florence. 
 
 " Ah, so I thought. So I understood from Sir Griffith," returned 
 the Earl, whatever momentary doubts he may have had, at rest. 
 
 "And as one scarcely more than a child, papa, your daughter 
 has, I assure you, been the recipient of much sage advice from Mr. 
 Ingolsby," said Florence. " Do you remember, Mr. Ingolsby, that 
 day when our acquaintance was hardly more than begun, that you 
 so generously told me of all my faults and imperfections?" she 
 asked, for the moment wishing to pain him, but the next instant 
 regretting the words, for her heart was full of gratitude. 
 
 Ingolsby's face reddened painfully as he answered with an em- 
 barrassed little laugh : " I fear that you have on more than one oc- 
 casion thought my presumption great, Lady Florence; but, I assure 
 you, repentance has always followed after always;" and as he re- 
 peated the word with peculiar emphasis, their eyes met for a moment. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 199 
 
 Florence thought she understood him, and with rising anger 
 replied quickly, laughing as she spoke: " I'm afraid it would be im- 
 possible for me to ease your conscience, Mr. Ingolsby, without 
 wounding your pride; therefore I will leave you to repent at leisure." 
 
 "How late Edith is," interposed Lady Amtenhurst, anxious to 
 stop this by-play which was very clear to her. ' ' I think you know 
 my niece, Mr. Ingolsby ? " 
 
 " I had the pleasure of meeting her at the Ogilvies' place in Dev- 
 onshire, last year; but I scarcely think she can remember me/' 
 said Ingolsby. 
 
 " On the contrary, she speaks of you quite often. The Ogilvies' 
 is one of the very few places I allow her to visit without me." 
 
 " Speaking of the Ogilvies, reminds me that I met Sir Philip at 
 Parkins' to-day," said the Earl, " and he told me they thought of 
 spending the summer in Switzerland. By-the-bye, Ingolsby, what 
 an immense favorite you are with my crusty old lawyer Parkins. 
 He was saying all kinds of nice things about you." 
 
 " He is very kind, I'm sure," said IngoJsby. "I brought him a 
 letter of introduction from a brother lawyer of his in America when 
 I came over, and he has been of great service to me in some legal 
 matters I had to look into, and we have seen a great deal of each 
 other. He has been, I must say, far from crusty with me, your 
 lordship." 
 
 " You are not a client of his," said the Earl, drily. 
 
 " You are an American, Mr. Ingolsby, are you not?" asked Lady 
 Amtenhurst. 
 
 " I have lived in America many years, your ladyship, but I am 
 an Englishman by birth. I am afraid, though, that I must confess 
 to an equally divided allegiance," Ingolsby replied, laughing. 
 
 " Are not the Americans a very odd sort of people half civilized, 
 with queer manners and customs ?" asked Florence, with the most 
 provoking innocence. 
 
 "According to Dickens, I am sorry to say, yes; in reality, no," 
 answered Ingolsby, warmly. " He has drawn individuals who, 
 though their prototypes might in rare instances have been met with 
 by him in his travels, are not by any means representative Amer- 
 icans. That there are a multitude of quaint characters to be found 
 across the ocean, peculiarly American I can think of no better way 
 to express it it would be absurd for me to deny; no people on earth, 
 perhaps, afford a more extensive field to the honest humorist; but I 
 do contend that not from the pages of Dickens should the world 
 gather its ideas of them. As a people, they combine the traits of 
 every nationality, and, with the strong good sense of an Englishman 
 
200 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 possess an off-hand generosity that is not ours. They are luxurious 
 in their homes, though everything has a newness about it that 
 would be distasteful to you, Lady Florence; their refinement is equal 
 to ours; in many respects, their education far superior; their business 
 talent is immense, and fortunes are sometimes made and lost twice 
 and thrice in a lifetime. They are truly a wonderful people, even 
 for the age in which we live." 
 
 "A Daniel come to judgment!" cried Florence. " "Were I quali- 
 fied to judge I should feel tempted to confess your ' exposition hath 
 been most sound.' As it is, I can only say, 'American Notes ' I 
 have always thought one of Dickens's most amusing books. The 
 people he writes about all seem natural enough to me." 
 
 "Seem yes; and the book is amusing, I'll grant you. That's 
 just where it is. I have laughed again and again over the book my- 
 self, but precisely as I have laughed at the lisping absurdities of 
 * Lord Dundreary,' who seems to most untraveled Americans I've 
 met, a very fair to-the-life picture of an Englishman his one fault 
 in their eyes, perhaps, being that he doesn't drop his h's yet I 
 question if there is a man on earth, not even excepting Sothern 
 himself, who ever came across such a creature in England." 
 
 " I spent a few weeks in New York several years ago," observed 
 Lord Amtenhurst, " and as a bountiful recipient of American hos- 
 pitality, I can bear witness to that one phase, at least, of what you 
 so aptly term their off-hand generosity, Ingolsby. I went there well 
 accredited, of course; but I found that the most potent credential I 
 bore, and one that I believe insured me the most genuine kindness 
 at their hands, was the simple fact that I was a stranger; a recom- 
 mendation which I am ashamed to say would do very little for a man 
 in England had he no other to offer. Whatever angels are enter- 
 tained unawares in the world, receive not, I am afraid, their enter- 
 tainment from Englishmen." 
 
 "How severe you are on your countrymen, papa," said Florence, 
 with a surprised look at her conservative father, for expressing such 
 liberal views. "I thought English hospitality was proverbial the 
 world over." 
 
 "Proverbial, my child? Yes, so it is; but proverbial for the 
 rules and regulations which tie it up and hamper it. My stay in 
 America showed me that. Do you know, Ingolsby, that I never 
 hear the phrase, ' English hospitality,' that I do not think of the 
 man who refused to save the young woman from drowning because 
 he had not been introduced to her!" 
 
 Ere the laugh that followed the Earl's remarks had subsided, 
 Miss Courtenay, arrayed en grande tenue, with a great rustling of 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 201 
 
 silk and ribbons, and redolent of much perfume of patchouly, came 
 sweeping into the room. She welcomed Ingolsby with empressement, 
 and then stooped to imprint a kiss on Florence's brow. 
 
 " Are you coming in to dinner with us, Florence, dear? Indeed, 
 I would not advise you to do so until your poor, dear ankle is quite 
 strong again. Would you, Mr. Ingolsby? Don't you wonder how 
 she could have been so awkward as to sprain it in the way she did ? 
 Now, if it had been me, who could feel astonished?" and she 
 paused, in vain, for a compliment on her grace, as dinner was an- 
 nounced. 
 
 " Will you come in with us, Florence, dear, or have your dinner 
 brought to you here ? " asked Lady Amtenhurst. 
 
 Florence hesitated. 
 
 " Pray don't think me selfish, Lady Florence, but sooner than 
 that we should be deprived of your society, might not the ' poor, 
 dear ankle' be induced, with a trifle of assistance, to bear you that 
 far ? " suggested Ingolsby. 
 
 Florence decided then. " Thanks. I will remain here, mamma, 
 please." 
 
 Ingolsby in silence offered his arm to Lady Amtenhurst; Miss 
 Courtenay took her uncle's, and so they left the room, Florence 
 assuring them her solitude was by no means a punishment. 
 
 It is doubtful which enjoyed their dinner less: Ingolsby under 
 fire of Edith Courtenay's charming little speeches, and airs, and 
 graces; or Florence between the cross-fires in her own mind, of 
 pleasure at Ingolsby's proving to be less despicable than she had 
 feared, and pain at the thought of having to give him up to another. 
 And then the evening was no improvement on the quarter-hour be- 
 fore dinner, Florence continuing her covert attacks, and Ingolsby 
 parrying them as gracefully as his solely-tried patience and his be- 
 wilderment at her strangely-altered manner would permit. At last 
 a random shaft fairly drove him from her side. Speaking about 
 some public man, one of the heroes of the hour, Lord Amtenhurst 
 remarked. " He is one of those men who have a secret ill their lives, 
 and yet the people place great confidence in him." 
 
 "And after the manner of such persons, he will turn out utterly 
 .unworthy of it," she said, looking at Ingolsby as she spoke, and 
 wondering if he had, as she had often fancied, a secret in his life. 
 
 A glance of reproachful surprise flashed from Ingolsby's eyes as 
 he turned toward Miss Courtenay. 
 
 " Will you not give us some music, Miss Courtenay?" he asked. 
 "A song, please." 
 
 " With the greatest pleasure. I make it a rule not to be one of 
 
202 BEHIND THE AREAS. 
 
 those dreadfully tiresome people who require so much urging that 
 one grows weary of asking," and Miss Courtenay seated herself at 
 the piano. " What style do you like; gay or sad?" 
 
 " Sing me ' Looking Back,' " Ingolsby replied, as he searched for 
 it in a book of ballads that lay on top of the piano. " Here it is." 
 
 " Never mind turning over the leaves for me. It makes me nerv- 
 ous to have any one standing beside me when I sing. Besides, I 
 don't need the music really. I always make it a rule to know all 
 the accompaniments of my songs without. If there's one thing I 
 hate it's to hear a person refuse to play ' because they haven't their 
 notes.' " 
 
 So Ingolsby went over and leaned his arm upon the chimney-piece 
 just across the corner of the room from where Florence's sofa stood, 
 and with his back to her, looked down upon the rug at his feet. 
 
 Edith Courtenay's voice was a good one a mezzo-soprano, sweet, 
 and well trained; and as she sang the words of that pathetic song 
 of Arthur Sullivan's, Florence studied the profile reflected in the 
 mirror above the chimney-piece. As she watched the well-known, 
 handsome features, the face saddened more than she had ever seen 
 it, her own softened unconsciously; and her heart spoke through her 
 eyes when Edith reached the words : 
 
 "Oh! my love, I loved her so, 
 My love that loved me years ago. " 
 
 As the words rang out in all the beauty of the most affecting 
 strains of the melody, Ingolsby looked up and their eyes met 
 through the medium of the mirror. His lighted instantly, and with 
 a smile he turned toward her; hers quickly fell and she caught 
 nervously at her fan. Had he come to her side she could not then 
 have feigned; but when she glanced up again, he was leaning over 
 the piano, and her heart beat in anger at him and at her own weak- 
 ness. The song ended, she whispered to her father: 
 
 " I am very tired, papa; please take me up stairs." 
 
 And so the evening ended with a cold "good-night" from her 
 compressed lips. 
 
 The next morning Ingolsby left without seeing her, and came 
 directly to me, in ignorance of the fact that I knew less than him- 
 self. And then came our quarrel, interrupted by Mr. Strutt who 
 brought with him a budget of news. 
 
 And now, kind reader, can not you guess from what sources I 
 have gathered the strands with which I have woven this little his- 
 tory of Florence's I should rather say, perhaps, more fittingly 
 Lucy's adventures, after her disappearance on the night of the fatal 
 masquerade ? 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 203 
 
 Apart from Florence's own diary, think of all those from whom 
 information was derivable, and who were not only able but willing 
 to impart it freely. Sir Griffith, Ingolsby, Lord and Lady Amten- 
 hurst, Miss Courtenay, and last, though not least, Jolliffe Tufnell; 
 and yet, determined to rely as little as possible upon my imagina- 
 tion, the work of selecting and dovetailing, and filling in the bare 
 outline furnished me by Mr. Strutt's narrative has been no easy 
 task; but, as Sir Griffith would say, 
 
 "What I have writ, I have writ, 
 And would it were worthier." 
 
204: BEHIND THE AERAS. 
 
 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 That drama of passions as old as the hills, 
 
 Which the moral of all men in each man fulfills, 
 Is only revealed now and then to our eyes 
 In the newspaper files and the courts of assize. 
 
 "Lucile." 
 
 ) RATION Hall is thrown open once more, and a goodly 
 party of us is assembled at the old place. The Amtenhursts 
 have come down with Florence, who, to me, scarcely yet 
 seems as one of them, and my particular and pet aversion 
 Edith Courtenay. Ingolsby is here, happy and mysterious in his 
 manner, and utterly oblivious to Florence's pointed avoidance. 
 Jolliffe Tufnell has deserted his own ancestral halls for ours, and 
 Mr. Jedediah Strutt, as pugnacious as ever, has left his dingy office 
 and manifold clients to the tender and watchful care of his wizened 
 clerk, and joined our party for a day or two. "With Sir Griffith, 
 Lady Egerton and myself, our circle is complete. For what pur- 
 pose are we gathered together? In pursuit of pleasure? Ah, no. 
 After many years slumbering sorrow is to be awakened, old wounds 
 are to be probed, deadened pain is to be aroused once more, that 
 justice may be done. Even the knowledge that poor, lost Guy 
 Egerton's name is at last to be cleared of the horrible suspicion 
 resting upon it, cannot lessen the pain of remembrance or overcome 
 my pity for the man whom retributive justice has overtaken. 
 
 Martin Silliman, he who was once supposed to be our Lucy's 
 father, was arrested in California some months ago under a requisi- 
 tion from Her Majesty's government, based upon evidence ac- 
 cumulated through the untiring efforts of Jolliffe Tufnell, brought 
 over to England in charge of two special emissaries from Scotland- 
 yard, and to-day, here at the Bratton assizes, is to be tried for the 
 murder of Louis Dunraven, committed eighteen years ago. 
 
 Our entire party, save Edith Courtenay, whose nerves are too 
 delicate to undergo the excitement of a murder trial, is assembled 
 in the Assize Court at the Bratton town-hall. The place is crowded 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 205 
 
 by all classes of people. The spectator's gallery, where we sit, is 
 crammed, the aisles and passage-ways choked, the barristers' pale 
 invaded. Men line the walls, stand on the backs of forms, on the 
 window-sills, and in the doorways human heads pop up in the 
 most impossible and unexpected spots, and the constables, under- 
 sheriffs, ushers, and crier are taxed to their uttermost to preserve 
 order and silence; for to-day a buried mystery of the past is to be 
 unraveled, the true sequel to the story that has slumbered almost 
 forgotten in the minds of the old, and been held as a sort of dim 
 tradition by the young, is to be made manifest; and high and low, 
 young and old, look on and listen with eager curiosity as the trial 
 proceeds. 
 
 Mr. Justice Gush, of the Queen's Bench (who this year goes the 
 Midland Circuit), has taken his seat upon the bench, the jury has 
 been impanneled, and the indictment read to the prisoner a tall, 
 pale man, with a face deeply marked with the lines of riot and dis- 
 sipation, and dark hair and beard thickly sprinkled with gray; and 
 who stands up in the dock with the same look of stolid indifference 
 upon his countenance that it wore when he pleaded "not guilty" 
 upon his arraignment. 
 
 Sergeant Headstrong, with Mr. Dawkins, Q.C., appears for the 
 Crown; Mr. Toddy, Q. C., for the prisoner. 
 
 Mr. Dawkins opens the case for the Crown, briefly stating the 
 facts which the prosecution expects to prove against the prisoner, 
 the evidence being all circumstantial in its character, and then the 
 examination of witnesses is commenced. 
 
 After some preliminary proof as to the finding of the body, the 
 date, and the cause of death, the latter being internal hemorrhage 
 from a gunshot wound, Michael Jennings, an old man, is called and 
 steps into the witness-box with much difficulty, and is sworn. He 
 is examined by Mr. Dawkins : 
 
 " What is your occupation, my good man?" 
 
 " Gamekeeper at Bratton Hall, sir." 
 
 " How long have you been in that situation?" 
 
 "Twenty-one year, three months, and (counting on his fingers) 
 nine days." 
 
 "That's near enough. Did you know the deceased, Louis Dun- 
 raven, in his lifetime?" 
 
 " I did, sir; an' a better piece o' manhood never trod the earth." 
 
 " Just answer my questions no more." 
 
 tt y erv good, sir; but 
 
 " That will do. When did you see him alive for the last time ? " 
 
 " On the mornin' o' the murder, sir. An' oh, but he was gay 
 and happy, as was young master Guy for the matter o' that." 
 
206 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 " Go on and state all that occurred on that occasion, but recollect 
 nothing irrelevant." 
 
 " Irreverent, is it, sir? An' do you think I could be that a no, 
 no, you don't know your man, sir." 
 
 "Irrelevant is not irreverent, my friend. I mean: say nothing 
 that does not pertain, has no connection, with the matter in hand. 
 Go on now, and state all you know ? " 
 
 " Well, sir; I'll tell all I know, an' that isn't much, an' if I go a 
 bit too far, or irrelephant as ye call it, ye can just stop me up. I 
 remember well the last day I saw Mr. Dunraven an' young master 
 Guy. It was a beautiful clear mornin' about eleven o'clock or half 
 past, maybe. I was standin' at the door o' my cottage, when I 
 spied 'em a coming briskly across the meadows between me an' the 
 park hedge, wi' their guns under their arms, a laughin' and talkin' 
 as they walked. They walks straight over to me, an' Mr. Dunraven, 
 he says, ' Jennings, my man,' sez he, ' have you got such a thing as 
 a nipple wrench ?' * I have sir/ sez I. < Fetch it out then,' sez he, 
 'for the nipple o' my right barrel is foul/ I asked 'em to walk in- 
 side while I got the wrench, but they said as 'ow they'd got a per- 
 mit to shoot on the Tufnell place and was in a hurry. "Well, sir, I 
 gets the wrench, an' Mr. Dunraven 'andsme his gun, an' I unscrews 
 the nipple o' the right barrel, an' there sure enough was a bit of an 
 old cap a stickin' in it; so I gets a bit o' " 
 
 " Never mind about that. What sort of a gun was it ? " 
 
 " A double-barrel shot-gun, sir, by Purdy o' London." 
 
 " Was there anything else about the gun that you noticed?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. There was a little plate on the top o' the stock wi' Mr. 
 Dunraven 's name on it." 
 
 " Did you see the guns that were produced at the inquest? " 
 
 " No, sir. I was laid up wi' the lumbago." 
 
 " Would you recognize Mr. Dunraven's gun now, do you think?" 
 
 "Certain I would, sir." 
 
 A gun is handed up to the witness. Dawkins continues: 
 
 "Examine that carefully, and tell me if it is the gun Mr. Dun- 
 raven had on the occasion you speak of ?" 
 
 The witness makes a long and careful examination of the gun; 
 cocks it, draws out the ramrod, blows into the muzzle, takes the 
 barrels out of the stock, and puts them back again, puts it up to 
 his shoulder and takes a long aim with one eye shut, at a couple of 
 old ladies in the far end of the gallery, much to their evident terror, 
 lowers it, lifts the hammers and blows into the barrels again and 
 says, decisively: 
 ' " No, sir. That be not the gun." 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 207 
 
 " What maker's name has it?" 
 
 " 'Greaner, Liverpool/ sir." 
 
 The gun is handed back, and another is shown to the witness. 
 
 Mr. Daivkins. " How about that one?" 
 
 Jennings takes the gun, gives a quick glance at the top of the 
 stock, raises the hammer of the right barrel, looks a moment with a 
 gratified smile at the nipple, and exclaims: 
 
 " That be it sir, sure enough! and there be the name on the plate: 
 'Louis Dunraven, July 3, 18 .' " 
 
 " Can you identify it in any other way ?" 
 
 "I can, sir," knowingly. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " By this crack in the nipple. I was afeered I had done it, I re- 
 member, wi' the wrench, an' spoke to Mr. Dunraven about it. But 
 he said as 'ow it was there before, an' no harm done. I took par- 
 ticular notice of it then. It's a peculiar sort o' crack, sir, shaped 
 like a S, as ye can see for yourself. There's be no mistake about 
 the gun, sir maker's name be the same, too." 
 
 The old man is now cross-examined by Mr. Toddy for the pris- 
 oner. His memory is tested, and his patience worried; but he re- 
 mains firm in his statements, nothing new is discovered, there are 
 no contradictions, and he leaves the box with a well-satisfied air. 
 
 The next witness is John Crawsly, an honest, intelligent-looking 
 young man. 
 
 " Did you ever see the deceased during his lifetime?" asks Mr. 
 Dawkins, after a few preliminary questions. 
 
 " Not that I remember, sir. I was very young at the time the 
 murder was committed; but I saw him after he was dead. I remem- 
 ber that, because he was the first dead man I ever saw, and my 
 father took me up to Bratton Hall where the body lay." 
 
 " How old were you at the time ?" 
 
 "Nine, sir." 
 
 " Did you testify at the inquest ?" 
 
 " I did not, sir." 
 
 The gun identified by Michael Jennings as the one in the posses- 
 sion of Louis Dunraven on the morning of the murder, is here 
 shown to the witness. 
 
 Mr. Dawkins. " Did you ever see that gun before ?" 
 
 Witness. " Yes, sir. 
 
 " Was it ever in your possession ?'' 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 1 'How came it there?" 
 
 The witness hesitates, turns very red, then pale, looks up at the 
 ceiling, down at the floor, and fidgets with his hat. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 " Come, answer my questions," says Mr. Dawkins, impatiently. 
 
 I i s-st-stole it," stammers the young man, turning red 
 again, and looking very much frightened. 
 
 " But please, sir, I was a very little chap then, and I didn't know, 
 sir" 
 
 "Never mind about that, now," Dawkins interrupts unfeelingly, 
 "but tell us how and where you got it." 
 
 " I found it in an old barn belonging to Mr. Silliman, the pris- 
 oner, sir; leastways, it was a barn on the place he rented the old 
 Delamayn place. My father rented a farm near by, from Squire 
 Delamayn, and I used, when I was a slip of a boy, to be up at the 
 house, where Mr. Silliman, the prisoner, sir, lived, and I was a 
 great favorite with the servants. About two weeks after the mur- 
 der I was up at the house, and the cook, she kept me to dinner; 
 but afterwards I played some prank or other gave a bit o'meat 
 with mustard on it to the cat, or summat o' that sort that she didn't 
 like, for I was full of tricks, like all young boys, sir and she 
 turned me out, and told me to go home. The servants had all been 
 talking about the murder, and I was that frightened that I didn't 
 dare to go home alone, as I'd have to pass by where the body was 
 found; so I crawled off to the stables, thinking to sleep among the 
 horses, but they were locked, and I couldn't get in. There was an 
 old barn, though, just back o' the stables a bit, and I crept in 
 through a little window, and curled myself up on a bundle o' straw, 
 tremblin' with fear all the time of ghosts and goblins. But I soon 
 fell asleep, and I must have slept a long time, for when I woke up, 
 all of a sudden like, with a shiver, the moon was well up in the sky, 
 and it hadn't risen when I lay down, for I remember groping my 
 way in the dark to the barn, and now it was almost light as day." 
 
 " Cut your story short, young man, and come to the point," says 
 the judge, sharply, looking up from his notes with a scowl. 
 
 " I will, sir. I was waked by the sound of voices. I opened my 
 eyes, and there, by the open door, stood two men, or leastways a 
 man and a boy about my own size. I was awful scared, and couldn't 
 catch what they said at first, but after a bit, when my heart stopped 
 a thumpin', I heard the man say: ' You understand me, boy? Get 
 as far on the road as you can, and to-morrow I'll pick you up as I 
 pass, and take you on up to' I didn't catch the name o' the place. 
 Then the little 'un, he thanked the man for summat. All on a sud- 
 den the man, he swore a terrible oath, and snatchin' summat away 
 from the boy, he says: ' D n! what are you doing with that gun?' 
 ' I was going to throw it away on the road, somewhere,' said the 
 boy. ' Give it to me, and I'll sink it in the ditch,' said the man; 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 209 
 
 and then he came over to near where I was lying, and as he passed 
 the window the moonlight fell full on his face, and I saw it was Mr. 
 Silliman, the prisoner, sir, and he had a gun in his hand. Well, 
 sir, he walked straight past me; I could almost have touched the 
 gun-stock with my foot, and he stooped down and stuffed the gun 
 carefully away under the straw, and sayin' to himself, ' It '11 be 
 safe enough there for the present.' And then they both went away 
 together, and presently Mr. Silliman, the prisoner, sir, he came 
 back alone, and goes and stands where he'd hid the gun, and I 
 heard him say: ' Would to heaven, I'd had the nerve to kill the boy, 
 too: dead men tell no tales.' I was worse frightened than ever 
 then, thinking as maybe he saw me, and meant me. Well, he stood 
 a minute or so mutterin' to himself, and then he went out and shut 
 the door and locked it. I didn't sleep much more that night, but 
 when the daylight came, the fear left me, and I searched among the 
 straw for the gun and found it. It was a fine gun, I thought, and a 
 cryin' sin and a shame to see it sank in the ditch and ruined, and if 
 no one was to have it, it would be no loss to anybody; so sir, to be 
 honest about it, I just stole the gun and ran away home with it as 
 fast as ever I could. But it was no use to me, for I couldn't use it 
 myself, and when I saw Mr. Dunraven's name on it, I didn't dare to 
 show it, or speak of it to a soul, so I just hid it away, and tried to 
 forget all about it. But that only made me think all the more 
 about it, and that's why I got the whole thing and everything con- 
 nected with it fixed so clear in my mind. At last one day I told my 
 father about the gun, and he sent me off with it to Sir Griffith Eg- 
 erton, sir, and I told him the whole story, and he took the gun, and 
 has kept it ever since, and if you please, sir, that's all I have to say 
 about how I got the gun." 
 
 The cross-examination by the prisoner's counsel develops nothing 
 new, being mainly devoted to memory tests, and the usual effort to 
 betray into contradictions, neither of which modes of attack are suc- 
 cessful; for, as the witness has sensibly accounted for the remark- 
 able clearness of his recollection through eighteen years of the par- 
 ticular facts he has testified to, by the indelible impression made 
 on his mind by the effort to forget them, it can matter not if he can- 
 not remember the cook's surname, or whether the Bratton Railway 
 line was open at the time; and for the same reason is he able to re- 
 peat his evidence, piece by piece, without material variation. 
 
 Mr. Toddy shakes his wig well forward on to his forehead with a 
 twitch, draws his gown up by a nervous convulsion of the shoulders, 
 (a peculiar trick he has when vexed, Mr. Tufnell tells me,) and sits 
 down . 
 
 U 
 
210 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 There is a moment's pause as the young man Crawsly leaves the 
 box and makes his way back to his seat. Dawkius consults his 
 notes and looks at Headstrong, while the judge looks up as if impa- 
 tient at the delay, and the silence of expectation as to who will be 
 the next witness, and what the testimony, falls upon the entire as- 
 semblage. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Great contest follows and much learned dust. 
 
 "The Garden." 
 
 'OLLIFFE TUFNELL! Jolliffe Tufnell! Come into court! 
 Come into court ! " shouts the crier. 
 
 "By Jove, that's me!" says Tufnell, rising hurriedly 
 from his seat next me and leaving the galleiy. 
 
 A minute later he shoulders his way through the throng below, 
 and steps eagerly into the witness-box, his face glowing with ex- 
 citement. He stumbles as he enters, and barely saves himself from 
 coming down on all fours by a timely clutch at the railing. The 
 titter which flew around the room at his appearance, breaks into a well 
 denned guffaw at this exhibition of awkwardness, and the crier calls : 
 
 "Si-lence!" 
 
 Tufnell turns even redder than before, and takes out a red pocket- 
 handkerchief; and the judge, looking up fiercely over his spectacles, 
 admonishes the crowd that upon a repetition of their breach of de- 
 corum he will order the Court to be cleared. 
 
 This has a most salutary effect; an instantaneous hush falls upon 
 the assemblage, and Tufnell, apparently much soothed in nerve by 
 the restored quiet, as well as by the vigorous mopping his face has 
 undergone, thrusts his handkerchief into his coat-tail pocket, and 
 smiles good-naturedly around. He is one of those strange creatures 
 who with the very best intentions, seem by their very presence to 
 take away from the solemnity of any occasion, and he very nearly 
 provokes another titter. 1 But he is supposed to be one of the most 
 important witnesses for the prosecution, and the anxiety to hear his 
 evidence overcomes the risible propensities of the audience even more 
 than the judge's previous warning, and checks the laugh. Tufnell 
 is sworn, the usual introductory and stereotyped questions answered 
 satisfactorily, and in reply to the inevitable "Did you know the 
 deceased in his lifetime ? " he answers : 
 
 " I did. "We were friends from early boyhood. He was, in fact, 
 the dearest friend I ever had; and this trial, I may say, without 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 211 
 
 claiming too much,, is the result of my efforts to bring his murderer 
 to justice. Of the prisoner I have long had my suspi 
 
 "One moment!" exclaims Mr. Toddy, jumping to his feet. 
 " That is improper. Your suspicions are not evidence. I object, 
 my lud." 
 
 "We do not contend for a moment that they are," says Dawkins, 
 quietly. " The answer was not responsive to any question of mine. 
 Never mind your suspicions, Mr. Tufnell," he adds, as Toddy sub- 
 sides into his seat, " but state what were the circumstances, if any, 
 that aroused them?" 
 
 " He was always getting me out of scrapes/ 7 commences Tufnell, 
 rather vaguely. 
 
 " Who? The prisoner?" asks Toddy, with a grunt. 
 
 Tufnell looks at him savagely. 
 
 "No; Louis Dunraven, the man he murdered." 
 
 Toddy jumps to his feet again. 
 
 " Now, I ask your lordship if that is proper?" 
 
 "Certainly not," says his lordship, very sternly, and thereupon 
 delivers to Tufnell a lengthy lecture upon the impropriety and 
 danger of a witness usurping the province of the jury, a dissertation 
 much too learned, and far too tedious, for me to repeat here. The 
 end of it is, that Toddy sits down again and Tufnell proceeds. 
 
 "Louis Dunraven as I before stated " he says with a look 
 at Toddy, " was always getting me out of scrapes. Once he came 
 to take me away from a low gambling den, where, I'm ashamed 
 to say I was, and there in his presence I got into a row with 
 the pris " 
 
 " One moment," interrupts Toddy, again rising. " I object to all 
 this, my lud. We are here, may it please your lordship, to try a 
 man for his life, and not to listen to a confession of youthful follies, 
 which may be all very proper and praiseworthy, and commendable, 
 in its proper place." 
 
 His lordship looks as though he would like to hear from the other 
 side, and Dawkins is about to respond, when a sign from his asso- 
 ciate checks him, and for the first time in the progress of the trial, 
 Sergeant Headstrong gets upon his feet. 
 
 It has hitherto doubtless been a puzzle to many, what in the world 
 such a personage as Sergeant Headstrong was in the case for at all; 
 for apparently, so far, not a word has he uttered, not a move has he 
 made, but has sat there in his seat like a bewigged statue, and for 
 all that he has appeared to have done, he might as well have been 
 in his chambers in Lincoln's Inn. Such had been my impression, 
 until Mr. Tufnell enlightened me. 
 
212 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 (( Done nothing!" he exclaimed, in answer to -my question. " He 
 has done everything. To all appearances he lets Dawkins manage 
 the case; for Dawkins is a Q. C., and Q. C.s don't like coaching in 
 public, as a rule, even from sergeants-at-law, but it's safe to say, 
 there hasn't been a question of importance asked to-day that old 
 Headstrong hasn't either dictated or made some timely suggestion 
 about, though you or I couldn't see it with his back to us. He 
 does it all by a sort of pantomime; a wink here, a half frown there; 
 an elevation of the eyebrows, or a smoothing down of his bands 
 with the feather of his pen. Dawkins knows all his signs like a 
 book, and sees them all with the side of his eye, for before he got 
 his silk gown, he used to be junior to Headstrong in no end of cases 
 and learned all the old fellow's ways ; and now whenever they 
 happen to hold briefs on the same sicje which is often, they pull 
 together so well Dawkins, though now a Q. C., is willing, for old 
 times sake, as it were, to play junior to his old leader without ap- 
 pearing to do so. This, at least, is what my solicitors tell me, and 
 they consider us very fortunate in having secured such a team as 
 Headstrong and Dawkins on the Crown side to-day." 
 
 But I have left the worthy Sergeant upon his feet. That he is a tall, 
 broad-shouldered man, with tufts of grey hair sticking out under 
 his wig, and grizzled whiskers that stand out on either side of his 
 face like open window-shutters, is all that I can see over the inter- 
 vening heads, for his back remains as it has been, towards me. 
 
 "May it please your lordship," he begins, in a clear resonant 
 voice that echoes through the court. " My learned brother," with 
 a motion of the thumb toward Toddy, "should not forget that the 
 evidence on the part of the prosecution is, as was stated in the open- 
 ing, of necessity, circumstantial in its character. Such being the 
 case, it is a difficult matter to determine what facts are not admis- 
 sible in evidence that would in any manner even tend to point to 
 the prisoner's guilt, or in any way illumine the path of the jury in 
 their search for the truth. The facts which the witness was about 
 to testify to transpired many years ago, some time indeed before 
 the commission of the murder, and, I think, it is not improper for 
 me to say, will disclose in the recital of them, much that is proper 
 for the jury to hear, in order to enable them to arrive at a just ver- 
 dict. In the recital of these facts, there may, of course, be many 
 things spoken of and alluded to, which, of themselves, are imma- 
 terial and inadmissible, but which when viewed in connection with 
 other circumstances become important. I therefore ask that the 
 witness be allowed to go on without captious interruption, and re- 
 late in his own way all the facts and circumstances in his own 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 213 
 
 knowledge that aroused his suspicions of the prisoner's guilt, and 
 if necessary, the wheat of his evidence can be separated from the 
 chaff when your lordship sums up. The witness, I may add, is an 
 intelligent witness, and I feel confident will furnish us with more 
 of the former than the latter. In support of these views, if indeed 
 support they need, I will cite, if your lordship pleases, Starkie on 
 Evidence (pages 20-21 and 78-79), and the case of Rex v. Chuddleigh 
 (2 Russell & Ryan's Reports, page 642), a case very similar to the 
 one at bar, in which Lord Chief Justice Abbott lays down the rule 
 in a very elaborate opinion." 
 
 This is in a measure all Greek to me, and as I catch Tufnell's eye 
 as he stands in the witness-box, he grins at me. But the long and 
 the short of it is that Toddy's objection is overruled by the judge, 
 and Sergeant Headstrong seats himself with, as a young gentleman 
 behind me, evidently a cricketer, expresses it " the air of a slogger 
 who has just made a swipe to square leg for six." 
 
 Tufnell goes on where he left off. 
 
 ' ' I got into a row with the prisoner, as I was saying, at the gam- 
 bling house. We afterwards fought a duel, and I wounded him. 
 One day, when he was recovering from the w r ound, Dunraven and I 
 were " 
 
 Toddy: "One moment. Can't you fix the date? How long be- 
 fore the homicide was this ? ' ' 
 
 Tufnell: "Three months perhaps not more. Dunraven and I 
 were out walking in London one evening. "We stopped at a house 
 in Finsbury Circus and Dunraven said, ' Do you mind coming in a 
 moment, Tufnell ? I want to see Silliman, and you can wait in an- 
 other room.' I consented. We were shown into a front room, and 
 Dunraven passed into the one beyond, leaving me alone. He left 
 the door between the rooms ajar and as I felt a sort of grim curiosity 
 to see the man I had wounded, for I hadn't seen him since the duel, 
 before I knew what I was about I was looking through the aperture 
 at the prisoner lying upon his bed. He did not see me for I stood 
 far back and the light was dim. A lamp upon a table beside his 
 bed shone full in his face however, and I saw it plainly as he turned 
 his head and looked at Dunraven. He half rose in the bed and with 
 a diabolical look upon his face, swore a great oath. ' If I ever have 
 an opportunity, and be sure I will make one/ he said, ' I'll be even 
 with you yet for this, you white-livered, lying, hypocritical, psalm- 
 singing parson! But for your interference with that unlicked cub, 
 
 I would not be here now. I owe it all to you, d n you! and so 
 
 sure as there is a Heaven above us I will' be revenged/ 
 
 Dunraven very quietly answered: 'Leave Bratton at once, give up 
 
214 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 the house you have rented there, and remove from the neighborhood 
 at once and forever, and I will spare your reputation, but I cannot 
 conscientiously permit a man of your character to live among my 
 friends and impose himself upon them as a man of honor and a 
 gentleman, when I know him to be the reverse. Never return there, 
 but as soon as you are able to attend to it, give up your lease it 
 will be accepted I'll promise you and have your traps sent up to 
 you here; but never show your face there again. That is all I ask/ 
 I suddenly remembered that I had no right to listen and turned away. 
 I still heard their voices for some time, as if in argument then the 
 prisoner's grew loud and angry. Believing him to be a desperate 
 man, especially after the threat he had uttered, I had fears for Dun- 
 raven's safety, even though I knew the prisoner to be weak, for it 
 wouldn't require much strength to pull a trigger, I thought, and 
 those sort of fellows always keep pistols under their pillows. So I 
 walked over to the door again and glanced in. Dunraven was com- 
 ing towards the doorway with his back to the bed, and there I be- 
 held the prisoner in the act of cocking a pistol, with a look of in- 
 tense hatred fixed upon my friend. He tried to level the weapon at 
 Dunraven, steadying one hand with the other while he took deliber- 
 ate aim. I was about to spring forward and shout to Dunraven, 
 when a sudden twinge of pain seemed to seize the prisoner, he grew 
 deathly pale, his features twitched convulsively, and letting the pis- 
 tol fall on the counterpane, he sank back with a groan. All had 
 passed in an instant, and the next moment Dunraven and I found 
 ourselves in the street. I told Dunraven what I had seen, but he 
 only laughed and made light of it. These are the facts on which 
 my suspicions have been based." 
 
 Toddy believes that Tufnell is the most important witness the 
 prosecution will be able to produce; without him the one great evi- 
 dentiary fact the previous threat could not be proven against his 
 client; but to attempt to shake him in his present confident mood 
 would be useless. Yet he thinks from his manner of entering the 
 box, he can be easily excited and thrown off his balance. To that 
 end, with the help of a little gentle badgering, Mr. Toddy, Q. C., 
 applies himself without delay. 
 
 Toddy. " Why didn't you give your evidence at the inquest?" 
 
 Tufnell. " I didn't happen to be in England at the time. I sup- 
 pose that was the reason." 
 
 Toddy (with a sneer). "And you couldn't make it your business to 
 return to see justice done on behalf of your best friend on earth I 
 believe that's what you called the deceased ?" 
 
 Tufnell. "I was somewhere in the wilds of South Africa at the 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 215 
 
 time, rather beyond the reach of either mails or telegraphs, and 
 knew nothing of the murder. The first I knew of it was three years 
 ago." 
 
 Toddy. " Three years ago! Come now, that's too good. A man 
 ignorant of the death of his c best friend on earth ' for fifteen years 
 after it takes place ! "Where, in the name of common sense, have 
 you been ever since ? In the moon?" 
 
 Tufnell. "Not exactly/' 
 
 Toddy. " Up in a balioon ?" 
 
 Tufnell. "No." 
 
 Toddy. "Where then?" 
 
 Tufnell. "On earth." (Laughter.) The judge looks up with a 
 scowl. 
 
 Toddy. " On earth, eh? And heard nothing of your friend for 
 fifteen years ! You spent the intervening period after the fashion of 
 Rip Van Winkle, I suppose ?" 
 
 Tufnell. "No." 
 
 Toddy. "How then?" 
 
 Tufnell (with a grin). " Traveling." 
 
 Toddy. "Ah! Been to Egypt ?" 
 
 Tufnell. ""Yes." 
 
 Toddy. "And seen the Pyramids, of course?" 
 
 Tufnell. " Oh, yes." 
 
 Toddy, " Sure you're not one of the chaps out of Cheops?" 
 
 Tufnell (good humoredly). " Quite sure." 
 
 Toddy. " Where else have you been ?" 
 
 Tufnell. " It would be far easier for me to tell you where I haven't 
 been." 
 
 Toddy. "Well, where haven't you been, then?" 
 
 Tufnell. " To the best of my recollection: the Polar Sea, the Ant- 
 arctic Continent, and a place called Payta, in South America." 
 
 Toddy. "And what made you leave them out?" 
 
 Tufnell. " The last place I avoided through the advice of an Eng- 
 lish naval officer; the others, I couldn't get to, unfortunately." 
 
 Toddy. "And you've been everywhere else?" 
 
 Tufnell. "Yes." 
 
 Toddy. "And what pray sent you traveling over the world for fif- 
 teen years like that ?" 
 
 Tufnell. "Money I haven't a doubt." 
 
 Toddy (warmly). "Come, answer my question. You know per- 
 fectly well what I mean. What motive had you in keeping away 
 from England all that time?" 
 
 As Tufnell answers I can almost fancy I see his eyes flash through 
 his spectacles. 
 
216 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 " What my motive was, sir, I deem it totally unnecessary for you 
 to know, or for me to inform this jury. It has nothing what ever to 
 do with the issue in this case, and you are lawyer enough, I take it, 
 to know that your question is not cross-examination. What you 
 want to get at, however, I will tell you without giving you the 
 trouble of asking so many questions. I left England eighteen 
 years ago, unknown to a soul but my bankers. They even didn't 
 know what became of me after I left Egypt. I traveled for rea- 
 sons which it is my desire and privilege to keep secret under an 
 assumed name, and from the day I left Liverpool until my return 
 fifteen years later, I corresponded with no one, never saw an Eng- 
 lish newspaper, or if I did, studiously avoided reading it. Thus it 
 is that I only heard of my friend Louis Dunraven's death for the 
 first time upon my return." 
 
 Beyond a slight hunching up of his shoulders, and the merest 
 trifle of a nod with his wig, Toddy takes no note of Tufnell's retort; 
 but he sees it is a waste of time to go on as he began, so he stops 
 his bantering and asks: "You are sure the man you saw on the bed 
 that evening eighteen years ago," drawing the words out with a sig- 
 nificant grimace for the benefit of the jury, " and who pointed the 
 pistol at your friend, was the prisoner at the bar ? " 
 
 Tufnell: (Confidently.) "I am. And I'll tell you why if you 
 like." 
 
 Mr. Toddy does not appear at all anxious to know "why." He 
 believes the identification will be damaging to his cause, and, sorry 
 he asked the question at all, is about to lead off on another tack 
 when the judge growls out: 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 Tufnell: " I saw "under his right eye, in precisely the spot where 
 that scar now appears, a barely-healed cut and a recent discolora- 
 tion of the skin that was caused by a blow I struck him when I 
 knocked him down in the gambling-house the night we had the row. 
 I hit him with my left hand, and this ring, which I wore at the time, 
 it was that gave the cut. It is a singularly-shaped scar you will ob- 
 serve, and if you will apply the ring to it you will see that, strange 
 as it may appear, the edges will correspond." 
 
 This is done, and Tufnell's statement so far corroborated. 
 
 A few more questions Toddy asks, wishing evidently at each reply 
 that he had left Tufnell severely alone; but vexed alike at his own 
 ill success, and the other's firmness, he cannot refrain from giving 
 him one parting shot. Shaking his wig and convulsing his gown, 
 he asks: 
 
 "Did you, or do you know to whom the prisoner referred by the 
 expression, ' that unlicked cub ? ' " 
 
BEHIND THE- ARRAS. 217 
 
 Tafnell: (Smiling.) "Me, of course." 
 
 Toddy: ("With an expression of mock surprise that would have 
 made his fortune on the boards.) "You! You an unlicked cub? 
 Oh, I see. (Light seeming to dawn on him.) You were eighteen 
 years younger then. That is all." 
 
 If it had been a theatre, a round of applause would have greeted 
 Toddy as he sits down with a gratified air at the slap he thinks 
 he has given Tufnell. As it is, a laugh which at the judge's frown 
 and crier's "si-lence!" dwindles into an inaudible smile, shows 
 the audience's appreciation of his parting shot. But it is a shot 
 that Tufnell with tact deprives of much, if not all of its force, by 
 the sensible way he receives it. Instead of appearing annoyed, as 
 ninety-nine out of a hundred would, he turns it aside with the shield 
 of his good humor, and leaves the box with a smile which tells that 
 he enjoys the joke, though it be at his own expense, quite as keenly 
 as any one. 
 
 The court now adjourns for refreshments; the judge toddles off 
 for his chop and glass of dry sherry, glad, doubtless, to doff that 
 ponderous wig, if even but for a half hour; and we, to avoid the 
 crush and scramble of exit and re-entrance, prefer to remain com- 
 fortably ensconced where we are till the end. 
 
 " It will be but laying down our appetites upon the altars of com- 
 fort and curiosity," says Sir Griffith; " a sacrifice which I have no 
 doubt you ladies will find no difficulty in making, if you but select the 
 latter altar for your offering. Eh, Strutt? For my part, were it not 
 that comfort is involved, and the question were but one of appetite 
 or curiosity, I confess I should far sooner gratify the one than the 
 other." 
 
 " From the way I look at the question, I think I should have to 
 agree with you, Sir Griffith," says Mr. Strutt. 
 
 Our sacrifice, however, is one that Mr. Tufnell will not allow to 
 be complete, for soon he appears, followed by a waiter from the 
 coffee-room of the hotel across the way, bearing aloft upon a tray a 
 goodly supply of ham sandwiches, glasses, and two quart bottles of 
 "the charming widow." We are at first doubtful as to the pro- 
 priety of the proceeding, and hesitate lest so glaring a contempt of 
 the sacredness of its tribunal bring upon us the punitive thunders 
 of the outraged majesty of the law. 
 
 "Perfectly proper," Tufnell says, reading our looks; " the court 
 is not sitting now, and you might smoke if you liked. I'll leave it 
 to Mr. Strutt." 
 
 Mr. Strutt, with a longing eye at the sandwiches, concurs without 
 a murmur, and Mr. Strutt is an authority on such matters. In no 
 
218 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 way disposed to question the disinterestedness of his concurrence on 
 the present occasion, and fortified with a legal opinion on the sub- 
 ject, our misgivings are banished, and regardless of the envious 
 glances of our less fortunate neighbors, we discuss the repast that 
 has been so thoughtfully provided for us, and the evidence that has 
 been given, at the same time. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Not yet them knowest me, and seeing me, dost not 
 Think me for the man I am, necessity 
 Commands me name myself. 
 
 Coriolanus: Act IV, Scene 5. 
 
 'HE recess for luncheon is over, our sandwiches and cham- 
 pagne disposed of, those of the audience who had left their 
 places for a breath of fresh air, or something more sub- 
 stantial, come back to find them occupied by others who 
 refuse to deliver up possession; the jury return and take their 
 seats with a recuperated expression about their mouths; the counsel 
 on both sides are in their places, the crier yells: " Si-lence!" again, 
 making far more noise himself than anybody else, whereupon the 
 judge re-enters, seats himself with much dignity, blows his nose, 
 takes out his spectacles and wipes them slowly and carefully before 
 putting them on, gives a sort of nod over the top of his desk at no- 
 body in particular, and says: "Proceed;" and the case of Begina 
 v. Silliman goes on again. 
 
 Sergeant Headstrong rises and says: 
 
 "Call Alva Ingolsby." 
 
 " What can he possibly know?" think I, aloud, as in response to 
 the usual summons, Ingolsby makes his way to the witness-box and 
 is sworn. 
 
 11 Something important, you may be sure," whispers Tufnell, who 
 has resumed his place at my side, with a queer look, " or old Head- 
 strong wouldn't be ' up and doing/ Listen. " 
 
 " What is your name ?" asks the sergeant. 
 
 Ingolsby smiles up at our party, and keeps his eyes upon us as 
 he gives his name on oath. Distinctly it rings through the court- 
 room, and there follows a hum of excitement as many start up in 
 wonder. Toddy nearly draws his gown over his head so great is the 
 convulsion of his shoulders at the announcement; while the pris- 
 oner starts perceptibly, gives a quick and searching look at Ingolsby, 
 turns a shade paler, as he studies each feature, then compress- 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 219 
 
 ing his lips hard, he nods his head slightly as if some sudden deter- 
 mination had taken possession of him, and resumes his former 
 attitude and expression of stony indifference. For my part, I sit as 
 one dazed, scarce believing that I heard aright, when Ingolsby an- 
 swered so quietly but impressively : 
 "Guy Egerton." 
 
 Can it be true ? he, Alva Ingolsby, the long-lost Guy Egerton ? 
 Hurriedly I glance around at our party, seeking some explanation. 
 Sir Griffith with a tearful smile motions us to be quiet, for not to 
 me alone is this unexpected. Lady Egerton has risen wildly to her 
 feet, Lady Amtenhurst striving to soothe her emotion; while Flor- 
 ence, who sits next to me, pale and trembling, grasps my arm con- 
 vulsively. Of us all, Sir Griffith, Tufnell and Strutt alone prove 
 their previous knowledge by present calmness; and as it sud- 
 denly occurs to me that I can best solve the mystery by turning my 
 attention to the witness himself, I place my hand upon Florence's 
 to keep her still, and listen to the testimony with the strangest feel- 
 ing at my heart I have ever experienced, as Sergeant Headstrong 
 continues the examination. 
 "Who are you?" 
 
 " I am the son of Sir Griffith Egerton of Bratton Hall." 
 " Did you know the deceased?" 
 " I did. I was with him on the day he was killed." 
 " Please state all the circumstances that transpired on that day, 
 that you remember, so far as they relate to the death of Louis 
 Dunraven." 
 
 There is almost absolute silence as Guy for such he must be 
 henceforth goes on and relates the story of that eventful day, now 
 for the first time given to the world by him in whose keeping it has 
 lain hid for so many years, and so intent are all to catch each word 
 as it falls from his lips such a breathless hush is there, that the 
 crier's services are unneeded, and the scratching of the pens as the 
 evidence is taken down in the pauses, would alone prevent our hear- 
 ing the proverbial pin should the dropping thereof by any chance 
 occur. 
 
 " On the morning of the twenty-second of September, 18, Louis 
 Dunraven and I left Bratton Hall for the purpose of shooting over 
 Mr. Tufnell's property at Knocklofty. It was about ten o'clock 
 when we left the house, and we walked down the avenue for about 
 a quarter of a mile, and then took a short cut across the park and 
 through the fields. I remember distinctly, stopping at the game- 
 keeper Jennings' on the way, to have the gun fixed. Dunraven had, 
 in snapping a cap to clear the barrel before loading, by some means 
 
220 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 got the nipple stopped up with a fragment of the cap, and I recol- 
 lect being very impatient at the delay we had to make there, as I 
 was anxious to be among the birds. 
 
 "We reached the ^dividing-hedge between our place and Mr. 
 Tufnell's, and walked along till we saw a keeper on the other side. 
 We hailed him, and Dunraven showed him the permit. He let us 
 in through a gate some distance away, and showed us where to go. 
 We soon got among the birds and commenced shooting. After 
 keeping together some time, we separated, Dunraven striking off to 
 some outlying covers, leaving me to pick off the birds that would be 
 driven in by him. I soon lost sight of him among the bushes, and 
 he seemed to be having good sport, for every time he shot, both 
 barrels followed one another in quick succession. Presently I 
 heard a single shot. I was loading my gun at the time, and my ear 
 having got accustomed, as it were, to the double report, I paused a 
 moment and listened for the second shot. None came, however, 
 and though I supposed, of course, it was because he had had but 
 one bird to shoot at, I don't know why, but it seemed to strike me 
 all of a sudden as strange. The sound of the report, too, didn't 
 seem like Dunraven's gun. It was sharper, as if the charge had 
 been heavier. It then occurred to me that some one else might be 
 out shooting over the place, whom we hadn't seen as the bushes 
 were very thick and high. Then I thought that couldn't be, for 
 Mr. Tufnell himself had gone abroad, and no one else had the right 
 to shoot there. I waited and listened, but no more shots were 
 fired. Then I supposed Dunraven was returning, and sat down on 
 a stone to wait for him. Half an hour passed and he did not come. 
 I began to wonder what could be the matter. It couldn't be that 
 he had got out of earshot, for he couldn't have gone much farther 
 without getting off Mr. Tufnell's land and on to the Delamayn 
 place, which was let to the prisoner at the time. 
 
 "At last I felt alarmed at my friend's long silence, and set off in 
 search of him in the direction he had taken, shouting to him as I 
 walked on. I received no answer to my calls and kept on with a 
 strange sense of dread coming over me. I had made my way through 
 the bushes for perhaps a hundred yards or so, when I heard a rust- 
 ling among the leaves as if some one was coming toward me. I 
 stopped, thinking it was Dunraven. The sound continued and 
 presently I saw the figure of a man emerging from the thicket. I 
 was just upon the point of calling out, when I saw it was not Dun- 
 raven. It was the prisoner at the bar. He had a double-barreled 
 gun under his arm, and his face was pale and wore an anxious ex- 
 pression. He stood still a moment and looked around him cau- 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 221 
 
 tiously, then back, as if at some object behind him, with a queerly- 
 mingled expression of gratification and repugnance. He then struck 
 off to the right in the direction of his own place, and disappeared 
 among the trees. He had evidently not seen me, and as soon as he 
 was well out of sight, I started on again. I had not gone far when 
 I espied a dark form stretched on the ground under a tree. Greatly 
 frightened, I lan up to it and found it was Louis Dunraven. He 
 lay upon his back, his gun by his side. He was quite dead, and the 
 ground beneath him seemed to be saturated with blood, and blood 
 oozed from between his lips. I was stupified with horror, my gun 
 dropped from my hands, and I knelt down beside the body, and 
 covering my face with my hands to keep out the terrible sight, I 
 burst into tears. How long I remained thus I cannot tell, but sud- 
 denly I felt a hand upon my shoulder. I looked up quickly, and 
 there stood the prisoner. He caught me by the arm and accused 
 me of murdering my friend. I sprang to my feet incensed at the 
 horrible accusation, but my anger rendered me speechless. This he 
 pretended to construe into an evidence of my guilt. Grasping me 
 tightly by the arm, he said it would be useless for me to deny it of 
 course I would do that, it was but natural; but that he had heard 
 the shot fired, and shortly after had found me bending over the 
 body, and his evidence with all the corroborating circumstances 
 would hang me, young as I was. At a glance I saw the position I 
 was in. In my unnerved condition I exaggerated it of course. But 
 I was very young not yet twelve and knew nothing of law. I had 
 heard and read stories of how men had been convicted on circum- 
 stantial evidence of murders and robberies that they had never com- 
 mitted, and as these stories all came back to my mind, my fears so 
 worked upon my imagination that I already felt the rope around my 
 neck. The prisoner affected to pity me. He said he knew my 
 father well and that the disgrace would kill him. The shooting of 
 my friend might have been an accident; he hoped for his part, it 
 was. But who could prove it? I couldn't testify, and the circum- 
 stances all looked the other way. It would be a pity to see so young 
 a boy hanged, and to save me from such an ignominious death, and 
 my people from the terrible disgrace, he would help me to evade 
 justice and escape. 
 
 " In the state of mind to which my exaggerated fears and his 
 words had brought me, I was only too willing to accept his aid; my 
 gratitude to him was unbounded, and I poured forth a torrent of 
 thanks. He led me off by an unfrequented path, helped me over 
 the wall into his place, and bid me crawl under a hedge. * Stay 
 there/ he said, 'and as you value your life, don't let a soul see 
 
222 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 you. I will come for you after dark to-night, and bring you to a 
 place where you will be safe. And here, take this gun,' he added, 
 giving me the gun be had been carrying; 'you have your neck to 
 save, recollect, at any cost, and may need it to keep too curious 
 people at a proper distance/ I took the gun, having in my haste 
 forgotten my own where it had fallen by Dunraven's body. The 
 prisoner then left me. After he had gone I discovered that the 
 gun he had left with me as his own was Dunraven's. How it had 
 come into his possession was a puzzle to me, and I began to think 
 he had done it purposely to fix the murder upon me, and had gone 
 off to inform on me and deliver me up. Not knowing what to do 
 with the gun, and fearing to stir lest I should betray my hiding- 
 place, and expecting every moment to hear the officers of the law 
 coming to apprehend me, I lay under the hedge all day in an agony 
 of fear. When it was quite dark the prisoner came back. He told 
 me to get up, and warning me to keep silent, and step as noiselessly 
 as I could, brought me across one or two fields to an old barn, be- 
 hind his stables, and there, securely locked in a small upper room, 
 he kept me concealed for a week, bringing me food morning and 
 evening. When I had had time to reflect, and my excitement had 
 cooled down, I began to think I had acted very foolishly, and had 
 almost made up my mind to go home, tell the truth, and brave the 
 worst. I was at a loss, beside, to account for Silliman's anxiety 
 for my escape. He was not a friend of my father's that I knew; 
 barely an acquaintance, in fact, as he was a comparative stranger in 
 the neighborhood, and I couldn't imagine what motive he could 
 have in thus befriending me. I told him one night that I feared I 
 was acting unwisely in hiding myself in this way, and that I thought 
 I would go to my father at once and tell him all, as no one could 
 possibly suspect me. ' You are a little fool!' he exclaimed, with an 
 oath. He took a newspaper out of his pocket and threw it to me. 
 ' Kead that,' he said, ' and see whether anybody could possibly sus- 
 pect you.' I took up the paper and the first thing I saw was the 
 account of the inquest on Dunraven's body, and that the verdict of 
 the coroner's jury had accused me of the murder. ' I made my 
 testimony, you'll see, as strong against you as I could,' he added. 
 ' I knew it would really make no difference in the verdict, as the 
 facts were all so dead against you, how my evidence went, so I 
 thought the bitterer I was, the less likely would they be of suspect- 
 ing me of aiding and abetting your escape. By Jove! ' said he, ' do 
 you know I'm positively making myself an accessory after the fact 
 in doing so ! It isn't everybody would do that for a friend, is it, 
 my boy ? ' 
 
BEHIND THE AERAS. 223 
 
 " When I found that I was thus publicly and formally accused of 
 the crime, I was overwhelmed. All my fears returned with redoub- 
 led force, and I no longer hesitated to fly. That night Billiman 
 brought me an old jacket and trousers, and a battered-slouched hat 
 as a disguise. I left my own clothes hid away in the loft, and then 
 he let me out. The gun which he had given me Dunraven's I 
 had kept, and wanted to take with me, but he took it from me. He 
 told me what road to take, and said for me to walk steadily on 
 along the high road toward Hull, and he would follow me in his gig 
 before sunrise next morning, and pick me up. I gained the high 
 road and walked all night in the direction he had named. It was a 
 bright moonlight night, I remember, and early next morning Silli- 
 man caught up with me in his gig about fifteen miles from Bratton. 
 We reached Hull about noon, and there he got me a position as 
 cabin-boy on the American bark "Hiawatha." There he left me, 
 after buying me an outfit and giving me 10 to keep my pocket. 
 In two days the bark saile/1 for New York, and I did not see the 
 prisoner again until three weeks ago, when I went to the jail to 
 identify him upon his arrival from America in charge of the officers. 
 I had no difficulty whatever in recognizing him. He is older, of 
 course, and wears a beard, but his face, I don't think I shall ever 
 forget. In any event I should know him by that scar under his eye. 
 It is a most peculiar one." 
 
 "During the days you were under the prisoner's care, did he 
 speak to you of the deceased?" asks Headstrong. 
 
 " Once he said that the world was well rid of the hypocritical 
 parson, and I, in boyish fashion, fired up, and defended my friend, 
 He then became furious, and I thought he would strike me; but he 
 controlled himself and went away." 
 
 " Are you the Guy Egerton, you say, whom the verdict of the 
 coroner's jury accused of the murder?" asks Toddy, in cross-exami- 
 nation. 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " You sailed for America, you say; how long ago was that?" 
 
 "Eighteen years." 
 
 "And where have you been ever since ? Traveling too ?" 
 
 "I remained in America over fifteen years. For the past two 
 years and a half I have been in England." 
 
 " What name have you borne?" 
 
 "Alva Ingolsby a name I assumed in the United States." 
 
 "And why did you not come forward and acknowledge yourself 
 before now?" 
 
 " I waited for an opportunity to clear myself from the accusation 
 made against me." 
 
224 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 " Don't you know you could have done that at any time by deliv- 
 ering yourself up and standing your trial like a man if you were 
 innocent ?" 
 
 "Yes. But I desired more than simply to clear myself. I de- 
 sired to bring the real murderer to justice." 
 
 "And failing to secure the indictment of some other person for 
 the crime, you would have lived and died as Alva Ingolsby, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 " Not by any means. I returned to England for the purpose of 
 claiming my own name. I came to Bratton and made myself known 
 to my father. I told him the whole story as I have told it here to- 
 day. Mr. Tufnell had previously been to him for his assistance in 
 getting together evidence against the prisoner whom he said he sus- 
 pected. We three consulted together and it was determined to 
 keep my existence a secret until the whole case was completed and 
 Silliman in the hands of the law." 
 
 The deposition of Captain AY aterman of the bark "Hiawatha," 
 now a large ship-owner in Boston, taken under-a commission, is now 
 read in evidence. It corroborates Guy in every fact relating to his 
 shipping as cabin-boy at Hull, and gives a description of the man 
 who accompanied him and procured him the berth, that tallies with 
 the appearance of Silliman as he is remembered by old Brattonites, 
 in every particular. Sir Griffith is also about to enter the box for 
 the purpose of testifying to the identity of his son; but Mr. Toddy, 
 who manifestly thinks he will make a point with the jury thereby, 
 says he will make no question as to that, and Sir Griffith quietly 
 withdraws. This closes the case for the crown, and Mr. Toddy, Q. 
 C., rises to address the jury for the prisoner. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Guilty, my lord, guilty; I confess, I confess. 
 
 Love's Labor Lost: Act IV, Scene 3. 
 
 'K. Toddy begins by saying that the prisoner at the bar 
 stands in the truly unfortunate position of being without 
 one human being to bear testimony for him. "The very 
 ''nature of the case, the very character of the evidence ad- 
 duced by the prosecution precludes the possibility of his being able 
 to produce any witnesses on his behalf. Eighteen long years have 
 been allowed to pass since the crime with which he is charged was 
 committed, and during that time the prosecution, or rather the tool 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 225 
 
 of the prosecution, this man Jolliffe Tufnell, has been busy gather- 
 ing together the threads of the fabric which they have sought to 
 weave about the prisoner to-day. There is no direct proof of his 
 guilt offered in the case. It is all inference from facts, which, of 
 themselves, taken by themselves, fairly and without prejudice, are 
 perfectly consistent with the prisoner's innocence. After an eigh- 
 teen-year's long sleep this charge is raked up against this man, 
 when death and time have silenced and scattered those who might 
 to-day have spoken for him. His wife is dead, his servants gone, 
 no one knows whither, not a soul living who could prove for him 
 the one great and powerful fact in cases of circumstantial evidence, 
 an alibi. Of all his household who could speak of his whereabouts 
 on that unhappy day, he himself alone remains; but, gentlemen of 
 the jury, so far from his being able to tell you aught of the occur- 
 rences of that day, he too might as well be dead and gone, for by 
 the inexorable laws of his country, his lips are sealed. They have 
 chosen well their time, gentlemen of the jury; they have exhibited 
 rare strategy." He warns the jury against relying on the testimony 
 of witnesses who have remained silent for so long a time without a 
 better excuse for their silence than has been given, and pays his 
 respect to each witness in turn, showing up the weak points of their 
 evidence, and slurring over the strong. 
 
 "Take the two chief witnesses for the crown," he goes on; " the 
 only witnesses, I might say, for the others are mere puppets ready 
 to answer any pull of the string their masters may cboose to give; 
 let us take these two, and see who they are. One yet remains ac- 
 cused by a sworn jury of the very crime of which the prisoner at the 
 bar now stands indicted. What such a witness's interest in secur- 
 ing a conviction must be, it is unnecessary, I am confident, for me 
 to even hint to you; for I take it, gentlemen of the jury, that you are 
 men endowed with at least ordinary human reason, and can see that 
 for yourselves. Why, by his own confession, he admits his prime 
 motive to be to clear his own name. Of course, his desire, as he- 
 tells you, to bring the murderer of his friend Louis Dunraven to 
 justice, is all very well, and very praiseworthy, and very proper; 
 but, gentlemen of the jury, a desire that has been kept under con- 
 trol', such wonderfully perfect control, that it never gave sign of its 
 existence for a period of fifteen years, and then only when its pos- 
 sessor desired to return to his native land, and claim his ancestral 
 name, cannot be, cannot ever have been, a very consuming one, and 
 is about on a par with this man Tufnell's indifference as to the wel- 
 fare, condition or fate of his dearest friend on earth, for about the 
 same period of time. If Louis Dunraven could speak to-day, he 
 15 
 
226 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 might well exclaim: 'Save me from my friends!' As for tins man 
 Tufuell, the other of this wonderful pair, I hardly deem it necessary 
 for me to speak of him, or the marvelous story he has related here 
 to-day." 
 
 He nevertheless does at considerable length and with much as- 
 perity. "But, gentlemen of the jury/' he continues, "why need I 
 say more ? It is for the prosecution to prove the prisoner guilty, not 
 for the prisoner to prove himself innocent. Have they done so ? 
 That is for you to say by your verdict. I assure you, gentlemen of 
 the jury, that never in my professional career, and I flatter myself," 
 he adds with a consequential simper, "it has been one of rather 
 varied experience never have I seen a weaker case made out on be- 
 half of the Crown." He then goes on to admonish them of the dan- 
 gers and pitfalls of circumstantial evidence. " Circumstantial evi- 
 dence, eighteen years old," he reiterates. " The only consideration 
 it should receive at your hands, gentlemen of the jury, is a respect 
 for its age." He impresses upon them the fact that it is their duty 
 to acquit if there be one link, even the smallest, weakest link, miss- 
 ing in the chain, for the strength of the whole chain is that of its 
 weakest link no greater and every reasonable doubt must be 
 thrown in favor of acquittal. He reminds them of the immense, 
 the grave, the awful responsibility that rests upon them the life of 
 a fellow creature swings in the balance, dependent upon their word 
 as to its fate; a human life is in their hands. But let them re- 
 member their duty and their oaths, and he will have no fear as 
 to the result. And then, with a mingled appeal to their sympathy 
 for the man who stands before them comparatively friendless and 
 alone, and a last admonition to remember the tremendous responsi- 
 bility resting upon their shoulders, " a responsibility from which 
 strong men might well shrink, or at which brave men might well 
 shudder," Mr. Toddy concludes his hour and a half's speech. 
 
 "The usual stereotyped 'speech for the prisoner,'" says Tufnell 
 with a spice of animosity in his voice as Toddy sits down. "I've 
 heard a good many of them in my life, and they're all alike. The 
 facts of each case differ vastly of course, but the ' speech for the 
 prisoner/ is the same from beginning to end the world over. It's 
 the identical terrible responsibility reasonable doubt sworn duty 
 life at stake fellow creature every-raan-iiinocent-till-proved- 
 guilty, harangue in all of them." 
 
 Sergeant Headstrong follows in a speech an hour long. He meets 
 all of Toddy's objections at every point; shows the great difficulty 
 the witnesses for the prosecution have labored under; that their long 
 silence, so far from being suspicious, has been owing to the igno- 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 227 
 
 ranee of what each other knew, and a consequent impossibility of 
 concerted action while that ignorance continued; pays a glowing 
 tribute to the zeal and untiring industry of Jolliffe Tufnell; takes 
 Toddy severely to task for his unmerited strictures both on him and 
 Guy, and administers something more than a mild rebuke in return; 
 goes carefully over the evidence and reweaves before the jury, thread 
 by thread and piece by piece, the net that surrounds the wretch at 
 the bar; demonstrates in the most convincing manner the presence 
 of every necessary link in the " strongest chain of circumstantial 
 evidence that has ever been wrought in any case, and he flatters him- 
 self that his experience has been somewhat extensive, though prob- 
 ably not quite so varied as that of his brother Toddy; " and after ex- 
 plaining the difference between direct and indirect or circumstan- 
 tial evidence, and claiming for the latter a superiority in proving 
 power, as " men may lie, but circumstances can't/' finishes by ask- 
 ing the jury as men of common sense to look at all the circumstances 
 of the case "and he will have no fear of the result." 
 
 The judge now sums up the case to the jury, and in his unpreju- 
 diced exposition of the law and facts, steers a middle course be- 
 tween Toddy and Headstrong, that comes like oil upon the troubled 
 waters of the jury mind. 
 
 At 6:45 the jury retire to, deliberate on their verdict. At 7: 33 
 they return into court. There is death-like silence as the foreman 
 announces, in a shaky voice : 
 
 " We find the prisoner at the bar guilty of willful murder." 
 
 Silliman hears the verdict without flinching. Then the judge 
 tells him, in a solemn voice, to stand up, and asks him if he has any- 
 thing to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him. 
 Silliman remains silent for a moment, his lips set tight; but not- 
 withstanding the compression, the corners of the mouth twitch 
 nervously, and his eyes wander wistfully about. Murderer of my 
 poor Louis, as I firmly believe him to be, I cannot help pitying the 
 wretch, as friendless and alone he stands there, striving to appear 
 self-possessed and indifferent, in the face of the most terrible doom 
 that can come upon man on earth. At length his lips move, his 
 fingers clutch at the dock-railing in front of him, and he says 
 hoarsely : 
 
 "No; I have nothing to say. That is, I have no reason to ad- 
 vance why the law should not now take its course. On the contrary, 
 I acknowledge the justice of the verdict. But I do not wish any 
 one who hears me now, to imagine that I am impelled to make this 
 admission by any such maudlin stuff and nonsense as qualms of 
 conscience. I have been playing a desperate game, with all the 
 
228 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 odds against me; yet, while there remained the ghost of a chance 
 for me, I didn't give up hope. But a card was played against me 
 to-day that I was unprepared for a card that I didn't think was 
 ou t that I didn't believe was in the pack, even, and then I knew 
 the game was up. That card was Guy Egerton. Still I had one 
 trump left, my counsel's speech. I played that, and good as it was, 
 it couldn't overcome the odds against me. And now I wish to say 
 here to my friend Mr. Toddy, for a friend he has indeed proved him- 
 self to me, that I thank him sincerely for the very able defense he 
 has rriade to-day in my behalf, and that I hope he will not think too 
 hardly of me for deceiving him as I have from the beginning. My 
 only excuse for doing so must be, my fear that he would throw up 
 my case if I told him the truth; at all events, I thought he would 
 make a stronger defense if he believed me to be innocent. I 
 couldn't afford, with my life at stake, you see, to take the chances 
 on such a vital point. But now, finding myself as I do, without a 
 trump left in my hand, what can I do but throw down my cards 
 and give up the game like a man ? I did kill Louis Dunraven. I 
 confess it. What my motive was, has been but partially indicated 
 by the evidence. I had deeper and greater reasons for hating him 
 than any one living knows. What those reasons were, I do not 
 choose to state, nor is it necessary. Suffice it to say, that I hated 
 him with a deadly, insatiable hatred. 
 
 ''That day, eighteen years ago, I knew that he and young Guy 
 Egerton were going to shoot over the Tufnell place. I lay in wait 
 for them, and watched their movements. When they separated, I 
 followed Dunraven stealthily. Three or four times before then I 
 was on the point of shooting him from behind a tree, but each time 
 something prevented. At length, as I said, they separated. I 
 dogged him, and creeping noiselessly upon him from behind to 
 within three or four yards, just as he was stooping to pick up a 
 bird he had shot, I took deliberate aim under his right shoulder- 
 blade, and fired.' He straightened up, and then throwing up his 
 arms, with a sharp cry fell backward among the tangled grass. I 
 stood ready to give him the second barrel, if he showed any decided 
 signs of life; but he only gave a sort of spasmodic quiver, and then 
 straightened out and lay quite still. I stood watching him for 
 nearly half an hour, and then ventured up and felt for his heart. 
 It had ceased to beat: he was dead. I didn't stay long there after 
 that, but started to go home. I had got some distance away when 
 I discovered that I had left niy gun beside the body and had picked 
 up the other one in place of it when I came away. I hurried back to 
 remedy my blunder, but what was my chagrin to find the boy Guy 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 229 
 
 bending over his friend's body. My first impulse was to kill him, 
 too. I wish to heaven now that I had! My gun was up to my 
 shoulder and my finger pressing the trigger, when the thought of 
 accusing him of the crime suggested itself to me, like a flash. Like 
 a fool as to-day has been proved I acted on the* second thought 
 and let the boy live. All that took place after that has been truth- 
 fully detailed by Guy Egerton. I will not waste time in repeating it. 
 
 I will state, however, that in the excitement of finding the boy 
 there and getting him away in accordance with my plan, I forgot 
 the object of my return, and carried away Dunraven's gun a second 
 time. So I gave it to the boy, knowing that if by any chance he 
 should be found hiding away under the hedge with it in his posses- 
 sion, it would be almost proof positive of his guilt. My great mis- 
 take next to not shooting him when I found him at the body was 
 not to have informed on him while he lay under the hedge. While 
 I live not very long that will be now, by-the-bye those mistakes 
 will be a constant source of unavailing regret. My own gun I was 
 forced to sacrifice. I couldn't go back a second time for it fearing 
 to be seen about there so much; but, as it luckily hadn't my name 
 on it, its presence there wouldn't implicate me, I thought. In any 
 event I could have coined some story about its being stolen, now 
 that I had provided myself with a scapegoat. But I never felt 
 quite secure till the boy was gone, and sailing safely away on the 
 high seas. Shortly after this I lost my wife, and then I determined 
 to act on the advice Dunraven had given me, and leave Bratton. 
 The people in the neighborhood, had begun thanks to his tattling 
 tongue to give me the cold shoulder. Not that they had ever been 
 much the other way to me the good people of Bratton are not 
 given to opening their arms very wide to strangers, as a rule still 
 there was a difference, slight though it was. That didn't trouble 
 me much, however, but I had got tired of the pokey, drowsy place, 
 which I had only consented to come to and live in to please my 
 wife. So, once she was gone, I decided to throw up my lease, 
 sell everything, and cut the place for good. Where I went, or my 
 doings afterwards, has, of course, nothing to do with the present 
 matter; nor have I any desire to inflict upon any one a history of 
 my life. This, I believe, is about all I have to say not why sen- 
 tence should not but why it should be passed upon me. I am 
 ready." 
 
 It has grown quite dark whilst the wretched man has been speak- 
 ing, and there is a pause after he gets through while the lights are 
 lit. Nothing now remains to be done but the passing of the death 
 sentence. This scene we are none of us anxious to witness, and as 
 
230 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 the judge is putting on the awful black cap, our party rises and 
 leaves the gallery. Guy, who has been waiting below since he left 
 the witness-box, makes his way to his mother's side, and leaning 
 upon his arm she goes out. Lady Amteuhurst with Sir Griffith, 
 Lord Amtenhurst with me, and Florence with Mr. Tufnell follow 
 after, Mr. Strutt, in solitary state, bringing up the rear. 
 
 At the door our carriages are waiting, and in a few minutes we are 
 whirling toward home; the Amtenhursts and Strutt in one carriage, 
 the Egertons and myself in the other, and Tufnell in his dog-cart. 
 The carriage-door is scarcely shut when Lady Egerton turns to her 
 son who sits beside her, and putting her arms about his neck she, 
 the cold and stately falls sobbing on his shoulder. Who can guess 
 the depths of feeling in every human heart, till the hand of fate un- 
 seals their fountains ! Her maternal affections have been touched 
 and she is no longer the self-possessed, self-contained woman, but 
 the loving, happy mother; and feelings long dormant are aroused 
 and spring into renewed life and strength, as she clasps her only 
 child to her heart. Guy puts his strong arm around her and bends 
 his manly head to murmur caressing words of filial love. It is a 
 touching sight, and Sir Griffith, folding his arms and throwing back 
 his head, whistles a bar or two of " The Fine Old English Gentle- 
 man," very allegro and pianissimo, to hide his emotion. I have not 
 yet exchanged a word with Guy, but this is no time for it. He 
 smiles at me and that is enough. 
 
 We drive rapidly and soon reach home. We have all alighted 
 when the other carriage drives up. Lord Amtenhurst helps out his 
 wife and Guy goes forward to Florence's assistance. She does not 
 take his outstretched hand, and avoiding his eye, springs out. But 
 her dress catches on the step and she falls forward into his arms. 
 Quickly she recovers her balance, and without a word, her face 
 white, and lips compressed, rushes up the steps into the house, and 
 on to her own room. Guy looks after her with a puzzled expression, 
 and we slowly mount the steps, enter the grand old hall, and almost 
 immediately separate to make some slight preparation for our late 
 dinner. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 231 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "And will ye pardon then (replied the youth) 
 Your Waldegrave's feigned name and raise attire ? 
 I durst not in the neighborhood, in truth, 
 The very fortunes of your house inquire; 
 Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire 
 Impart." 
 
 "Gertrude of Wyoming." 
 
 N the west drawing-room at Bratton Hall we are enjoying a 
 quiet hour after the fatigue and wonder of the day. The gen- 
 tlemen having lingered but a short time over their wine and 
 cigars from kind consideration for our desire to kave Guy 
 amongst us, Sir Griffith now sits there by the centre- table making 
 out a list of guests for the grand dinner to be given next week in 
 honor of his son's return, and discussing with Jolliffe Tufnell the 
 advisability of omitting this one as "stupid" and asking that one 
 as " good company," in order that there may be an element of hi- 
 larity, yet none be left out who may resent the indignity. Poor 
 man! he finds the task a Herculean labor, and bites his pencil in 
 disturbance of mind, while Tufnell vainly tries to lessen the diffi- 
 culty by proposing all sort of impossible people. With the excep- 
 tion of Miss Courtenay, who sits apart- listlessly turning over the 
 leaves of a book to show her utter want of interest in the conversa- 
 tion, the rest of us form a group with Guy the centre of attraction. 
 He sits by his mother who reclines upon a sofa; Florence in silence 
 plies her crochet needle, the only industrious one of us all, except 
 as regards the asking of questions: and we demand from Guy a 
 more satisfactory account of his life and adventures than we were 
 able to glean from his recital at the trial to-day. 
 
 " You must tell us all about your life in America/' says Lady Eger- 
 ton; "and how you lived find made your way in the world." 
 
 "I will," Guy answers; " but I'm afraid you'll be disappointed to 
 find my story very commonplace after the one great event of my 
 life. You know already how Silliman got me the place on the ship, as 
 cabin-boy. The vessel carried one passenger, an elderly American 
 gentleman named Clinton, who was making the return voyage to 
 New York by long sea for the benefit of his health. In the position 
 I occupied I was enabled to render him some trifling services which 
 pleased him, and for want of better employment he would talk to 
 me, and ask me questions, and we grew to be great friends. He 
 called me a very gentlemanlike little cabin-boy and asked many 
 questions about myself. My mind revolted at the thought of tell- 
 
232 BEHIND THE AREAS. 
 
 ing him untruths, so I said to him frankly that I could answer no 
 questions, that all I was at liberty to tell him was, that I had been 
 sent away from home by a kind friend who had found me my situa- 
 tion on board, and that I was going to seek my fortune in America." 
 
 "Did you really think you would be hanged?" interrupts Lady 
 Egerton. 
 
 " I did, mother mine; I was only eleven, remember, and not very 
 learned in the law. Mr. Clinton did not at first seem quite pleased 
 at my reticence, but he afterwards told me he had taken a strange 
 fancy to me, and when we were approaching New York he asked me 
 if I would like to be an errand-boy in his office. I was only too de- 
 lighted, as you may imagine, and jumped at his kind offer/' 
 
 " Where did you find the name you adopted?" asks Lady Amten- 
 hurst. 
 
 " Alva Ingoldsby? I found it in the London directory," Guy an- 
 swers, laughing. " I came across it when I was a very small boy 
 and it hit my fancy, so when I was at a loss for a name it was the 
 first I thought of, and I adopted it." 
 
 There is a general laugh at this, and Sir Griffith calls out: 
 
 " Telling them where you got your name, Guy? Take care how 
 you spread the report, or you may have a law suit on your hands 
 with a thousand pounds damages. I say, Tufnell, old Meredith 
 won't do," referring to his list; " deaf as a post." 
 
 Tufnell's answer is unheard, as Guy continues: 
 
 *' Mr. Clinton was a lawyer, and I was soon installed in his office 
 in New York. When he had proved my trustworthiness, and I had 
 grown old enough, he advanced me to the position of clerk. My 
 life was very happy, for he treated me as a son. He had no chil- 
 dren was an old bachelor, in fact, and as I showed a taste for law 
 as I grew older, he allowed me a good deal of time to study, advis- 
 ing me to adopt the bar as a profession." 
 
 " But why did you never write home in all this time?" I inquire. 
 
 "I did. I wrote to my father, telling him everything, and in- 
 closed my letter to Silliman asking him to give it to him. I might 
 have known, of course, if I hadn't been so young, and had reflected 
 a moment, that he would never deliver it, fearing it might im- 
 plicate him in some way with my escape. But the worst of it was 
 the fellow deceived me by writing me back word that my father was 
 incensed at me beyond any hope of forgiveness; that he had now a 
 daughter in place of me whom he disowned, and fully believed to 
 be guilty; and he advised me if I wished to keep my neck out of a 
 halter, to keep quiet, and by no means to tell my secret to anyone." 
 
 " The wretch!" cries Lady Egerton. 
 
BEHIND THE AREAS. 233 
 
 " I never for a moment suspected then that Silliman was deceiv- 
 ing me, and kept silent for a year. Then I determined to write to 
 my father direct, but in order not to implicate Silliman, I avoided 
 all mention of his name, merely saying that a friend had assisted 
 me in getting away. But fate seemed against me. This letter mis- 
 carried, for my father never received it, as I afterwards found, and 
 I then thought that his silence meant everything that Silliman had 
 said, beyond a doubt, and I abandoned all hope of a reconciliation/ 5 
 
 "But did you not very soon discover that, even if guilty, you 
 were too young to be hanged?" asks Lord Amtenhurst. " From 
 your law reading, I mean." 
 
 "I am not so sure as to that, your lordship/' Guy answers, with 
 a smile. "I remember coming across some cases in Blackstone 
 one day where children under twelve were executed for murder, and 
 that rather gave me a cold chill. As you may imagine, I read every- 
 thing that bore upon the subject with immense interest, and I found 
 that the law conclusively presumes children under seven to be in- 
 capable of crime, but between that age and fourteen they are only 
 prima facie incapable, and evidence will be received to show a dis- 
 cretion to discern between good and evil. Thus in one of the cases 
 I have mentioned, a boy of ten hid himself after the murder my 
 case, you see and that was deemed to show a guilty knowledge, 
 and he was hanged." 
 
 "That is the case of Rex v. Hodges," says Mr. Strutt, grasping 
 eagerly at this semblance of " shop" in the conversation, to break 
 his long silence. " It's an extreme case, a very extreme case; and 
 Blackstone only cites it to show to what lengths courts will some- 
 times go. If I didn't know that the case was reported in Plowden 
 a century before his time, I would think it had been tried before 
 Jefferies, from its barbarity." 
 
 ' Good gracious me !" cried Miss Courtenay from her distant seat, 
 stopping the leaf- turning process a moment to smother a yawn, 
 "Haven't you people had enough of law and murders and hang- 
 ings to-day, without wanting a repetition ?" 
 
 " As I grew older, I began to suspect Silliman," Guy continued, 
 going back to his story and silencing Strutt, who, with a deprecat- 
 ing glance at Miss Courtenay for her cruel remonstrance, returns to 
 the twirling of his thumbs over one another, as he silently contem- 
 plates the fire. " I began to suspect his motives in aiding my 
 escape, and as I came to weigh all the circumstances of his connec- 
 tion with the affair, as my mind matured and was aided by the books 
 I read, I had no doubt that he was the real murderer. How I 
 longed to return and confront him with the accusation! but I had 
 
234 BEHIND THE AREAS. 
 
 not the means. My kind friend, Mr. Clinton, who was very well off, 
 at first gave me a home and clothed and fed me for my services. 
 After a year or two he paid me a small salary, increasing it each 
 year; and I saved my money with the intention of coming to Eng- 
 land and asserting my innocence. Unfortunately I was tempted to 
 speculate everybody speculates in America hoping to double 
 my small fund, I risked my savings upon some fluctuating bubble 
 of "Wall street, and, as a matter of course, lost every penny. My 
 patron, on the contrary, by investing largely in California mining 
 stocks, made a fabulous fortune, as did also his only brother." 
 
 " Why didn't you tell your patron your secret ?" I ask, " and bor- 
 row money from him to take you home?" 
 
 "Why do you always anticipate my actions?" Guy replies, 
 laughing: "I told him the whole story. He said at once that Sil- 
 liman was the guilty party, and the only way to clear myself was 
 by his conviction. It would never do, he said, for me to accuse 
 him openly, till I had conclusive proof of his guilt; and his ad- 
 vice was, for me to go home quietly, under an assumed name, 
 and see what evidence could be got together against him; for if 
 I were at once to acknowledge myself, he would take alarm and 
 get beyond the reach of justice. We little knew he had left Eng- 
 land and was in America, but where, thanks to the treaty of ex- 
 tradition, be was still within reach. My good friend furnished me 
 with all the money I needed, and I was to have sailed in the 
 next Cunard steamer for Liverpool; but he was taken suddenly ill, 
 and I could not leave him. His illness was a long and serious one, 
 and it left him a weak, aged man, liable to go off at any moment. 
 One day he called me to him and said : ' Do you know that you have 
 grown into my heart, boy ? A son could not be more dear to me. 
 You are very young, and have many years before you. I am going 
 fast. Will you not delay a little longer vindicating yourself, and 
 remain with me the short time I have to live ? ' I could not refuse : 
 I loved the old man who had done so much for me. I postponed 
 my return and stayed with him, doing all I could to make his last 
 days happy. I think I succeeded, and it gives me pleasure to re- 
 member his satisfaction in having me near him. Three years and a 
 half ago he died, and I then learned for the first time that I was 
 his heir. He had added one more to the innumerable benefits he 
 had heaped upon me; and I could accept his bounty without com- 
 punction, for his only relatives, a brother and a niece, were as 
 wealthy as himself. Do you know, I felt his loss as keenly as though 
 he had been a blood relation." Guy pauses, and the hiatus is filled 
 up by Sir Griffith: 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 235 
 
 "Must ask such a prominent man? But think what it entails! 
 A sour old maid of a daughter, a grumpy sister-in-law, and a wife 
 like a like " 
 
 " Beer-vat," suggests Tufnell. 
 
 " A wife like a beer-vat," repeats Sir Griffith. " I thank thee, 
 Jew, for teaching me that word/ ' So much for Buckingham! ' " and 
 he draws the pencil through the inelegible name. 
 
 Glancing with a smile over his shoulder at his father, Guy goes 
 on: 
 
 " When all my affairs were settled up, I bid good-by to old friends, 
 James Clinton and his daughter Florence among the oldest and 
 best, sailed for England ' The home of my boyhood, my own native 
 land! ' and here I am cleared and reinstated." 
 
 " Florence Florence Clinton where have I heard that name?" 
 Miss Courtenay questions herself in an undertone, as she closes 
 her book, and looks back dreamily into illimitable space. " Oh, Mr. 
 Egerton I" she exclaims, starting up and coming forward with a 
 suddenly-acquired interest in her tone an interest I am uncharita- 
 ble enough to believe to be coexistent with her knowledge of the 
 manner of disposition of Mr. Clinton's fabulous fortune. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Egerton! Don't you remember that you arrived in 
 Home the day before we left; that terribly stormy clay ? We met 
 you in the evening, and you said that some friends of yours were 
 staying at the hotel, whom you had come to see all the way from 
 England. They were the same people whom you met in America, 
 were they not ? Their name was Clinton." 
 
 " Yes. They were the same," Guy answered. " James Clinton, 
 and his daughter Florence." 
 
 " And do you know what has become of them ? I felt so terribly 
 for the poor, dear girl. I hope her poor father has recovered^ he 
 was so very ill, you remember." 
 
 "He died there in Rome a few days after you left." 
 
 " And Florence, the poor child," with a look of breathless agon- 
 ized interest, "left all alone !" 
 
 " Not quite alone," Guy says quietly. " Some American friends, 
 who chanced to be passing through Home on their way home, took 
 charge of her, and she returned to New York with them." 
 
 Miss Courtenay, with a host of reserve questions, makes a mistake 
 in pausing to wipe away a tear; before she can ask another, Lady 
 Egerton, who has been waiting for an opportunity to speak, says: 
 
 " Do you remember, Guy, how slyly your father introduced you 
 to me as a young lawyer from America? The wretch dared to in- 
 troduce my own son to me as a stranger !" 
 
236 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 " 'Excellent wretch,' madame," calls out Sir Griffith. " Omit not 
 the all-important prefix." 
 
 " Did you tell Sir Griffith everything at once?" I ask Guy. 
 
 " Yes. And he received me as the good father that he is. He also, 
 as you heard at the trial to-day, had had his suspicions of Silliman 
 awakened by Mr. Tufnell, who, at the time, was busily employed in 
 hunting up witnesses, and seeking a clue to the whereabouts of Silli- 
 man, of whom they had lost track. I had brought, among others, 
 a letter of introduction from Mr. Clinton to a friend of his, a Mr. 
 Parkins, a London solicitor. This Mr. Parkins was Lord Amten- 
 hurst's lawyer, and strange coincidence had been engaged in 
 tracing this very Silliman for his lordship, though from other mo- 
 tives than ours. From him we learned four months ago, that Silli- 
 man was in California. Mr. Tufnell's solicitors at once wrote out 
 to the police authorities at San Francisco, and ascertained that he 
 was still there, and from the description, was the identical man we 
 were after. We immediately had proceedings taken under the ex- 
 tradition treaty; or the rest you know." 
 
 " When you found that Silliman was no longer in England," I 
 remark, " and had got together such a strong case against him, 
 why on earth didn't you come forward at once and acknowledge 
 yourself to the world, instead of keeping us so much longer in 
 ignorance?" 
 
 "You must blame Sir Griffith for that," Guy answers, with a 
 sly look over at his father. " I was only too anxious to throw off 
 my disguise, but he wanted to give you all a great surprise, in regu- 
 lar dramatic fashion." 
 
 "You might at least have trusted your own mother," Lady Eger- 
 ton says, in a tone of reproach. 
 
 "Yes; but not his own mother's tongue," shouts Sir Griffith 
 across the room 
 
 " ' Trust not a woman, not e'en a mother, 
 
 With aught in your heart you hold secret. 
 Men, if you must trust, trust one another, 
 And the act you will never regret.'" 
 
 "Heretic!" laughs Lady Amtenhurst. "Don't you think a 
 mother's anxiety for the welfare of her child " 
 
 " Would have spoiled everything ?" interrupts Sir Griffith. " Of 
 course it would. A woman's love rules her judgment; and if that 
 wife of mine had chanced to think she saw a quicker way out of our 
 snarl, woe to our schemes. I'll invite young Caryll, Tufnell, in- 
 stead of that nonentity Maitland," and he becomes once more ab- 
 sorbed in his list. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 237 
 
 There is a pause in the conversation, and Guy, turning to Flor- 
 ence, asks her: 
 
 " Why so silent, Lady Florence?" 
 
 Without raising her eyes from her work, she answers : 
 
 " My attention has been occupied by my work seven, eight," 
 counting her stitches. 
 
 " That remark is not very complimentary to Mr. Egerton, 
 Florence," says Miss Courtenay, looming up again in full force. 
 1 ' He has been telling us of his life in America." 
 
 "Yes? Three, four." 
 
 " Oh, you are enough to provoke a saint! You're as bad as a 
 child learning the piano, with your ' one, two, three, four- one, two, 
 three, four/ Come, Mr. Egerton," putting her arm through his, 
 " let us leave this tiresome creature to her loops and chains. Come 
 and talk to me. You'll find me an appreciative listener. I want 
 you to tell me what sort of girls the American girls are, and if they 
 are not shocking flirts," and she leads Guy away, an unwilling 
 victim, his face cannot conceal, to a sofa in a distant bay window. 
 As they move away, Guy glances round at Florence, and from her 
 eyes flashes back at him a look strangely scornful. The reason for 
 it he appears as much at a loss to understand as am I. 
 
 "What is the matter with you, child?" asks Lady Egerton. 
 "You and Guy seem to be far less friends than of old, and you 
 should be now like brother and sister. You were once my daughter, 
 he is now my son." 
 
 Florence does not answer, but bends over her work. 
 
 I feel inclined for the moment to quote Betsy Trotwood, and 
 
 exclaim : 
 
 "Blind, blind, blind!" 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Last scene of all, 
 That ends this strange eventful history. 
 
 As You Like It: Act II, Scene 7. 
 
 IS Florence Courtenay's last day at Bratton Hall. To-mor- 
 row, the only tie which still seems to bind her to us her 
 presence at her old home will be broken, and after a brief 
 ? fortnight's reunion, she is to leave us for good and all. She 
 and Guy are still at odds, obstinately, inexplicably, and all hope 
 seems over of the wedding which I had thought would have pre- 
 vented, for some time, if not for aye, the settling back of the old 
 
238 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 Hall into its wonted state of humdrum quietude. Mr. Strutt left 
 us the day after the trial to rescue his clients from the wizened 
 clutches of his clerk Wiggins*. Mr. Tufnell, too, has returned to 
 his ancestral halls, despite our efforts to detain him longer; but we 
 see him every day, and this morning he is to join a riding party we 
 have planned to some Druidical ruins recently unearthed by some 
 wandering members of the archaeological society, in our neighbor- 
 hood. 
 
 The appointed hour for starting has come and gone ten minutes 
 ago, and we stand on the terrace awaiting the arrival of, as Guy re- 
 marks" the late Mr. Tufnell." 
 
 "Oh, Tufnell, Tufnell! Wherefore art thou Tufnell?" says Sir 
 Griffith, in a mock sentimental tone. " I told him we should start 
 at eleven. I suppose we shall only have to give him another ten 
 minutes' grace," and he walks off with Lord Amtenhurst to the 
 horses which stand, impatiently pawing the gravel, under the shade 
 of a large oak. 
 
 "How I detest people who always require grace," cries Miss 
 Courtenay, pettishly, as habited and hatted she stands drawing on 
 her riding-gloves. "Why on earth can't people be punctual? / 
 make it a rule always to b6 so." 
 
 " Perhaps.he misunderstood, and will join us at the ruins, instead 
 of here," says Lady Amtenhurst. 
 
 "I hardly think that possible," remarks Lady Egerton, "for I 
 heard Sir Griffith impressing it upon him that we were to leave here 
 together." 
 
 At this moment Guy, who has been having a loak as is his cus- 
 tom at the saddle-girths of his own horse, and at those of one of 
 the side-saddles as well, comes leisurely back, just in time to pick 
 up Miss Courtenay's whip, which, by-the-bye, she seems to have 
 managed to drop at a very opportune moment. 
 
 " You must be my cavalier to-day, Mr. Egerton," she says, as he 
 hands the whip to her. " Sir Griffith I'm afraid of; Mr. Tufnell's 
 afraid of me, at least he acts as though he were at all events he's 
 not here; and riding with one's uncle is just the merest trifle too 
 slow for even me; so, recollect, you belong to me to-day." 
 
 Good breeding forbids the direct refusal I know must be hover- 
 ing on his lips. 
 
 " I feel highly flattered, Miss Courtenay, especially as from your 
 own confession, your choice appears to partake much of the quality 
 of Hobson's; but I'm afraid I'm half engaged already/' and he 
 glances toward the house from which Florence has not yet come 
 forth, with an evident desire in his eye to move on. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 239 
 
 "Oh, my cousin don't want you;" Edith cries, laughingly. 
 " She's such a queer, rum sort of a girl, as you men say; goes about 
 with the old fogies, and avoids nice people like us you and me. 
 Button this, please," and she holds up her gloved hand to him. 
 There are two things which some girls always seem to want: a 
 glass of water, and to have their gloves buttoned, and I wonder to 
 myself, as Guy, with flushed face, bends over the glove, seeming for 
 the moment to find the button-hole too small or the button the re- 
 verse, if the fact has ever come under his observation. 
 
 " I'll get you out a hairpin, in a second/' Miss Courtenay adds, 
 with the very slightest upward movement of her free hand. "No? 
 Oh, thanks, you have managed it at last. Why there's Florence, 
 now, and without her habit." 
 
 Guy walks away, evidently annoyed at being caught at the glove- 
 buttoning operation, and goes down the steps in quest of a flower 
 for his button-hole, as he hurridly informs Miss Courtenay. 
 
 "Where's your habit, dear?" Lady Amtenhurst asks, as Florence 
 joins us. 
 
 " I've changed my mind; that is, I've determined, after a slight 
 struggle, to sacrifice pleasure upon the altar of duty," Florence an- 
 swers with a constrained smile. "If I go with you, Lady Eger- 
 ton's tidy will not be finished before we leave to-morrow; if I stay, 
 it will be done to-night, and I shall have the pleasure of pinning it, 
 myself, upon her chair. So you see that self has a little, the least 
 bit to do with it." 
 
 "What nonsense, child!" exclaims Lady Egerton. "You can 
 take it home with you, and send it to me when its done." 
 
 " Or I'll help you with the finishing touches this afternoon when 
 we return," suggests her mother. " Will not that do ?" 
 
 " Thank you mamma, dear, but I would really prefer doing it all 
 myself." 
 
 "Oh, let the little oddity have her own way, if she will," snaps out 
 Edith Courtenay. " She'll only be a spoil sport, with her long face, 
 if she comes. She enjoys solitude, and I sometimes think she's 
 trying to get up a character for eccentricity. Next to sick people, 
 odd ones are so interesting, you know." 
 
 Drawing Florence aside, I look into her face and say: 
 
 " Child, it's not the tidy; it's Guy." 
 
 Wistfully returning my gaze, she replies: 
 
 "Yes, Julia. He must not have a chance of speaking to me 
 alone. I shall be happier, safer, here by myself, than with him. 
 Don't you urge me to go," and to avoid further persuasion, she 
 turns to meet her father who is approaching with Sir Griffith. 
 
240 BEHIND THE AREAS. 
 
 "Time's up!" shouts the baronet. "To horse! to horse! 'and 
 witch the world with noble horsemanship.'" 
 
 The horses are led forward, but strange to say, I seem to have 
 lost all interest in the excursion; so, when Lady Amtenhurst and 
 Lady Egertoarhave entered their phseton, and the Earl comes for- 
 ward to put me on my horse, I propose waiting for Mr. Tufnell and 
 riding after them with him when he arrives. There is some demur 
 to this proposition at first, but as I will be no great loss to the party, 
 it is at last decided that I shall remain, and follow them in an hour 
 with Mr. Tufnell, if he comes, but if he fails, alone, as I know the 
 road so well. 
 
 Guy, who has been mounting Edith Courtenay, comes forward. 
 
 "It is unfortunate that our small party should be lessened by 
 three. How can you be so cruel, Lady Florence, when you must 
 know that each one taken from our number decreases our chances 
 of enjoyment? " 
 
 "You will find my cousin Edith a host in herself, I haven't a 
 doubt," she replies coldly, and turns away to rub the nose of her 
 father's horse. 
 
 "Perhaps our good friend Tufnell is even now impersonating 
 James's ( solitary horseman,' and groping his way among the ruins 
 in search of us," remarks the Earl. 
 
 " In which case the sooner we go to his relief the better for him," 
 says Sir Griffith, shaking his bridle-rein and leading the way down 
 the avenue. The Earl, Edith, and Guy, follow at a brisk canter, 
 Lady Egerton's ponies bringing up the rear, and Florence and I are 
 left alone upon the terrace. When they are quite out of sight and 
 hearing, I turn to her as she stands gazing after them, with her 
 fingers tightly laced. 
 
 "Why do you wish to avoid Guy, Florence? Why do you treat 
 him so coldly, and snub him so persistently ?" 
 
 She flushes, and answers hotly: 
 
 " Because he deserves it. Don't tease me with questions, Julia, 
 for I cannot answer them. You may be assured of one thing, I 
 never act without a reason." 
 
 Away she trips up the broad stone steps into the house, and on 
 up the stairs. I turn to follow her, but as I do so, the sound of a 
 horse's hoofs on the gravel reaches my ear. Thinking it is one of 
 the party returning, I look back and see Jolliffe Tufnell riding up 
 the avenue at a stretching gallop. 
 
 "Late, by Jove!" he exclaims as he draws up at the foot of the 
 steps, and looks around. "Just my luck I knew it," and out 
 comes the red silk pocket-handkerchief to wipe his streaming face. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 241 
 
 "Hello!'; he shouts suddenly, springing off his horse, and, throw- 
 ing the rein to one of the grooms, he strides over to me. " Miss Lif- 
 ford as I live! Why, I thought they had gone?" 
 
 " So they have," I answer, quietly. " I don't see how you could 
 have avoided meeting them." 
 
 "I took a short cut across the fields, is the reason, I suppose. 
 But how comes it you are not with them ?" 
 
 " I waited for you to show you the way," I say, laughing. " Just 
 as if you didn't know every inch of the roads for miles around." 
 
 " Did I know this particular road never so well, I should run a 
 greater chance of losing my way with Miss Lifford by my side, than 
 were I alone," and a grin nay more a diabolical grin overspreads 
 his features. 
 
 " Will you take the chances? Shall I order my horse?" 
 
 "Not just yet at all events. To tell you the truth, Miss Lifford, I 
 am not very keen about investigating the ancient relics. I confess my- 
 self utterly indifferent as to what precise style or order of architecture 
 the Druids regarded as the correct thing. I never did have a fancy 
 for poking about ruins, and it's always been a sort of puzzle to me 
 how any one could. At any rate we can go another day. So, with 
 your kind permission, instead of your ordering your horse I will tell 
 Robert to take 'Bluebeard' to the stable. The fact is, Miss Lif- 
 ford," he continues, after giving directions to the groom about 
 "sponging 'Bluebeard's' mouth out, and loosening the girths;" 
 " I've been wanting to have a bit of confidential talk with you for 
 some time past, and," with another grin of evident pleasure, "I'm 
 uncommonly glad of this opportunity. Come, let us sit down here," 
 dusting a stone seat near the balustrade with his pocket-handker- 
 chief. "I've been looking for this, and hoping for it a long time," 
 he begins, with another grin, as we seat ourselves. Then there is 
 a pause, while he looks straight before him, and mops his face. 
 Then he takes off his hat, and turning to me, puts both hands on 
 his knees and says abruptly: " Miss Lifford, the fact is I'm lonely 
 I want a wife." He stares at me through his spectacles, and my 
 thoughts fly to Florence. He loves her, and wants my assistance, 
 think I. He goes on: "Dunraven was a very dear friend of mine. 
 I don't think it would be his wish that you should live a lonely life." 
 
 Me? Oh, I suppose he wants me to come and live with them 
 after the wedding a bait to catch my good will, ah, ha, Mr. Tuf- 
 nell! You seem wonderfully sure of success, upon my word. 
 
 " We are too old for romantic ideas, you and I; and yet, I'd not 
 make half a bad husband. I'm sure you'd make a capital wife." 
 16 
 
242 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 Me, again? Puzzled, I sit silent, and as the truth begins to 
 faintly dawn upon me, lie says in a strangely husky voice: 
 
 '* Will you marry me, Miss Lifford Julia, I mean?" 
 
 I am amazed, confused; I can't speak. And yet, now that it has 
 come, it does not seem so strange so unexpected. What shall I 
 say ? I really believe I like the man more than I thought, with all 
 his odd ways. He waits patiently for my answer, seeming quite 
 confident as to what it will be. , That nettles me; but when he 
 gently takes my hand the feeling of irritation quickly melts away, 
 and I let him keep it. At last he murmurs something about "si- 
 lence" and " consent/' I blush like a girl, and the impudent creat- 
 ure takes advantage of my confusion and and kisses me. 
 
 As I sit here in the soft summer air, in this familiar spot, with an 
 accepted lover by my side the place which once was Louis Dun- 
 raven's and gaze off over the old gray balustrade of the terrace 
 into the long and beautiful vistas of park and woodland extending as 
 far as the eye can reach, I can imagine that the dead past has come 
 back again that the days of my girlhood are returned. 
 
 As Louis' friend, the man beside me is more to me than any other 
 man can ever be. I tell him so, and he is delighted. 
 
 Again the tramp of horses' feet sound on the gravel below, and a 
 horseman appears through the trees coming slowly up the avenue. 
 
 "By Jove! It's Egerton Guy, I mean," Jolliffe says, jumping 
 up. 
 
 " Can anything have happened?" I ask, anxiously. 
 
 " Nothing worse than that his horse is dead lame, my dear. 
 Must have picked up a nail or something. What awfully hard lines 
 on the poor fellow! to have to leave her that way." 
 
 My mind at rest as to Guy's return, which J, who know the situa- 
 tion, do not regard as such "awfully hard lines" on the poor fellow, 
 and without waiting to enlighten my companion as to the true state 
 of affairs, I beat a hasty retreat into the house before Guy can see 
 me, and take refuge in Lady Egerton's boudoir. Instinctively I 
 move towards a mirror and survey my reflected face and form, it 
 must be confessed, with something of complacency. I am not so 
 very old, only six-and-thirty , and the face I see there might easily 
 be plainer. 'Tis not so fresh a face, perhaps, as it has been, but it 
 bears the stamp of serene, self-controlling, mature womanhood, 
 which is, after all, more to be prized than the wavering lights of 
 unformed, pink and white girlhood. This arrangement of my hair 
 is decidedly becoming, and how wonderfully a well made, well fit- 
 ting habit sets off one's figure. A woman always if she looks at 
 all looks her best in a riding-habit, so I've been told; and I really 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 243 
 
 believe it's true. I shouldn't be surprised if Mr. Tufnell Jolliffe, 
 I mean thought so too. Men are such strange creatures. Or, per- 
 haps, it was my voice that won him. I don't sing badly; that is 
 very badly; as well as most English women, at all events. But 
 that's not saying much, I'm afraid. It can't be my fortune that he's 
 after. He's too well off himself to think of that, and too honest as 
 well, I'm sure. Oh, no, it's only for myself that he likes me; and 
 really, I'm not such a bad bargain for Mr. Jolliffe Tufnell, after all. 
 Nor is he for me, for that matter. He's not so awfully ugly, and 
 one doesn't notice his awkwardness half so much when one gets ac- 
 customed to it. It will make a vast improvement in his appearance 
 when I persuade him to discard those horrid spectacles. I must get 
 him to give up red silk pocket-handkerchiefs, too. He'll do it for 
 me, I know; he's such a kind-hearted fellow. Knocklofty Hall is a 
 nice cosy old place, and we shall get on famously together, I 
 haven't a doubt. Knocklofty Hall what a name! It's such a pity 
 that both master and home should have such dreadful names. Mrs. 
 Jolliffe Tufnell, Knocklofty Hall. Not so utterly bad a trifle odd, 
 no more. Julia Tufnell! How strangely it sounds. Heigho! Poor 
 Florence; I wish she would make it up with Guy for he loves her, 
 I know and be happy; as happy as I am. We might then have a 
 double wedding, and cheer up the old place in good earnest. Hark! 
 There are voices in the next room and I mustn't be caught before 
 the glass. 
 
 The heavy damask curtains that divide Lady Egerton's boudoir 
 from the room adjoining are down. I peep between them and see 
 Florence and Guy, he with his hand on the back of a chair from 
 which she has evidently just risen. 
 
 " "We had got but a short distance beyond the avenue gates," he 
 is saying, " when my horse stepped on a loose stone or something, 
 stumbled and strained a tendon of a fore leg. He was too lame to 
 think of going on, so there was nothing to do but return for another 
 horse, and I've been ever since getting back." 
 
 " I should advise you, then, not to waste any more time, if you 
 hope to rejoin your companions." 
 
 " I am in no hurry to get back to them, I assure you. The truth 
 is, I was only too glad of the excuse to get away and return here, 
 
 because " 
 
 " Dear me, I've left all my rose-colored worsted up-stairs. Excuse 
 
 me, Mr. Egerton." 
 
 She is passing him to leave the room, when he steps before her. 
 
 " Will you not allow me a few minutes' conversation, Lady Flor- 
 ence ? Will you not tell me what it is that I have done to make you 
 treat me as you do ? " 
 
244 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 ' ' I shall never have this tidy done in time if you insist on delay- 
 ing me," she answers evasively. " You must really excuse me, 
 Mr. Egerton. Allow me to pass, please." 
 
 As she attempts to pass him, Guy puts his hand lightly on her 
 arm, but she shakes it off, angrily. Then he raises his head proudly, 
 and placing his hand on the door-handle, says with determination: 
 " Then I demand as a right what you refuse as a favor. I love you, 
 Florence," and his voice softens; "I love you, and your cruel 
 treatment of me pains me deeply." 
 
 She turns from him with a gesture of impatience, and crosses the 
 room. He follows her. 
 
 "Nay, turn not from me so, for the time has come when I must 
 speak, and you must listen." 
 
 " Must, sir?" 
 
 " Yes, Florence, must. I must know from your own lips, now 
 here in this room, what your real feelings towards me are. If you 
 dislike me, tell me so honestly in words. Your actions ought to 
 tell me that, perhaps you'll think. They ought indeed, heaven 
 knows. But actions, even the most severe and cruel, one who loves 
 and hopes is but too apt too prone to misconstrue. If you hate 
 me, despise me, as your manner of late would seem to imply, tell 
 me so, that I deceive myself no longer; that I may strive to learn 
 to love you less; that I may give up all hope of you at once and 
 forever. If you like me, Florence dare I use the stronger word?" 
 
 Save an angry flush that mounts to her temples, and then dies 
 away leaving her as white as marble, and a haughty curling of the 
 lip as her breath comes and goes fitfully, no answer comes to poor, 
 pleading Guy. 
 
 "No? Then, if you even merely like, do not actually dislike me, 
 let this misunderstanding be explained, and 
 
 Florence turns towards him quickly, but though her eyes still 
 flash, there are tears in them, and the scornful lip trembles as she 
 speaks: 
 
 "This is not a question of likes and dislikes, but one which in- 
 volves your honor your claim to the title of gentleman. You force 
 from me terms whick I never intended should pass my lips, but 
 which are justified by actions of yours in the past that are indelibly 
 stamped upon my mind. Guy Egerton, you are unmanly, dis- 
 honorable, disloyal. You have done that which I never believed it 
 possible for you to do which I would not, could not have believed 
 if I had not heard from your own lips the words which proved it to 
 me. If what I say is not sufficiently plain, your own conscience 
 can supply you with a clue. My visit here, my stay under the same 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 245 
 
 roof with you, has been made, believe me, much against my wish. 
 In obedience to duty I yielded to the wishes of others and con- 
 sented to come. But in doing so I trusted, nay, I had the right to 
 expect that while I remained, good taste a common regard for the 
 simple proprieties of life would forbid your thrusting your presence 
 upon me, would shield me from annoyance from you by word or 
 look. In this, I regret, I was mistaken. You do not even try to 
 throw the cloak of a gentleman over your imperfections. I will not 
 be detained longer in this room. Let me pass!'' 
 
 G-uy has stood looking at her in utter bewilderment while she has 
 gradually been working herself into a passion, but now he folds his 
 arms, and still standing between her and the door, says resolutely : 
 
 "My manhood will not permit me to rest quietly under such ac- 
 cusations. I feel in my heart, where you would have me seek for a 
 clue, that I am guiltless of these charges you make against me; and 
 I demand as a right that you give them some definite shape, that I 
 may at least have the chance of disproving them." 
 
 Through all her indignation, something of admiration for the man 
 before her shows plainly in Florence's face; but trying to hide it 
 she turns her face aside. 
 
 "You are thrice unmanly to ask me this, knowing, as you must 
 in any event, how difficult is the task you would thus put upon me." 
 
 " I am sorry," he says, kindly but firmly. "But so it must be. 
 Your own sense of right must see the justice of what I ask." 
 
 She hesitates, her color comes and goes, there is a tremulous bit- 
 ing- of the lower lip, and a rapid tapping of one foot upon the floor 
 
 T ..i i ii! oanciott 
 
 as she seems struggling with, nerseii. 
 
 "Then be it as you say," she says in more subdued tones, though 
 the hoarseness of passion still lingers in her voice; "though I can- 
 not, unless the evidence of my senses is not to be relied upon, but 
 believe that you are now fully cognizant of everything of which you 
 plead ignorance. However disagreable the recital may be, recollect 
 you have forced me to it. When you first came to.Bratton you saw 
 me as the adopted daughter of Sir Griffith (you must of course 
 have known that I was not your sister), but when you learned how 
 low was my birth, when you thought me the child of a murderer, 
 you found it impossible to marry me. Love was insufficient to 
 smooth the obstacles in our path what was love, indeed, when 
 weighed in the balance with wealth and pedigree? A chimera! the 
 delusion of some poor half-starved wretch in a garret ! I quote your 
 very words, Mr. Egerton, the words I heard you^ address to Sir 
 Griffith, my faith in man fading away as I listened." 
 
 Guy's expression of face shows that he recollects them, but there 
 
246 BEHIND THE AERAS. 
 
 is no sign or semblance of shame in his looks as he attempts to 
 speak. Florence holds up her hand. "Let me finish. Don't 
 think that I blame you for giving utterance to these sentiments. 
 You were perfectly right not to wish to lower yourself in the world's 
 estimation. It is for your conduct since then, and now, that I feel 
 resentment, not for what you said then. I am another being now. 
 I am no longer of obscure birth and parentage there are no longer 
 any obstacles for impotent love to overcome, and love steps man- 
 fully forward and tries to win an Earl's daughter. You will pardon 
 me, Mr. Egerton, if I justly feel no better suited to you now, not 
 having changed in myself, even though placed upon a loftier social 
 pedestal. You must judge me by your own standard if you think I 
 could have altered so quickly." 
 
 As she finishes speaking, she stands for a moment regarding him 
 with eyes that look the scorn and contempt her sarcastic words 
 have but partially veiled. Then, with a sudden revulsion, a sad, 
 half -relenting expression comes into them, and reaching backward 
 for a chair, she sinks into it and covers her face with her hands. 
 
 Guy moves slowly to her side with arms still folded. 
 "This is a grave offense, Florence, that you charge me with," he 
 says, and though his tone is serious, if Florence would but look up 
 she might detect, as I think I can, a smile lurking about the cor- 
 ners of his mouth : " a very grave offense. But I hardly think I ought 
 to blame you for forming so poor an opinion of me; for after the 
 words you say you heard me utter, my conduct, I will confess, must 
 have seemed to you most reprehensible, and I no longer wonder 
 at the treatment you have bestowed upon me. Still, I think 
 you might have afforded me the opportunity of righting myself in 
 your eyes unsusceptible of explanation as my words may have 
 seemed. To this, at least, was I entitled at your hands. Thanks, 
 however, to my own persistence, which you are pleased to regard 
 as ungentlemanly intrusiveness, I am now at last afforded that op- 
 portunity, and happily I can explain everything; and, I am satisfied 
 can convince you of my sincerity from first to last. The words 
 you have quoted as mine were used by me in a conversation I had 
 with Sir Griffith, as we walked together in one of the upper cor- 
 ridors, one night, a few days after you took your flight, or rather 
 secreted yourself in the house. I remember them perfectly. At 
 the time they were spoken, Sir Griffith and I were both aware 
 mark me both aware of the fact that you were the daughter of the 
 Earl of Arntenhurst." 
 
 Florence starts perceptibly; her hands fall from her face into her 
 lap, and her fingers play nervously with her worsted, as she sits 
 with eyes bent upon the floor. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 247 
 
 " Your father's solicitor, Mr. Parkins," Guy continues, "whom I 
 knew, and who knew me to be Guy Egerton, wrote to me to break 
 the news of your being Lord Amtenhurst's child to Sir Griffith 
 knowing- the unwelcome tidings would be a severe blow to the old 
 gentleman, and believing me the fittest person upon whom that 
 duty should devolve. Parkins's letter arrived the very morning you 
 were first missed, and it was after I had broken to my father in the 
 library what to him was the sad intelligence of your real parentage 
 that we sent for you to inform you of it, and discovered then, for 
 the first time, that you had gone. All of this, if you doubt me, Sir 
 Griffith can corroborate. Until then I had thought you the child 
 of the man we had been hunting to his .death, and as such " He 
 pauses and Florence murmurs: 
 
 " As such, you in charity asked me to be your wife." 
 
 " Not so, Florence, I loved you then, as I do now. You are un- 
 just. I was going to say, that as such was the case, it had long 
 been a matter of serious doubt with us, whether we ought to take 
 measures for the man's apprehension when his whereabouts should 
 be ascertained. And need I tell you that rather than you should 
 suffer for the crime of your supposed father, I had determined to let 
 the foul stain that had rested so long upon the name of Guy Eger- 
 ton, rest there forever; I would have given up my inheritance, and 
 remained Alva Ingolsby for all time. This sacrifice I was prepared 
 to make for your sake, Florence, and would have made, had your 
 true birth not been discovered. It was because I saw you carried 
 beyond my reach that I spoke as I did that night, and used the 
 words you have repeated. I was hurt, disappointed. Though the 
 necessity for any sacrifice on my part no longer existed, and I was 
 now free to regain my true position in society, I knew that until that 
 position was regained with an unsullied, untarnished name, a result 
 it seemed then doubtful when I should succeed in accomplishing, 
 I must banish all thoughts of you from my heart. As Alva In- 
 golsby, I could never hope to win the hand of an earl's only daugh- 
 ter." 
 
 There is silence for a moment, and then Florence rises slowly 
 from her chair, and without looking at Guy, holds out her trembling- 
 hands to him. 
 
 " Forgive me. I have wronged you, wronged you deeply, and I 
 am sorry." 
 
 " Forgive you?" and with a happy smile, he is putting his arms 
 about her, when she steps quickly back. 
 
 "Mr. Egerton! You forget } r ourself. There is another Flor- 
 ence Florence Clinton." 
 
248 BEHIND THE ARRAS. 
 
 Guy looks puzzled for an instant, and then the truth seems to 
 flash upon him. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he says coolly; "there is no such person 
 as Florence Clinton, that I am aware of." 
 
 Florence raises her eyes for the first time and looks at him in mute 
 wonder. 
 
 " There was, once upon a time," he continues, with a quizzical 
 smile, " but she is Florence Arnold now. I have the letter here/' 
 touching his breast-pocket, " telling me of her marriage." 
 
 " From her?" suspiciously. 
 
 "No; from her husband." 
 
 "And you never loved her?" 
 
 " Never. Were you jealous ?" 
 
 With downcast eyes and blushing face she murmurs, softly, 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Guy stands motionless, enjo} r ing her embarrassment, for she 
 knows not what to say what to do. She looks up shyly, at last, 
 with a pretty, tremulous smile of mingled consciousness and joy, 
 and then he takes her in his arms, and all past misunderstandings 
 are forgiven and forgotten as he presses her to his heart. 
 
 Presently he leads her to a sofa and drawing her to his side they 
 talk with lowered voices. 
 
 "My own darling, mine at last; mine whom I have loved and 
 waited for so long," he says, imprisoning one little hand. "You 
 don't know how many times your cold and cutting manner has hurt 
 me of late, darling. I could not make out what it was that I had 
 done, and I would have thought you had learned to love another had 
 it not been for one little thing. You won't think me very conceited 
 if I tell you, will you ? Quite sure ? Do you remember that night 
 at Avington when you had sprained your ankle ? You were dread- 
 fully unkind to me that night." 
 
 " Yes? And were you not cold and distant too ?" 
 
 " If I was, it; was because I had made a vow to myself not to 
 betray my feelings till I had regained my own name and station, 
 and become more your equal in the eyes of the world; and I found 
 it no easy task to hide what I felt. Your conduct was inexplicable 
 to me, and it pained me more than I can express. I asked your 
 cousin to sing the words dearest to my heart, and as I listened and 
 was carried back to the long-ago, I chanced ,to catch somebody look- 
 ing at me with an expression which my vanity construed as favor- 
 able to my wishes. That look has kept me ever since from despair- 
 ing." 
 
 Florence blushes and looks down. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 249 
 
 ' ' I was thinking of Florence Clinton that night," she says. Oh, 
 Guy, you do not know you can never know all that I felt as I too 
 listened to the words of Edith's song. You are a man, and cannot 
 understand the workings of a woman's mind, or all the ins and 
 outs of her character they often puzzle even herself/' 
 
 " I doubt if it would give a woman as much happiness to be un- 
 derstood as it affords her pleasure to think that no else can under- 
 stand her." 
 
 "And I doubt," Florence replies archly, "if a man's perfect 
 knowledge of his own character gives him half so much gratification 
 as it gives a woman to puzzle over hers." 
 
 "And I again doubt," laughs Guy, " if even a man's just appre- 
 ciation of his own virtues is half so gratifying as when he vainly 
 supposes a woman's character is clear to his comprehension. But 
 tell me, dearest; how did you hear about this other young woman 
 Florence Clinton? From your cousin Edith?" 
 
 " That rainy day, when you met her in the Via Condotti, in Kome, 
 I was seeking refuge under the same shelter. It was when I was 
 playing lady's maid, you know." 
 
 " What! were you the woman whom we thought must have been 
 taken with a sudden fit of madness, to go forth from her snug re- 
 treat without apparent reason, into the driving storm?" 
 
 " I suppose so. I heard you whisper something, and I fled." 
 
 "Whisper something?" he repeats meditatively. "Ah, I remember, 
 now. The poor girl was in low spirits, at the thought of losing her 
 father, and I reminded her that she still had Philip Arnold, even 
 though he was far away in New York. She had written to me 
 when her father grew worse, as the only friend near at hand to 
 come to her aid, that she should not be left alone in a strange 
 place. After her father's death we found some American friends 
 of her's, on their way home, and in their charge I placed her. 
 That was three months ago, and yesterday I received Arnold's letter 
 telling me they were married. To think that the whisper which 
 brought comfort to her, should so nearly have been fatal to my own 
 happiness!" 
 
 Florence's response is a blush of shame at having ever doubted 
 him. 
 
 " And do you remember," he continues, " now that we are on the 
 subject of reminiscences, at dinner that day, the day Sir Griffith 
 made you draw your fate, as you called it, from the cup, and which 
 turned out to be the masquerade do you remember expressing 
 your horror at the thought of being united to a man with the stain 
 
250 BEHIND THE AERAS. 
 
 of blood on his soul ? Ah, how your remark sunk like lead into iny 
 heart/' 
 
 " Did you think I could not love you if others thought you guilty ? 
 Love is a powerful teacher, Guy, and it has taught me the force of 
 
 this: 
 
 " The ruling passion, be it what it will, 
 .The ruling passion conquers reason still. " 
 
 Had you really spilled blood, even by accident, and had we met 
 afterward for the first time, I knowing it, could not have loved you; 
 I would not have allowed myself to do so. But once you had found 
 your way to my heart, you might have committed any crime, and if 
 you were but true to me, I fear you would still have been my own, 
 own love." 
 
 Guy's only answer is a passionate embrace. 
 
 " You really love me then now and for all time?" he asks. 
 
 "It has always made me sad to hear people say that affection dies 
 after marriage. I don't believe that it does. Do you, Guy ?" and 
 she looks up at him with serious eyes. 
 
 Earnestly, he answers: 
 
 "No, darling; I do not. An unhappy wedded life is the result 
 of a hasty marriage between those who are utterly uncongenial in 
 tastes and sentiments, and who make the discovery of their unfitness 
 for each other only when the honeymoon is passed. You and I know 
 all of each other's faults and good qualities, and there are no un- 
 pleasant awakenings to look forward to, as to peculiarities of dis- 
 position and character, in the future. I have no fear, Florence, 
 that my love will ever grow cold. May I hope for the same endur- 
 ance from yours?" 
 
 She does not answer him in words, but nestling closer within his 
 protecting arm, bows her head over the strong hand, which clasping 
 hers, yields gently to her touch as she presses it fondly to her lips. 
 
 "That is the seal of obedience," he says, laughing softly. 
 " Where now must you place those of love and honor ?" Shyly she 
 puts up her arms, and drawing down his head to a level with her 
 own, imprints a kiss upon his brow. 
 
 "Honor!" he exclaims. " You are reversing the order of your 
 vows." 
 
 As she hesitates 1 to give the last token, he bends his head, and 
 murmuring, " Love," takes it with his lips from hers. 
 
 " By Jove! found at last; I've been looking for you everywhere. 
 What on earth are you doing, my dear?" says Jolliffe's voice behind 
 me. 
 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. 251 
 
 With a sudden consciousness of the unworthy part I have been 
 playing, and eager that he shall not discover what has kept me so 
 long absent from his side, I turn quickly to meet him. As I take 
 his arm and lead him away, to the awakened sense of shame for 
 what I have been doing is joined the thought which flashes through 
 my mind: Would this scene ever have been enacted; would past 
 events have followed in succession as they have; in short would 
 this tale ever have been told, had no unseen observer stood and 
 listened thus 
 
 BEHIND THE ARRAS? 
 
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