Cl)C iluthor's €dition TO THE BITTER END NOVELS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. Lady Audley's Secret Henry Dunbar. Eleanor's Victory. Aurora Floyd, John Marchmont's Legacy. The Doctor's Wife. Only a Clod. Sir Jasper's Tenant. Trail of the Serpent. The Lady's Mile. Lady Lisle. Captain of the Vulture. Birds of Prey. Charlotte's Inheritance. Rupert Godwin. Run to Earth. Dead Sea Fruit. Ralph the Bailiff. Fenton's Quest. Lovels of Arden. Robert Ainsleigh. To the Bitter End. Milly Darrell. Strangers and Pilgrims. Lucius Davoren. Taken at the Flood. Lost for Love. A Strange World. Hostages to Fortune. Dead Men's Shoes. Joshua Haggard. Weavers and Weft. An Open Verdict. Vixen. The Cloven Foot The Story of Barbara. Just as I Am. Asphodel. Mount Royal. The Golden Calf. Phantom Fortune. Flower and Weed. Ishmael. Wyllard's Weird. Under the Red Flag. One Thing Needful. Mohawks. Like and Unlike. The Fatal Three. The Day Twill Come. One Life, One Love. Gerard. The Venetians. All along the River. Thou art the Man. The Christmas Hirelings. Sons of Fire. London Pride. Under Love's Rule. Rough Justice. In High Places. His Darling Sin. The Infidel. The Conflict. A Lost Eden. The Rose of Life. The White House. Dead Love has Chains. Her Convict. During Her Majesty's Pleasure. Our Adversary. Beyond these Voices. To THE BITTER END BY M. E. BRADDON A-utkt>r of "LADT AUDLEVS SEC/^ET," " y/JCEA.^; "LONDON PRIDE," ETC. Xonbon SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO., Ltd. pntitee fcr tbe Butber £t TtDiniiam Clowes & Sons, Hmlte^, l«n6on int) £«ccles. C O N T E N T S. TUKM 1, " UowB ni A Klowbrt Valb"* . . II. Briekwood IB Dkoraiisd III. " 0, DO TOO RBUEHBBR THK FIRST TIMB I MET fOU IV. " Thk TRng Titian Colour " . V. Mr. Waloravb ikdcloks his Social iKbTiNCta . VI. GRAOK DIMOTiaS A LiKENKSS . VII. " If it OOCU) ALWAT8 BE To-PAT I" VIIL "Rkoal hkr Tbaes, to tubk at Pa&tins JU'iea " IX. "Ax FOND Kl88, AND THKN WK SbVKK' X. Mr. Walsravb la satisfikd with b:ii'4blf XI. Ok Dott XII. Harcross Ain> Vallobt .... XIII. " The Shows of Tbinob am Bkttkr than selves" XIV. Mk. Walqraw rxlietes hi9 Mind . XV. " Dost thou loob back on what hath been XVI. "But if thou mean'ht not Well" XVII. Beyond his Reach XVIII. Mr. Waloraye is Translated . XIX. Richard Redhayne's Retukk . XX. •' What is it that you would impart to mb XXI. A Cold and Lotelbss UNi«>ri . XXII. A PAI.PABLB Hit XXIII. "For Life, for Death" XXIV. Qboroie's Sbttlbuent .... XXV. Mrs. Harcross at Home XXVI. M&. AND Mrs. Harcross beoin to understabd bac othbk . . XXVII. " MoBi fbll than Axocibh, Hcnobr, or the Ska IXVIII. *• But 0, thb hkayt GHARoa now Thou a&t GokbI XXIX. A Reoovb&xd Trxasurb XZX. ** Look Back I a Thought wuium burdebs ob Db ■PAIR I" TAai 1 6 17 28 36 42 47 53 03 dv 74 80 8« 94 105 114 122 129 135 150 165 174 185 190 198 207 2'JO 225 230 2U 694 »v Contents. oRAf. r^a' XXXI. HUBBA^NDS AMD WlVSS iS41 XXXIl. " Oh Pleasdrb bent" 253 XXXIII. " And onb with You I oodu> hot bs" . . . 256 XXXIV. " But dead that othkr way" .... 267 XXXV, " TUINK TOP, I AM NO BTRONOBR TQAK MT SuX ?" . 271 XXXVI. "A NATIVE Skill her suiplb Kobes exp'.esb'd" . 28i XXXVII. "Then jtell upon the House a buuden Uloom" . 288 KXXVIII. "Or ALL Men else I have Avoided Tiike" . . 293 XXXIX. "Thou art the Man" 304 XL. " And there never was Moonlight so Sweet as Thw" 317 XLI. "Do Evil Deeds thus quickly come to End" 825 XLII. The Wrong Mas 331 XLIII. *' Yes Broiheb, Curse wrrH Mb that Baleful Hour" sJSS XLIV. "Some Innocents 'soapb hot the Thunderbolt" . 847 XLV. " Bt the same Madness still madb Blind " . . S52 XLVI. "Home tbbt brought her Warrior pead " . . 862 XLVII. " Why banish Truth? It injures hot the Dead" »67 XL VIII. " And when he palls, be palls like Luoipk"" U7i CHAPTER I. "down in a flowery vale." An old-fashioned garden deep in the heart of niral Kent; n garden such as no modem gardener would approve, but sweet- Bcented and beauteous withal, and very dear to its possessor, who is far away across the barren sea, trying to mend his fortunes in Australian gold-fields, and who looks back with many a secret sigh to that one green valley in England which he calls home. It has been his home forty years, and the home of his race for centuries past. Very hard would it be to part with the old place now; and yet Richard Redmayne has had to look that bitte possibility steadily in the face. There are no trim flower-beds, circular and diamond-shaped no marvels of ribbon bordering, no masses of uniform colour, no curious specimens of the pickling-cabbage tribe, or varieties of the endive family ; but two long wide borders filled with a medley of old-fashioned flowers, a great wealth of roses, a broad expanse of grass, with trees here and there ; ancient apple and pear trees, a couple of walnuts, a Spanish chestnut — low and wide-spread- ing, making a tent of shade — and one great gloomy cedar. The garden is shut in from the outer world, from the quiet country- road which skirts it, by high red- brick walls lined with fruit trees, md crowned with dragon's-mouth and stone-crop; walls which lire in themselves a study for the pencU of a pre-Raphaelite. A.nd beyond the garden — parted from it only by a sweetbrier Aedge — there is a wide Kentish orchard, where the deep soft grass is flecked with the tremulous shadows of waving leaves — the sweetest resting-place — a very haven of peace on sultry summer afternoons. And at the end of the orchard there is a pond, where a brood of ducks plash in and out among the wat«i'-> a To the Bitter End. liliee ; and on tlie other side of the i)ond the pastures and com- fielda of Bnerwood Farm. Grarden and orchard, homestead and farmyard, belong to Richard Redmayne, who has been bitten with the gold-hnnting mania, and \z away in Australia, trying to retrieve fortunes that have snflFered severely of late years by a succession of unlucky accidents, bad harvests, disastrous speculations in live stock, cattle disease, potato blight, — aU the shocks to which agricultural flesh is heir. He leaves his younger brother behind him — an easy-going, rather weak-minded man, who has never done much for himself in life, but has been for the most part a hanger-on and dependent ^pon the master of Brierwood — and his brother's wife, by no means easy-going or weak-minded, but a trifle shrewish and sharp-spoken, yet not a bad kind of person at heart. These two, James Redmayne and his wife Hannah, are left ra charge oi the farm. And of something infinitely more precious than Brierwood Farm. Dear as every acre of the old home is to the heart of th* wanderer, he leaves behind him something ten thousand times dearer — his daughter Grace, an only child, a tall, Blim, auburn* haired girl of nineteen. She was by no means a striking beauty, this farmer's daughter, who had been educated beyond her station, the little world of Kingsbnry in general, and Mrs. James Redmayne in particular, protested. She was not a woman to take mankind by storm under any circumstances, but fair and lovable notwithstanding ; a figure very pleasant to watch flitting about house or garden, tall and slender like the liUes in the long borders, and with a flower-like grace that made her seem akin to them — a sweet, fair young face, framed in reddish-brown hair, with touches of red gold here and there among the waving tresses ; a face whose chiefeet charm was its complexion, a milk-white skin, with only the faintest blush-rose bloom to warm it into life. Grace Redmayne had been over-educated — so said Mra. James, who would have liked tc see her niece a proficient in the dairy, and great in the management of poultry. In sober truth, the girl's life was somewhat useless, and Mrs. James had common sense on her side. About the real business of the farm Grace knew nothing. She loved the old home fondly, delighted in wandering among the flowers, and idling away long mornings in the orchard ; loved all the live creatures around her, from old Molly the dairymaid, whom she had known from her earliesi childhood, to the yellow ducklings hatched yesterday ; " an4 there an end." She had spent three years in a boarding-school at Tunbridge Wells, and nad returned to Brierwood with the usual smattering : piayina the piano a little, speaking French p " Down ij u Flowery Vale." % fiitle, knowing a few stray phrases of Italian^ sketching a little, painting impossible flowers upon Bristol-board, and with an insatiable passion for novel-reading. Her father picked up a piano for her, second-hand, at a ^►roker'B shop m Tuubridge; a piano chosen for its external graces rather than its internal merits, but which looked very grand in a recess in the old-fashioned wainscoted parlour. The farmer dearly loved to have his daughter sing to him in the summer twihght before supper, and loved the soft low voice no less if it sometimes lulled him into unpremeditated ulumber, from which a sharp clatter in the adjacent kitchen, and the voice of Mrs. James, asking shrilly if they meant ever to come to their luppers, were wont to rouse him, recalling him too suddenly from pleasant dreamland to the hard world of fact. She was his only child, this fair-faced aubnm-haired Grace ; a beautified resemblance of the one only woman he had ever loved, his pure, simple-hearted, country-bred wife, untimely reft from him by an appallingly- sudden death twelve years ago. She was the only thing he had upon earth to love and cherish, and he had poured out all the treasures of a strong man's affection upon that fair young head. It was a bitter trial to leave her in the bloom of ber girlhood ; but after a long struggle with adverse circumstances, he had arrived at the conviction that there was nothing else to be done. An old friend of his — a man who had failed ignominiously as a small tenant-farmer — had been doing wonders in the gold-fields, and had sent Richard Redmayne a glowing account of his successes. Redmayne was by nature adventurous and epenulative ; not a man to plod on day by day contentedly upon a level road, even if that road were moderately prosperous ; and for a long time adversity had been his yoke- fellow. He brooded over that letter from Australia, written careles?iy enough — with considerable exaggeration perhaps — brooded over it as if it had been the magical clue to high fortune. Night after night he dreamed of being away yonder, knee- deep in the rough clay, turning up spadefuls of yellow gold under a broad white moon. Morning after morning he stared at the painted walls of his bed-chamber, bright in the glory of the summer sunshine, with a pang of disappointment, to think his life was shut in by their narrow bounds. True, there was his daughter, whom he loved better than anything else in the world ; but the thought of her only made him more eager to seek his fortune far afield. Unless he did something — something as desperate as this — and succeeiled, Brierwood must needs be sold to strancjers. He was up to his eyes in debt, and could hardly hope to hold out much longer. Perhaps none but a desperate man, and a man ineiperienc^J in the ways of tho world beyond hie own homestoad, would evA' 4 To the Bitter Etta. have thought of Buch a thing as gold-digging aB a means of redemption. But this wild hope of his had been lurking in his mind since the first days of the gold fever, when men's hopes and dreams of fortunes to be picked up on that unexplored Tom Tiddler's ground were wilder and larger than they are now. from the daily worries and ever-increasing perplexities of his xife, Richard Eedmayne set his face towards that unknown world ftcross the sea, until it seemed to him as if a star was shining over there which he had but to follow. Even if he failed, he told himself, it would be some kind of SAtisfaction to have done something. Any failure that could liefall him would be better than to stay at home staring misfor- tune in the face. He c&UeC his creditors together, and told them the plain facts of the case. They had not yet grown desperate, and had a great faith in his honesty. Indeed, the sums he owed were not large— scarcely amounting altoget,her to fifteen hundred pounds, whereas the farm was ^ood vpJue for four thousand— but seemed large to him in his utter inability to pay them without encumbering his land. His creditors smiled ever so little when he explained his gold- diggmg views, did their best to dissuade him from so mad an adventure, but readily gi-anted him time, which was all he wanted. " I'm not afraid," he said, when one of them, a friend of many years' standing, tried to put his scheme in the gloomiest Hght. " There's something tells me I must succeed if I only hold on. It may be one year, or two, or three, before I do what I want to do. It shan't be more than three. But I ask for three years' grace from all of you, in case of the worst. I don't expect to get •o much indulgence for nothing. I'U give you all an annual five per cent upon your bills." That was Uberal-minded and fair on Mr. Redmayne's part, tne creditors said. One weak-minded man wanted to waive the question of interest, but was put down by his brother tradersL. Mr. Eedmayne had taken a very just view of the case, and they wished him all possible success in his new career. After all, people wore finding gold in large amounts ; and there was no reason why he should not have his share of the luck that seemed »o common. Perhaps there was nothing heard of the unlucky diggers— they perished mute and inglorious ; so that it seemed fts it a man needed only a pickaxe and spade to turn up wealth nnhraited. By_ much brooding and dreaming, and by reason of an ever- growing weariness, which made him turn with loathing from the farm, where everything seemed to go badly. Rick Redmayne, as his friends called him, had brought himself to this state of mind. Out yonder was the certainty of fortune, had he but the courag** **Vown in a Flowery VaU.** 6 to go ai?d seize Ti])on it. He was active and hardj, had never known a day's illness, was as strong as Hercules, a good marks- man, the Tery man to rough it in a new country. From the petty difficulties and annoyances of his existence here he turned with a yearning to the unknown life over there. So one fine March morning, after that friendly interview with his creditors, he went up to London, bought his outfit — a very economic and simple one — took his pas«age in a vessel then loading in the Docks, and to sail in a week, saw his sea-chest safely shipped, and went back to Brierwood to tell his daughter Grace. The scene between these two was a bitter one. The girl loved her father passionately. What else had she ever had to love •rith all the strength of her nature, which was a warm and loving >ne ? Until this moment he had given her no hint of his inten- tion. She had heard him talk with a touch of envy of the tine doings in Australia, and of his friend Joe Morgan s luck ; had heard him compare the slow plodding toil and trouble of a far- mer's life with the sudden turns of Fortune's wheel which raised a man from penury to wealth in a week ; but that was all. She had listened, and sympathised with him and comforted him, nevor dreaming that it could enter into his head to leave Brier- wood. The thing seemed impossible. She stood stricken speech- less when he told her his intention, looking at him with an agonised face that smote him to the heart. " You don't mean it, father," she cried, "you don't mean it! You're only saying it to frighten me." " Nay, my lassie, I do mean it," he said tenderly, taking her in his arms, and gently smoothing the pretty auburn hair as her head lay upon his breast. " But you mustn't grieve about it Uke this. My going away is for your guod, Gracey. I might have to sell Brierwood, if I stopped at home and twiddled ray thumbs while things went to ruin. There's nothing I can do about the farm that Jim can't do just as well. It's only for a year or so I'm to be away — three years at the longest." " Three years ! " cried the girl piteously. " 0, father, father, take me with you ! " " Take you to the gold-fields P No, my pretty bird ; that's too rough a life for such as you. I didn't bring you up like a lady, and send you to boarding-school, to take you among such & rough lot as I must work witn out yonder." " I don't care how rough the life may be; I don't care what hardships I may have to bear. I shall be safe anywhere with you." *' Safe anywhere with you." The words came back to his memory years afterwards, and smote him like a perpetnuJ re- proach. He tried to comfort her ; tried to put his exile in a cheerful 8 To the Bitter End. fight. The girl would think of nothing but the unknown w« he had to cross, the unknown land in which he had to toil. " My heart will break if you go, father," she said, and stead- fastly refused to be comforted. Yet he went, and her heart was not quite broken. It was a great sorrow. Night after night she cried herself to sleep in her pretty room under the old red-tiled roof; morning after mommg she woke to a sense of desolation and misery. But she was hardly eighteen years of age. Little by little hope revived. A cheery letter, telling of the wanderer's safe arrival, was the first comfort that broaght a smile to the fair young face ; and from that grew the habit oi looking forward to other letters. Her heart was not broken— that was to come afterwards. OHAPTER n. BRIERWOOI) IS DBGRADED. Mb. and Mrs. James Bedmayne had two sons ; great hulking ankempt youths of nineteen and twenty, illiterate to a degrea tiiat inspired their cousin Grace with a profound contempt for them,but hard-working lads, and excellent farmers. These young men, with their father, had now the entire management of the land, and handled it after their own pleasure. Things about the farm seemed to mend somehow after the master's departure Richard Redmayne had been impatient, speculative, fickle, minded; had been always trying new experiments of late; had squandered money upon agricultural machinery, a great deal of which he had been obliged to cast aside as worthless after a few months' trial. James was of a more plodding and cautious character, had an eye for ever open to the saving of sixpence.s ; and in less than twelve months from the date of Richard Red- mayne's leave-taking, the farm had in a manner righted itself, and was beginning to pay. There were no profits to boast of; but the family lived, paid ready-money for everything, and there were no losses. It was altogether an improved state of things. " If father had only stayed at home ! " sighed Grace, •when her uncle talked of these improving prospects. " If father had only stayed at home," echoed Mrs. James m her shrill voice, " things never would have improved. He'd have always contrived to be in a muddle with his new-fangled notions, never having patience to wait for matters to mend slowly ; work- ing one day as if the devil was driving him, and sitting with his arms folded the next, growling over his troubles. He's a deal better where he is than here. There may be something to be Brierwood it Degraded. 7 fAiTiAd out yonder by working in sparta ; but it isn't the way t« pet on here." At which Grace flaxed np, and defended her fiather hotly. She loTed him, and he was perfect. In turning his back upon Brier- wood, and going away to seek a fortune, he had made a sacrifice worthy the heroes of Roman history, she thought, with a very distinct memory of Marcus Curtius, who stood out from the dim background of classic story as a particularly interesting young person, whose autograph she womd like to have added to her modest collection of such treasures. Her thoughts followed him fondly by day and night at this period of her life ; the time came — ah, too soon — when they went with another. Her dreams showed him to her toiling under that distant sky ; her prayers were breathed for him. Could she stand by and hear him under- valued ? Mrs. James took her rebuke very meekly. " The girl's right to stand up for her father," she said, " and I mean no harm against Richard. I only mean, that he's got too strong a will and too fiery a temper for this sort of work. He's better suited to knocking about in foreign parts, than to waiting patiently while his com grows and his store-cattle fatten." It was early in June, Richard Redmayne had been away fifteen months, and the roses were beginning to bloom in the garden at Brierwood. The exile thought of them sometimes, in the midst of his noisy camp life, and fancied himself sitting under the great cedar where he had smoked many a pipe ana drank many a cup of tea, served by his daughter's hand, in the warm summer afternoons of old. Haymaking was at hand, and Mrs. James up to her eyes in the weary task of preparing huge meat pies and gooseberry turnovers for the haymakers, who would devour the contents of her larder — let her till it never so full — like a swarm of locusts. It was the sweet early summer time, in short, when spring, like an overgrown girl, has just developed into summer's fair womanhood, when Mrs. James, like a faithful steward, ever on the watch to increase the store she held in charge for her brother-in-law, descried a new manner of adding to her income. Wiuiin three miles of Brierwood Farm there was a tine old house, buried in the midst of a vast neglected park, called Cleve- don — a spacious Tudor mansion, which had been preserved almost it its integrity from the days of the famous Harry, but which of late had been sorely neglected, like the park and chas* that surrounded it. Sir Francis Clevedon, the present owner, was, in fact, too poor to inhabit this domain, and lived abroad, calmly awaiting some stroke of fortune — such as a long-looked-for demise of an ancient aunt from who«« he had expectations — that might enable him to 8 2b the Bitter End. inhabit the home of his ancestors. It was indeed by no (dn of his own that this young man was an exile. His father, Sir Lncas, had been one of the shining lights of the fashionable world in the days of the E>egency, and had sqnandered a hand- tome fortune, gambling with Fox, and drinking with Sheridan ; tad lived hard, and married late in life, carrying his young wfe into exile with him, and allowing his children to grow up aliens from their fatherland. He had spent all his money, and mortgaged Clevedon, but happily had not gone so far as to cut oflF the entail and alienate the estate for ever. So, when gout in the stomach carried oflF Sir Lucas, his son Francis, then a lad of fifteen, inherited a barren title, and a heavily-enciunbered estate, and was content to live in tolerably comfortable lodgings in the outskirts of Paris with his mother and sister, while a hard-headed steward adminis* tered the estate, and did his best to reduce the mortgages by means of the incoming rents. So long as Sir Lucas lived, there was little hope of clearing the estate. To the last he retained the extravagant habits which had made him seem reckless even amonpst the wild set he had consorted with — drinking chateau M argaux, and eating straw- berries in February, and peaches in April ; tossing a handful of silver to a cabman ; and insisting on a stall at a couple of opera* houses and the Vaudeville, as simple necessities of existence; betting a little every sfiring at Longchamps, and speculating on the red and black a little every autumn at Badan or Hombourg : while his anxious wife strove to save sixpences and shillings by giving her children cotton gloves instead of kid, or deleting a pudding from their frugal dinner. When Sir Lucas died, things brightened, in the estimation of Mr. Wort, the steward, who now began to cherish hopes that Clevedon might clear itself in due time. The young baronet and his mother and sister were so easily satisfied — declared then^ selves willing to live upon anything that could be spared out of the annual income; and a year after Sir Lucas's death migrated from Paris to Bruges, where the necessities of life were cheaper. For five-and-twenty years Clevedon had been in the custody of servants. The entire staff consisted of a superannuated butler and his wife, two active young women, — one for the house, and one for the dairy, — and a broken-down gardener, who kept one particular flower-garden which had belonged to his mistress. Sir Lucas Clevedon'a mother, when he was a boy, in perfect order, and allowed the rest of the gardens to become a howling wilderness. The dairy produce was sold, and the profits arising from the home- farm alone, carefully administered, amounted to a yearly income which Lady Clevedon informed Mr. Wort was ample for herself and her two children. Brierwood is Degraded. About a year after the baronet's death, Mr. Wort advised a 5reat clearing of timber — (so long as Sir Lucas lived, he had eclared there was not a stick worth cutting) — and by this means raised between five and six thousand f)ounds, which helped to lighten the load wherewith the estate was encumbered. Alto» gether the prospect was hopeful, and the mother and son, pacing the quiet boulevards of Bniges, talked cheerfidly of the time when they should be at home at Clevedon. They always called it home, though neither of them had ever slept under the old gothic roof. The mother was never destined to behold the realisation of those pleasant fancies ; she died a few years after Sir Lucas ; and Sir Francis wandered farther afield, leaving his sister at school at a convent in Bruges. Of course the house might have been let dnring all these years, and another source of income created. But here prida had intervened. Sir Lucas could stand anything but that, h« said — anything but strangers established in the house in which he had been bom, atid in which he had entertained the Prince Regent during one brilliant fortnight of ruinous hospitality. To traffic in the home of his ancestors — to barter the domestio hearth of all the Clevedons for the ill .jotten money of some City magnate ! The letter in which M/ Wort proposed such an arrangement, almost caused Sir Lv jas a fit of apoplexy. He foamed and raged for a week at what he called " that fellow's insolence." After his death his widow and his son respected this prejudice, and never dreamt of seeking a tenant for their ancestral halls ; so Clevedon remained in the care of the servants, and went slowly to decay, the damp coming in here, and the rats devouring the wainscot there, and gradual ruin creeping stealthily from cellar to garret, and from garret to cellar. John Wort, the steward, had a frienulj acquaintance with the Redmaynes. He lived in a neat little red-brick house of his own, square and ugly, but comfortable withal, on the village green — Kingsbury village — a mile and a half from Brierwood, and was always glad to drop in at the farm, for an evening pipe and a comfortable supper, or a cup of tea under the spreading cedar branches, where it pleased Grace's fancy to set her tea- table sometimes on balmy midsumlner afternoons, or in sultry harvest-time. They all liked him, although to strangers he would scarcely have seemed a fascinating person. He was some- thing over sixty years of age ; a tall man with an honest rugged face tanned and reddened by exposure to all kinds of weather, p-ay hair which was stifi" and short like stubble, and bushy gray whiskers. He had neither wife nor children of his own, and was very fond of Grace, who treated him in a dangerously bewitch* ing manner — half impertinent, half affectionate. ft was through Air. Wort's agency hat auut Hanna*> hit 10 To ihe Bitter End. apon a new means of increasing her income. The steward dropped in one June afternoon as they were taking tea under tho cedar, Grace with a novel in her lap, the two hnlldn^ cousind devouring cold boiled bacon and broad beans with the air of not having eaten for a week or so ; much to the disgust of Miss Red- mayne, who would have liked the tea-table to look pretty, with notning more substantial upon it than a dish of strawberriea and a bowl of flowers, and a china plate of thin bread-and-butter, like the " parlour " bread-and-butter at Miss Toulmin's. Misa Toulmin was the mistress of the Tunbridge Wells' seminary in which Grace Redmayne had acquired her only notions of polite liffe. The girl had learned that knowledge of good and evil which is so freely communicated in such establishments, and thought it rather a hard thin^ to be a farmer's daughter — still harder to be aunt Hannah's niece; aunt Hannah, who was so painfully industrious, and had a disposition to tuck-up her sleeves on the smallest provocation, displaying sharp red elbows, and who took an active part in the weekly wash, nor scrupled to admit and even boast of the fact. Altogether Grace Redmayne was a little at war with her surroundings, especially now that the one figure she loved was removed from the narrow home circle. Roughing it in Australia would have seemed to her a very pleasant thing, compared \vith the small mortifications and aggravations of her daily life — to hear the click-clack of her aunt's shrill tongue all day long, to be obliged to wear cotton gowns in the afternoon, and to be nagged at because she was not fond of housework. There had been lawyers' daughters and doctors' daughters at Miss Toulmin's — damsels for whom life was to be a very genteel business — who came back from their holidays with glowing accounts of parties and picnics, croquet and dancing. Poor Grace had never been to a party in her life, and could not play eroquet all by herself, though the wide level grass would have made a splendid croquet ground. There were her cousins, it is true — good-natured lads, who would willingly have given her any epare hour they could snatch from their industrious lives — but the cousinly hands and boots were of the clumsiest, and jarred upon Grace's notion of the fitness of things. It seemed to her that a croquet maUet should never be handled by any one less refined than the curate of Kingsbury — a sUm pale-faced young man, with a weak voice, who was in great request among th» email gentry of the neighbourhood, and who made a ceremoniouw call about twice a year at Brierwood, bringing the odour of gen- tility with him. Grace put down her novel, and poured out a great breakfast- cup full of tea for the steward. She was always glad to sea him. He brought them news of the outer world, and that Interesting exile. Sir Francis Clevedon, of whom she delighted t» Brisrwood it Degraded, VX fttar. Sho had a girlish notion that he must be Ilko Edgiu Uavenswood — snperb and gloomy and uncivil. " Any newa from Aastralia? " asked Mr. Wort. "There waa a mail m the day before yesterday, 1 see." Grace shook her head moumiully; no — there was no lettei this time. " The last was a long one," she said, " and father told iia not to expect a letter every mail. We should be sure to hear if any- thing went wrong with him, he said. His friend Mr. Morgan would write." " Ay, to be sure ; that's a comfort for you — he's not all alone out yonder." A fter which the steward sipped his tea meditatively, while Grace watched him, wondering whether he would tell them an}'- thing about that interesting exile, Sir Francis Clevedon. " We shall have a rare hay harvest this year, Jim," he said, presently; at which James Redmayne lighted up a little in his feeble way, and said, " Yes ; barring any heavy rain for the next two days and nights, they were certain of a good crop " " There's not much chance of rain ; my barometer nasn't been below thirty this fortnight. We haven't had as good a crop at Clevedon for the last ten years as we've got now." " And that'll help Sir Francis, 1 suppose, " said Grace, eagerly. " Of course it will, Gracey," returned Mr. Wort, cheerily. " There'll be a good seven hundred pounds to pay the mort- gagees out of hay this year. It's a ])leasure working for Sir t'rancis. He hasn't taken more than two hundred and fifty a year out of the estate since his father died. Another cup of tea, if you please, and not quite so much sugar." "Any chance of Sir Francis coming home soon, Mr. WortP" the girl asked, as she poured out the tea. "Not miich ; unless his aunt, Mrs. Calvert, were to go ofl' the hooks suddenly, and leave him her money. He's pretty sure to got it when she does go, I believe; but she seems inclined to stick to it as long as she can." " She's very rich, isn't she ? " Grace asked, not so much for information as with the desire to keep up the conversation She had heard all about Mrs. Calvert a great many times, but she was never tired of hearing anything that concerned the Clevedon family. They were the only great people she knew of, and in her mind represented all the chivalry and splendour of the earth. " Rich ! well, yes ; she's worth six to seven thousand a year, I fancy ; just about enough to keep Clevedon up in a quiet wiv. Sir Lncas spent forty thousand a year; but times ate tiw»tred sLuce then, and a country ccntleman can live simyly. 12 To tU Bitter End. Mrs. Calvert was Sir Lucas's sister, you know, and a grea'' beauty in her day. Slie used to ride to liounds, canvass Hot Sir Lucas at elections, and set the whole country talking about lier one way and another. She had some first-rate ofi'ers, I've lieard, but gave herself no end of airs, and didn't marry until she was five-and-thirty ; and then took up with a yellow-faced old -ihap, who had made all his money in the East Indies. They never had any children, and Mrs. Calvert's bound to leave every- thing to her nephew. She was ten years older than Sir Lucas, and must be going on for eighty by this time." " I do hope she'U die soon,'' cried Grace; "at least, I didn't mean to say anything so wicked as that. But I shall be 80 pleased when Sir Francis and his sister come to their own home. It does seem such a pity to see the dear old place going to rack end ruin." " The land's not going to rack and ruin, anyhow," said th« steward. " No, of course not, you dear, clever Mr. Wort. You take care of that, and I think you count every blade of grass and every ear of com. But it's the house, I mean. The tapestry and the panelling, and the cabinets and beautiful things that you showed me one day, all smeUing so damp and mouldy. What a splendid place it must have been when George IV. stayed there ! " " Yes, it was fine enough then, " said the steward with a sigh. "There was over a hundred pounds spent on wax candles ulone, in that fortnight — I've seen the tallow-chandler's bill — and a hundred and fifty more for Ughting the conservatories and gardens with ChinefeS lanterns the night Sir Lucas gave a teet-shampeter. The Prince and Sir Lucas, and two or three more, used to sit up playing cards and drinking cura^oa tUl four or five in the mornmg — hours after the country visitors had gone home. It was a fine time." "That was before Sir Francis was born, wasn't it?" inquired Grace. " Before Sir Lucas married," replied Mr. Wort. " He didn't marry till he'd spent all his money, and then fell in love with the vicar's daughter, M.ss Agnes Wilder, a girl of eighteen. I daresay some people tb ought it was a fine match for her, and perhaps even Mr. Wilder himself was taken in. Anyhow, there was no one to oppose the marriage ; and I suppose Miss Wilder was fond of him. He was a fine-looking handsome man even then, though he was getting on for fifty. So they were married one morning in Kingsbury Church, and went off" to Paris for their honeymoon, and never came back again. Sir Lucas couldn't show his face in England." *• Poor lady, sht- has had a hard time of it I" said Gructi Srifneood is Degra^e^i. IP ■enlimentally disposed towards every member of tlie Olevedcn family. " She has indeed, Gracey, and has been a good wife to a rare bad husband. She was a proud young lady too, I've heard. Mr. Wilder came of a good old family, and brought his cliildren op with very high notions." The two young men, Jack and Charley Redmayne, had beer liloughing through their beans and bacon all this time, indif- fierent to a conversation the gist of which was very familiar to them. The steward was fond of talking about his employers, and people were apt to listen to him, merely out of civility. It was not every one who waj! always interested in the old story like Grace. Uncle James had closed his eyes in placid slumber, tanned by soft summer winds, that came creeping under the cedar branches. Aunt Hannah had di-awn a gray woollep stocking from her |x)cket, by way of a light piece of fancy-' work which might be taken up before a visitor and was darning industriously. " Yon don't happen to know of any one hereabouts who leti! lodgings — comfortable lodgings, that would suit a gentleman— do yon, Mrs. James?" Mr. Wort asked presently. Mrs. James pondered, and then shook her head, " There's none that I know of, except in Kingsbury," she said "Mrs. Freeman's in the street, and Mrs. Peter's on the green nuar you." " Neither of 'em would do," replied the steward ; " much too small; I've looked at thorn both. I want a place that would do for a gentleman who's coming down for a month or two's lishing. I want a decent-sized sitting-room, and a large airy iKjdroom, well-cooked meals, and a good garden. If you knew any farmhouse within half-a-dozen mUes or so where they'd be inclined to take him " "I don't," said Mrs. J-vmes; and then, after a pause and a dubious glance at her slumbering husband, she added, " I don't see why we shouldn't take him ourselves, if it comes to that. There's Richard's room empty, and the best par- lour not used once in a month. He'd pay pretty well, I sup- pose?" " He'd pay a fair price — a liberal price even — for such accom- modation as you could give him, I'm sure." "Take a lodger!" exclaimed Grace aghast. "Aunt Hannah!" " Take a lodger ! " echoed the matron ; " and why not, pray child ? Why shouldn't we turn empty rooms to account ? Th(^re'» need anough for us to earn a\l the money we can, while youi father's away to'Jing and moiling to pay his debts. I should have thought you'd be glad to help him in any small way jo» owuld" 14 To the Bitter Etta. " Of course I should, aunt; but I don't think father woald likt us to let lodgingp." The poor little twopenny-halfpennjr boarding-school pride was aroused. What would Miss Toulmin and ail Miss Toulmin'e young ladies say, if they discovered this stigma on their some- time companion ? Grace had been invited to a little breaking* up party six months before, and went over to the Wells sometimes to call upon her late mistress, and still measured existence by the Toulmin standard. " He's a gentleman," said Mr. Wort, " or ought tc be, for he's got good blood in his veins." Grace looked a little less disgusted at this. She had a great notion of the superiority of people of noble or ancient race — an idea that they were another order of beings than the common Hesh-and-bloed creatures with whom her daily lite was spent. "I don't think falJher would like it," she said, and made DO farther protest. " When your father went away, he gave me the full man- Agement of everything in the house and dairy," replied her aunt. 'I leave everything to you, Mrs. Jim,* he said; 'let Gracey read her books, and play her piano, and enjoy her life. I'm sure she won't want to interfere with you in the housekeeping.' Those were his words the last morning, and you heard them, Grace." "I know," answered Grace; "but I'm positive father never thought we should turn Brierwood into a lodging-house." Mr. Wort was sorry to have displeased his favourite. She was sitting with her face half turned away from him, the red lips pouting with a discontented expression. " If Grace doesn't like it," he said, " let the matter drop." •' I'm ashamed of your pride and nonsense, Grace," cried Mrs. James. The girl's opposition made her more intent upon carry ing out her notion. " I should have thought you'd havj jumped at the chance of saving a few pounds for your father. Whatever the gentleman paid for the lodgings would be cleai profit; and of course there'd be some profit on his board, and obliging your friend Mr. Wort into the bargain." "very well, let him come," said Grace; " there's nothing 1 wouldn't do V» help father." " You needn't go a-nigh him," said Mrs. James, whose lord and master had now awakened, and was regarding her with a stare of perplexity. " Sarah will wait upon him, and I shall cook for him ; gentlemen are particular about their table. Perhaps you'd like to have a look at Richard's room, Mr. WortP" James Bedmayne was fairly aroused by this time, and the Tiattflr waa explained to him in a gbb eager way by his wife, Brierwood i$ Degraded. II! a munuer tnat told him it would be well for his domestic peace not to attempt any opposition to her scheme. After this they went oif to survey Richard Redmayno's room, Grace even deigning to accompany them. Once having resigned herself to the fact of the lodger, she could not help being just a Uttle interested in the business. In such an eventless life as hers, the advent of a stranger made an epoch. The time came only too soon when she learnt to date everything from Mr. Wal- grave's coming. Hubert Walgrave — that was the name of the stranger — a oarrister, Mr. Wort told them, hard-working, and with « tolerably good practice already. He had some means of his own, and was well-born, yet stood almost alone in the world, having no near relations. He had overworked himself, and been seriously ill, and now was ordered off to some quiet country place, where he might have pure air and seclusion, for au enforced rest of two or three months. " It goes against the grain with him to be idle," said Mr. Wort; "but the doctors tell him, if he doesn't strike work, he's likely to go into a decline ; so he submits, and writes to ask me to find him a place hereabouts." " Does he know this part of the country ?** " Well, yes and no. He's been down here for a day, at odd times, to look about him, that's aU." " You've known him a long time, I suppose ? " asked Airs. James. (Jf course it was necessary to be very sure about the r»- spectability of their lodger. " Only since he was five years old," repUed Mr. Wort, witl' a thoughtful smile. "That's enough. I know you wouldn't recommend any on? that wasn't steady." "0, he's steady enough!" answered the steward — "almost too steady for a young man, I sometimes fancy. You won't catch him tripping. He's an out-and-out contrast to — to — tlie young men of my time." Richard Redraayne's bed-chamber was a great airy room, with three windows on one side looking over the garden, and an extra window at the end commanding a turn of the high- road: a very pleasant room, furnished with old mahogany chests of drawers and bureaus, and a quaintly-carved four-post bedstead ; dimity curtains to bedstead and windows ; narrow strips of faded Brussels carpet here and there, a big clumsy painted waahstand with plain white crockery, a couple of samplers friimed and glazed, a worsted-work representation of Jacob's drenin, four gaily-coloured prints of stage-coaches and hull' ln8-»ceneB for th9 oroauientatiun of the walls, au old IB To the Bitter 15id If^dian teapot aiad half-a-dozen cracked cupa and saacert on the tigh chimney-piece, and an all-pervadiog perfume of dried t« render: — a room in which a man might live or die peacefully. Mr. Wort glanced round the chamber, and pronounced that it would do. " I'U tell him to bring his shower-bath," he said. '• You can ^jve him plenty of cold water, I suppose?" " O yes ! " Mrs. James answered rather snappishly. " He can have water enough, if he's one of your slopping and sluicing gentlemen." Mrs. James regarded all unnecessary use of water, except in dornbbiug deal-boards, with distaste, as involving waste of laboul in carryings to and fro, and perpetual slopping of stairs and fsmsages. " You know the best parlour," she said. Mr. Wort was i>erfectly familiar with that, state apartmert, virhich was only occupied on rare occasions, and kept religiously under lock and key, as a temple sacred from the tread of common feet. A long low roon^ with a great bow -window, massive oaken beams across thf> leiling, faded chintz cover- ings to chairs and sofa — such a u:>{ii I a small detachment of infantry might have reposed upon it, if repose could be found on anything so hard ; a ponderous square mahogany table ; ah old sideboard, embellished with braes lions' heads, \vith rings through the noses thereof; three cracked china jars of pot- ponm; the family Bible and Izaak Walton in whole calf; a oarnet from which every vestige of bright colour had faded Italf a century or so, but which was still piously protected by a drab linen cover of spotless purity; — a cool, darksome cham- ber, the bow-window half shrouded by roses and honeysuck'e — a room in which a man might dream away the summer hours, or muse beside the winter fire, oblivious that hfe wtg moving on. "The best parlour will do admirably," said Mr. Wort. " And now, how about terms ? Should you consider, say. three guineas a week a fair remuneration for board and lodging ? " "Yes," replied aunt Hannah, who was thinking that two (ifumeas out of the three might be clear profit. " Thai will satisfy lae, if it will satisfy James." This allusion to James was a mere polite fiction — a wifely (HjmpUment. All the world of Kingsbury knew how very smaU a voice James Bedmayne had in the management of affairs at Briorwood. "Then it'c all settled, I conclude," said Mr. Wort; " and Mr WaJgrave may come as soon as he pleases." "Yes," replied a — * Hannah; "the rooma are ready. I'm ttot one to let dirt settle t^ -comers all the vea" round, and than **Oydo You Btmemher the First Time I Met Ton f '* i? make a great to-do over a spring cleaning, and call that gor>iii housekeeping, as some /oiks do. Every Friday scour, and evci-y Tuesday sweep : that's my maxim. It leaves Monday for wash- ing, and Wednesday for ironing, Thursday for baking, a;iU Saturday for clearing up." "Lor, aunt Hannah," cried Grace, with a little impatient ahrug, " as if Mr. Wort cared about all that ! " "There's some people might care about it to their own profit, if Mr. Wort doesn't," replied the matron sharply. " Farmers' daughters are as idle as duchesses nowadays, or worse; for duchesses ain't brought up at twopenny-halfpenny boarding- schools." " It's the best school at the Wells," Grace tiajhed out indig- nantly. " Father wouldn't have sent me to a bad one." It was the outrage against her father she felt most keenly. Mr. Wort flung himself into the breach gallantly. " I shall write to Mr. "VV^Igrave to-night," he said ; " and 1 daresay you'll have him down on Saturday." " Saturday or Monday's all aUko to me," replied Mrs. James. They stroUed back to the garden, where the tea-tray had given place to a square black bottle of hollands, a brown jug of cold spring water, and a couple of tumblers. Grace wan thoughtful. It was a humiliation to receive a lodger; but shfc could not help wondering and speculating a Uttle about thy Btrauger. Strangers were so rare at Kingsbury ; and to receive one in her own house was like the beginning of a new life. They would date after-events from this epoch, no doubt, and divide life at Brierwood into two periods, before Mr. Walgrave came; ftfter Mr. Walgrave came. CHAPTER m. "O, DO TOU REMEMBER THE FIRST TDCB I MET TOWf'' He came late on Saturday afternoon — a calm sunny afternoon, with scarcely breeze enough to stir the newly-blown roses. The place seemed all roses to Hubert Walgrave' s haggard London- weary eyes : roses making a curtain for the porch ; roses white and red climbing np to the very chimney-pots, entangled with creamy yellow woodbine ; spreading bushes of moss-roses and cabbage-roses in the narrow garden between the high-road and thfe house ; and through a side gate Mr. Walgrave caught a glimpsr* of the old-fashioned garden behind the house, all all loom with roses. '•Rather a nice place," he murmured, in a languid semt* 18 To trie Bitter End. BupercilioTis tone that was almost habitnal to him. " As a m <^ farmhouses are ugly." All the household — they had just finished tea in the every* day parlour — heard the stoppage of the fly ; and there was a little group behind the dimity curtains peering out at the new- comer — a group in which Grace was by no means the least curious. She forgot all the degradation involved in the idea of a lodger for the moment in her eagerness to see what he was like. Jack and Charley Redmajrne had gone out, at their mother'c bidding, to assist in bringing in the stranger's luggage — a huge txunk, time-worn and shabby, which from its weight seemed to contain books ; a large leathern portmanteau, also the worse for wear; a carpet bag or two, three or four fishing-rods, and a shower-bath. " Ah," exclaimed Mrs. James, with unmitigated disgust, " I expected he'd be a slopper ! " " He looks Uke a gentleman," said Grace, thoughtfully. Heaven knows where the girl had obtained her notion of a gentleman ; unless it were from the rector, a fussy Uttle elderly man, who was always quaiTelliug with some one or other of his parishioners; or the curate, an overgrown youth of two-and- twenty, who had bony knees and wrists and ankles, and looked as if he had not yet ceased from growing out of his garments. " He looks like a gentleman," repeated Grace dreamily. And indeed Mr Walgiave bore upon him that stamp of gentle blood, that unmistakable, indescribable grace and air which the merest peasant recognises intuitively as something that makes that other clay different from his own. He was tall, but not too tall — slender, but not too slender. His face was just a little worn and faded from recent illness, and could have hardly been con- sidered handsome; dark brown hair growing rather sparsely on the brow ; a sallow complexion, of an almost foreign darkness; gray eyes, that looked black ; an aquihne nose ; a sarcastic mouth — a mouth capable of much expression ; capable also of eTpressing nothing, if its owner were so minded. His age might '^ perhaps about five-and-thirty. Grace thought him elderly. Any little gleam of romance which hsr fancy picture of him might have mspired, vanished at sight of the reality. " But he looks Uke a gentleman, she said for the third time, is she opened her work-basket, and took out some scrap of that useless fancy-work which Mrs. James's soul abhorred, and eeated herself at the window looking into the back garden. The common parlour had a window at each end, and a half-glasa door besides opening into the garden. Tliere was a little stir in the house presently — a clattering of plates and dishes, a bell run£ once or twioe, the shrill voice of " O, do You Rememhfir the First Time I Met Touf" 19 RTrs. Jamea directing the maid-of-all-work. A dinner had been prepared fcr the new-comer, and was at this moment being served in the best parlour. Grace crept to the half-open door of the family eitting-room, and peeped out. The door of the opposite parlour was ajar, and she heard a polite languid voice, which had an unpleasant coldness, she thought, approving everything. " Thanks. The rooms are very nice — quite airy and comfort- able — all that I wish. Yes ; I will take a glass of your home- brewed ale to-day, if you please. I have ordered a hamper of wine to be sent down from London. It will arrive to-night, I daresay." And then, after an interval : " I have to thank you for receiving me as a lodger. Mr. Wort teUs me it is the tirst time you have admitted anybody to your house in that capacity." " Well, you see, sir," blurted out Mrs. James, whf» was candour itself, " my brother-in-law's circumstances — Brierwood belongs to my husband's brother, Richard Redmayne, who's, away in Australia at those rubbishing diggings, where I can't make out that he's ever earned a blessed sixpence yet, and has left us in charge, as you may say — his circumstances, you see, are not what thej was; and so I didn't feel myself justified in refusing a profit, if it was only a pound a week; though my niece Grace, who's been brought up at boarding-school, where they put all kinds of stuck-up nonsense into a girl's head and call it education — our Grace was dead against it." " Dead against me P " said the stranger, in that slow lazy tone of his, as if he were speaking of something utterly remote from his own life and all its interests. " I hope before I leave Brier- wood Miss Redmayne may discover that I am not such a very objectionable person." " Lord bless you, sir ! it wasn't you she objected to ; it was only the notion of a lodger. She'd have made the same fuss if it had been the Archbishop of Canterbury." Grace blushed crimson during this talk about herself. She was angry with her aunt for talking of her; angry with the stranger for his supercilious tone, as if she had been something eo very far beneath him. The stronger made his own little fancy picture of the farmer'a daughter — a blowsy fat-faced young woman, with red cheeks, and perhaps freckles, dressed like a caricature of London fashion "She plays the piano, I suppose — your niece?" he said languidly, when he had declined the raspberry -tart and cream which Mrs. James pressed upon him. He imagined with a shudder the agonies he might hav<» *r» endure from a piano- thumping damsel of agricultural extraction. " Why do not our lejfinlators give this feminine canaille their rights i " he inquirei 20 To iJt9 Bitter Und. of himself. "This Brierwood niece would be following th« plongh, or Bupervising the hay-makers, in that case." " Yes, sir," replied aunt Hannah, whose sharp treble sonnded sharper than usual after the legato tones of the stranger ; " she do play. Richard had her taught aU the extras. She has rather a pretty taste for music — so far as such a poor judge as nie can say. But if you find it unpleasant, Mr. Walgry " — Mrs. James insisted on calling the lodger by this corruption of his surname — "you've only to say the word, and th*^ piano shall not be opened while you're with us." " Not for worlds, my dear Mrs. Redmayne. Let the young lady play as much as she likes, and forget the obscure fact of my existence. I mean to be with you too long to admit of any Buch sacrifice as a suppression of her musical inclinations. I hope to stay here for a considerable time off and on, you know — going backwards and forwards to London as soon as I am a Bttle stronger. I am a hard-working man, and cannot afibrd to be long out of harness." Mrs. James glanced towards the huge trunk, which stood open just where it had been deposited near the parlour door, with a heap of bulky volumes, in dilapidated calf or battered sheepskin, thrown pell-mell upon the floor beside it. " It looks as if you didn't mean to be idle here, sir," she said, in her simple soul regarding books as the hardest kind of hard labour. " No," Mr. Walgrave answered, with something Hke a sigh ; " a barrister must get through a good deal of tough reading if he wishes to succeed in the world ; and I don't mind owning that I do hold worldly success as a prize worth working for." He was expanding a little — had already dropped something ol bis habitual languor. Grace hked him better after what he had said about her music. She went softly back to her seat, and ->;8uined her work, ashamed of herself for having listened. After dinner, at which he had eaten sparingly, and with th« ftir of a man who cared very httle what he ate or drank, Mr. Walgrave lighted his cigar, and sauntered out into the garden. The sun had set by this time ; but a faint glow of rosy Hght still lingered above the western wall ; and above that the sky was of a tender green, that melted into the soft summer evening gray, vnth here and there a patch of brighter hue, like the flecks of colour in an opal. Hubert Walgrave walked slowly alonfl tho grass, looking about him with a lazy sensuous enjoyment ol the scene and the atmoHphere. " Upon my word, it is simply perfect in its way," he said tc timaself. " Old Wort did not exaggerate the beauty of the place. Every angle of that old house has its peculiar charm; ©verj rood of this garden a grace that makes it OfilisihilnL And ** 0,do Toil Rememher the JHrst Time I Met You .'** 21 ret it's hard to imagine a man living here year after year, away irom all the contest and expectation of Ufe, content that thia Bun.mer's harvest should yield him as good a crop as last Bummer's; that next year's profit should be only a little lesb, or a little greater; content to watch nature's slow process?"* repeat themselves from month to month — eggs hatching, wool growintf, cattle fattening, com ripening; to live a life in which there is no margin for hope. No ; I can't conceive the feelings of that man. I would almost as soon rot in a madhouse or a bastiUe as endure an existence in which there were no chances." The man who was far away waiting for the turn of his luck on the Australian gold-fielda had been something of this temper — had not been formed by nature or disposition for a farmer, iji fact. Wliile Mr. Walgrave sauntered slowly about the garden, loitering now and then to look at a rose-bush, and anon absorbed in his own meditations, forgetting why he had stopped, and standing gazing dreamily at the ilowers without seeing them Grace watched liim from behind the dimity window-curtain, idly wondering what he was thinking about ; wondering a little, too, about his past history. Mr. Wort had told them scarcely anything — only that he had no near relations, and stood almost alone in the world. That had a pathetic sound, which went far to awaken the girl's quick sympatliy. She was sorry for him, concluding at once that thia loneliness of his was a source of sadness. This compassion was, however, lessened a httle now she had seen him. He did not '.ook like a man whose life was overshadowed by sorrow ; he l>x>kod a hard-headed, hard-hearted man of the world, she thought ; and she repeated to herself that little speech of his about success in life. He was ambitious, no doubt ; and to the ambitious man the tenderest ties must be as nothing — or, iX any rate, so Grace Redmayne suj[>posed. And he would achieve what he desired, no doubt, and be a judge, or something of that Kind. She had very little sympathy with the form of his ambi- tion. If he had been a soldier, panting to exterminate his fellow-men, she might have exalted him into a hero. But a lawyer — no halo of romance could surround the head that wore a wig with an u^jly black patch at the top. She had been in tlia court once at Maidstone, when her father had some email suit going forward, and had formed her estimate of the Bar from the two or three careless barristers she had seen there. It was nearly ten o'clock when Mr. Walgi'ave finished hi« third cigar, after a complete circuit of garden and orchard, and a peep at the mysteries of the farmyard — where a family of Vreproachable pigs were grunting and stmggUng over their aveninjf meitl of second-rate potutoos and skim miljc — and w^nl 22 To the Sitter JBnd. back to his sitting-room. A pair of composite candles, in tall old-fashioned plated candlesticks of a masonic aspect, were burning on the round table. He rang for a second pair, drew the four candles into a little cluster at his left elbow, selected three or four big brown volumes from the litter on the floor, and began to read law. Ten minutes after he had opened his book, the notes of the i)iano were touched softly, and a low sweet voice began " Blath- een Mavoumeen." He pushed away his book with an impatient gesture, and flung himself back in his chair. " If this sort of thing is going to last," he said to himself, " I may as well give up all idea of work at once. And if this thing \s to occur every evening, Briei'wood will not have me long." He listened to "this sort of thing" notwithstanding; and the contraction of his eyebrows relaxed a little presently, nay, something Uke a smile began to glimmer upon his face. He listened to a plaintive German waltz, a very old one, played with a tender grace akin to the sweetness of the melody. He listened to an old ballad of Wade's, " O, do you remember the first time I met you P " worth a hundred of our modern drawins-- room songs. He listened, and was pleased. The music only lasted a quarter of an hour altogether. It was not much time to lose. He went back to his books with a faint sigh of regret, and tried to concentrate his mind upon the decision of a Chan- cery judge in a certain important case that bore somewhat upon % case he had himself in hand for the winter term. The low touching voice haunted him a little, interfering with his thorough appreciation of the most subtle points in the judge's discourse. He had to put away the thought of it with an effort ; and yet he would have been scarcely sorry if the singer had begun again. There was no chance of that, however. He heard doors open- ing and shutting presently, bolting and barring of outer portals, and the sound of light and heavy footsteps on the creaky old staircase. The servant came in to ask if he required anything more, and at what hour he would wish to breakfast next morning. " At nine o'clock ; or you may make it between nine and ten if you like. I'm not a very early man. Who was that singing just now P " " Miss Grace, sir. She's a rare one to sing ;" and the giH dropped a curtsey and retired, marvelling at the extra vagan-)« of the London gentleman, who wanted four candles to read by. " I suppose they all do it up in London," she thought. " Poor things, they must be a'most blind along of the smoke !" Mr. Walgrave read till one o'clock; then regaled himself with **The True Titian Colour.** 2S A eompobing cigar, drank a glass of cold water, and went slowly up to his bedroom — that spacious old-fashioned bed-chamber in which Rick Redmajrne had spent so many restless nights pon- lering upon his di&culties. CHAPTER IV. "the true TITIAN COLOTTS." Thx next luoruing was bright and warm — a real June momiii<,' ; Sunday morning too, made joyous by the bells of Kingsbury Church, chimmg a hymn tune, that sounded sweet and clear across the intervening meadows, and came in at Hubert Wal- grave's open window, blending itself with a dream in which he fancied nimself away from Brierwood, amidst the gorgeous upholstery of a West-end mansion, listening to a voice that was not BO sweet as Grace Redmayne's. The bells awoke him at lai^t , and he looked round him with a yawn, pleased to find him- 8?if in the quiet farmhouse. '* Thank Heaven for a tranquil day ! " he thought. " No ritualistic ceremonials in an atmosphere of rondoletia and pat- chouli, with the thermometer at ninety ; no Kensington-gardens utter luncheon; no petty scandals and inanities all day long ; no dreary, dreary, dreary eight-o'clock dinner, with the dismal tramp of some solitary passer-by sounding in the intervals of the con- versation aU through the big dusty square; no Mendelasolm in the evening. Thank Heaven for a day of repose, for a day in which I can live my own life ! " This was ungrateful. The life of which Mr. Walgrave was complaining was a life that ought by rights to have been very pleasant to him ; a life which, with more or less modificatiou, ne had elected to lead for the remainder of his existence. He got up and dressed, taking plenty of time for all the opera- tions of his toilet, enjoying the rare delight of not being in a hnrry. He had been wont to live always under pressure : to dress with his watch open on the dressing-table; to breakfast ^th his watch beside his plate; to mete out the exact time which he could spare for nis reading; to hasten from placo to place ; to spend all his days in a kind of mental lever, half his nights m restlessness engendered of over-fatigue. It was scarcely strange if he had broken down at last nndtr Buch a life. But even now, warned by the doctors that he sorely needed rest, he could not be utterly idle. The habit of hard work was too strong np)on him ; and he had brought his books down to Brierwood, resolved to get through long arr>.'ara oi r«aJini' To the Sitter EnS. The bells rang, and died out into silence— the sweet samme? silence, broken by hum of bees and song of birds, and the cuckoo's plaintive minor coming vrith a muffled sound from a neighbouring copse. The bells would ring again for the eleven ©'clock service ; but Mr. Walgrave did not mean to go to church. He intended to abandon himself to the deUght of thorough idle- ness ; to drain the cup of simple rustic joys, which were so new to him. Intent on this, he went down to breakfast in his morn- ing coat, wheeled the table to an open window, and then pouaced at once upon a bundle of weekly papers, which he bad brought down to Brierwood with him — the Atlhenceum, Saturday Review, Specif^'Or, Observer. This is how Mr. Walgrave enjoyed the country. The church bells had rung thejv last peal before he had finished his leisurely breakfast, or got half through his papers ; and the farmhouse was as quiet as some dim empty village church which a tourist enters with reverent footstep on a summer after- noon. There was ■ 10 one at home but Sally the servant-maid, Btiolung peas on a sunny door-step in the back premises, and meditating upon the iniquity of the lodger, who sat half buried in the great arm-chair — a family institution sacred to the grand- fathers 'and grandmothers of the Redmayne race — with his legs stretched out upon another chair, reading newspapers, while all right-minded people, not in service, were at church. The papers were finished at last. Mr. Walgrave laughed once or twice over the broad columns of the Saturday — that half- cynical laugh which is called a snigger — pished and pshawed a little now and then, and finally tossed the heap of periodicals aside, muttering the usual remark, that there was nothing in them. All the freshness of the morning was gone by this time, and the sun "vas at his meridian. Mr. Walgrave strolled into the garden, took out his capacious cigar-case as he went along, and lighted his noontide weed. He walked over the same ground he had explored on the previous evening, stared at the roses, admired the old cedar, threaded the grassy mazes of the orchard peeped into the farmyard, and made friends with an ancient gray donkey of benevolent aspect, whom he found resting his chin contemplatively on a five-barred gate ; made friends with the donkey, and thought of that brightest of English wiiters, Laurence Stome, who has associated himself with the asinine species for all time. The donkey is by nature a social beast ; it is the chief affliction of hie Ufe, perhaps, that horses refuse to know him. There was one old man in the fannyard, sitting on the low wall of a pigsty, asleep in the sun. Mr. Walgrave came and went without awakening him. "That is what rest means," he said to himself, &» he waU^ed " The True Titian Colour."^ 25 ■dowly away. " I daresay it is perfect bliss to that man to sleep in the sun with the odoar of pigs in his nostrils." When he had made a circuit of the garden, dawdled ever ao long under the cedar, and sniffed at the roses, he went back to the house. Morning church was over. He smelt roast meat, and saw a famly party sitting at dinner in the parlour opposite his own. He caught just a glimpse of a youthful head, with reddish-brown hair, but did not see the face belonging to it. " The true Titian colour," he said to himself, with only a passing glance, and walked into his sitting-room, incuiious. The maid came presently to aski. f he would take any luncheon. " No; unleps a basket of soda-water, which he had ordered had come for him, he would take nothing." No basket had arrived. Groods wore conveyed from London to Edinbuigh In less time than fiora London to Brierwood. There was no rail nearer than Tunbridge Junction, and only a sleepy old carrier to bridge thf intervening distance. The maid returned to her dinner in the back kitchen; and Mr. Walgrave, having drained the cup of rustic pleasurea, yawned, and looked wistfully at his law-books. He had promised his doctor that ho would rest, and had worked hard till one o'clock that morning. No, he could scarcely go to his law-books to-day. He wandered round the room; examined its artistic decorations — ancient prints repre- senting the death of General Wolfe, the reformed House of Commons, Daniel in the lion's den, and so on — with a grim smile ; looked at Izaak Walton, and Jolmson's Dietionm-y, and an old volume of the Farmer's Magazine ; and after this survey went back to the table by the window. " I suppose I had better write to Augusta," he said to him- self, opening a ponderous rubsia-leather despatch-box. " Of course she'll expect a letter. What can I write about ? — that old man asleep among the pigs, or that friendly donkey? or shall I go into raptures about the roses, or that girl's voice last night? There's not much material for a Horace Walpole at Brierwood ; but I must write something." He took out a quire of paper stamped with a great gothio monogram, and began : " My dear Augusta," — (" She's the only Augusta I know," he said to himself; " so it would be a lapse in grammar to call her dearest.") " My dear Augusta, — Just a line to inform you of my establishment at Brierwood, which is a pleasant old place enough: donkeys and roses, and pigs and strawberries-and- cream, and all that kind of thing ; but direfally dull. I have read aU the papers, and tear I shall be driven to j^oing to atter- Doon service at Kingsbury Church h . sheer imibility to get rid a« To the Sitter End. of my day. How horrified you will be by the levity of thsit remark ! But I had intended to indemnify myself for all I have sufiered from your favourite Mr. Reredos, of St. Sulpice, West Brompton, by a temporary lapse into paganism. I daresay you are receiving your usual Sunday droppers-in — discussing the sermon, the contents of the plate, whether liberal or otherwise, and the bonnets — while I write this. And then you will go to the Gai'dens, and walk up and down, and wonder at the strange beings from lower deeps of society whon. you meet there. Did you go to Covent Garden last night ? I see they gave Lc Fuvorita. The air here is purity itself, and I think will set me up very shortly. I mean to obey the doctors, however, and withdraw myself from the delights of civilised Ufe for a long time — until the winter term, in fact. I need not say that my thoughts follow you in this seclusion, and that I wish you were here to brighten my solitude. Give my best remembrances to your father, and believe me to remaia your affectionate Hubert Walgrave." " I think it's about as inane an epistle as was ever penned," he said to himself, when he had addressed his letter to Misa Vallory, 10 Acropohs Square, South Kensington. The fact of having written it seemed some reUef to his mind, however. He cast himself down upon the hard sofa, and slumbered perhaps as sweetly as the old labourer in the farm- yard. The afternoon bells woke him, and he got up quickly, and went to fetch his hat. " I'll go and see what the barbarians are like," he said to himself He tapped at the opposite door, to ask his way to church. It was opened by Mrs. James, stiff and solemn in her Sunday cap und gown. She opened the door wide enough to give Mr. Walgrave a full view of the room ; but the Titianesque head ot ha ir was not visible. " Gone to church perhaps," he thought, " or out in the garden." Mrs. James gave him most precise directions for finding Kingsbury and Kine-obnry Church. It was a pleasant walk across the fields, she said. " But you'll be late, sir," she added ; " it's half-an-hour's walk at tlie least, and the bells have been ringing above a quarter." " Never mind that, Mrs. Redmayne ; I want to see the ch'irch.** " It's not much of a church for any one from London to .see. sir ; but the rector's a good man and a good preacher ; you'll be none the worse for heanng him." " I hope I may derive some profit from his instruction," siiid ilr. Walgrave, smiling. **The True Titian Colour^ 27 He went by the meadow-path to which he had been directed, hugging the hedges, which grew high above him, rich in honey- suckle and dog-roses, fox-gloves and fern. A delicious walk. He had no sense of loneliness; forgot all about Augusta Vallory and Acropolis Square; forgot to dream his ambitious dreams of future success ; forgot everything but the perfumed air about him, and the cloudless blue sky above his head. Ho had nearly two miles to walk, but to this tired dweller in cities it was like a walk in Paradise. Though he had not very long been released from the regimen of a sick-room, he felt no fatigue or weakness, and was almost sorry when a turnstile let him out of the last meadow on to a little hilly common, in the midst of which stood Kingsbury Church — an unpretending building with trees about it. The service was conducted in a quiet old-fashioned manner. That ancient institution, the clerk, was in full force ; the number of the hymn to be sung was put up in white movable figures on a httle black board, for the convenience of the congregation. The sermon was a friendly, familiar discourse, practical to the last degree, brightened by homely touches of humour now and then ; a sermon which might fairly be supposed to come home to the hearts and minds of a simple rustic congregation. While the hymns were being sung, Mr. Walgrave looked about him. He had taken his place at the end of the church, near the door, in the shadow of the little gallery, and could see everything without making himself conspicuous. Yes, there was the Titianesque head of hair; he recognised it in a moment, though he had only caught that brief glimpso through the parlour window. A girl stood in one of the high j>ews about half-way down the centre aisle ; a tall slender figfure, m a lavender muslin dress and a straw bonnet, under which appealed a mass of red-brown hair. He had no opportunity of seeing her face during the service. " I daresay she has the complexion that usually accompanies that coloured hair," he said to himself — "a sickly white, pepper- castored with freckles. But if one dared guess by the turn of a woman's head, and that great knot of glorious hair, one might imagine her pretty." One did imagine her pretty ; or at least one was curiously eager to discover the fact. When the sermon was over. Mi. Walgrave contrived his departure so as to leave the church side by side with Grace Redmajrne. He saw her glance shyly at Jiim, evidently aware of his identity. kShe was very pretty. That sweet fair face, which was actually by no means perfect, impressed him with a sense of perfect beauty. It was so different from — from other faces he knew, ha ibnd of music, and it is my only amusement; but if I thougbt it disturbed you '* • " I beg to be disturbed like that every evening, though I don't suppose it will materially advance my legal studies. And so you are fond of music P Of course I knew that, after hearing you play and sing : there is a touch and a tone that can oid y come from the soul — not to be taught by a music-mistress, teacu phe never so wisely. Were you ever in London ? " "Never," answered Grace with a sigh. " Then you have never been to the Italian Opera, nor to any of those concerts which abound in London. That is a loss fov any one so fond of music as you are." He thought of all the loss in this girl's life — a life destined to go on to the end, perhaps, buried among green fields and farm- yards. Here was a waste of rare tlower-like beauty, and a sensitive sympathetic nature 1 " Poor little thing I " he said to himself compassionately ; " she ought to have been bom the daughter of a gentleujan. It ceems a hard tiling for such a sweet flower to be thrown away. She will marry some great hulking farmer, no doubt; one of those raw-bred lads who carried my portmanteau upstairs, most bkely; marry him, and be happy ever after, not dreaming of having missed a brighter Ufe." They walked on by the high tangled hedge in its glory of hoH'^ysuckle and wild roses. The barrister felt the very atmo- 8] 'here a delight, after London, and " society," and hard work, and the thraldom of a sick-room. " It is a very sweet world we are bom into, after all," he said, " ii' we only knew how to make the most of it." His own particular idea of making the most of life hitherto Lad been, to bring himself to the very edge of the grave by dint of sheer hard work — work that had for its motive power only a Eeltlsh solitary man's ambition to push a little way in advance of his fellows. To-day, amidst this fair rural landscape, which in its tender pastoral character was more familiar to him on the canvas of Cres\vick or Liunel than in actual fact, he began to feel almowt doubtful aa to the soundness of his views, to medi- tate even whether it might not be better to take Ufe easily, let Fortune come to him at her own time, and take his fill of honey- suckle and dog-iy*8es — honeysuckle and dog-roses, and innocent girlish society hke this, which seemed only an element of the past'oraJ Uudscape and tho summer afternoon. 80 To tht Bitter End. He found himself talldng with unwonted animation preeeuiiy — ^talking of himself, as a man is apt to do when his interlocutor is a trifle beneath him in status — talking pleasantly enough, but with a dash of egotism, of his solitary life in London chambers, his professional drudgery, and so on, — with a little descriptive sketch of London society. Very speedily he discovered that he was not talking to a beautiful inanity. The girl's bright face flashed back every gliam of brightness in his talk. She had a keen sense of humour, as well as of poetry, this country -bred lass ; had read a great deal of light literature, in the tranquil idleness of orchard and garden ; had read her Scott, Dickens, and Thackeray, her Byron, Tennyson, Hood, and Longfellow, not once, but many times, and with a quick appreciative mind. " You remind me of Pendennis," she said, smiling, when Mr. Walgrave had described his bachelor life. " Do I P I would rather remind you of some one better than that selfish shallow young cynic. Warrington is the hero of that book. But 1 suppose a solitary man, working for his own advancement, always must seem selfish. If I had a flock of h>m^y children to toil for, now, you would think me quite a •ubhme character." " T don't see why ambition should be selfish," Grace answered ^byly. " I respect'a man for beingt^mbitious, energetic, industrious, though I am so idle myself. There is my dear father, who has gone out to Australia to make a fortune : do you think I don't admire him for his courage, though it is such a grief to lose him P " " Of course you admire him ; but then he is working for you — he has a motive outside his own existence, and a very sweet one," added Mr. Walgrave in a lower key. "He is working as mjch for Brier wood as for me; more, indeed. He is so proud of his good old name, and the house and land that have belonged to tie Redmaynes for nearly three hundred years." The stranger's face darkened a little. " Yes," he said moodily ; " even in these philosophical days there are men who are proud of that kind of thing. 'What's in a name.^' One man drags a time-honoured title through the glitter, and squanders a splendid fortune in unmanly frivoli- tres ; another r^orks like a slave to create for himself a name out «f namelesspesa. Fools both, no doubt." They were at Brierwood by this time, and parted at the garden gate in quite a cei'emonious manner. It was almost an adventure for Grace. She felt her heart beating all the faster for it as she ran upstairs to her own sunny room, with lattice viudows, and great beams across the ceiling — a room »» ^'liicb Uicm and women hac" slept when James I. was king. " The True Titian Colour.'* SI There was an odour of dinner in the house when she wen% downstairs presently, with a little cluster of red roses at her breast, and a carefully-arranged collar. A duck made his last stage of existence unpleasantly obvious to those who were not going to eat him — his vulgar savouriness refined just a little by the perfume of a cherry-tart. There was an unwonted bustla too, and aunt Hannah was darting about the passage fiushed and snappish, superintending the movements of " the girl," who came along with her eyes fixed, and her breathing stertorous, *iid a dish grasped convulsively in her clumsy hands. This Sunday-afternoon tea-time was wont to be the very Suietest hour in all the course of life at Brierwood : uncle James ozing over his newspaper ; aunt Hannah dispensing the tea- cups, with an oi')en Bible before her; the two young men crunching lettuces audibly, like rabbits, and consuming great wedges of bread-and-butter, afraid to talk much, lest they should be accused of profaneness and Sabbath-breaking. How many such a summer Sunday afternoon Grace had endured, sitting by the open window, turning the leaves of her hymn- book idly, and looking at a stray flower shut in between the pages here and there to mark the place of a favourite hymn ; " Sun of my soul," and " Jerusalem the golden " ! Not unhappy afternoons, only blank and empty, in which her soul had longed for the wings of some utrong sea-bird, that she might fiy acrosn the world and join her father in his rough colonial life. So to Grace Redmayne the little bustle attendant upon th« stranger's dinner, even poor Sarah's scared face, and aunt Hannah's snappishness, were not unpleasant. This confusion was something out of the beaten tract ; she forgot that it was an afl3.iction to have a lodger. Aunt Hannah came into tea Presently, grumbling at the ways of people who wanted their inner when other people were thinking of their supper. " I daresay Mr. Walgrave would dine early on Sunday, if you asked him, aunt," Grac« said, while Mrs. James was pouring out the tea. " He seems very good-natured." " StuflP and nonsense, child ! what do you know about his good-nature P Seems, indeed! Yoii've only seen him through a win Aow how can you tell what he seems ?" " I saw him this afternoon, coming home from church. He epoV-. to me, and walked with me, a httle, and he was very ^le««-?jr& • Mrti. James looked thoughtful, not to say displeased. She h»-l Ml. Wort's warranty for the lodger's steadiness; nor was Sir. Walgrave in the first flush of youth, or distinguished by chat debonair manuer with which women are apt to associate fee idea of danger. Still it would not do for him to be dancing attendance upon Richard Bedmayne's daughter. No fumiliiir 4i5quairtaroe notween those two eoold be permitted. 2b the Bitter End •* How fax did he walk with you, pray P " Mrs. James Inquired geverely. Grace blushed. It was the most foolish thing in the world, of course, since she had not the slightest cause for blushing; but to be taxed so sternly about such a trifle brought the hot blood into the fair young face. " He overtook me at the stile, and came home through the fields." " He walked all the way home with you, then. What do you mean by ' a Uttle ' P " " I couldn't help his walking beside me, aunt, and talking a little, if he pleased. I couldn't be rude to him, when he was so respectful — just as if I had been a lady of his own rank." " I don't know how your father would like your taking up with strangers," said aunt Hannah. " I don't know how my father would like your taking lodgers,** answered Grace. And Mrs. James quailed for a moment with a guilty sense that, in her economic arrangement, she had taken a step which Richard Redmayne — as proud B man as ever trod that Kentish soil — ^would have considered an outrage upon his race. "Come, come!" exclaimed uncle James, "you two women are always squabbling. Where's the harm, if the lass gave a civil answer when the gentleman spoke to her? You wouldn't have her run away from him as if he was a dragon going to eat her. 1 Uke a girl that can speak up bold and frank. The gen- tleman's a gentleman ; we've got John Wort's word for that : he wouldn't cflPer to bring any one here that wasn't." " He'd no caU to follow Grace home from church," gaid aunt Hannah, subdued but not silenced. " He didn't follow me, aunt," cried Grace, indignantly ; " what can put such notions into your head ? He was at church, and I was at church, and we had to come home the same way." "Ah!" sighed the matron, "I suppose you know best; but you don't go to afternoon church next Sunday." The object of this discussion came sauntenng up to the open window presently, socially disposed, and began a friendly con- versation with James Redmayne about the aspect of the country, and such homely matters as might be supposed to interest the agricultural mind. Grace drew back into a corner of the roor«, and opened her hymn-book ; but though she did honestly try to read some of the sweet familiar verses, her ear was distracted by the languid voice of the stranger — a voice bo unlike common Kentish voices. It was the family custom to spend Sunday evening, and every idle evening, more or less in the garden ; and of course the stranger's advent was not entirely to change the common course of things. ^Huxas Reiimayne took his pipe and tobacoQ' **TIie True Titian Colour.** 38 jar ; the yonng men carried a table and chairs under the cedar ; and presently they were all sitting there in the usual fashion, only with Mr. Walgrave hovering near them doubtfully, stiU talking agriculture with the farmer. " Fetch Mr. Walgry a arm-chair, Charley," James said to his 8on ; " perhaps he'd like to smoke his cigar among us, in a horaelv way." " I should like nothing better," said Mr. Walgrave ; " not an arm-chair though, Charley; any chair. May I really smoke my cigar, Mrs. Eedmayne? You won't object to an extra weed?" Mrs. James glanced at the flower-border, with some vague idea about groundsel or shepherd's-pur.se. •' Lord bless you ! " exclaimed her husband ; " she don't mind tobacker; she's used to it, like the eels. Sit down and make yourself at home; and if you ever drink anything as vulgar as nollands-and-water, I can offer you the genuine article." " Thanks ; there is nothing better than hollands ; but I have k) preserve a strict regimen." " You're in one of them blessed rifle-corpses, I suppose," baid Mr. James, to his niece's shame. " 1 beg your pardon, no ; I mean to say that I am allowed to take nothing stronger than sherry and soda-water." "That's what I call cat-lap," remarked the farmer; and again Grace blushed. That Tunbridge Wells education of hers had made her sensitive about these trifles. Mr. Walgrave took his seat among them, and lighted hia cigar. " I am very glad to make myself at home in your pleasant family circle," he said ; " for in spite of all that has been said about soUtude in the midst of a crowd, and that kind of thing, I think a man who finds himself amongst green fields best knows the value of his fellow-man's society." The sun went down behind a screen of Ume and sycamore, and all the western sky changed from gold to crimson, and from crim- son to purple, while Mr. Walgrave sat smoking and talking under the old cedar; Grace seated a little way oif, on the other side of her cousin Charley's ponderous figure. Little by little the conver- sation drifted away from agriculture, and also from James Red- mayne, who could not keep a very tight hold upon any discourse soaring above crops or markets, or humble local politics. Little by little the talk became entirely between Mr, Walgrave and Grace, the girl answering shyly now and then, and at intervals hazarding some timid utterance of her own thoughts. It was aunt Hannah's invariable practice to mdulge herself with a nap on Sunday evening. On every other evening than Sunday sh« was brisk and acUve, vigilant and w^l^eful to the 34J To the Bitter End. last, although on every other day she got through three litr.«« the souount of work. But the Sunday work, the church-going, and the best-bonnet wearing, the Bible-reading, and the general state and ceremony of the day, conduced to slumber, and it waa as much as aunt Hannah could do to keep her eyes open for half an hour after tea. To-night Mr. Walgrave's quiet talk, with intervals of silence every now and then, as he smoked hig cigar meditatively, watching the transient glories of the sky, had a peculiarly soothing effect ; and Mrs. James, who had in- tended to keep a sharp eye upon her niece and the lodger» slumbered sweetly, with her hard-working hands crossed upon her smai-t silk apron, and her cap ever and anon nodding gently. They had it all to themselves, Grace and the stranger. Wandering alone in some primeval forest, they could scarcely have been more Icnely. Mr. Walgrave compared this evening with many other Sunday evenings which he had spent of late years, since he had begun to be a successful man — a man of some mark in his particular line : Sunday evenings with friends who were " at home " on that evening ; Sunday evenings in the spacious drawing-rooms of Acropolis Square, enlivened by Bach and Handel ; Sunday evenings in faster company at Richmond or Greenwich, with the same dinners, the same wines, the sama kind of talk for ever and ever. How much pleasanter it was tc sit under the cedar, in that rose-scented old garden, while uncle James and aunt Hannah snored peacefully, and a sweet girUsh face looked at him out of the summer dusk ! Man is by nature egotistical. It was pleasant to talk so freely of himself, and his own feelings and fancies, with an instinctive consciousness that he was admired and understood ; to be the central figure in the group, and not one of a herd. He did not take the trouble to analyse his sensations just yet ; but by and by, when the Redmayne family had wished him good-night and retired, caiTying their belongings with them, like a gipsy camp, — by -nd by, in the summer silence, when he walked alone under the stars, smoking his final cigar, he told himself that he had never in his life been happier. " Arcadian," he said to himself, " but soothing. I suppose, after all, that really is happiness — to rest from labour, to turn one's back upon this crowded world and all its complications and artificialities; to Uve one's own life for a little, without ulterior object of any kind. What a pretty girl that is ! Ami so intelligent too ; with a nature so much above her surround- ings ! A pity ; some day she will find this farmhouse life too naiTow for her — the hulking farmer-husband too dull and un- couth." Mr. Walgrave induUfes hin Social Inttincts. 35 He thought of Grace Redmayne a good deal, as he amokcd that last meditative cigar — first, becaaee she was really the only person worth thinking about at Brierwood; and secondly, becanM be had been surprised to find so bright a creature in such a place He thought of her, and compared her with other women he had known, not at all to the advantage of those others. And later in the night he had strange dreams, in which Grace Redmayne's image appeared amidst the mldest confusion of places and circumstances — a sweet youno; face, lily-fair, « bright yuun^ head crowned with hedgerow llowors. CHAPTER V. mu WiiLGRAVE INDULGES HIS SOCIAL INSTINCTS. After that Sunday evening, Mr. Walgrave became more or less one of the family at Brierwood, He did not take too much advantage of his privileges, for he spent his days, for the mose part, in rambles far afield, and devoted his evenings to hard ^eading•, but there were odd half hours in every day, and some friendly hour in every evening, which he spent under the cedar, or in the family parlour, talking to Grace, looking over her music, examining her little stock of books, and taking breath, as it were, after a long spell of law. Altogether, he was so uu- ibtrusive that Mrs. James could find no ground for complaint, and considered as a lodger he was simply perfection. He had insisted on less ceremony and trouble about his dinner — thai there should be nothing but a cold joint and a salad, or a ciiop, ready for him at half-past seven, instead of the elaborate six o'clock banquet which Mrs. James had supposed indis-pensuble About half-past nine, the family supper-time, he took a large "•up of strong tea, and was ready for his nightly reading when the household went to bed. But for the one hour between this late dinner and tea, he gave himself up entirely to the delights of the summer twiHght and the garden, talking agriculture with uncle James under the cedar, or strolling beside the borders with Grace as she trimmed her roses, and snipped off the withered flowers with a formidable pair of garden scissors. She was quite at her ease with him now, and had already learnt a good deal by this association — had extended her reading into a wider field under his guidance. He had sent to London for a little packet of books for her — Mrs. Browning and Adelaide Procter, and other modem lights, whereof she had known nothing before h\'* coming. The summer was exceptionally fine. Day after day the snn «iiooe out of a doudless heaven ; the oox'n grew tall wo the ondu- 8b To the Bitter End. lating land about Brierwood; and James Bedmayne. who declared that in England drought never bred naught^ was well content with the unvarying succession of brilliant days. Mr. Walgrave had been five weeks in this seclusion, his rura\ hfe bnly broken by an occasional journey to London, to see one or two important solicitors, and let them know that he was not going to remain much longer out of harness. He had not many duties of a social character to detain him in town. The London season was over, and most of his friends were away — the Acropolis-square people, Mr. Vallory and his daughter, in Germany — so he never stayed more than one day away from vant a brass band and a markwee, and a bus-and-four, I should think, oefore you'd call anything a picnic ! " "My dear Mrs. Redmayne, I want a roast leg of lamb, a salad, Mid a bottle of sherry, packed in a basket. I want you and your family to come with me, and I daresay we shall enjoy our dinner as much as ever the Prince Regent enjoyed his, though Sir Lucas Clevedon's cook may have been one of the greatest ifltists of his time." Aunt Hannah hesitated a little, gave a sharp glance at her niece — was it on her account the barrister was so friendly? — but, on the whole, had not much to urge against Mr. Walgrave's pro- posal. It would be very rude to oppose any desire of such a model lodger's ; so modest a wish, too, and one which was in itself a condescension. " Well, sir, if you'd like to spend a day at Clevedon with James and me and Grace and her cousins, I've nothing to say ac^ainst it," she said, " except that it doesn't seem the sort of thing a gentleman like you would care for. We're very homely people, you see, and " " You're very pleasant people, Mrs. Redmayne. Believe me, I wish for no better society." He stole a glance at Grace, who was intently studying a page in her music-book. He could not see her eyes, but there was a happy smile upon the rosy lips, which betokened that the idea of the picnic was not unwelcome to her. " Shall we say to-morrow, then ? The less time we lose the better, for fear this splendid weather should change." " No fear of that, sir," replied aunt Hannah, who had been planning the picnic dinner, and calculating what time she should want for its preparation. She meant that it should be some- thing more elaborate than a leg of lamb and a salad. " Say the day after to-morrow," she said. " The day after to-morrow, then — and you'll arrange with Wort ; or I can walk over this afternoon and settle the thing with him, if you like." " Just as you please, Mr. Walgry. I'm sure John Wort wiU be ready to do anything you wish.' " Yes," answered the lodger, in hie lazy way, " Wort haa always stood my friend." " He's known you a long time, sir, he said," hazarded Mrs. James, who was not without some feminine curiosity about tho stranger's antecedents. "He has known me all iny li in the l)lue vault above her, and was talking gaily, quite at her ease with the stranger now. Her brightness and intelligence doiighted him. Of all the women he had talked to in that world which was his world, he had met none so rich in fancy, so quick to a]iprehend him, so entirely sympathetic, as this farmer'i diiughter. " i'ou ought to be a poet, Grace," he said. He had not waited for any one's permission to call her by her Christian name — every one called her Grace — it seemed only natural that he should do like the rest. " Yoa ought to be a poet. Some of our sweetest and truest poets nowadays are women. Now mind, I .shall be really angry, Grace, if ever I hear that you have married a farmer and settled down into a comfortable managing iarmer's wife, like aunt Hannah." That milk-white skin of Grace's grew suddenly crimson, and t he blue eyes flashed angrily. Miss Redmayne waa by no mean* tlie sweetest- tempered of young women. " I shall never marry a farmer ! " she exclaimed. They were standing face to face at a stile where they had corn* to a pause, waiting for those stragglers behind to jom them. "Shan't you, do you think?" Mr. Walgrave asked, in hig easiest manner; " but why should you be so indignant with me lor suggesting the possibility of such a thing P I look ujtoq farming as the most halcyon state of existence. Your father ia a farmer, your uncle and cousins are farmers ; you Uve in an atmosphere of farmers, one may say. It is scarcely strange i* I tlir.ught you might ultimately marry one." 40 To the Bitter JEnS. I shall never marry a fanner," said Grace, still mtli a toaoh of anger in look and tone ; " I don't suppose I shall ever marry at all. I would much rather " She stopped abruptly with her sentence unfinished, nnd stood silently looking far off with fixed dreamy eyes. |. " Much rather do what ? " |^ " Go to my father in Australia, and lead a wild strange life | with him." ^ _ ^ f "Ah, you fancy that it would be Arcadian, poetic, and all ft that kind of thing. A roving forest hfe, among pathless woods ffli and tropical flowers ; and so on. But it wouldn't. It would be ,)(;. pU rude and sordid ; a hard perilous life, among men degraded 5' by every vice that the greed of gain can foster. No, no, Grace, '^: don't dream of Australia. Look forward to your father's re- turn ; cultivate your intellect, which is an exceptional one, and tenyears hence England may be proud of Grace Redmayne." The girl sighed, and gave him no answer. He too was silent ; more thoughtful than he had been all the morning. It was a hot walk to Clevedon — through corn-fields for the greater part of the way, and then along half a mile of dusty high-road — and a delicious relief when they came to the south lodge, where they found Mr. Wort smoking an ante-prandial pipe in the shady nistic porch, with a stone bottle at his feet. " I thought I'd bring something," he said ; " so I brewed a jorum of milk-punch the day before yesterday, from a famous recipe given to me by Sir Lucas's old butler. It would have been aU the better for keeping longer, but I don't think it's bad." " Lor, Mr. Wort, do you want to make us all tipsy P " re- monstrated Mrs. James. " I know what that milk-punch of Sir Lucas's is — you brought us halfa gallon last harvest- home. It'a the most dangerous stuff any one can put their hps to." Mr. and Mrs. Redmayne had a good deal to say to Mr. Wort ; BO those three led the way, the steward carrying his jar sturdily. The two young men scampered off to look for squirrels, and Grace and Mr. Walgrave followed at their leisure, stopping every now and then to admire some fine old tree of nobler growth than the rest, or the long ferny alleys leading off into a deeper wood- land. On this side of the park the timber had escaped the devastations of Sir Lucas, who was very much of Sheridan's opinion, that timber is a natural excrescence for the reUef of a landowner's necessities. Many a noble oak and beech, elm and chestnut, had fallen under the woodman's axe during the spend- thrift's tenure of Clevedon ; but here the timber was of a less valuable character, and had been left to flourish even after that final clearing a few years ago, by means of which Mr. Wort had Uirliteued the burdens on Sir Francis's estate. Mr. Tl^atgraiBf iTidvlgeg "his Social InstinctB. 41 Grace was Bomewhat silent, answering absently when Mr. Walgrdve spoke to her — paler too than when they had begun tiieir expedition. Her companion looked at her curiously, wondering what had caused the change, she had been so full o/ lile and gaiety a quarter of an hour ago. " So you are very fond of your father, Grace ? " he said pre- eontly. " Fond of my father P " she answered quickly, with a tremu- loas voice, and flashing a bright sudden look upon him whinh made her irresistibly beautiful. " Why, there is no one in tho world I love but him. I don't mean to say anything unkind oi ungrateful about uncle James and aunt Hannah. They are very, very good to me, and I like them — love them even, with a kind of love. But my fatli(!r — I love hhn with all my heart and soul. ^Vlly, do you know that for a year after he left us there was never a night that I did not see him in my dreams — hoar the sound of his voice — feel the touch of his hand; never a morning that I did not wake disappointed to find he was so far away. The dreams have faded a little now, it is so long — so long since he left us, but I do not regret him less." " Have you any idea when he will return P " " O, no. It may be a very long "^time, or a very short time. He promised not to stay longer than three years at the most ; but I know he will not come back till he has succeeded in doiLff what he went to do." " To make a fortune, I suppose P " " To earn enough money to pay every shilling he owes.'' " I wish him all prosperity, and I rather envy him his oppor- tunities. Upon my word, if 1 thought gold were to be had for digging, I think I would buy a spade and go in for the same kind of thing. A professional career is such a slow road to fortune ; and as to fame — if a man stops short of the woolsack, I doubt if there is anything he can do that will render him interesting to posterity. To be less than Lord Thurlow is to be nothing — and I don't suppose you ever heard of Thurlow. A poet now, be he ever so poor a creature, let him achieve but the smallest modicum of fame, has a place in the hearts of women for ever- lasting. I'll wager if you were asked which was the greater man, Kirke White or Brougham, you would swear by Kirke Wliite, and you would tliink Letitia Landoc a finer writer tliao Junius." " I am very fond of poetry," Grace answered simply. " Well, child, go on educating yourself by means of good Bolid reading, and you shall be a poet some day, hke Miss Procter — a poet of the afi'ections — all tenderness and sweetness and music. But yon remember what Shelley says, * They learn 'n suffering what they teach in sooa.' You wiU have to nndergci 42 To the Bitter Enct. that educational process in 8ome way or other, I daresay — first girlish fancies wasted on an unworthy object — blighted aftection, and that sort of thing." The girl looked at him with another at those sudden flashes— ttiis time all anger. '• Why do you talk to me like that? " she asked indignantly ; " as if I were the silliest creature in the world,. and must needs fall in love with — with what you call an unworthy object. 1 never mean to love any one but my father. If all the books 1 have read are true— or haif of them — love hardly ever brings anything but sorrow." " O yes, it does, Grace ; gladness unspeakable sometimes — a renewaJ of youth — a sweet surprise — a revelation of a new world — the beginning of a fresh Ule," said Mr. Walgrave, with an entire change of tone, and an earnestness that was very rare in him. *' Don't be angry with me for what I said just now, I wa» only half serious." CHAPTEE VL OBACE DISCOVERS A LTKEXES8. Thet were nearly at the house by this time, and had emerged from the neglected woodland on to a wide lawn separated from the park by a ha-ha and a light iron fence. The rest of the party were waiting for them here, wiping their faces with volu- minous pocket-handkerchiefs, and altogether in a melting con- dition. The old house stood before them ; a noble building witli a massive centre, wings spreading right and left, and at the end of each wing a short colonnade runmng at right angles with tha building. Over the principal door, which was low and broad, there was a great oriel window, a window which was in itself a picture. The roof was masked by a coraice of delicate stone- work, open and light, and rich in variety of design as old point- Lace, and above this rose innumerable pinnacles of the flam- Doyant order. " A fine old place," said Mr. Walgrave, " a noble background to any man's life. Hard that it should be abandoned to the tats and the spiders." " But it is not to belong to the rats much longer," said Grace. " Sir Francis will soon be coming home." " Perhaps," answered Mr. Walgrave, with a thoughtful air " Who knows whether he may ever live to inhabit thia place P 1 am no believer in restorations." Mr. Wort rang the bell, which was answered after a consider- able interval by the superannuated butler who had seen the face uf George IV. — a doddering old man with long gray hair, and Grace J}iscoveri a LikeneKH. 4S w^oak faded bine eyes, dressed in threadbare black that had been ent b^ the minions of Stultz. This old man brightened a little at sight of Mr. Wort, and stared curiously with his dim eyes at Hubert Walgrave. H« wa« quite really to show the house. "I'm sure it's a pleasure to see you and your friends, Mr. Wort," he said. " My old woman and me, we get mazed-like, never seeing no other faces but our own, and the two giris, and the butcher once a week. If it wasn't that we're both fond of the place, for the sake of old times, I don't believe we could stand it. I suppose you'd hke to go through all the best rooms," he went on, opening one of the numerous doors in the fjreat stone-paved hall, and ushering them into a long gloomy room hung with family portraits, and with a gigantic black-marble mantelpiece at the end — a mantelpiece with a massive pediment 8npporte(? by Corinthian columns, which looked like the entrance to a tomh. " The ceilings in the upstairs rooms are ever so much worse since you saw them last," continued the butler; "the wet do come in so every time it rains — and we had some heavy rains in spring. As to the rats, I won't say anything about them. What they contrive to Uve upon, unless it's rotten wood and old plaster and each other, I can't understand ; but live tliey do, and increase and multiply. This is Jan«8 I.'s dining-room; so called because hie majesty stayed at Clevedon at the time when he created the first baronet, and dined in this room every day at one o'clock, with Robert Carr Earl of Somerset on his left hand, and Sir John Clevedon on his right ; and they do say Sir John was the handsomest man of the two. That's his portrait yonder, in the green velvet suit." They all looked at the picture, as old Tristram Moles the butler pointed to it. Grace Redmayne had seen the portrait before; but at sight of it to-day she gave a little start, and a faint cry of surprise. " Why, what's the matter, lassP" exclaimed James Redmayne, staring at her. *' I wag only looking at the picture," she said. " It's so Hke " " So like what ?" " Like Mr. Walgrave, uncle." On which, of course, they all turned and stared at the bar- rister, who was sitting on the edge of the great oak table, looking about him Ustlessly. The portrait of Sir John Clevedon represented a man with olose-cut dark hair, clustering in short crisp curls about a high and somewhat bald forehead. Eyes of a luminous gray, darkened by the darkness of the lashes, and the stronwly-marked brows above them. The nose was a short aquiline with well-cat 44 To the Bitter JSn^. noBtrils; and the nose and eyebrows together gave a botua what Binister look to a face which would otherwise have been Bupremely handsome. Nor was the face distinguished by phy- sical beauty only : it was impossible to doubt the mental powei of the man to whom it had belonged. Mr. Walgrave raised his eyes, and looked steadily at the pictura. Yes, there was a hkeness, certainly — vague and shadowy — a likeness of expression rather than of feature, although even in feature there was some resemblance. The eyes were the same colour, and had something of the same light in them. The short dark hair grew in the same form upon the thoughtful forehead. As the Hving man looked up at the picture of the dead one, the faces seemed to grow more aUce. One could fancy some subtle spiritual link between the two. " Upon my word, I feel vastly flattered by the suggestion," Baid Mr. "Walgrave coolly. "A man who disputed the palm with that handsome scoundrel Robert Carr is a person one must needs be proud to resemble, if ever so slightly. But I fancy the Ukeness exists only in your poetic imagination. Miss Red- mayne." " Not a bit of it," cried uncle James. " I'm blest if you ain't like him !" " Then the gentleman must be like my old master. Sir Lucas, into the bargain," said Tristram Moles. " Sir Lucas was a true Clevedon. My poor old eyes are too dim to see such thin^^g veiy clear ; but if the gentleman's like one, he must be like the other." Mr. Wort turned upon his heel rather impatiently. " We'd better not waste all our time dawdling here, if we'rs going to see the house," he said. Upon which they walked on mto the great dining-haU, with its open gothic roof, where a couple of hundred people could dine at their ease; through bUhard-room and music-room, morning-room and ball-room ; and then back through a line of smaller rooms, looking out upon a Dutc^i garden, to the hall and the grand staircase, up wliicb they went, startling the echoes with the clangour of their foofc« steps upon the uncarpeted stone. Upstairs there were state bed-chambers, with tall plumed bedsteads, tapestry hangings, and a general aspect of uninhabr tableness; and there were other rooms, in which the furniture Was of a more modem date ; but upon aU the stamp of decay was more or less visible. There was no dii-t or slovenhness. Mrs. Moles and her handmaiden worked indefatigably to keep things as well as they could be kept ; but the water had come in here, and the paperhanging had fallen down there ; and there was in one room a cracked panel, and in another a broken window. Evervth'nz that could fade had faded; everything Grace Discover* a LiJcenes* 4 that could rot had rotted ; yet the house had been originally t>9 splendid, that it was splendid even in decay. It happened somehow that Mr. Walgrave and Grace wer* generally together during this exploration. It happened so; there was no appearance of effort on the part of either to secure Buch a result. Mr. and Mrs. Redmayne had a good deal to say to the old butler, who was eager for gossip from the outer world of Elingsbury ; and these three hngered to talk here and there, while Mr. Wort looked about him, thoughtfully contemplating the progress of decay and dilapidation. When they had seen all the rooms — the diiigy old pictures, the curious old china, the nicknacks and pretty trifles which many a vanished hand had been wont to touch tenderly in a time long gone — Grace and her companion came to a standstill in the room over the chief entrance, the room with that great oriel window, which was on« of the most striking features in the front of the house. It waa the prettiest, brightest chamber upon this upper floor — a sitting- room, furnished almost entirely with Indian furniture — curiously carv«d ebony chairs, sandal-wood cabinets, card racks and caskets in ivory and silver, great jars fiUed with dried rose-leaves and spices, still faintly odorous. " Isn't it a darling room ?" cried G'"ace rapturously, standing in the window with clasped hands, and her eyes wandering over the wide landscape, glorious in its summer splendour. " How deUcious it must be to Uve with such a prospect as that always before one's eyes ! At Brierwood we are down in a hollow, and never see anything but our own garden. This was Lady Cleve- don's room; not the last Lady Clevedon— she never came here, poor soul — but Sir Lucas's mother. She was the daughter of an Indian general, who sent her all this furniture. There's a miniature of Sir Lucas when he was a little boy over the mantelpiece," she continued, going across the room to look at it. " ^V^lat a funny little nankeen jacket, and what an enor- mous collar ! Yes, there is certainly a likeness." "To whom?" "To you. Don't you remember what Mr. Moles saidP If yon were like Sir John Clevedon, you must be like Sir Lucas. And there is a Likeness — about the eyes and the expression, I thitik." " Curious," said IVlr. Walgrave indifferently. " I suppose I ought to feel gratified by the discovery, these Clevedons appear to be such great people." " They are a very old family, Mr. Wort says, and were dis* tingaished in the days of the Plantageneta. It was a pity Sif Lncas sp>ent all his money, wasn't it P" " 1 daresay his son thinks so," replied Mr. Walgrave coolly. " Hovever, according to Wort's account, tha estate will ck&7 i6 To the Sifter En9. itself in a year or two, and Francis Clevedon may come and tnV« up his abode here. Rather a lucky fellow, to find himself master ot such a place as this at thirty years of age. A man who owns such a house need take no trouble to distinguish himsel£ His estate is his distinction.** " Would you like to be the owner of it ?" Grace asked smiling ftt his earnestness. " Very much. I would give a ^reat deal to be independent of the world, Grace — uot to be obliged to tread a road marked out for me ever so long ago; not to be beat body and soul upon reaching one particular point. I never knew how hard it was to have my own fortune to make — not to be a free agent, in fact — until — until these last few days." The girl looked at him wonderingly, her face very pale. "Why in these last few days?" she asked. "Because within that time I have made a fatal disjoovery, Grace." " What discovery ?" " That I love you." She looked at him for a moment, half incredulously, and then burst into tears. He put his arm round her, clasped her to his breast, looking down upon her fondly, but with none of the triumph of a happy lover " My dearest, my sweetest, don't cry. I am not worth or ■ of those tears. The secret is out, darling. I never meant i' tell you. I hold you in rpy arms for a moment, for the first z:/. last time. I don t even kiss you, you see. 1 love you with at my heart and soul, Grace Redmayne, and — I am engaged t/. marry another woman. I tell you both facts in a breath. Ab my rature depends on the mairiage; and I am not unworldly enough to say, Let my future go." Grace disengaged herself gently from his encircling arms, her whole face beaming. He loved her. After that the deluge. What (1 id it matter to her, just in that one triumphant moment, that ho was pledged to marry another woman and break her heart? To know that he loved her was in itself so sweet, there was no room in her mind for a sorrowful thought " You don't wish mc to marry a farmer ?" she said, smihug at him. " God forbid that you should, my darling]! I should hke you to stand for ever apart from common clay, a 'bright particular star,' I must go my way, and live my life ; that is written amongst the immutabilities. But it would be some consolation forme to think of Grace Kedmayne as something above the vul- gar world in which I lived." Consolation for him ! He di3 not even think of whether elis miffht or might not have need of e<»ivR.o^\J:t4ou. And yet he knc* '* 1/ U could ahcayt he To-daij.'* 47 that she loved him : had suspected as mnch for some little time, indeed. He thought that he had acted in a remarkably hon- oarable manner in telling her the true state of the case with Buch perfect frankness. There were very few men in his position would have done as much, he told himself. The door had been half open all this time, and the approaching footsteps and voices of the rest of the party now made themselves Hudil'le. Grace brushed away the traces of her tears, and went to thewndow to gain a little time before she faced her relations. Mr. Walgrave followed her, and opened one of the casenientw, and made some remark about the landscape to cover her con- fusion. *• Well, now we've seen all the house, I suppose it's pretty nigh time to think of a bit of grub. Where are we guing to have our dinners, Mr. Walgrave?" asked Jamea ReJmayue " In the ^rdens, or in the park ? " "In neither, Mr. Redniayne," answered the barrister. "We are going to imagine ourselves genuine Clevedons, and dine in the great hall." *' Eh ! Well, that is a rum start. I thought you'd have been for spreading the table-cloth on the grass in a rural way ; but 1 don't suppose Mr. Moles here will have any objection." " Not in the least, Mr. Redmayne. You can make as free as yon please in the dining-hall ; any one as Mr. Wort brings is Kindly welcome ; and me and my wife can get you anything you may want." " We've brought everything," said aunt Hannah proudly. " I packed the baskets with my own hands." " Then me and my wife can wait upon you, Mrs. Redmayne, all the same," replied the butler. They all went downstairs : aunt Hannah and Mr. Mole» leading the way, diconrsing confidentially about the bastets; Mr. Wort and Mr. Redmayne following, talking agriculture; Grace and the barrister last of all. " Let ns have one happy day together, Grace," he said, as they went slowly down the grand stair-case. * Let us forge' there is any suck thing as the future, and be utterly happy fo: to-day." " I cannot help being happy when I am with you," she an- swered softly, too innocent to consider the peril of owning her love 80 frankly. CHAPTER Vn. •* IF It COULD AI.WAT8 BE TO-DAT I * There was a small oral table at the end of the dining-h all- small, that is to say, in comparison with the lonjf banqueti%; 48 To tie Bitter Enef. tables on each side of tbe hall, but capable of accommodating twelve or fourteen people, a table at which the Prince Regent had dined with a chosen few when all the county was assembled to do him honour — and it was this board which Mr. Walgravs insisted upon spreading with the contents of Mrs. Redniayne'a baskets. He helped to lay the cloth himself, handing Grace the glasses and knives and forks as dextrously as if he had been a professional waiter accustomed to earn his three half-crowns pightly. '• We are need to picnicking, in chambers," he said. " I always help to lay the cloth when I have fellows to breakfast or dine with me. What a banquet you have brought, Mrs. Rod- may ne I I suggested a joint and a salad, and you have prepared an jiidermanic feast — pigeon pie, corned beef, chicken in savory jelly, and — O, pray inform me, what is this sloppy compound in a sU'ne jar ? Are we to return to the days of our infancy, and oat cnrds-and-whey Y " "That's a junket, Mr. Walgry," replied aunt Hannah, with rather an offended air. " It wasn't an easy thing to ^riig. I can +p11 you ; but I think it has come all right. My motner was a Wfcst-country woman, and taught me to make junkets. They're reckoned a dainty by most people." " Rely upon it, I shall not be backward in my appreciation ot the junket, Mrs. Redmayne. Now, Grace, you are to sit at the top of the table and be Lady Clevedon, and I shall take my place at the bottom as Sir Hubert. Mr. Wort, you will take the right o( her ladyship; Mrs. Redmayne, I must have you by my side; and the rest anywhere." The two young men had come in from their ramble by thip time, and the whole party, except one, fell to with hearty ap- I>etite, and made havoc of the pigeon-pie and boiled beef, savory jelly, and other kickshaws, in the way of salad, cucumber, &c.; while Mr. Moles the butler waited upon them with as stately an ftir as if he had been presiding at the head of an army of serving- ttien at one of the princely banquets of days gone by. He per- mitted himself a quiet smile once or twice at some facetious re- mark of Mr. Walgrave's, but was for the most part the very yenius of gravity, pouring out the Brierwood cider, and the fiherry contributed by Mr. Walgrave, with as much dignity as if those liquors i&ad been cabinet hocks or madeiras oi priceless' worth. It was a merry meal. The barrister seemed as light-hearted as if his fame and fortune were made, and he had nothing more to do in life than to enjoy himself. Not always does Apollo strain his bow, and to-day the string hung loose, and Apollo abandoned himself heart and soul to happy idleness. He talked ill through the meal, rattUng on in very exuberanoe of spirits •* If it could nlwajfs he To-daj/.** 40 w^hile the two lade, who had some dirt, sense of humour, laughed vociferously ever and anon in the intervals of their serious la- bour ; and Grace, in her post of honour at the top of the table Bmiled and sparkled like a fountain in the sunshine. She ha(? no need to say anything. It was enough for her to look so joy ous and beautiful. Perhaps any blackbird in the Cleved(A woods might have eaten as much as Miss Redmayne consumeii that day ; but it is only when every spiritual joy has vanished trom a human soul that the pleasures of the table come to be pleasures, and the food which Grace ate that day was not grown on earthly soil. She was in fairy-land, and had about as much consciousness of the common things of this world as Titania when she caressed her loutish lover. They were nearly two hours in the dining-hall, two honrs which appeared to Grace just one brief half hour of perfect happiness, a vague dreamy joy which almost confased her senses ; and then they went out into the gardens. At Clevedon the gardens covered some eight acres, and were the chief glory of the place. Sorely neglected now, a very wil- derness of rose and syringa, honeysuckle and clematis, moss- grown paths, arched alleys, where the foHage grew in tangled masses, passion-flower and Virginia creeper cheking each other in their wild luxuriance ; here a fallen statue, there an emj)ty marble basin, which had once been a fountain ; at one end oi an Jlley a wide pond half hidden by water-Uhes; at another a broad stretch of bowling-green, bounded by a dense holly-hedge. The grass was cut now and then, and that one Italian flower- garden which had belonged to Lady Clevedon was kept in toler- able order, and that was all. The rest was chaos. " I think if I were a millionaire, I woidd have at least one gar- den kept just in this condition," said Mr. Walgrave as they wan- dered among tb^ straggling rose-bushes, caught every now and then by some trailing branch that lay across their path; "a garden in which the flowers should grow just as they liked, should degenerate and become mere weeds again if they pleased. I always fancy that bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream some wild neorlected place Uke this. There are lovelinesses of form and colour in these rank masses of foliage which no gardener's art oculd ever produce." Of course Grace agreed vnth him. She thought every word tl at fell from his hps a pearl of price. They found a delightful green arbour, spacious and cool, and tolerably free from spiders, where uncle James and Mr. Won coald smoke their after-dinner pipes and sip the milk-punch .n which pleasant retreat they mvited Mr. Moles the butler tft join them for a friendly half hour. It was not to be supposed* however, that Mr. Walgrave would hob and nob with a butler 50 To the Bitter Etui and Mii». Bedmavne was in no manner aurprised when, after iust taBting the punch, he strolled away with Grace and her cousins. The cousins soon fled from the humdrum beauty of tne gardens, and went back to the woods, where there were wild creatures t<» chase and trees to climb ; so Grace and Mr. Walgrave had the gardens all to themselves. Perhaps in all Grace Redmayne's brief life that was fehe hap- piest day — a day of perfect unalloyed delight. No matter tbat ner lover had only declared his love in one breath, to tell her in the next that there was an insurmountable barrier between them The time must come by and by when the thought of that woula be despair; but it was not so yet. He loved her. In that one sentence was concentrated all she could imagine of earthly bliss. She had thought of him as something so far away — she had given him all her heart in childish ignorance of the cost. Life had been very sweet to her of late merely because he was near her. Even while she supposed him indifferent, only courteous *rith a stranger's courtesy to a woman of lower rank than his own, to see his face and to hear his voice had been enough. What was it, then, to know that he loved her — that this one supreme, almost incredible hazard had befallen her? Of all the women who had worshipped him — and a girl of Grace's senti- mental temji^^T ig apt to suppose that every woman who has ever hc-iield him • uet needs adore her idol — he had chosen her. In- e liable condescension I The poor httle foolish heart fluttered fitill with the emotion of that overpowering moment when he uttered those sublime words, " Grace, I love you." As for Mr. Walgrave himself, he too found that dreamy after- noon wandering in neglected fruit and flower gardens — now paus- ing to pluck a rose, now loitering to gather a little heap of white raspberries on a broad green fig-leaf — not by any means an unen- joyable business. There was a faint flavour of worry and vexation of spirit mingled in the cup of joy. Even among the roseie, looking down at Grace Redmayne's sweet girlish face, the shadow of future trouble fell darkly across his path. It was all very well to be so happy for to-day ; but to-morrow was very near — and how could he break with a girl who loved him like this P It would be an awful wrench for niiu, let it come when it might; and yet a week ago he had made very light of this rustic flirta- tion, and had told himself that he was the last man in the world to come to grief in such a manner. Pretty faces were not new to him. He had lived amongst attractive women — had been coxirted and petted by them ever since his professional prospects had begun to bud with promise of rich blossom in days to come. " I told her the truth, at any rate," he said to himself, as he tvntched Grace's ardent face, on which the light of happiness shoue supernal. " I'm very glad of that What a dear littU* ** If tt eouU nTwai/g be To-dat/." 51 eonfidinc soul she is, with not a thouerht of the future — with not one selfish calculation in her mind — happy only to be loved ! I wish I had held my ton^e. I suppose I ought to leave Brier- wood to-morrow. It's like sporting on the edge of a precipic* And yet " And yet he meant to stay, and did stay. The afternoon lasted three hours. In the arbour, pipes and gossip, and puncl^ and soothing slumbers beguiled the elders into unconsciousness of the tiight of time. It was only whea a perceptible fading in the glory of the day, a mellower light, a cooler air, a gentle whispering of summer winds among the trees, warned them that evening had come unawares, that Mrs. Red- uiayne suddenly bestirred herself to see about tea. They must drink tea, of course, before they bent their way homewards. The day's festivities would be incomplete without a tea-drinking. Happily there was not much for aunt Hannah to do, or the light would have scarcely lasted them. The lads had selected an eligible spot under a great Spanish chestnut in the woods, had collected firing, and lighted the fire and boiled the kettle. Everything was ready. "Mother "was only wanted to make and dispense the tea. They followed the lads gaily through those delicious woods, where birds, which ought to have been nightingales if they were not, were warbling and jug-jugging divinely ; followed to a fairy- like amphitheatre of greensward, shut in by tall limes and Spanish chestnuts, under the biggest of which the lads had spead their rustic tea-table, while the wood-fire smoked and smouldered a Uttle way ofi". Grace clapped her hands with delight. " O, if we could always live here," she cried, " how sweet it would be ! " If we could always live here — if it could always be to-day, she thought ; and then to her childish fancy it seemed that with the fading of that blissful day the end of all her happiness must come. For the first time she began to realise the actual state of the case ; for the first time she felt the shadow of coming trouble —parting — tears— death; for could it be less than deatn to lose bini ? They sat side by side under the chestnut. Aunt Hannah glanced at them sharply, but could see nothing suspicious in the manner of either. It was not strange that Mr. Walgrave should be polite to her niec*, who really was a pretty girl, and fifteen years his junior. There could hardly be any danger. It was a pleasant, innocent, rustic tea-drinking — the two foong men and their father consuming innumerable cups of te&, and eating bread-and-butter with an air of having fasted for the Uflt fw«Titv-fonr hours. That chasing of tender young beect* »S To (he Bitter Enit. lings of the eqnirrel tribe had given the lads an alarming &ppe< tite. There were shrimps in abundance — pretty pink young thini^s, which looked as if one might have strong them into coral necklaces — shrimps and plum-cake. The young Redmaynes were ready for anything. They were noisy too in their exuberance, and were altogether so boisterous in their mirth, that Hubert Walgrave and his companion had plenty of time for low sweet converse, unheard and unobserved. Grace brightened again ap her lover talked to her, and again forgot that Life was not bounded by to-day — forgot everything except that she was with ium. The twilight was darkening into night when the crockeryware was all packed and the party ready. Mr. Walgrave and Grace had strolled a little way in advance while the packing was in progress — hardly out of sight, not at all out of hearing. Aunt Hannah coald catch a glimpse of her niece's light muslin dresa glimmering between the trees every now and then — could hear her happy laugh. They were just gathering themselves together to follow, when a piercing scream rang through the wood. " Lord have mercy upon us, what's that ? " cried Mrs. James. " 'Twas Grace's voice, surely. Run and see, Charley." Both young men sped off, and one of them ran against Mr. Wylgrave, who came towards them with Grace in his arms, her head lying helplessly on his shoulder, her face ghastly white. " She has fainted," he said. " I never saw any one so fright- ened. We sat down upon a felled tree yonder for a minute waiting for you, and a viper — I think it must have been — shot out of the grass between us and ran across her dress. It was ho surprise, I suppose, that overcame hei." He laid her ^'ently down upon the grass, with her head upon uer aunt's lap. They all looked more Irightened than the occa- nion seemed to warrant. " It's only a faint," Mr. Walgrave said, reassuringly. " Lay her flat upon the grass, and she'll come round quickly enough. Run for some water, Charley, there's a ^ood fellow." He was kneeling by the girl's side, with one little cold hand in his. Her face was stiU deadly paJe — almost livid; and aunt Hannah was looking at it with an anxious countenance. " It isn't as if it was any one else," she said, chafing the girl'a disengaged hand. " Fainting is no great matter for most folks ; but it isn't easy to bring her round. She went off just hke this the day her father went away, and gave us all a fine turn. I thought she was gone. It's her heart, you see." "Her heart!" cried Mr. Walgrave, aghast. "What'a tha matter with her heart? " He laid his hand upon the girl's breast with an alarmed look. "I'm afraid there's something wrong. Her mothar died of '^Hecal her Tears, to Thee at JPartittff given.'* 68 heart-complaint, yon know — went in-doors one summer evening to fetch her needlework, and dropped down dead at the foot ol the Btairs. The heart had stopped beating all in a moment, the doctor said ; and the same doctor has told me that Grace isn't a lonjj-lived woman — she's too much like her mother." There was a faint fluttering under his hand. Thank God for that ! The heart that loved him so fondly, so foolishly, had not fesised to beat. But Mr, Walgrave had experienced a smart shock notwithstanding; and when Grace opened her eyes pre- sently, and looked up at him, his face was almost as pale as her OWTl. She drew a long shuddering breath, drank a few spoonfuls of water, and declared herself quite well, and then rose with tremu- lous Umbs, and looked round her, smUing faintly. " I'm afraid I've given you all a great deal of trouble," she said. " It was very foohsh of me ; but the sight of that horrid creature frightened me so. It didn't sting anyone, did it ? " she asked nervously, looking at Hubert Walgrave. '* No, Grace ; there has been no harm done," he answered, with a cheering smile, though his face was stUl white. " The beast was only a little innocent worm. I could not have believed you would behave so like a line lady." " It was a viper," cried Grace. " Vipers have stung people to death in this country. And he darted out just between us, as if— as if " She faltered, and stopped ; but Hubert Walgrave knew very well what she would have said : " as if he came to part us." " Take my arm. Miss Redmayne," he said, in his easiest way ; " and don't alarm yourself about vipers, I hold them very harmless, unless they take the biped form. Do you feel equal to walking home at once, or would you Uke to rest a little? " " I am not at all tired. I am quite ready to go." And so they went arm-in-arm through the narrow pathways, brushing against the bearded barley and the feathery oats, and the fast-ripening wheat, all silvered by the summer moonbeams, and anon emerging upon some smooth stretch of meadow, where the new-grown grass was sweet, and where a clump of tree* made an island of shadow here and there. They went home together, only a few yards in advance of the Brierwood party, and yet alone ; and Grace forgot the viper. CHAPTER VnL "RICAL HEB teaks, to thee at PAhTfNG GirEN." It was Bome time, however, before Mr. Walgrave forgot what he ha4 heard in the wood about Grace's mother — that dark hint oi %i To th« Bitter End. heart-disoftse. He took occasion to question Mrs. James nejrt day upon the subject, and made himself fully acquainted with the details of Mrs. Richard Redmayne's death, and what the doctor had said about Grace. He had made no examination, it appeareii ; no stethoscope had ever sounded the innocent young heart; but he had remarked to Mrs. James once, confidentially. tliat there was something about her niece's appearance he hardly liked, and that it would not surprise him if her constitution should develop the same tendency that had been fatal to her mother. This had been said while Richard Redmayne was in England ; and his sister-in-law had not cared to alarm either him or her niece by any hint of what the doctor had said. " If it was heart-disease, you see," said Mrs. James, " there'd be no cure for it ; and if it wasn't, it would have been cruel to aps(?t poor Rick in the midst of his troubles, which was cominq pretty fast upon him just then ; so I thought the wisest thing I could do was to hold my tongue." " Quite right, Mrs. Redmayne. No doubt the doctor wanted job. Your medical men can have very little to do in this pure atmosphere. A chronic case, rich farmer's only child, and so on. Heart-disease ! No ; I don't for a moment believe that your niece Grace has anything amiss with her heart. At her age the very idea seems preposterous." " Well it do, Mr. Walgry — don't it P But her mother was only seven-and-twenty when she died. They're not a long-lived ftirnily, any of theNorbitts; and Grace's mother was a Norbitt." Mr. V/algrave persisted in making light of the matter. He would not permit himself to think that anything so bright and sweet as Grace Redmayne was doomed to vanish suddenly and untimely from this earth. He pooh-poohed the country surgeon's opinion, and very speedily contrived to get rid of any nneasines* which the subject might have caused him. An event occurred to divert his attention in some manner a few days after the picnic. He had more than half made up his mind to leave Brierwood, and go abroad somewhere for the rest of the long vacation. He could not quite snut his eyes to the peril of remaining where he was. He had recovered his strength — was almost as well as ever he had been, in fact. In every way it would be best and wisest for him to go. He began to pack his portmanteau one night, took out hii Bradshaw, and made a profound study of the continental rontes. NVliy should he not spend his autumn abroad? There was Spain, for instance. He had an intense desire to see Spain, from the Escurial to the Alhambra. Yet to-night, somehow, the vision of dark-eyed damsels and bull-fights had scarcely any charm for his imagination. He flung the railway-guide into ft 'lidtant comer with an impatient ash. ■ Secal her Tear$, to Thee at Parting pven." M "Why should I run away from her when I love her so dearly P he said to himself. " Cannot a man live two lives — give his outward seeming and all tiie labour of his brain to the world, and keep his heart in some safe shelter, hidden away from the crowd ? Other men have done it ; why should not IP Is there a man upon earth who would throw away such a treasure - piug and trimming the roses near the house, fair as Tennjrsdn'a famous gardener's daughter when first her lover saw her m lb«» porch. The vivid blush, lighting up the fair pale face, the sudden look of pleased sur^irise — how sweet they were ! " And I am going to aurrender all this," Mr. Walgravc thought 68 To the BUter End. with a sharp pang. He had quite made up his mind tc go awa^ by this time ; but he could not make up his mind to tell her his intention. Better to put oflf that until the very last m( menf^ and then with one desperate wrench tear himself away. They stroUed round the garden, Grace clipping the roses ac she went, not quite so neatly as she would have clipi)ed them without that companionship. The hands fluttered a little among the leaves as they did their work. He was talking to her; those unfathomable gray eyes were watching her. He had never spolien of his love since that day at Clevedon ; had said scarcely a word which her uncle and aunt might not have heard ; but he had lost no opportunity of being with her ; and she had been almost completely happy. She did not forget what he had told her. He was engaged to marry another woman. He would go away by and by, and her life would be desolate ; but she only looked forward to this desolation with a vague terror. She could not be unhappy while he was near her. They wasted aljout an hour in the garden. Grace had break- fasted half an hour ago, early as it was. Mr. Walgrave's break- fast was waiting for him in the cool airy parlour. He went slowly back to the house at last, still with Grace by his side. Aunt Hannah was up to her eyes in dairy work at thus time of the day. There was no one to observe them. They were talking of the books Grace had been reading lately — books which opened a new world to her — and her brightness and intelUgence delighted her lover. *' If all Miss Tonlmin's pupils are anything like yon, Grace, I shall certainly make a pomt of sending my daughters to her some day," he said, lightly. She looked at him for a moment, and then grew very paK His daughters ! He was talking of a time when he should be married to that other woman — when she would have passed out of his life altogether. That careless speech of his had brought the fact sharply home to her. He was nothing, never could be anything, to her. "You will have forgotten my existence by tho time your ttaughters are old enough to go to school," she said. " i'orgotten you, Grace ? Never ! Fate rules our lives, but not our hearts. I shall never forget you, Grace. I behaved very badly the other day, when I told you the impression you had made upon me. It was an offence against you — and some one else. But I think that you, at least, have forgiven me." He spoke as lightly as he could, hke a man of the world, but was very far from feeling lightly. Grace was silent. That common-sense tone of apology cut her to the quick. She scarcely knew what she had hoped or dreamed within the last tew days ; but they had been so happy together, that the image '* Hecal her Tearg, to 'fhee at Parting ffiven." 57 of her unknown rival, the woman he was destined to marry, had seemed very va^ue and unreal. " I have nothing to forgive," she said coldly. " It is for — the — the other person to be angiy." " The other person would be very angry, no doubt, if I werf to make a full confession of my sins ; but I don't mean to do so, believe me. The other person will go down to her grave in ignorance of the truth. But I want to be assured of your forgiveness, Grace. Just raise those sweet eyes of yours, and say, • I forgive you for having loved me too well.* " Grace smiled — a bitter smile. " So well, that you — that yon will go away and marry some one else," she said, the practical phase of the situation coming home to her with that Hrst pang of jealousy. " My dearest girl," cried Mr. Walgrave, who had by no means desired the conversation to take this turn, " there are very few men in this world who can choose their own road in life. Mine was chosen for me long ago. I am not my own master; if I were " "If you were," repeated Grace, with a sudden desperate courage, that was as much a surprise to herself as it was to him — "if you were, would you many a farmer's daughter.''" " If I were the master of Clevedon, Grace — if I had five thousand a j'ear — yes. But I have my own way to make in the world, and I am weak enough to value success. I am engaged to marry a woman whose fortune will help me to win a position, and to maintain it. That is as much as to say, I am going to sell myself, isn't it ? " " It sounds rather like that." " Men do it ever}' day, Grace — quite as often as women ; and the thing answers fairly enough in tea ca^es ont of twentv. 1 daresay I shall make a very tolerable average kind of husband 1 shall not spend all my wife's money, and I shall go to dinner- parties with her. I think I can give her almost as much heart as she will give me ; and yet, Grace, I never loved but one *oman upon this earth, and her name is Grace Redmayne." The girl was silent. He was cruel, he was base; and yet it was still sweet to her to be told that he loved her. With all ho* ieart and soul she believed him. " I never meant that our talk should take this turn," Hubert Walgrave went on, after a rather lengthened pause. "I meant uiily to bid you good-bye, ar*d go away without one dangerouf word." She looked up at him with sudden terror in her face. * You are going away !" she exclaimed. " Soon? " " Very soon ; to-day, in fact, if possible. What should I do hereP The wrench must come, Grace. The sooner the better." 8S To the Bitter End. Siie tried to answer him, bnt her lips only trembled, and ebt ^ejjan to cry. All the eloquence that ever poured from the lips of ^voman exalted by passion would not have touched him so keenly IS that mute look — those childish tears. It was little more than a child's unreasoning love that she gave him, perhaps, but it wa« no pure and perfect of its kind ! They had turned away from the house, instinctively avoiding it as their conversation grew more tender, and were walking alowly towards the orchard, slowly out of human ken. Mr. Walgrave drew his arm round the girl's waist, comforting her — drew her close to him, until the graceful head sank on his shoulder. Never had so fair a head rested there before. He bent down and kissed the pure young brow. This was the manner in which he began to forget her. " My dearest, my sweetest ! " he said pleadingly, " your tears go to my heart of hearts. I am so anxious to do what is wise, what is right. Upon my soul, Grace, I believe that I could bring myself to forego all question of worldly advantage " — he did fancy for the moment that this was so — "if — if my honour were not involved in this marriage which I speak of. But it is, darling ; it is quite too late for me to recede from my engage- ment. I should be the vilest of defaulters if I did. Let us be reasonable then, my sweet one. I wish to do what is best for you, for both of us. Don't you think that it would be wisest for me to go away P" "I don't know whether it would be wise or foolish," she sobbed, with her head still upon his shoulder; " but I think my heart will break if you go." He drew her a little closer to him. Great heavens, why had he not five thousand a year, and a right to marry this village maiden ? It seemed to him a very hard thing that he was not able to win this wayside flower, and yet keep all the other advan- tag-^s he valued so highly. *' But remember, dearest," he said, trying his uttermost to be worldly and practical, " it is at best only a question of a week or 9">, more or less. It is very sweet to me to be with you. I floubt if I ever felt what real happiness was before I knew yon ; but I cannot linger in this happy valley for ever. The time oi parting must come at last, and will seem the harder for every hour we spend together. Would it not be wiser to part at once P 8ay yes, Grace, for both our sakes." " I can't. 1 can't be glad for you to go away. If you aie really happy kere, why should you be so anxious to goP I know that I can never be any more to you than I am now — ^\">\ you must go away at last — to that — other person " ** And yet vou would rather have me stay ? " "Y39. yes]" ** Mfical har Tears, to Thee mt Parfin^ given." ^? * Very well, tlien, I stay ; but it is at your request, remeuiber Gi-act); and when the time does come for our parting, you will be reasonable. We will bury our love in a deep, deep grave, and you will forget that you ever knew me." " We will bury our love," the girl answered softly. After this, Mr. Walgrave went slowly in to breakfast, with very little appetite, and with a vague sense of having maile a fool of himself, after all. All those tossings to and fro — those tchemes made and unmade — that final resolve on the side of prudence — had come to nothing. He was going to remain. " Heaven help any man of five-and-thirty who has the ill-luck to win the heart of a girl of nineteen!" he said to himself. " Sweet Grace Redmayne, what a child she is ! " Grace went into the parlour with her basket only a quarter full of withered roses— there were plenty of faded dowers If ft to perish on the trees. The door of the passage that led to tlie kitchen was open, and she could hear a confusion of tongues, and her aunt's voice protesting about the awkwardness of something. " It couldn't have fell out awkwa«-der," cried Mrs. James ; " a p:ood two months before we'd any right to expect it ; and all my arrangements made, even down to the weekly washing. I'm Kiire I'd thought of everything, and planned everything, a:id rii)thing could have been straighter than it all would have been, if the baby had come to its time." Grace listened wonderingly, but had no occasiou to wonder long. Mrs. James bounced into the parlo»Tr. " What do 3'ou think, Grso; ? Priscilla Sprouter's baby was bom ijnit night." Priscilla was the married daughter, united to a prosperous young grocer in the small town of Chickfield, Sussex, about thirty miles from Brierwood. This unarithmetical infant, which had arrived before it was due, was Mrs. James Redraayne'e second grandchild ; and Mrs. James had solemnly pledged herself to pay a fortnight's visit to Chickfield whenever the eveut should tak^ place, in order to attend to the general welfare of her daughter's person and household. The usual unrse would be eugaged, of course; but Mrs. James ^^as a power paramount over that hireling. The interesting event, however, was to have occurred ia October, and all Mrs. James's arrangements were made accord- ingly : a rehable matron engaged to take the helm at Brierwood during her absejce; a fortnight's suspension of those more solemn duties of brewing and preserving, wihich could not bo performed without being duly provided for ; and behold, here waa a special messenger, mounted on a sturdy unkempt pony in tho 'jutcher interest, come witli a letter announcing tho untimeiy advent of a tine boy. 60 To the Bitter Snd. "Fine, indeed!** cried annt Hannah, contemptuously. ** Ard please will I come at once ; for father — that's William SpTouter ^-ia so uneasy P " " I suppose yotJ must go, annt," said Grace, dubiously. " You suppose I must, do you P And a sieve and a half ol Orleans plums in the back kitchen. Who do you trappose is to look after thon ? " " Couldn't Mrs. Bush make the jam, aunt, if yon must go P " "Of course Mrs. Bush could. Every one that can put a saucepan on the fire ■will tell you they can make jam ; and nic< slop it will be — a couple of inches deep in blue mould before it's been made a month. No, Grace, I am not the woman to treat your father's property like that. I shall make the jam, if I drop ; and I suppose I must start off to Chickfield as soon as it's made. And I should like to know who's to see after Mr. Walgry's dinnere when I'm gone." " Couldn't I manage that, aunt Hannah P I don't think Ms. Walgrave is very particular about his dinners." " Not particular ; no, of course not : as long as everything \% done to a turn, a man seems easy enough to please ; but just try him Tvith a shoulder of lamb half-raw, or a shce of salmon boiled to a mash, and then see what he'll say. However, I must go to Priscilla for a few days, at any rate, and thingi must take their chance here. I've sent Jack across to tell Mrs Bush she must come directly ; and I do hope, Grace, you'll eho-vt a little steadiness for once in a way, and see that your father'i goods ain't wasted. If Mr. Walgry wasn't a veiy quiet kind oi crentleman, I shouldn't care about leaving you ; but he isn't like the common run of single men — there's no nonsense about Ifhim" Cliface blushed fiery red, and had to turn suddenly to the vrin- dow to hide her face. Mrs. James was too busy to perceive her confusion, skirmishing about the room, peering into a great roomy store- cupboard in a comer by the fireplace, filling the tea-caddy, and the sugar-canister, calculating how much colonial produce ought to be consumed during her absence. " You'll give Mrs. Bush a quarter of a pound of tea and half a pound of sugar for the week, remember, Grace — not a grain more. And don't be letting them have butcher's meat in the kitchen more than twice a week. If they can't eat good whole- pome bacrn they must go without Sarah knows the kind oi dinners I get for Mr. Walgry ; and Mrs. Bush is to cook for him. But be sure you see to everything with your own eyes, and give your orders to the butcher with your own lips. The broad-beans are to be eaten, mind, without any fuss about likes or dislikes: your uncle didn't sow them for the crows. And don't be giving all the damsons to Jack and Charley in puddings. I shall want tc make dajitson <^eeijtt when I come oa^k i and if " Hecal her j[*earit, to Thee at Parting given.''* 61 fchey want to make themselves ill in their insidea, there's plenty of windfalls that's good enough for that. And I should Uke to see those Unen pillow-cases daraed neatly when I cojie homo. Miss Toulmin had a deal better have learnt you to mend house-hnen than to parley-vous Franfais. I'm sure atoything I give you to darn hangs about till I'm pick of the sight of it." " I'll do the best I can, aunt," said Grace, meekly. " ShaU you be away long, do you think ? " " How can I teU, cmld ? If Priscilla and the baby go on well, I shan't stop more than a week at the outside. But she's a delicate youjig woman, and there's no knowing what turn things may take. I shan't stop longer than I can help, you may take my word for that. And now I'm going into the oest parlour to tell Mr. Walgry." Grace sat down by the open window, fluttered strangely by this small domestic business. Her aunt would be away — the scrutiny of those sharp eyes removed from her; a week OJ almost perfect freedom before her — she oould not help think- ing that in her aunt's absence she would see more of the man she loved. She knew that he had been obliged to diplomatise a good deal in order to spend half an hour with her, now and then, without creating suspicion. It would hi different now. For one happy week they might meet with- out restraint. And then — and then the end of all things would come, and they must part. That bitter parting must come sooner or later ; he had told her so :n sober seriousness. She tried very hard to realise the fact, but could not. She was too much a child ; and a week seemed almost an eternity of happiness. " Will he be glad ? " she said to herself. " O, I wonder if he will be glad." If she could have looked into her lover's heart after he heard Mrs. Eediuayne's announcement, eh* would have discovered that he was not glad. " I wish I had gone away this morning, without any leave taking," he thought ; " to go now, when she lias asked me t^ stay, would seem sheer brutality. And to stay, now that the dragon is going away, and we can be together all day long, is only heaping up misery for the future. I did not believe myself capable of being made unhappy by any woman; but it will l)e a hard struggle to forget this farmer's daughter. I wish I had never seen her. I wish I had never taken it into my head to come here. Pshaw ! am I the kind of man to make h. trouble out of any such sentimental absurdity as this P Why shouldn't I enjoy a week's innocent flirtation with a pretty girl, and then go back to my own world and forget her ? " And with this laudable intention Mr. Walgrave stroUed out into the garden again, in the ho|)e of meeting (irace '■•''2 To the Bitter End. He was disappointed, however, this time. Mrs. James war np to her eyes in preserving, and kept Grace in the kilclien with her, listening to solemn counsel upon all the details of domestic management. It was rather a hard thing to have to stop m the hot kitchen all through that lovely summer day, wiping out jam pots, cutting and writing labels, and making herself udeiul in such small ways; but Grace bore the infliction very meekly. To-morrow there would be perfect Uberty. Mr. Walgrave prowled round the garden two or three timef then stretched himself at full length in the orchard, and slumbered for a little in the drowsy August noontide — a slum" ber in which his dreams were not pleasant — awoke unrefreshed, went back to the house and reconuuitred, caught a glimpse of Grace in the kitchen throi'^h a latticed wmdow half-buried in ivy, lost his temper, and touA up his fishing-rod and wandered Dut in search of an elderly and exj)erienced pike he had been waging war with for the last six weeks ; a wary, worldly-minded brute, who thought no more of swallowing a hook than if it had been a sugar-plum, and had acquired, by long usage, a depraved appetite for fishing-tackle. CHAPTER IX "ai fond kiss, and then ■vte sever." It was late in the aftenoon when Hubert Walgrave came back to the farm, and there was a holy calm in the atmosphere of the old house which told him somehow that Mrs. Redmayne had departed. Your household Martha is the most estimable of women, but is apt to make a good deal of superfluous clatter in her trouble about many things. There was an ail of perfect peacefulness in the house to-day, which was new and welcome to the lodger. His dinner was served without ihe usual bustle — not quite so well cooked, perhaf>8, as when Mrs. James's own hand basted the joint, or made the gravies and seasonings ; but he was not a man to whom a well-cooked dinner is the supreme good of life. He liked the repose and tranquillity which Mrs. James had left behind her; hked to think that when he strolled into the garden presently he would find Grace free to give him her society. He found her sitting at her work — those inexorable pillow- cases — quite alone under the cedar. James Bedmayne was by ao means a man of dissipated habits ; but 'iberty is very sweet tia those who taste it rarely ; and he had snatched the opportunity of walking over to Kingsbury, to discuss the ruling topics of the day with the small politicians of the place in the comfortable parlour of the Aloon and Seven SLaiti. Harvest was ne;»r. "^s. The tfiirrs were beginninp to show on the bine. What with poli- tics and agriculture, Mr. Redmayne was in for a long evening. As to Jack and Charley, they never stayed anywhei-e except for meals. Their normal state was locomotion. So Grace sat quite alone under the cedar; and all that even- ing the lovers roamed in the garden and loitered in the orchard, and there was no one to interlere with their happiness. 0, hal- cyon tirael 0, summer- tide of joy, shadowed by no thought of to-morrow 1 Grace abandoned herself to her happiness as simply as a child at the beginning of a holiday. He was with her — he had granted her ] rayer, and stayed. Never had she dreamed that life could hold so much joy. And yet it was only the old story : passionate protestations of unchanging affection — a love which was vast enough for anything except self-sacrifice — a strange mixture of sentiment and worldly wisdom — a good deal of melancholy philosophising after the modern school — and the per{5etual refrain, " I love yoii, Grace, but it is not to be." One sweet summer day followed another, and their hberty was undisturbed. Uncle James made the best use of his freedom, contrived to have business at Tunbridge one day, and at Kings- bury the next, and had what the Yankees call " a good time." Grace went out fishing with her lover — went wandering along the winding bank of a delicious streamlet that twisted here and there tJb.rough that not too-well watered country, and saw him do battle with the ancient pike, or capture an occasional bsffbel or half a dozen roach. A great deal of walking and telfeing went to a very little angling in these rambles. He cnt her name upon the silver bark of an old beech, like any rustic Corydon. He oonld not help wondering what Augusta Vallory would have thought if she could have seen him en- gaged in that sentimental labour, with Grace watching him en- raptured. Well, it was a sweet life, if it could have lasted. He thought of his own world with a dreary sigh. " And yet by the end of a month, I should be tired to death, I daresay," he said to himself. " How much better to break with my darhng while our love retains all its freshness — to have each a sweet poetic memory to carry down to our graves ! How much better not to have worn our emotions threadbare ! I shall marry Augusta, and Grace will marry one of her cousins ; and in the secret drawer of our desks we shall each keep a withered flower, or a lock of hair — ' only a woman's hair ' — in remem- brance of a buned love." This was very comfortable philosophy, and for the man of the world who meant to make a name and a fortune, and live the Ufe which seemed to him altogether beat worth living, highly 64 3h the Bitter End. satisfactory — not quite so consolatory, perhaps, f«r the girl -wha had given him all her heart, and was to be left behind to vege- tate with a farmer. The days slipped away. The week was very near its end. Aunt Hannah wrote to inform her family that Pnscilla Sprouter was going on admirably, and the baby in perfect health ; and that, with the blessing of Providence, she, Mrs. James, would be home early on Monday morning — in time for the wash. This was a signal for Hubert Walgrave's departure. He did not care to encounter the scrutinising gaze of the matron in hia altered relations with Grace. The rustic idyl had lasted long enough- It was best that it should come to a sudden close. And yet — and yet — this man of the world counted the hours that were left to him before that black Monday, and looked forward with a foohsh deUght to the quiet of the long Sabbath — the church bells ringing hymn tunes across the golden corn- fields — the drowsy blissfulness of the old-fashioned garden, where flaunting hollyhocks proclaimed that autumn was at hand. Grace woke with a strange tremulous feeling of mingled joy and sorrow on that Sunday morning. Another long day — with him ! It was the last ; but while it still lay before her it seemed such a sum of happiness. At t's^ilight it would be different ; but with the morning sun still shining she could not think of the evening. The garden was still bright and dewy when Hubert Walgrave came in quest of her, and she brighter and fresher than the morning itself. They walked together until breakfast-time — went to church together afterwards — were together, more or less, all day long. There was no one to inter- rupt their perpetual tete-a-tete, even upon this day of rest ; Mr. Eedmayne improving the shining hours by refreshing slumber, sleeping off the effects of his unwonted dissipations at Kings- bury, that he might meet his wife with a serene front on the morrow ; the two young men Inafing about anywhere and every- where — sitting on gates for the greater part of the day — con- versing with stray ploughmen, or descending to the intellectual level of a passing crow boy. Halcyon Sabbath ! happy summer time among the flaunting hollyhocks and fading roses ! Tt was meet this should be the end. In all Grace Redmayne'* young life this one bright week made up the sum of perfect happiness. In the fashionable world there are experienced beauties wno count their happy seasons— Bummers that were one perpetual festival — who look back regret* folly to the golden years in th<\ir calendar; but Grace's season was bound by the span of sevei days. She had her brief da>^ uf delight and brightnesa, like a flower or a butterfly, and that vaa all. '^Ae Fond Kist, and then we Srvcrr." 65 Towards evening Hubert Walgrave saw her face change. She grew very pale ; her hands trembled as they touched the flowers ; and when, in the course of their purposeless sauntering io and fro, one little hand rested on his arm, he found that it was icy cold. " My darling, is there anything the matter P " he asked ten- derly. " Nothing ; except that you are going away to-morrow. You do not expect me to be very happy to-night, do you P " " But, my sweetest, you have known from the first that it must be so. We agreed to make your aunt's return the signal for our leave-taking. Tliis parting has been before us from the beginning." " Yes, it has been before us ; but I did not know it would be BO bitter," she said, and then burst into tears. It was hard for him to bear, but a man who means to get on in the world must endure a good deal of hardship in the way of outraged feeling. He would have given a great deal in that moment to be able to clasp her to his heart, and claim her for his fair young wife; a great deal, but not quite all. If he had been an unsuccessful man, with nothing to sacrifice, it would have been easy to forget any difterences of social position, slight at the best, and to cast in his fate \nth the woman he loved. But he was very far from being an unsuccessful man, and his standpoint was a critical one. He owed much to one strong hand that had helped him to mount several rungs of the ladder, and could help him higher. To marry this girl would be to for- feit the best friend he had ; in plain words, would be simply ruin. A judge may marry his cook ; but a rising young barrister, dependent on the breath of attorneys, has an important card to play in his marriage, and may make or mar himself thereby. Hubert Walgrave did not mean to imperil his chances. He had begun his career when a young man fresh from college with th« determination to make a name for himself. There were circum- gtauces in his life that made this desire keener in him than it is in most men. Nor had he ever swerved by a hair's breadth from that intention. This luckless passion for a farmer's daughter was his first folly. He comforted her as best he might, dried her tears, beguiled her into smihng at him, a very faint wan smile. " Shall I ever see you again after to-morrow morning, I won- der P " she said piteously. And then she quoted Borneo cmd fuliet, which they had read together in the garden : *• ' heaven, I hare an ill-divining soul I Methlnks I see thee now I'm parting from thcc, Am one dead in the bottom of a tomb.' " ee To the Bitter End, " My dearest, we shall meet again. I shall oome to see you one day, — when you are married perhaps." " O no, no, nol " she cried, shaking her head. " O yes, yes, yes, Gracey ! This has been only a sweet poetic dream, this love of yours and mine. We are each to go our way in the world, and live our lives. You remember what your be- loved Longfellow says : " ' Life is real, life Ib earnest.' "And my sweet Grace will be an honoured wife and the happy mother of children. That is what a woman's life was meant for, after all, Grace, to watch beside a cradle. I shall come to see you, and find you the fair central figure of a happy home. Your father will have returned by that time." The pale face whitened in the moonlight. " My father !" the girl repeated with something like a shudd-t "You have almost made rae forget my father." The morning came; rosy-fingered Aurora in her opal car, and Mrs. James Redmayne in a chaise-cart. She arrived at Brierwood about breakfast-time — a metropolitan breakfast-time, that is to say — having risen at a preternaturally early hour in order to do thirty miles and be at home in time for the washing. All the poetry of the cool shadowy old homestead seemed to ranish at the sight of her. There arts people at whose coming all mystic creatures disperse; people who carry with them every- where a delightful atmosphere of commonplace, whose conversa- tion is as interesting as a rule-of-three sum, whose countenances are as erpressive of tender emotion as the back of a ledger. Mrs. James was one of these. She gave her niece a mechanical kiss, with her eyes exploring the comers of the room all the while to see if the solemn rite of cleaning had been duly performed in her absence ; and finding nothing here to complain of, turned her scrutinising gaze upon the girl's face, and pronounced immediately that she was looking " bilious." " You've been lolling about in-doors all day, I daresay," she remarked, " instead of taking a healthy walk every morning." " No indeed, aunt Hannah," protested Grace, blushing; " I've Vra out a good deal — for long walks." " O, jon have, have you ? " said her aunt ; " and pray ars those pillow-cases mended yet P " *• I've — almost — finished them." " Almost ! You've never done more than almost finish any work I ever gave you to do. But that comes of sending girls to etuck-np boarding-schools. I've no common patience with such trumpery." " Is the baby a very nice one, aunt Hannah P " Grace inqnired "Ae Fond Kits, and then we Sever** 67 meekly, in the hope of giving a pleaaant turn to the oonTersa- tion. " lie's got the red-gum," Mrs. James answered sharrly ; " I don't believe I ever saw a child so speckled." '* Bill he'll come right, I suppose, aunt P " "0, he'll come right soon enough, I daresay: hnt as for your monthly nurocB, of all the lazy lumber I ever had to do with, they're about the worst. If children could only be brought up to the month by machinery, so as to get rid of them, it would be a blessing to families. How's Mr. Walgry ? " "He's very well, aunt Hannah. Uncle James told you in hie Hter that he was going away, didn't heP " " Well, yes, he said something about it; but it was as much M I could do to make top or tail oi it. Your uncle's a poot bcribe. When is he going P " "To-day," faltered Grace, dragging one of the ill-fated pillow- cases out of her work-basket, and studying a darn. " To-day ! That's uncommonly sudden. However, he's a good paymaster, and free to go when he likes. If one must take a lodger, one couldn't have one that would give less trouble. And we've made a fair profit out of him. I shall put from ten t<-) fifteen pound in the savings-bank for your father out of what he's paid me." Mrs, James took off her bonnet, washed her face at a sink in the back kitchen with the strongest ye.llow soap, and a most profound indifference to the effect of such ablutions on her com- plexion, put on a clean cap, and then went to pay her respects to the departing lodger. His portmanteau and carpet-bag had been brought down into the old-fashioned low-ceihnged lobby, which served as a hall ; the Kingsbuir fly was at the door. Grace stood at the parlour-window, pale as a ghost, watching. Would he seek her out to say good-bye P or would he leave bt^r without a word ? The eyes of the world were on him now — would he play his cruel part coldly, and without heed of her anguish P She heard his voice in the lobby, talking commonplace to her aunt, and listened ats if every word had been inspiration. " So sorry to leave you, Mrs. Redmayne," he said, in his slow languid way. " I did not believe I could have enjoyed country life so much. I have to thank you a thousand times for all your attention; nothing but an actual necessity to perform other engagements would induce me to leave you. I hope to be allowed 10 come again some day." ** We shall be pleased to see you anywhen, Mr. Walgry," replied Mrs. James, in her blandest tones. "I'm sure there never was a gentleman gave less trouble." Mr. Walgrave smiled faintly. Une poor little rnnoeent hean 08 To the Bitter Snd. had been sorely troubled by his coming. He was a man of th« world, but not quite iron ; and he had a guilty feeling that his preseuce in that house had wrought evil. The fly was at the door, his portmanteau and book-box bestowed upon the roof, and he had only a given time for tho drive to Tu abridge junction; yet he lingered, looking round him doubtfully. " I think I ought to say good-bye to your niece, Mrs. Red* mayne," he observed at last. " You're very polite, I'm sure, sir; and I daresay Grace might take it unkind if you went away without wishing her good- morning. She's been brought up at boarding-school, and is full of fancies. Bless my soul, where is the girl ? Grace!" The parlour-door opened quickly at that shrill cry, and Grace appeared on the threshold, pale to the Ups, scarcely able to stand. Happily for her, Mrs. James's attention was distracted at that moment by her son and heir, who had just contrived to smash a pane in the half-glass door with one end of the traveller's fishing-rod. For a long time Grace Redmayne's image, as she looked at that moment, haunted Hubert Walgrave. The pale plaintive look, the despairing eyes, with a kind of wildness m them. Her image in many shapes was destined to haunt him for the rest of his life, but he never forgot that one look, that mute unconscious appeal. He went to her as she stood by the door, and took her hand. " I could not go away without wishing you good-bye, Grace," he said. " I have been telling your aunt how happy I have been Jiere, and that I mean to come again — some day." He waited, half expecting her to speak, but she said nothing. The pale lips quivered slightly, and that was all. " Good-bye," he repeated; and then in a lower voice, " Good- Dye, and God bless you, my darling ! " He turned quickly away, shook hands with Mrs. Redmayne, and then with the elder of the lads, on whom he bestowed u couple of sovereigns for fishing-tackle; the house-servant had been already fee'd, and was smiling the smile of gratitude from the background. In another minute the driver smacked his whip, the wheels grated on the gravel, and Hubert Walgrave was gone. " It makes us a fall hour late for beginning the wash," said aunt Hannah ; " but everything's in soak, and we've got a good drying day, that's one blessing." Grace dragged herself up to her room, somehow, groping blindly up the famiUar old staiicase, with a mist of unshed teto-g before her eyes. O weary limbs I O heavy, heavy heart ! Was *^9re never acrain to be any joy for her upon this earth ? Mr. Walgrave is Satis/led toith Himfelf. 69 CHAPTER X. MR. WALGHAVI IS SATISFIED WITH HIMSEU. Thk torn A.M. express whisked Mr. Walgrave up to town io Bomething less than an hour. The fair Kentish landscape shot past the carriage-window, little by little losing its charm of niral seclusion, growing suburban, dotted thickly and more thickly with villas, here newly whitened stucco of the rustic Itahan style, there fresh red brick of severely gothic design ; for oaks came laurels, for mighty beeches of half a dozen centuries' growth monkey trees planted the day before yesterday ; every house had its glittering conservatory, trim lawn, and geometrical flower-beds, all ablaze with Tom Thumb geraniums and calceo- laria ; everywhere the same aspect of commonplace British prosperity. Then tlie bright well-ordered suburb melted into the crowded southern fringe of the great town. The air became flavoured with soap-boiling, taUow, new boots — on the right hand a far-off odour of cordage and tar from Deptford ; on the left, the dismal swamps of Bermondsey. Then a clang and a clatter, a shrieking and puffing, and jerking and snorting ; a stoppage or two — apparently purposeless — and, lo, Mr. Walgrave was at the London- bridge station; and it seemed to him as if Grace Redmayne, and the Ufe that he had been living for the last few weeks, could scarcely belong to such a world as this. It was a dreary awakening from a dehcious dream. He called a cab — a four-wheeler — since he had the responsi- bihty of his luggage, and no one but himself to take charge of it, and drove through the grimy miry streets. Even at this deadest period of the year the City was noisy with traffic, and full of life and motion ; but O, what a dismal kind of life after the yellowing corn-fields, studded with gaudy field flowers, an(? the rapturous music of the lark, invisible in the empyrean ! " 0, to be a country squire with twenty thousand a year," he thought, " and to hve my own life ! to marry Grace Redmayne, and dawdle away my harmless days riding round my estate ; to Buperintend the feUing of a tree or the leveUing of a hedge ; ts. lie stretched on the grass at sunset with my head on my mfe'a lap, my cigar-case and a bottle of claret on the rustic table beside me ; to have the renown that goes with a good old name and a handsome income ; and to have nothing to wrestle for, no Erize to pluck from the slow-growing tree that bears the sour •uit of worldly success — sour to the man who fails to reach it, ashes to the lip« of him who wins it too late ! And yet we rtrive — and yet we persevere — and yet we sacrifice all for the hope of that." The cab took him to one of the gates of the Temole, and 70 To t\e> Bitter Evtd. de]x>«itM liim finally in King's-becch-wftlk, Hero he had hi« chambers, a handsome snite upon the first floor, where he chose to live in defiance of fashion. He fully knew the value of externals, and that well-made chairs and tables are in a mannei the outward expression of a man's mental worth. There was no bric-d-brac; nor were the doors shadowed by those ruby velvet portieres, which seem to prevail more in Ught literature than in the houses of everyday hfe. The rooms were large and lofty, and had all the charm of fine old mantelpieces, deep window seats, and well-preserved panelling. The furniture was solid and in ^ood order — a little old-fashioned, and therefore in harmony with the rooms. There were books on every side, but no luxury of binding — such books as a gentleman and a lawyer should possess — in sober decent garb, and arranged with an extreme nicety in fine old mahogany bookcases of that Georgian period whereof the furniture seems always to bear on its front a palpable protest against any pretensions to beauty. There were two or three comfortable easy-chairs, upholstered in russet morocco ; a writing-table with innumerable drawers and pigeon- holes ; a pair of handsome bronze moderator lamps ; and over the high mantel piece in the principal room one picture, the only picture in Hubert Walgrave's chambers. It was a portrait, the portrait of a woman, with a face of almost perfect loveliness — arch, piquant, bewitching, with hazel eyes that had the light of happy laughter in their brightness. The costume, which the painter had made a little fsnciful in its character, was obviously old-fashioned; between thirtv and forty years old at the least. As a work of art the picture was a gem, a portrait which Reynolds or Romney — " the man in Cavendish-square " — might have been proud of. A quiet-looking middle-aged man-servant received Mr. Wal- frave, and busied himself with the carrying in of the luggage, te was half butler, half valet ; slept in a closet ofi" the small kitchen which lurked at the back of those handsome rooms; and with the aid of a laundress, who might often be heard scrubbing and sweeping in the early morning, but was rarely beheld by human eye except his own, conducted Mr. Walgrave's household. He was altogether a model servant, the result cf a good many experiments in the domestic line, was efficient in the d ities of a valet, and could broil a chop and boil a potato to perfection, and conduced in no small measure to Hubert Walgrave's comfort. His name was Cuppage — Christian name Abraham — not by reason of any Jewish element in his ract^ but on account of the biblical tendencies of his mother, tt whom he still proudly alluded, on familiar occasions, as an tir^ equalled clear-starcher and a staunch Bible Christian. "Any letters, Cuppage P" Mr. Walgrave inquired, flinging 5/**. Wal grave it Satisfied with Sinmelf. 71 himself into his favourite arm-chair, and looking round the room liHtlesBly. It was a very pleasant room, looking westward, and com« manding a fine view of that one feature which London has most reason to boast of, the river. It was a comfortable room, stamped with tbe individuality of the man to whom it belonged, and Mr. Walgi-ave was fond of it. His books, his papers, his pipes, all the things which made life agreeable to him, were here. In this room he had worked for the last seven years, ever gince he had begun to earn money by his profession ; and the book-shelves had been filling gradually all that time, every volume added by his own hands, picked up by himself, and in accordance with his own esj)ecial tastes. He began to be reconciled to the change from that shady old house in Kent, with the perfume of a thousand flowers blowing in at every window. London was dull, and empty. And dingy, but he had the things he cared for — books and perfect ease. "I think I was made to be an old bachelor," he thought. * I should hardly care to leave these rooms to inhabit a palace, unless — unless it was with Grace Redmayne. Strange that a farmer's daughter, educated at a provincial boarding-school, should exercise more influence over me than any woman I ever met — should seem to me cleverer and brighter than the brightest I ever encountered in society. I don't think I am so weak a fool as to be won by beauty alone, though I would be the last to underrate that charm. I don't think I should have been so fond of that girl, if she were not something more than bejuitiful." " I should have been so fond." Mr. Walgrave put his passion in a past tense, tried to consider it altogether a thing o^ the past ; and then began to walk slowly up and down his room now and then pausing by one of the three windows to look absently out at the sunlit river, with its fleet of black panting steamers and slow coal barges, and here and there a dingy sail Happing in the faint summer wind, thinking of Grace lled- Giayne. What was she doing just at this moment P he wondered. Wandering listlessly in the garden, perhaps, qmte alone, and very sorrowful. " I shall never forget that white despairing face of hers," he said to himself. " The thought of it gives me an actual pain at my heart If — if I were a weak man, I should take my carpet- jag and go back by the afternoon train. I can fancy how the sweet face would light up at sight of me. But I should be M'niclhinfr worse than a fool if 1 did that. The wrench is over. Tbimk heaven, 1 acted honourably ; told her the truth from tit« 72 To the Bitter E-nd. first. And new I have only to make it my business to forget her." There were letters for him. Cuppage had arranged them symmetrically in a neat group upon the writing-table at tli« right hand of the morocco-covered slope on which Mr. Walgravo was wont to write. He ceased from his promenade presently, and directed his attention to these, as some sort of distraction from meditations which he felt were perilous. They were not likely to be particularly interesting — his letters had been for- warded to him daily at Brierwood — but they would serve to occupy his mind for an hour or so. There was one, bearing the Kensington post-mark, in a hand which surprised him. A large thick envelope, sealed with a monogram in ^old and colour, and directed in a bold firm hand, square and uniform in style, which might be mascuUne or femi- nine. It was very familiar to Hubert Walgrave. He gave a little start of surprise — not altogether pleased surprise — on seeing this letter, and tore open the envelope hurriedly, to the utter destruction of the emblazoned monogram, in which the initials A. H. V. went in and out of each other in the highest style of florid gothic. The letter was not a long one. ACROPOLIS-SQUAilE, August V^th. " My dear Hubert, — You wiU no doubt be snrprised to receive my letter from the above address. Papa grew suddenly tired of Ems, and elected to spend the rest of the autumn in England. So here we are for a day or two, deUberating whether we shall go to some quiet watering-place, or pay off some of our arrears with friends. Papa lent the Ryde villa to Mrs. FUmer before we went away, and of course we can't turn her out. The Stapletons want us at Hayley, and the Beresfords have asked us for ever so many years to Abblecopp Abbey, a fine old place in the depths of Wales. But I daresay the question will resolve itself into our going to Eastbourne or Bognor. " I hope you are getting quite strong and well. If there were any chance of your being m town for a few hours — I suppose you do come sometimes on business — between this and next Thursday, we should be very glad to soe you ; but I do not wish to interfere with your doctor's injunctions about rest and quiet. Ems was dul a f aire fremir. Half a dozen eccentric toilets, as many ladies who were talked about, a Russian prince, and aU the rest the dreariest of the invalid species — so even Kensington- gardens in August are agreeable by way of a change. — Always aincerely yours, "Au'iUSTA Habcross Valloxy. Mr. Wal^rave u Satis/led with HtrMelf. 78 Mr. Walgrave twisted the letter round in liis fingers theutrht- tully, with rather a grim smile upon his face. " Cool," he said to himselt "A gentlemaiilike epistle. None of the Eloisa or Sappho to Phaon business, at any rate. I wonder what kind of a letter Grace Redmayue would write m«f if we were plighted lovers, and had not seen each other for seven or eight weeks. What a gushing stream of tenderness would well trom that fond young heart! 'Augusta fl/jcross Vallory,'" looking at the dashing serai-masculine autogiaph with a half- scornful admiration. " What a fine straight up-and-down hand she writes — with a broad-nibbed pen, and a liberal supply of ink ! One could fancy her signing death-wan-ants just as firm- ly, I wonder she doesn't sign herself ' Harcross and Vallory.' It would seem more natural. Not a bad name for a barony, by the way — like Stamford and Wanington. Her husband may be raised to the peerage some day by such a title." And at the suggestion, made in bitter jest, a dim faint vision of an ermine cap with six pearls arose before Hi>i^rt Walgrave's mental gaze. " Men have sat in the Upper House who began with smaller advantages than mine," he thought. " A fortune like Augusta Vallory's will buy anything in commercial England. One by one the old names are dropping out of the list ; and of ten new ones, eight are chosen for the extent of a man's landed estate, or the balance he keeps at his bank. And when money is con- joined with professional renown, the thing is so easy. But it would be rather singular if I were to sit iu the Upper House and Sir Francis Clevedon in the Lower." He looked at his watch. Three o'clock. The day was so old already, and he had done nothing — not even answered the three or four letters that required to be answered. He took a quire of paper, dashed ofi" a few rapid replies, left Miss Vallory's note nnanswered, and lighted a meditative cigar. Cuppage came in while he was smokii g it to inquire if his master would dine at home. " No. You can put my things ready for me in an hour. I •hall dine out this evening, and I may want to dress early." The cigar soothed him. That little commonplace note of Augusta Vallory's had diverted his mind in some measure— had sent his thoughts in a new direction. He was no longer de- pressed. On the contrary, he was pleased with himself and the world — rather proud of his own conduct during the late crisis in his life — inclined to applaud and approve himself as a gene- rous, honourabl«-minded man of the world. He did not con- sider that honour and generosity and worldliuess were in any way incompatible. " Nothing could have been more straightforward than my souduct to that dear girl," he said to himself. " iVom first fca 74 To the Bitter J^nn. last I was thoroughly candid. Come what may, I rr.n hav« Qutbing to reproach myself with on that score.** CHAPTER XL Everybody knows Acropolis-square and the region to which it belongs — the region amidst which has of late arisen the Albert Hall, but where at this remoter period the Albert Hall was not ; only the glittering fabric of the Horticultural Society's great conservatory, and an arid waste, whereon the Exhibition of 1862 had lately stood. Acropohs-square is a splendid quadrangle of palatial residences, whose windows look out upon a geometrically- arranged garden, where small detachments of the juvenile aris- tocracy, not yet " out," play croquet in the warm June noontide, or in the dewy twilight, when mamma and the elder girls have driven off to haUa of dazzling light, and the governesses are off duty. Acropolis -square, in the height of the London season — when there are carriages waiting at half the doors, and awnings hung out over half the balconies, and a wealth of flowers everywhere, and pretty girls mounting for their canter in the Row, and a general flutter of gaiety and animation pervading the very atmosphere — is bright and pleasant enough ; but at its best it has all the faults ot New Loudon. Every house is the facsimile of its neighbour ; there is none of that individuaUty of archi- tecture which gives a charm to the more sombre mansions of the old-fashioned squares — Grosvenor and Portman and Cavendish; not a break in the line of porches; not a difference of a mullion in the long range of windows ; and instead of the deep mellow hue of Wxat red-brick which so admirably harmonises with the gray background of an English sky, the perpetual gloom of a dark drab stucco. The city of Babylon, when her evil days had fallen upon her was not drearier than Acropolis-square at the end of August or so Hubert Walgrave thought, as a hansom, with irreverent rattle, whisked him round a comer, and into that solemn quad- rangle of stucco palaces, from whose drab fronts the gay striped awnings had vanished and the flowers departed, and where no •* click " of croquet-ball sounded on Oxe burut-up grass in the enclosure. Mr. Vallory'a hotise was one of the most perfectly ajip'Uiited m the square. It was not possible to give an individual character til any one of those stucco mansions ; but so far as the perfec- tir.n of hftarth-stoning and window-cleaning could go, th« On Dtciif. 1l chafacteJ- of Mr. Vallory's mtuiBion was respecl ability, solidity, A gravity of aspect that sugj^estod wealth. The dining-room curtains, of which the respectful passer-by caught a glimpse, were of the deepest and darkest shade of claret — no gaudy obtru- sive crimson or ruby — and of a material so thick that the mas- jive folds seemed hewn out of atone. The shutters to the dinine- room windows were dark oalc, relieved by the narrowest possil tie beading of gold. Even the draperies that shrouded the French casements of the drawing-room were a dark-green silk damask ; and the only ornaments visible from the outside were bronze statuettes, and monster vases of purple- and-gold Oriental china. The muslins, and laces, and chintzes, and rose-coloured linings which gladdened the eye in neighbouring houses had no place here. A footman in a chocolate livery, and with his hair powdered, admitted Mr. Walgrave to the hall, which was adorned with a black marble stove Hke a tomb, an ecclesiastical brass lamp, and had altogether a sepulchral look, as of a mortuary chapel. The man gave a faintly supercihous glance at the parting nansom — Mr. Vallory had so few cabs in his visiting-list — before he nshertid !Mr. Walgrave to the drawing-room. " Is Miss Vallory at home ? " " Yea, sir ; Miss Vallory returned from her drive half an hour ago." The drawing-room was quite empty, however ; and the foot- man departed in quest of Miss Vallory's maid, to whom to communicate the arrival of a visitor for ner mistress — whereby ^liss Vallory had to wait about ten minutes for the information. The drawing-room was empty — a howling wilderness of gor- geous furniture, opening by means of a vast archway into a smaller desert, where a grand piano stood in the centre of a barren waste of Axminster carjiet. Everything in the two rooms was of the solid school — no nonsense about it — and every- thing was costly to the last decree. Ebony cabinets, decorated with clusters of fruit, in cornelian and agate ; Hercules and the BuU in bronze, on a stand of verde antique. No cups and sau- cers, no Dresden dejemners, no Chelsea shepherdesses, no photo- graph albums ; but a pair of carved-oak stands for engravings, eupporting elephantine portfolios of Albert Diirer's and Rem- brandt's etchings, and early impressions from plates of Hogarth's own engraving. There were a few choice pictures, small and modern, things that had been among the gems of their year in the Academy ; jnst enough to show that neither taste nor wealth was wanting for the collection of a gallery. There was an exquisite group in white marble, forming the centre of a vast ^een satm ottoman ; but of bric-d'brac there was none. Th« »^ler found no dainty rubbish, no costly trifles scattered ca 76 To the Bitter End. every side to amuse an empty quarter o^ an hour. Aftw he had examined the half-dozen or bo of pictures, he could only pace the Axminster, contemplative of the geometrical design in rarious shades of green, or gaze dreamily from one of the win- dows at the drab palaces on the other side of the square. Hubert Walgrave paced the carpet, and looked about the room thoughtfully as he walked. It seemed larger to him than it had ever appeared before, after that shady parlour at l^rierwood, with its low ceiling and heavy oaken beams, dark-brown panel- ling and humble furniture. In such rooms as this he might hope to Uve all his Ufe, and to enjoy all the distinction which such surroundings give — without Grace Redmayne. The picture of his future life, with all the advantages of wealth and influence which his marriage was to bring him, had always been v(. j>erfect, that if Miss Vallory had an enemy of her own sex, that enemy might have suggested vinaigre de rotuje and hlaitc llusati; a delicate aquiline nose, thin lips — ^just a shade too thin perhaps — a finelv modelled chin, and flashing white teeth, that gave life and light to her face. The forehead was some- what low and narrow ; and, perfect as the eyelashes and eye- brows might be, the eyes themselves had a certain metallic bi"il- liancy, which was too much Hke the brightness of a deep-hued topaz or a catseye. She was dressed superbly ; indeed, dreas with Miss Vallor} was the most inii)ortaiit business of life. She had never had occasion to give herself much trouble on any other subject; and to dress magnificently was at once an occupation and an amusement. To be striking, original, out of the common, was her chief aim. She did not affect the every-day pinks and hlues and mauves of her acquaintance, but, with the aid of a French milliner, devised more artistic combinations — rich browns and fawns and dead-leaf tints, rare shades of gray, relieved by splashes of vivid colour — laces which a dowager duchess might have sighed for. Miss Vallory did not see any reason why the married of her sex should alone be privileged to wear gorgeous apparel. Rich silks and heavy lacce became ber splendid beauty better than the mnshns and gaus;o& oi the demoiselle a marier. To-dav she wore a fawn-coloured silk dress, with a train that •wept the carpet for upwards of a yard behind her — a corded fawn-aoloared silk high to the throat, without a vestige of kuBJviig on had J or ueeT.i way. " Why, Hubert, how well you are looking ! " said Miss Vallory, " I expected to see you still an invalid." "WelU no, my dear Augusta; there must come ap end to ever}'t>mg. I went into the country to complete my cure ; and 1 thi nk I may venture to say that 1 am cured." A} r. Walgrave's tone grew graver with those last words. He was thinking of another disease than that for which the London pl'ysician had treated him, wondering whether he were really vii the high road to recovei-y from that more fatal fever. " I need not tell you how well you are looking," he went on giiily ; " that is your normal state." " Ems was horrid," exclaimed Miss Vallory. " I was immensely glad to come away. How did you like your farm- l'A)nse P It must have been rather dreary work, I should think." " Yes ; it did become rather dreary work — at the last." " You liked it very well at first, then?" inquired the young lady, vrith a slight elevation of the faultless eyebrows. She was not particularly sentimental ; but she would have preferred to be told that he had found existence odious without her. " No ; it was not at all bad — for a week or so. The place it old-fashioned and picturesque, the country round magnificent. Tliere were plenty of chub, too; and there was a pike I very III nob wanted to catch. I shall go in for him again next year, ] Qjiresay." " [ havQ never \)ma able to comprehend what any man can fiiid to interest him in fishing." •* It has long been my hopeless endeavour to discover what any Woman can have to say to her milbner for an hour and a hidt at a stretch," answered Mr. Walgrave coolly. Aagusta Vallory smiled — a cold hard smile. " I suppose you have found it rather tiresome when T hav« k>?pt you waiting at Madame Bouffante's," she said carelessly; *' but there are some things one cannot decide in a hurry ; and Bouifante is too busy, or too grand, to come to me." " What an unfathomable science dress is ! That gown yon h ive on now, for instance," surveying her critically, " doesn't » iiii very elaborate. I should thmk yon might mako it your* kit." On Duty. T« "No icubt, if I had been apprenticed to a dressmaker. Dnfortnnately, papa omitted that branch of instruction from his programme for my edncation. Madame Boufiante cut tliia dress herself. The train is a new style, that was only intro- duced three weeks ago by the Empress of the French." " Good heavens I and I did not recognise the novelty when you came into the room. What a barbarian I amf But, do you know, I have seen women who made their own dresses — when I was a boy." " I cannot help it, my dear Hubert, if you have lived amongst curious people." He was thinking of Grace Redmayne as he had seen her one Saturday afternoon seated under the cedar, running the seams of a blue-and-white muslin dress which she was to wear at clmrch next morning, and in which, to his eyes, she had seemed fairer than a wood nymph. Yet Miss Vallory was much handsomer than Grace, even without the adventitious aid oi dress — much handsomer, but not so lovely. " I have come to ask if I may stay to dinner," said 1^1 r Walgrave, seated comfortably on the great green satin ottomuii, wilh Miss Vallory by his side — not ridiculously near him in any lackadaisical pUghted-lover-like fashion, but four or five feet away, with a tiowing river of fawn-coloured silk between theui. *' You see, I am in regulation costume." " Papa will be very glad. We have not told any one we are in town ; and indeed I don't suppose there ia a creature we know u» London. You will enliven him a little." " And papa's daughter ? " " O, of course ; you know I am always pleased to see yon. Half-past six," looking at her watch. " If you are very good I won't change my dress for dinner, and we can have a comfort- able gossip instead." " I mean to be unexampled in goodness. But under ordinary circumstances — with no one you know in town — would you really put on 8omething.«iore splendid than that orange-taw uy gown, for the sole edification of the butler?" " I dress for paf>a, and because I am in the habit of doing .^o, I 9up^>ose." *' It women Lad onlv a regulation costome like ours — black jilk, and a white muslin tie — what an amount of envy and heart-burning might be avoided ! And it would give the handsome ones a fairer start — weight for age, as it were— histead of the present system of handicapping. ' " I don't in the least understand what you mean, Hubert, Imagine girls in society dressed in black, like the young wonifB in a haberdasher's shop ! " ** Yea, that's an obiection. Yet voe submit to apparel our 80 To the Bitter Mid. selves like butlers. However, being so perfect as you are, it in foolishness to wish yon otherwise. And now tell me all youx news. I languish to hear what you have been doing." This was an agreeable easy-going manner of concealing the fact that Mr. Wa'grave had nothing particular to say. The woman who was to be his wife was handsome, accomplished^ well versed in all worldly knowledge ; yet they met after eight weeks' severance and he had nothing to say to her. He could only lean lazily back upon the ottoman, and admire her with cold critical eyes. Time had been when he fancied himself in love with her. He could never have won so rich a prize without Bome earnestness of intention on his own part, without some reality of feeUng ; but whatever force the passion had po88es8eower to dispose of the money." W Tt the Bitter End. " Yea don't speak very kindly of him." " Perhaps not. I daresay I am somewhat wanting in filial reverence. The fact is, he could have afforded to do a good deal more for me than he did do, and I have not yet learnt to forgivi him. He was not a good father, and, frankly, I don't much care about talking of him." This was like a conversational dead wah, with " No thorough- fare " inscribed upon it. Mr. Vallory asked no more questions. Hubert Walgrave was a gentleman — that was the grand pomt; Bnd it mattered very little how many uncles and aunts he had, or if he were totally destitute of such kindred. He was clovor, energetic, hard-working, and tolerably sure to get on in the world. " I am not marrying my daughter to a drone, who would stick a flower in his button-hole, and live on his wife's fortune ; that ia oue comfort," the lawyer said to himself. He had, indeed, no reason to complain of any lack of industry in Hubert Walgi-ave. From the hour in which his engagement to Miss Vallory became a settled thing he worked harder than ever. That which would have tempted mo«t men to idleness urged him to fiercer effort, to more eager pursuit of that single aim of his existence — self-advancement. He wanted to win a reputation before he married; he did not want people to be able to say, " There goes that lucky fellow Walgrave, who married o!d VaUory's daughter." He wished to be pointed out rather as the celebrated Mr. Walgrave, Q.C., and his lucky marriage spoken of as a secondary affair, springing out of his success. With this great end in view — a very worthy aim, in the opinion of a man of his creed, which did not embrac6 very lolly ideas of this life — Mr. Walgrave had very nearly worked him- self into a galloping consumption; and whUe going this high- pressure pace had been brought to a sudden standstill by that perilous illness which had led to his hohday at Brierwood. Skil- ful treatment, and a naturally good constitution, which would bear some abuse, had pulled him through, and he was what our forefathers used to call " on the mending hand," wlien he went down to the old farmhouse, to fall sick of a still more trouble* com« disea&a. CHAPTER Xin. " THB SHOWS Ot SUIlf GS AKB BETTER THAU THEMSELVES.** Mr. Vallory came in just before dinner, bringing a visitor with hira — rather a dandified-looking yonng man, of the unmistak- ;«ble City type, with faultless boots, a hothouse flower in his T^r Shotca of Tlnngi ar» Better than Them'^elveg' 87 kiitton-hole, carefully-arranged black whiskers, a eood-looking supercilious face, a fi^re justj above the middle height, eyes like Augusta's, and a complexion that was a great deal too good for a man. This was the junior partner, the seventh-share man, 'iVeston Vallory. " I found your cousin West«n at the office, Augusta," said Mr. Vallory, " and brought him home to dinner. You must jxcuse his morning dress ; I wouldn't give him time to change his clothes." " I always keep a dress suit at the office, and Pullman the porter valets me," said Weston. " I only asked for ten minutes ; 1)11 1 you know how impatient your father is, Augusta. So behold me ! " He kissed his cousin, and gave the tips of his fingers to Hubert Walgrave. There was no great affection between those two. Weston had fully intended to marry Augusta, and had been both astounded and outraged by her engagement. They dined at eight, and the banquet was not especially lively — a little over-weighted with attendance, and plate, and splendour; a large round table, with a pyramid of gaudy autumnal flowers — Japanese clematis and scarlet geranium, calceolaria and verbena — in the centre; four people scarcely able to see each other's faces without an effort, and three solemn servants waiting upon them. Mr. Valloiy and his nephew tilkod shop. Augusta asked her lover little commonplace fiuestions about commonplace things, and gave him small phreds and patches of information respecting her stay at Ems. He caught himself on the brink of a yawn more than once. He thought of the dusky garden at Brierwood — the perfume of the flowers, the low music of Grace Redmayne's voice, the tender touch of her hand. He thought of these things even while Augusta was entertaining him with a lively description of some outrageous costumes she had seen at Ems. But presently he brightened a little, and made it his business to be amusing, talking in, 0, such a stereotyped way, like a creature in genteel comedy. He felt his own dreariness — fel* that between him and the woman he was to marry there was no point of union, no touch of sympathy. She talked of Parisian dresses; he talked of the people they knew, in a semi-super- cilious style that did duty for irony; and he was miserably •onscious of the stupidity and narrowness of the whole business. He remembered himself roaming in the gardens at Clevedon ffall — along the moss-grown paths, by the crumbling wall where the unprotected cherries ripened for the birds of the air, among the dilapidated cucumbor-frames, in a wilderness of vegetable e refusion, where the yellow pumpkins sprav?led in the sunshine, T the great still pond overhung by a little grove of ancient 88 To the Bitter End. quine<»-tr«»8, in and out amidst waste, neglect, and SM-cctnos}?— • with Grace Redmayne hj his side. Was it really the same mao seated at this table, peeling a peach, with his eyebrows elevated languidly, and little cynical epeeches dropping now and then from his thin lips ? Angusta Vallory was quite satisfiotl with her lover. He was gentlemanlike and undemonstrative, and had nothing kindly to say about any one or anything. She had no admiration for those exuberant young men from the Universities, great at liammer-throwing and long jumps, who were beginning to over- run her circle — youths with loud cheery voices and sunburnt faces, hands blistered by rowing, and a general healthiness and joyousness of aspect. They only bored her. After dinner, when Vallory senior and Vallory junior were playing a game of billiards in a room that had been built out at the back of the house over some otHces, half-way between the dining and the drawing-rooms, the fair Augusta amused herself by questioning her lover about his Ufe in Kent. It must have bticu ineffably dismal. What had he done with himself? how \itA he contrived to dispose of his time P "* Well, of course," said Mr. Walgrave dreamily, " that sort of life is rather monotonous. You get up and eat your breakfast, and walk a little and write a little and read a little ; and, if you happen to be a man with that resource open to you, you smoke a great deal, and eat your dinner, and go to bed. And yon hardly know Monday from Tuesday ; if you were put in a witness-box you couldn't swear whether a given event happened at the end of the week or the beginning. But to a fellow who wants rest, that kind of life is not altogether disagreeable ; he gets a honeycomb for his breakfast, a dish of fresh trout now and then, and cream in his tea. And then, you see," concluded Mr. Walgrave, making a sudden end of the subject with a Buppressed yawn, " I read a good deal." " You read a good deal ! when the doctors had especially for- bidden work !" " 0, but it wasn't hard work, and T don't believe I did myself any good by it; it was only a desultory kind of reading. I was rather anxious about Cardimum versus Cardimum, that Chancery case in which your father wants me to make a figure ; And I read up some old precedents bearing on it. There was a man in the reign of James II. who went in against his first cousin on exactly the same grounds. And I read a novel of Anthony TroUope's." "There coul*'l be no hoxm in y«t"ir reading a novel. Yot must have re&i all "iija nort^ of ikv season, I fihould think, iv feven vMeks." " Noi I fcjfl t jrool dool y' fishir* I iKi»" *he Ai'maintancl « The Shows of Things are Better than Themselves " 89 of a jack that I mean to bring to terms at some future dat#>. He wasn't to be had this year." Miss Vallory asked a gi-eat many more questions ; but it was astonishing how little Mr. Walgrave had to tell of his Kentish experiences. " You are not a particularly good hand at description, Hubert," she said at last, somewhat dis})leased by his reticence. " If it had been Weston, he would have given nie a perfect picture of the farmhouse Ufe, and the queer clodhopjjin^ country people with an imitation of the dialect, and all that kmd of thing." " If I were good at all that kind of thing, I should write for the magazines, or give an entertainment, and turn my gifts into money," replied Mr. Walgrave superciliously. "I wish you'd play something, Augusta." This was a happy way of getting out of a difficulty, suggested by a glance at the open piano. "I'll sing you something, if you like," Miss Vallory said graciously. " I was trying a new ballad this morning, which u rather m our style, I fancy." " Let me hear it, by all means." He went to the piano, adjusted the candles, which were lighted ready, waited while the performer seated herself, and then with- drew to a comfortable easy-chair. Never during his couj-tship or since his engagement had he fatigued himself by such puerile attentions as turning over the leaves of music, or cutting open magazines, or any of those small frivolous sei-vices by which some men render themselves precious to their womankind. In- deed, in a general way, he may be described as scrupulously in- attentive. If this girl «hose to give him her wealth, she should bestow it spontaneously. There should be no cajolery on hif part, no abasement, not the smallest sacrifice of self-esteem. Miss Vallory sang her song. She had a strong mezzo-soprano voice of the metallic order — a voice that is usually described as fine — without a weak note in its range. She had been taught by the best masters, pronounced every syllable with undeviating accuracy, and had about as much expressiou ^ a musical box. Hubert Walgrave thought of "Kathleen Mavoumeen," and the soft sweet voice singing in the twiUght, " 0, do you remem- ber?" "The Meeting of the Waters," " The Ught Guitar," and all Grace Redmayne's little stock of familiar old-fashioned songs. The ballad was something of the new school : the slenderest thread of melody, eked out by a showy accompaniment; the poetry, something rather obscure and metaphysical, by a modern poet. " Do yon call that thing a ballad, Augusta P" he cried oon- temptnously, at the end of tba firgt verse. " For pity's Bak« 90 Tr the Bitter Und. ting me Una voce, or Non piu mesta, to take the taste of that Viiiwkiab. stuff out of my mouth." Miss Vallory complied, with tolerable grace. * You are so capricious," she said, as she played one of Ros- lini's symphonies ; " there is no knowing what you will like." She sang an Italian bravura superbly, looking superb as she i»ang it, without the faintest effort or distortion of feature, Mr. Walgrave watching her critically all the while. " Upon my soul, she is a woman to be proud of," he said to himself; "and a man who would sacrifice such a chance as min« would be something worse than a lunatic." The two lawyers came into the room w^hile Miss Yallory was singing, and Weston complimented her warmly at the close of the scene, while her plighted lover sat in his easy-chair and looked on. He knew very well that the man would have liked to take his place, and he never felt the sense of his triumph so keenly as when he was, in a manner, trampling on the neck of Weston Vallory. "The black- whiskered scoundrel," he said to himself; " I know that man is a scoundrel, whom necessity has made respectable. He is jnst the kind of fellow I should expect to make away wilh his clients' securities, or something in that way. Very likely he may never do anything of the sort, may die in the odour of sanctity ; but I know it's in him. And what a delightful tiling it is to know that he hates me as he does, and that 1 shall have to be civil to him all the days of my life !" And then, after a pause, he thought, " If I were capable of ^'etting myself into a mess, there's the man to profit by my folly." The unconscious subject of these meditations was leaning over the piano all this time, talking to his cousin. There was not much justification in his appearance or manners for such sweeping condemnation. He was like numerous other men to be met with daily in middle-class society — good-looking, well- dressed, with manners that could be deferential or supercilious according to the occasion. He had plenty of acquaintance who called him a first-rate fellow, and he was never at a loss for invita- tions to dinner. Only in those eyes of his, which were so like his cousin's in colour, there was a hard glassy gUtter, a metallic light, which was not agreeable to a physiognomist ; nor had the full red lips a pleasant expression — sensuality had set its seal there, sensuality and a lurking cruelty. But the world in general took the black eyes and the black whiskers as the dis- tinguishing characteristics of a very good-looking young man; a man in a most unexceptionable position ; a man to be made much of by every family in which there were daughters to marry ind sons to T>lant out in life. " The Shows of Thingt are Better than TheTiuetves.'* 91 Mr. Walgrave allowed this gentJeman to engross the attention »f his betrothed iust as long as he chose. He folly knew the •trength of the chain by which he held Augusta Vallory, and that he was in no danger from Weston. " I believe poor Weston was brought up to think that he was going to marry me," she said to her lover one day, with contemp- tuous compassion. " His mother was a very foolish woman, who thought her children the most perfect creatures in the world. But Weston is really very good, and has always been quite devoted to papa and me. He owes everything to papa, of course. His father quarrelled Nvith my grandfather, and got himself turued out of the firm. I have never heard the details of the story, but I believe he behaved very badly ; and if papa hadn't taken Weston by the hand, his chances of advancement would have been extremely small* He is an excellent man of business, nowever, according to papa's account ; and I think he is grate- tnl." "Do youP Do you think anyone ever is grateful?" Mr. ^Valgrave inquired in his cynical tone. " I never met with a grateful man yet, nor heard of one, except that fellow Androclea — no, by the bye, it was the lion who was grateful, so Mr. Spec- tator's story counts for nothing. However, your cousin is, no ioubt, an exception to the rule — he looks like it. Was the father transported?" " Hubert ! How can yon be so absurd P" " Well my dear Au^sta, you said he did something very bad ; and I inferred that it was defalcation of some kind, tending towards penal servitude." " I behevo the quarrel did arise out of money matters ; but I should hope no member of my family would be dishonest." " My dear ^rl, dishonesty crops up in all kinds of families ; & dukedom will not protect you from the possibility. There are rogues in the peerage, I daresay. But I am not at all curious about Mr. Weston Vallory's father. The man himself is enough — I accept him as a fact." "You really have a very impertinent manner of speaking about my family," Miss Vallory exclaimed with an aggrieved air " My dearest, if you exp'»ct that I am going to bow down and worship your family as well as yourself, you are altogether mis- taken. It was you I wooed that sweet summer night at Ryde, not the whole race of Vallory. Upon that point I reserve the right to be critical." " You seem to bo quite prejudiced against Weston." " Not at all, I will freely admit that I don't care very much for a man with such a brilhant complexion ; but that is a mere citniicious antipathy — like an aversion to roses — which I would h.LiuiT confess to any on» but yourself." 02 To the BiUe/ End, The loyers frequently indulged in small bickerings of this fadnc^ by which means Mr. Walgrave maintained, or supposed that he maintained, his independence. He did not bow down and worship; and it hapi>ened curiously, that Miss Vallory Uked him all tne better for ms habitual incivility. She had been surfeited by the fttentions of men who thought of her only as the heiress of Harcross and Vallory. This man, with his habitual sneer, and cool oflf-hand manner, seemed so much truer than the rest. And yet he was playing his own game, and meditating his own advantage ; and the affection he had given her was so weak a tiling, that it perished altogether under the influence of his first temptation. In the course of the evening there wa« a discussion as to where Mr. Vallory and ids daughter should go for the next sii weeks. The father would gladly have stayed in Acropolis-square, and pottered down to his office every day. There was always t)lenty of business for him, even in the long vacation, and it was nearer his heart than any of the pleasures of life ; but Augusta protested against such an outrage of the proprieties. " We should have fever, or cholera, or something, papa," slie said. " TJiat kind of thing always rages out of the London season." " The London demth-rate was higher last May than in the preceding August, I assure you," urged Mr. Vallory. " My dear papa, it is simply impossible. Let us go to the Stapletons. You know it is an old promise." " I hate stajdng at country houses : breakfasting with a herd of strangers every morning ; and hearing billiard-balls going two hours after one has gone to bed ; and not being able to find a corner where one can write a letter ; and being perpetually diiven about on pleasure jaunts ; doing ruined abbeys, anJ waterfalls; not a moment's poat-e. All very well for younj^ )'t>ople ; but actual martyrdom when one is on the wroag side of fifty. You can go to Hayley if you like, Augusta ; I would much rather go to Eastbourne." " In that case, I will go too, papa," replied Misp Vallory. " It's rather a pity you lent the villa to the Filraers ; it would have been nice to have the Arion." " You can have the Arion at Eastbounie," said Jtlr. Vallory. " I didn't lend the yacht to the Filmers." *' Very well, papa; let us go to Eastbourne. And HuOei't can come down to us — can't you, Hubert ?" " I shall be delighted, of course, to n down for a day or two." " A day or two ! " exclaimed Mies Valloiy. " Why r houldn't JGH spend all S«ptei»^=»er with ue P You cau h»^e not'iiuj); t/> wn« with iti mnbrageons boulevards and dainty villas, was looking verv gay and bright as he drove through it on his way tu the habitation of the Vallory's, ot ODunw one of th« largest and most fapenaive houses frjDUi-^ 100 2b ths BiUer Uni. the summer ses. One of the newest also : the bricks had still e raw look ; the stucco appeared to have hardly dried after th« last touch of the mason b trowel. Other houses of the same type straggled a little way beyond it, in a cheerless and un finished condition. It looked almost as if the Acropolis- square mansion had been brought down by rail, and set up here with iis face to the sea. The unfinished houjes, of the same pattern, seemed to have strayed off into a field, where the strange scent- less flora of the sea-coast, chiefly of the birch-broom order, still flourished. It was what Sydney Smith has called the " knuckle- end " of Eastbourne, but designed to become the Belgravia of that town. Was not Belgravia itself once a " knuckle-end "P There was a drawing-room, spacious enough for a church, sparsely ftimifehed with "our cabriole suite at thirty-seven guineas, in carved Italian walnut and green rep ; " a balcony tho.t would have accommodated a small troop of ijJantry; and everywhere < he same aspect of newness and rawness. The walls still smelt oi their first coat of paint, and plaster-of-paris crumbs fell from the ceilings now and then in a gentle shower. The Acropolis-square footman ushered Mr. Walgrave into the drawing-room, where he found his betrothed trying a new piece on a new Erard piano, in a new dress — an elaborate costume of Crimrose cambric, all frillings and puffings and flutings, which ecame her tall slim figure. She wore a broad blue ribljoa round her throat, with a locket hanging from it — a locket of gold and gems, her own monogram in sai)phires and diamonds ; and the sight of it reminded him of that other locket. Grace Redmayne had received his gift by this time : but there had been no acknowledgment of it as yet when he left London. Indeed, no letter from Brierwood could reach him directly, since he had never given the Redmaynes his London address. They could only wnte to him through John Wort. Mr. Walgrave had not been mistaken about the impending lecture, but he took his punishment meekly, only murmuring some faint reference to Cardimum versus Cardimum — so meekly, in fact, that Augusta Vallory could scarcely be hard upon mm. " You may imagine," sh« remonstrated in conclusion, " that I find a place of tlua kind very dull without you." " I am afraid you will find it much duller with me," Mr. Walgrave replied drearily; "whatever capacity for gaiety I may possess — which, at the best, I fear, is^ not much — is fclways paralysed by the seaside. I have enjoyed a day or two at Margate, certainly, once or twice in my life; there is •omething fresh and enjoyable about Margate; au odour of shrimps and high spirit*; but then, Margate is considered vnl» fc.'ir, I believe." Mr. Wal^rave JRelieve* Tita Mind. 101 "Considered vnlgar!" cned Miss Vallory, with a shudder. * Why, it is Houndsditch by the eea ! " " It Margate were in the Pyrenees, people would rave alM.nt it," her lover replied cooly. " I have been happy at Rydis as you know," he went on in his most leisurely manner, but with a little drop in his voice, which he had practised on juries sometimes in breach-of-promise cases, and which did duty for tenderness ; " but with those two exceptions, I have found the eea-side — above all, the genteel seaside — a failure. The more genteel, the more dreary. If one does not admit Houndsditch and the odour of shrimps, the pestilence of dulness is apt to descend upon our coasts. Cowes, of course, is tolerable; and I rather bke Southsea — the convicts are so interesting; and where there are ships in the offing, there is always amusement for the Cockney who prides himself upon knowing a brig from a brigantine." Discoursing in this languid manner, Augusta and lier affianced beguiled the time until dinner. Mr. Walgrave was not eager to rush down to the beach and gather shells, or to seek some distant point whence to take a header into the crisp blue waves, after the manner of the enthusiastic excursionist, who feels that while he is at the sea, he cannot have too much of a good thing. He lounged in the balcony, which was pleasantly sheltered by a crimson-striped awning, and talked m his semi-cynical way to his betrotned, not by any means over-exerting himself in the endeavour to entertain her. " The Arion is here, I suppose," he remarked by and by. " Yes. I have been out in her a good deal." "With your father?" " Not very often. Papa gives himself up to laziness at the sea-side. I have had Weston with me." " Happy Weston ! " " As tne happiness he may have enjoyed was quite open to you, I don't think you need affect to envy him.'' " My dear Augusta, I envy him not only the happiness, but the capacity for enjoying it. You see, I am not the kind of maj- tor a *taine cat.' Weston Vallory is; indeed, to my mind, he seems to have been created to fill the position of ti fine Persian with a bnshy tail, or an Angora with pink eyes." " You are remarkably complimentary to my relations at all times," said Miss Vallory with an offended air. " My dear girl, I consider the mission of a tame cat quite a lofty one in its way ; but you see it doesn't happen to be my way. A man who trains his whiskers as carefully as your cousin Weston, lays himself out for that •ort of thing. Have you been far out?" "We have been as far as the Wight. We wont to tko 102 To the Bitter End. re£:;ttLa at Ryde the other day, and had Inncheon with th» Filmers, who are intensely grateful for the villa." "Then my Lady Clara Vere de Vere has not fonnd the time heavy on her nanda.'* " Not particnlarly. I have ridden a good deaL** •With WeetonP " "With Weston. Yon envy him thai privilege, I erapposeP' This with a little contemptnous toss of the splendid head, and an angry flash of the hazel eyes. If Hubert Walgrave had been in love with his future wife, that little angry look would have seemed to him more bewitching than the sweetest Bmile of a plainer woman ; but there was another face in his laiind, eyes more beautiful than these, which had never looked tt him angrily. He contemplated Augusta VaUory as cooUy as if she had been a fine example of the Spanish school of portraiture — a lady by Velasquez. "Upon my honour, I think yon grow handsomer every time I see you," he said ; " but if yon ask me whether I envy Weston the delight of riding through dusty lanes in August, I am bound to reply in *^!e negative. Man is essentially a hunting animal, and to ride without anything to ride after seems to me unutterably flat. If we were in the si ires now, in November, I shoiild be happy to hazard my neck three vr four days a week in your society." " But you see it is not November; if it were, I have no doubt / should be told the duties of a banister must prevent your wasting any time upon me during that month." With such gentle bickerings the lovers amused themselves until the ringing of the dressing-bell, when Miss VaUory handed her affianced over to the custody of the chief hitler, and went upstairs to array herself for the small family gathering. Mr. Walgrave found himself presently in a roomy bed-chamber — walls and ceilings painfully new, grate slightly at variance with its setting, bells a failure, windows admirably constructed ^r excluding large bodies of air and admitting draughts, far- ^tnre cf the popular sea-side type — brand-new EUdderminster carpet of a flaring pattern, rickety Arabian bedstead, mahog- any wardrobe with doors that no hnman power could keep shut, everything marble-topped that could be marble-topped; no pin- cushion, no easy-chfur, no writing-table, and a ^larmg southera «un pouring in upon a barren desert of Kidderminster. "So Weston has been very attentive — has been doing my duty, hi short," Mr. Walgrave said to himself as he dressed. "I won- der whether there's any chance of his catting me ont; and if h« did, should I be sorry P It would be one thing for me to jilt Augusta, and another for her to throw me over. Old VaUory rrould hardly quarrel with me in th« latter event; on the oon- Mr. Wahjrave B, U, res his Afind. 108 trnry, it would be a case for solatiura. He could hardly dj enough for me to make amends for my wrongs. But I don"^ think there's much danger from my friend Weston; and after all I have quite done with that other folly — put it out of my mind, as a dream that I have dreamed : it is gone, ' like the chaff of the summer threshing floors." " He went downstairs presently, and found Mr. Vallory in the drawing-room, large and stolid, with a vast expanse of shirt- front, and a double gold eye-glass on the knob of his aquiline nose, reading an evening paper. This of course offered a delightful opening for conversation, and the^ began to talk in the usual humdrum manner of the topics ot the hour. Parliament was over — it was the indignant letter season, and the papers were teeming with fervid protests against nothing particular. Extortionate innkeepers in the Scot- tish highlands, vaccination versus non-vaccination, paterfamilias bewailing the inordinate length of his boys' holidays, complaints of the administration of the army, outcries for reform in the navy, jostled one another in the popular journals; and Mr. Vallory, being the kind of man who reads his newspaper reli- giously from the beginning to the end, had plenty to say about these things. He was a heavy pompous kind of man, and Mr. Walgrave found his society a dead weight at all times ; but never had he seemed so entirely wearisome as on this particular August evening, when less aristocratic Eastbourne was pacing the parade gaily, breathing the welcome breeze that set landwards with the sinking of the sun. Hubert Walgrave felt as if he could have walked down some of his perplexities, had he been permitted to go out and tramp the lonely hills, Beachy-Head way, in the sun-set ; but in that lodging-house drawing-room, sitting on the creaky central ottoman contemplating his boots while Mr. Vallory's voice droned drearily upon the subject of army reform, and " what we ought to do with our Armstrong tuns, sir," and so on, and so on, his troubles sat heavy upon im. Weston came in presently, the very pink and pattern of neat- ness, with the narrowest possible white tie, and the air of having come to a dinner party. He had slipt down by the afternoon express, he told his uncle, after his day's work in the City. "There's an attentive nephew!" exclaimed Mr. Vallory senior ; " does a thorough day's work in the Old Jewry, and then comes down to Eastbourne to turn over the leaves of his cousin's music, while I take my after-dinner nap, and is off to the City at a quarter to eight in the morning, unless he's wanted here for yachting or riding. Take care he doesn't «ut you out. Walgra/e." 104 To the Bitter End. " If I am fore-doomed to be cut out," Mr. Walgrave answered with his most gracious smile, " Mr. Weston Vallory is welcome to his chance of the advantages to be derived from the transac- tion. But the lady who has nonoured me by her choice is in my mind as much above suspicion as Csesar's wife ought to have been." The young lady who was superior to Caesar's wife came into the room at this moment, in the freshest and crispest of white muslin dresses, dotted about with peach-coloured satin bows, i list as if a flight of butterflies had alighted on it. She gave Weston the coolest httle nod of welcome. If he had really been a favourite Persian cat, she would have taken more notice of him. He had brought her some music, and a batch of new books, and absorbed her attention for ten minutes, telling her about them ; at the end of which time dinner was announced, to Mr. Walgrave's infinite relief. He gave Augusta his arm, and the useful Weston was left to follow his uncle, caressing hia whiskers meditatively, as he went, and inwardly anathematising Huber* Walgrave's insolence. The dinner at Eastbourne was as the dinners in AcropoUs- aquare. Mr. Vallory's butler was like Mr. Merdle's, and would not bate an ounce of plate for any consideration whatever; would have laid his table with the same precision, one migl^ suppose, if he had been laying it in Pompeii on the niglit of the w^iption, with on exact foreknowledge that he and his banquet-table were presently to be drowned in a flood of lava. So tlie table sparkled with the same battalions of wine-glasses ; the same property tankards, which no one ever drank from, blazed upon the sideboard, supported by a background of presenta- tion salvers ; the same ponderous silver dishes went round in ceremonial procession, with the entries which Mr. Walgrave know by heart. Mr. Vallory's cook was an accomphshed matron, with seventy guineas a year for her wages ; but she had not the inexhaustible resources of an Oude or a Gouff'e, and Hubert Walgrave was familiar with every dish in her catalogue, from her eonsmyy^ne aux CBufs to her apple-fritters. He ate his dinner, however, watched over with tender soUcitude by the chief butler and his subordinates — ate his dinner mechanically, with his thoughts very far away from that sea-side dining-room. Al'ter dinner came music and a httle desultory talk ; a httk loitering on the balcony, to watch the harvest moon rise widt tind golden over a rippling sea; then a quiet rubber for the gratification of Mr. vallory; then a tray with brandy and eeltzer, sherry and soda, a glass of either refreshing mixture compounded languidly by the two young men; and then c general good-night. ** I suppose you would like to go out in tha Ai'ion to-morrow," 'Vott thou Look Back on what hath Beenf*' 106 Aagusta said to her lover, as he beld the drawing-room door open for ber departure. "I should like it above all things," replied Mr. Walgrave^ and be did indeed feel as if, tossing hither and thither on thai buoyant sea, be might contrive to get rid of some part of his burden. *• It is a species of monomania," he said to himself, " and I daresay is as much the fault of an over-worked brain as an actual affair of the heart. Who can tell what form a man's punishment may take if be drives the intellectual steam- engine just a httle too hard P The truth is, I want moru rest and complete change. I wish to Heaven I could get away to the Tyrol; but that's impossible, I am bound hand and foot, unless I Uke to fly in the face of fortune, and offend Augusta Vallory." He did not fly in the face of fortune. He went out in the Arion on the next day and the next, and even rode Weston's chestnut mare in the dusty lanes, to oblige Miss Vallory, while tlie owner of the beast sat in an office, where the thermometer was at seventy-five, writing rough draughts of letters to be copied by inferior hands, and interviewing imjxjrtant clients. 'I'hey went to Pevensey Castle together, and dawdled about among the ruined walls; they went to Beachy Head, and heard wondrous storiee of distressed barks and rescued cargoes, and the wrongful awards of London average-staters, from the guar- dians of the point. They got rid of the days in a manner that ought to have been delightful to both of them, since they were aluioet always together, and Mr. Walgrave made himself more agreeable than usuaL This lasted for about ten days ; but at the end of the tenth he discovered suddenly that he must go back to Cardimum veisut Cardimum, and stuff his brain with more precedents ; nor would he Usten to any arguments which Miss Vallory could urge to detain him. She submitted ultimately, and made no show of her regret ; but she really was grieved and disappouit<;d, for she was fonder of him than she cared to let him se©. CHAPTER XV. ••dost thou look back ox what hath bernF'" AiTEB Hubert Walgrave's departure, the entire story of OnuM Redmayne's life could be told in three words : " He was gone." She abandoned herself utterly to the bitterness of regret She went to and tiro bj duy, and lay down to res*^ at night, with 106 To the Bitter End oue great sorrow in her heart — a childish grief perhaps at th» worst, bat none the less bitter to this childigh soaL Nor had she any friendly ear into which to ponr her woes. On the contrary, she had to keep perpetual watcn and ward over herself, lest sha should betray her foolish secret. It was the old story of the worm in the bud, and the damask cheek soon began to grow wan and pale. So changed and haggard, indeed — so faded from her nymph-like beauty did the girl become, that even Mrs. James Bedmayne's unsentimental eyes perceived the difference: and that worthy matron told her liusband, with some anxiety of tone, that their niece must be ill. " She's going the way of her poor mother, I'm afraid, Jim,** she said. " She's fainted dead off more than once since that evening in Clevedon Chase. I let her do a hand's turn in tha dairy the day before yesterday ; for she get's restless and fretful sometimes, for want of work — lolloping about all day, reading novels or playing the piano. It was light work enough — making up a bit of butter into fancy shapes — swans, and such-like — for it isn't likely I'd give her anything heavy to do ; but when she'd been standing in the dairy half an hour or so, she went off all of a sudden as white as a sheet of paper, and would have gone flat down on the bricks, if I hadn't caught her in my arms ; and a regular bother I had to bring her round, too. Depend upon it, Mr. Humphreys was right, and there's something wrong with her heart." " Poor Uttle lass ! " murmured the farmer, tenderly. He re- membered his niece when she had been indeed a httle lass, and had sat upon his knee peering into the mysteries of a tumip-shapoil silver watch — a fra^e flower-like child, whom he used to touch tenderly with his big clumsy hands, as if she had been an exotic. "Poor little lass! that seems hard though, Hannah, if there's anything amiss. She's so young, and so bright, and so pretty — as personable a young woman as you can see between this and Tunbridge. And there's her father working for her over yonder. I think it would clean break Rick's heart if he were to come back and find Gracey missing. We'd best do something, hadn't we, Hannah — take her up to some London doctor, eh ? " " We mig'^t do that," Mrs. Redmayne answered, thoughtfully, " when the hops are gathered. I couldn't spare a day between this and then, if it was a matter of life and death, as you may say; and thank God it isn't thatl The girl ain't stiong, and she's subject to fainting-fits; but there mayn't be aaything eerious in it, after all." " You mast take her up to London, Hannah, to see some top- sawyer of a doctor, as soon as ever the hopping's over." "I don't mind doing that. It's no use fidsroting ourselves with Mr. Huniphrey'a taacies If you've irot a sick headache, he looks " Dott thou Look Back on what hath Been / " 107 at you OB solemn as if he was thinking of giving a hint to tha ondertaker." " I say, mother," Mr. James Redmayne remarked to his sponge, after a pause, " you don't think the girl's got anything on tint mind, do jou P She ain't fretting about anything, is she P " " Fretting about anything 1 Mercy's sakes, what's she got tc fret about P All her victuals found for her, and no need to soil the tips of her fingers, unless she likes. She's never known a trouble in her life, except her father leaving her ; and she's got the better of that ever so long. What can put such rubbish into your head, father P " "Well, I don't know; girls are apt to have fancies, you see There was that chap, Mr. Walgry, for instance, hanging about her, and talking to ner a good deal, oflP and on. He may have put some foolish notions into her head — may have flattered her a bit perhaps, and made her think he was in love with her." Mr. Redmayne made these observations in a dubious tone, and with a somewhat guilty feeling about his own conduct during that one week of his wife's absence. He had left those two so entirely free to follow their own devices, while he made the most of his brief span of Uberty. The partner of his fortunes took him up sharply. " Hanging about her, indeed ! " she exclaimed. " I neve? allowed any hanging about to go on under my nose ; and I must say I always found Mr. Walgry quite the gentleman. Of course he did take some notice of Grace. There's no denying she's a pretty girl, and it isn't likely she'd be passed over like a plain one. But I don't believe he ever said a foolish word to her, or behaved any way unbeK>ming a gentleman." " If you say so, Hannah, I make no doubt you're quite correct in your views," the farmer replied, submissively ; " only I don't like to see Gracey hanging her head — it don't seem natural." " It's weakness, that's what it is, James. If she'd only drink the hop-tea I make her, she'd pick up her strength fast enough. There's nothing finer than a tumbler of hop-tea every morning; but girls are so obstinate, and think that physic ought to be as •weet as sugar-plums." So the discussion ended. Grace's health seemed rfl,riable. She looked brighter on some days than on others ; made little efibrts, in fact, to stifle her sorrow; put on an appearance of life and gaiety ; and then relapsed and gave way altogether. When Questioned by her aunt or uncle, she said she had a headache — tiey could never extort more from her than that. Once good- natured James Redmayne took her aside, and asked her, with •imple earnestness that touched her keenly, if there were any trouble on her mind; but she answered him very much as her %unt had done on her behalf : What could there te to trouble her 9 H 108 To the Bitter End. " You are all bo kind to me, dear Uncle James," she eaid» *• ajid if my father were only at home, I ought to be as happy as any girl in Kent." It was rather a vagne answer, but to James Redmayne it seemed a sufficient one. He went in to his wife with an air of mingled wisdom and triumph. " I've got to the bottom of it all, mother," he said. " Gracey's ■till fretting for her father; she owned as much to me just now." " More fool she, then ! " exclaimed Mrs. James, who did not approve of confidence being reposed in her husband which had not first been offered to her. " Fretting won't bring Richard home a day the sooner, or earn him an ounce of gold-dust to bring back with him. She'd better drink my hop-tea, and keep up her health and good looks, so as to do him credit when he does come." Mr. Walgrave had been gone three weeks — ah, what an age of sadness and regret! — when the parcel containing the locket came to Grace. A parcel directed in his hand — it was only too familiar to her from pencil-notes in some of the books he had lent her, and from the papers she had seen scattered about his table. Fortune favoured her in the receipt of the packet. She had gone out to take the letters from the postman that morning, ex pecting nothing, hoping for nothing. From Mm or of /m/t she never thought to receive sign or token. Had he not told her many times, in the plainest words, that the story of their love must come to an end, like a book that is shut, on the day he left Brierwood P She was too simple-minded to imagine him capable of wavering. He had said that his honour compelled him to for- sake her, and he would be faithful to that necessity. Her heart gave a great leap when she saw the address on the little packet. She fled round the house Uke a lapwing, and >iid not stop to breathe till she was safe under the shadow of the cedar, in the spot where she had known such perilous happiness — with him. Then she sank down on the rustic bench, anf"* with tremulous fingers tore open the little parcel, A dainty case of dark-blue velvet, m itself a treasure to a girl eo unsophisticated as Grace ; a casket that opened with a spring, reveaUng a large yellow gold locket set with pearls, reposkig on a bed of white saton — a gem so beautifol that the sight of it took her bieath away, and she sat gazing npon it, transfixed with vomanly rapture. She opened the locket, and looked at the little enamelled picture of forget-me-nots. Sweet, very sweet; but oh, how much she would have preferred his portrait, or even one Uttla ring of his dark wavy hair. She laid the treasure on the bench beside her, and opened his letter, devouring it with wide-open hiiiiinor.s eye* " Bost thou Look Bach on what hath Bfien f* 109 I'he scrap of paper attracted her attention first. : " There in % jiecret spring; touch it, and you will find my photosjTaph." Sh« i?iive a uttle cry of joy, and began to search for the spring, found it, and gave a louder cry of utter delight when she beheld the face of her lover. The skilful colourist had flattered Mr, Walgrave not a little : the j^ale dark complexion was Italianised; the gray eyes were painted iii ultramarine; the face in the minia* ture looked from five to ten years younger than the originaL But to Grace the picture was simply perfect. She perceived no flattery ; the face, which was to her the noblest upon earth, waa only idealised as she had idealised it in her own mind from the hour in which ahe began to love its owner. And yet, when Hubert Walgrave first came to Brierwood, she had seen nothing wonderful in his appearance, and had considered him decidedly middle-aged. At last, after gazing at the miniature till her eyes grew dim, rloiided with innocent tears — after kissing the glass that covered it with fond, foolish kisses — she touched the spring and shut tho case, and then read her letter. This disappointed her a little. It was evidently written to Iw read by her uncle and aunt. Not one word of that brief bright past; only a letter snch as any grateful lodger might have written to his landlady's daughter. She shed a few tears. " It was good of him to send me his picture," she said to herself. " But he is quite gone from me ; I shall never, never see him again ! " The picture had kindled new hope in her breast ; the letter destroyed it. There was some comfort, however, in being able to show this letter to her aunt, and to wear her locket in the light of day. She carried the little velvet case and her letter in- doors, and went in quest of her aunt, whom she found in the dairy. " O, aunty Hannah, I have had a letter and a present !' " What, a pincushion or a bookmarker from one of your old flfhoolfellows, I'll lay, or some such trumpery ? You girls are Always fiddle-faddling about some such rubbish !" " Look, aunt!" cried Grace, displaj'iug the locket imbedded in white satin. '* Sure to goodness !" cried Mrs. James, staring at the trinket, "where did you get that?" " From Mr. Walgrave, aunt, with such a kind letter.** Mrs. James snatched the letter from her niece's hand, and read it aloud, going over every word, and harking back every HOW and then to read a sentence a second time, in a deliberate way that aggravated Grace beyond measure. And then she turned from the letter to the locket, and examined it minutely, while Qrace stood by in an agony, lest her clumsy fi7ig«n» should hit upon tiif* secret spring. 110 To tJie Bitter Und. "It'a a pretty thing enough," she said at last, "and mrsn\ have cost a sight of money — pearls and all, for I suppose they'r* real ; and I can't see as he had any call to send you such a thing. He paid for what he had, and there was no obligation on either side. Forget-me-nots too, as if it was for a young woman he was keeping company with. I don't half lite such nonsense, and I doubt your uncle wiU be for sending it back." " 0, aunt," said Grace ; and then began to cry. " Lord bless me, child, don't be such a cry-baby. If you cau get round your uncle to let yon keep the locket you may. A present's a present, and I don't suppose Mr. Walgry meant any narm ; he's too much a gentleman tor that, leastways as far aa I could see. All I hope is, he never went talking any nonsense to you behind my back." " No, aunt, he never talked nonsense ; he was always sensible, and he told me — something about himself. He's engaged to b« married — has been engaged for ever so long." " Well, it was fair and honourable of him to tell you that, anyhow. You can show the letter to your uncle at dinner- time; and if he Ukes you to keep the locket, I'm agreeable." When dinner-time came, Mr. James, whose opinion upon most subjects was a mere reflection of his wife's, studied that worthy woman's countenance ; and seeing her favourably dis- posed towards the gift and the giver, opined that his niece might accept Mr. Walgrave's present without any derogation to the family dignity. She must write him a pretty httle letter of thanks, of course, showing off her boarding-school education, which Mr. Wort would no doubt forward to him, as he had happened to omit any address in his letter. So Grace wore her locket in the face of mankind, on the first Sunday after the arrival of the packet; wore it on her muslin dress at church, with a shy consciousness that all the parish must be dazzled by its splendour — that the old rector himself, if his eyes were good enough, might break down in the midst of his sermon, overcome by a sudden gHmpse of its gorgeousness. She wore it on a black ribbon under her dress secretly upon those days which her aunt called " workadays ; " and at night she pr 1 it under her pillow. Hers was the early, passionate, girlish love, which is so near akin to foolishness; the Juliet love, which would have her Romeo cut out in little stars, "And he irill make the face of heaven bo fine, That all the world will be in lore with night, Aud pay no worship to tke garish day." The gill's spirits revived a little with the possession of thh Uxjket. ?He looked brighter and better, and her aunt forjrot **Doti thou Look Book on what hath Beenf" 111 her fears. September came to an end, and the hop-picking began ; herdu of tramps from the wilds of Hibemia, from the heart of the Seven-diaw, from the wretchedest alleys in White- chapel and Bermondsey, came pouring in npon the fair Kentish country. Mrs. Redmayne was too busy to think much o\ Grace's health ; and when the girl began to flag a little again, finding that life was dreary even with that portrait in her bosom, no one observed the change. She went off into rather a severe fainting-fit one afternoon ; but there was no one at hand bul Sally, the maid-of-all-work, who brought her round as best she might, and thought nothing of the business. She had fainted herself on a midsummer Sunday, when Kingsbury church was hotter than usual, and never went to that place of worship with- out a big blue bottle of smelling-salts. Now m the dusky October evenings fitful patches of light glowed here and there on the landscape ; and riding along larrow lanes, the traveller came ever and anon to a rustic en- campment — a ragged family huddled round a fire, sunburnt faces turned towards him inquiringly as he passed, a bevy of tatterdemalion children darting out at him to ask for alms, and sharp cries of " Pitch us a copper, sir !" in the purest Cockney. The group, so picturesque at a distance, was sordid enough or inapection, and the traveller could but wish these nomads had better shelter. A ragged blanket perhaps, hung upon a couple of poles, made a rough tent here and there; but those who possessed so much luxury were the aristocrats of the community ; the vulgar herd sUpt in the open, save on some lucky occasion, when a liberal farmer gave them the use of an empty barn. James Redmayne was tender-hearted, and at Brierwood the wandering race fared luxuriously. He lent them old rick-covers for tents, and whatever barn he had empty was placed at their disposal. Grace took an interest in the Uttle children, spent all her money in cakes, and robbed the baskets in the apple-loft for their benefit ; carried tae women great jugs of cold tea in the evenings, and helped and comforted them in many small ways, at the hazard of catching a fever, as her aunt frequently re- minded her. In this particular season she was more than usually active in these small charities : that great sorrow in her heart was numbed a little by the sight of commoner sorrows. This year she was more tender than ever, the women thought— the old hands, who had known her in former jears. She would sit for hours in a shady corner of a field, with a sick child is her arms, singing it to sleep with sweet, sad songs. The women osed to look at ner from a little distance, and talk together in whispers of her gentleness and her pale grave face. " Tm afeard there's summat wrong," one stalwart matron said to another. " She were as gay as a bird Inat hop-picJane> 112 To the Bitter Und. She looks like my WBter Mary, that went off into a oonsomptioi und. died in the hospital — that white-like, and her hands thai wasted that yon might a'most see through 'em. And she luch a sweet young thing, too ! It do seem hard, that such as sh* should be took, and my old father, wot's a trouble to everybody and no more use of his limbs than a new-boru infant, left behind to worrit." One night, after a day spent almost entirely in the hop-fielda, Grace discovered a great calamity — her locket was gone. The ribbon worn every day had been worn through at last by the sharp edge of the ring. It was round her neck when she un- dressed, with the two ends hanging loosely. Late as it was, she would have gone out and hunted for her treasure by moon- light — would have roused the hop-pickers, and bribed them to hunt for her; but the house was locked, and the keys under Mrs. James's pillow, and it was more than she dared to wake that vigilant housewife. So she went to bed quietly, and cried 6.11 night, and came downstairs next morning ashy pale, and K^lth red swollen circles round her eyes, to tell of her loss. Mrs. James flew into a passion on hearing the news. " Lost it I you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Wtat caU had yon to wear it on a workaday?" the cried. Grace blushed crimson. " I know it was very foolish of me, aunt Hannah ; but — but — I was so fond of it!" " Was there ever such a baby P Fond of it, indeed ! You're fond of the piano your father gave you : I'm sure I wonder you d'lu't wear that hanging round your neck — you're silly enough. And of course some of your blessed hop-pickers have stolen it; and serve you nght. That comes of consorting with such low rabble." " They couldn't have stolen it, aunt ; I wore it under my dress ; uxey couldn't have known anything about it." " Stuff and nonsense ! they're cunning enough to know any- thing. If you'd swallowed a sovereign, they'd know it was inside yon. Besides, I daresay you took and puUed it out of your bosom to show to some of their rubbishing brats. You'll nurse yourself iato the typhus fever or the smallpox one of these days, with nursing those ragamuffins ; and a deal of use you'll be in the world without your good looks, consideiing as you can't 80 much as set the sponge for a batch of bread." Grace was pilent with the silence of gmlt Sitting under a hedge yesterday with one of those waifs of humanity m her lap, wliile its mother and a brood of bantlings from three years old upwards clusi-.*red round a hop-bin a few yards off, she had drawn the lockei from her bosom and dangled it before the eyes of the little one, half to amuse the child, half for the pleasuri " Do.Ht tliou Loo/t Back on tvhat hath Beenf*' liJi of looking at the thing which was the solo token left of her orief love-story. Aunt Hannah, though unsympathetic in manner was by no means minded that the locket should be lost. " It's a thankless task spending money upon you" she said ; " and so I shall tell Mr. Walgry, if ever I set eyes on him again. Real gold, set with real pearls, and go and fool it away among a pack of hoppers." After having given relief to her mind in this manner, she dispatched Jack and Charley and a farm-labourer to scour the country, under Grace's guidance. The girl was to point out to them every path she had taken, and every spot where she had rested throughout the previous day. " But it's about as Hkely you'll find the moon lying in the grass as that locket," auut ELannah remarked despairiogly as they set out. She proved only too true a prophet. The youn^ men searched diligently, under Grace's direction — searched tUl dinner, and after dinner began again, and went on unflinchingly tiU tea- time ; but without result. After tea the early twihght shrouded the fanii, and it was too dark to look any longer. Uncle James had the hoppers collected at nightfall, and told them what had been lost, offering a reward of a couple of sovereigns to the man, woman, or child who would restore it; but they all made the game declaration, with every form of asseveration common to their class. No such thing had they seen. " That's a lie," said James Redmayne, sturdily. " Some of you has seen it, and some of you has got it, or made away with it since last L.ight. The locket's almost as large as the palm of my hand. You couldn't fail to see it lying anywheres ; and my sons have been over every inch of ground my niece walked upon yesterday. It's hard you should take anything as belongs to ner, for she's been a good friend to you all." " That she have, sir ! " the women cried with tremendous eaergy, and a desperate emphasis on the last word. And then came a confusion of shrill voices, all protesting that the owners thereof would not wrong Miss Bedmayne to the extent of a sixpence. Grace went to her room quite worn out by that weary day — the pacing too and fro, with lessening hope as the hours wore on. It was gone — the one solace that had cheered her life. " I shall never see his face any store," she said to berseli " There is a fate again yt me." 114 To the Bitter End. CHAPTEEXVL * BUT U THOU mean's! NOT WEli,* Atteb the loss of the locket Grace Redmayne drooped visibly Good-hearted uncle JamsB did all in his power to recover tha lost trinket : put the matter into the hands of the police ; had inquiries made amongst London pawnbrokers, and so on ; but without avail. Poor Grace wandered about the bare fields where the hop-vines had lately flourished, with her eyes fixed on the ground, like some melancholy spirit haunting the scene of an unhappy life. Aunt Hannah reprimanded her sharply from day to day for such foolishness. "If the locket's lost, it's lost," she said philosophically; "and there's no use in grizzling about it. There's more lockets in the world than that ; and if the balance is on the right side next quarter-day, I daresay yoiir uncle will buy vou a knew one, perhaps with both our portergrafts, one on each side ; and that'll be worth taking care of as a family keepsake — something to show your children by and by." Grace gave a Uttle involuntary shudder, A portrait of aunt Hannah, whom photography made unutterably grim, instead of that splendid face, those god-like eyes ! " It's very kind of you to think of that," the girl said, half crying ; " but I should never care to have another locket I^ease." " O, very well ! I suppose you think we couldn't give yea anything as handsome as that ; but, for my part, I should have thought you'd have set more store by a keepsake from one of your own family than a stranger's present." " It isn't that, aunt. I've got your photograph, and uncle's, in my album, and I'm sure I value them. But I'll never wear another locket. There's something unlucky about them." The year waned. October oame to an end; and for various easons that visit to the London physician, which James B«d- mayne and his wife had talked about, had not yet been made. To those who saw Grace every day, the gradual change in her was not so obvious as to cause immediate suarm. Nor were hard- working people like the Redmaynes on the watch for such slight symptoms as awaken terror in those who have sufficient leisure to be anxious. The girl rose at her usua time ; took her place among her kindred at meals ; went patiently through the routiu« of the long dull day, and never uttered a complaint. She was completely unhappy, nevertheless. She had no com- panions of her own age, who might have taught her to shake off this foolish sorrow — no innocent gaieties to distract her mind. " Bta if thou mean'$t not Well." 115 The ilow level life of a farmhoase was aboui the b^ut posbible waetcnce in which to foster a sorrow each as hers. She had written that epistle which her ancle James had spoken of as " a pretty little letter " — a very formal composition, supers vised by the whole family. James Eedmayne would fain have had her begin, " This comes hoping," a formula which he had used all his life, and firmly believed in as the essence of poUte let- ter-writing. She had written to thank Mr. Walgrave for his vert kind present, which was indeed very, very beautiful, and which she should value very much all her Ufe. There were a great many " verys " in the letter ; and it was written in her best boarding-school hand — with long loops to the g's and y's, after a 8pecialite of Miss Toulmin's — on the thickest and creamiest note-paper to be procured at Tunbridge Wells. Uncle James would have had a view of that polite resort at the top of the first page; but this his neice cot* damned as vulgar. " Mr. Walgrave knows Tunbridge Wells, uncle," she saii " He can't want a pictture of it on a penny sheet of paper — suo^ bad paper, too, as they always print the views on." No answer had come to this letter, which indeed needed none; hut for a month after she sent it the girl had hoped, faintly, for •ome acknowledgment. With the djring out ot this hope, and the loss of her locket, all was over; there was nothing left her except the blank future, in which that one beloved figure could have no part. And her father — her father, whose letters had been more hope- ful of late, telling of increasing good fortune, hinting even at the possibility of his return before another year was ended, with all tne objects of his expedition fully realised ; the father whose exile she had lamented so bitterly only a year ago — was he for- ffotten P No, not forgotten ; only deposed to the second place in her heart. She thought of him very often, with a guilty sense of having wronged him by her love for another. But that first love of girlhood is an all-absorbing passion. She had hardly room in her mind for her father's image beside that other. If he could have returned at this moment to cheer and comfort her, she might perhaps have struggled bravely with her grief, and oon- ?[uered it. He had been all the world to her in years gone by — ather, mother, companion, friend ; the pride and delight of ner Ufe ; and in the rapture of reunion with him, that other imege might have grown pale and shadowy, until it became only the memory of a girlish sorrow. But he did not come, and she went •n thinking of Hubert Walgrave. She had no hope — positively none — of ever seeing his face again. Day after day, in the misty November mornings, sh? awoke with the same void in her heart. The pain was almost worse than the pain of her awakening in the days that followed il® 3V ike Bitter E'uS. hei' fathcr'e de}iarture. Wsn. gnef had at the i?orst bee* ^lightened by hope: this was qaite hopeless. Her aunt sent her to Kingsbury one fine afternoon in Novem- ber, on some small errand to the single shop of the village — an errand which was designed rather to rouse the girl from her listlessness, and give her the benefit of a brisk walk, than to supply any positive need of the household. *' Anytiiing's better for her than lolloping over a book," re- marked Mrs. Redmayne, who r»-.£'arded reacling in every shape and form, except the ponderone Henry's Bible on a Sunday afternoon, as more or less a vice The walk was thi-ough those lanes and by those fields whicli she had walked so often with him ; the way by which they had come together on that first Sunday al'temoon, when he joined her in her return from church. How well she remembered it all ! The landscape had changed since then, but was hardly less beautiful to the eye of a painter. The shifting shadows on the broad fallow, the tawny gold and crimson, brown and dun colour of the still lingering fohage ; the very weeds in the hedge, and the dock-leaves in the ditch, frmged by dewdrops left from the morning mists, which a November sun had not been strong enough to disperse — all were beautiful. A robin was singing with ail it* might on one of the bars of a gate Grace had to pass. She lingered for a few minutes to listen to him, watching the joyous bird with sad dreamy eyes. " I wonder if birds havp any sorrows," she thought; and then opened the gate gently, and went througli into the lane. It was a narrow gullev between two neglecteio, he was standing by the turnstile, and received her joy- ously, with outstretched arms and a bright smile. " My sweetest, you are bettor than punctuality itself ! " ha exclaimed. *' You are a quarter of an hour before the appointed time." " What," she cried, bewildered, " isn't it very, very late ? " " No, Gracey, very early — a quarter to eight. I was here halt an hour too soon." " It seemed so long," she said, with, a wondering look ; " I thought I should be hours too late." " You were nervous and excited, darling. Yon have brougb* your carpet-bag too, in spite of all 1 said, and much too heavy for those fragile arms to carry. Come, dear, yon had bettet jump in at once. There's a nasty drizzling rain." There was, and Grace had been walking through the rain for the last ten minutes without being aware of the fact. The tly from Tunbridge was waiting. Mr. Walgrave handed her in, wrapped her tenderly in a fleecy carriage rug that was the very essence of warmth, and they drove off briskly along the soft miry road to the railway station, where there were ve^y few people waiting for the fast up train. It was not a bright mom- mg for an elopement, the wlxite mists had slowly melted ^way, leaving a gloomy landscape blurred with rain, under a low dim sky; but for Grace it was a journey through fairyland, the first- class railway carriage an enchanter's car rather than a common earthly conveyance. Was she not with him ? And he was so kind and tender, so thoughtful, so anxious for her comfort. Even though London-bridge terminus was a somewhat dirty and dispiriting place to arrive at, the giri's spirits did not falter. jVlt fear, all doubt had vanished out of her mind, now eho was with him. He was so good, so noble ! Who- could be ^>ai9« enough to doubt him ! It was only ten o'clock when they alighted at London-bridqje. Hubert Walgrave put Grace into a cab, gave some brief directirc to the cabman, and they drove off in a north-westerly direction. " Are we going to drive straight to the church P " Grace asked, wondering whether she would be able to take off her veil and outer shawl, and arrange her bonnet in the vestry. "No, dear, I am going to show yon our house first, and to say a few serious words to you." His face was turned a little towards the window as he spoke, •' Our house I " she cried, with childish delight ; " are wo really going to have a house P " " Well, yes, dearest , we most hve somewhere, yon know. We vre not like tht birdd of the air, and as I cannot leave London 126 To the Bitter End. n.t this tame of year, I have set up our household goda in the Bubarbs. I think yon will like the nest E have chosen. Orace7 dear." " How can I help liking it, if yon doP ** "A true wife's answer I" he said, smiling at the bright npiritiial face. Her heart thrilled at the word, " Your wife," she murmured softly. " How sweet the name Bounds ! " " Yes, darling ; it has been a sacred name ever since the dayr when Eve bore it — ^yet there was neither church nor law to give it to her. It is a word of deeper meaning than narrow-minded bigots think." The speech might have alarmed another woman, in bo dubious a position as Grace Redmayne's; but over her pure mind it passed like a summer breath across deep water, without leaving a ripple. " You were never in town before, were you, Grace P" her lovei asked lightly. It was not time yet for that serious talk he had spoken of just now, "Once only; father brought me, and we went to see the Tower and St. Paul's." He pointed out churches and buildings as they passed. They seemed to be a long time in the streets, and as they went through Gray's-inn-lane, by King's-cross, and the wUd wastes beyond — which formed at that time an arid desert of newly -begun rail- way-arches, given over to desolation and bill-stickers — Grace hardly saw the metropolis in its most dignified aspect. She wondered a little that country people could be so delighted with London ; but after passing the architectural splendours of Kent- ish-town, where the highest developement of the builder's art was manifest in comer pubHc-houses, they began to ascend Highgate-rise, which Grace thought pretty, and something Uke the outskirts of Tunbridge. They stopped at a cottage on the very top of the hill — a toj dwelling-place of the gothic order — with tiny muUioned windows below, and miniature oriels above ; just the kind of house to de- light a girl of nineteen, unawakened to the consideration of coal- cellar, wash-house, and dustbin, or to the question whether the architect had so placed his kitchen that the smell of the dinner must needs pervade the drawing-room. It was one of those bewitching habitations which look ravishing in a drawing, and concentrate in a small compass all possible inconveniences oi domestic architecture. Mr. Walgrave dismissed the cab, and took Grace and her carpet-bag across a few square yards of garden into a tiny hall, •uid then into a drawing-room — euch a drawinc-room. Grar* Beyond hit Reach. 127 clasped her hands and looked rooud her with a cry of rap* tope. Her lover had not been idle daring his week of preparation. He had sent in nothouse flowers enough to fill a small conser- vatory, iind to make the little room a positive bower. He had bought things with a man's reckless hand. One of the small sofas was loaded with silk-mercer's parcels, one of the side tables was heaped with perfumery, hairbrushes, fans, diamond -cut soent-bottles, httle French sHppers with big cherry-coloured bows, boxes of pale lavender gloves, everything piled up pell- mell, and the papers that had enveloped them thrown in a heap into a comer of the room. " You see I have not forgotten yon, Grace," he said, opening one of the silk-mercer's parcels, and showing her half a dozen dresses, such dresses as she could hardly have imagined out of a fairy tale. " Of course there are no end of things I did not know how to buy ; but you can drive down to the West-end this atternoon and select those for yourself." " How good you are to me ! " the girl cried, standing by with clasped hands, while he unfolded the ghstening silk dresses one after another, and flung them in billows of brightness at her feet — blue, rose, peach, maize, pearly gray, not a useful colour among them, chosen with a man's eye for mere prettiness in the abstract. She stood Uke Margaret looking at her jewels in the cottage chamber, and with the tempter by her side. " 0, how lovely, how lovely ! But, O, please stop, yon are spoiling them " she cried, agonised by his clumsiness. He trampled ruthlessly on the sUks, and took her to his breast fcnd kissed ner. " My dear one, it is you who are lovely ! " he whispered ; " do 70U think I shall admire you any more for these paltry auxilia- ries? But it is worth all the silk dresses in K^gent-stroet to see the hght in your face as you look at them." She disengaged herself from him gently. " Hubert," she said, pointing to a clock on the mantelpiece, " isn't it time for us to go to church ? I have heard my father •ay that people can't be married after twelve o'clock ; but I sup- pose in London it's difierent." " London means liberty, Grace. People who live in London hold themselves accountable for their actions to their own ccn- •ciences, not to their next-door neighbour." He glanced behind him to see that the door was shut, went over to it even to convince himself of the fact, and then cama back to Grace with a sudden seriousness in his face and manner. Ee took both her hands, and looked down at her gravely and tender'/. its To the Bitter End. " Grace," he said, " I am going to put yonr affection to th« Jrucial test. You pretend to be very fond of me, and I think you aie; but after ail you are little more tlian a schoolgirl, fif- teen years my junior, and the love may be shallow — only a fancy perhaps at best." "No, no, no!" she cried vehemently; "it was no fancy. 1 was breaking my heart when you came to me." "Now, Grace, God knows I love you as dearly as ever man loved woman, and that I am ready to make any reasonable sacri- fice for your sake; but " He paused, choked by a sudden huskiness, perhaps arrested also by something in the face looking up at him, which whitened to the lips. " But what P " Grace Redmayne asked slowly. " I cannot marry you. Your home shall be as bright a on« as wife ever had, your lover as devoted as ever husband on thi» earth. Nothing but the empty form shall be wanting ; and our union must needs be all the more sacred to me because it will be consecrated by a sacrifice on your part. I wUl love you all the days of my life, Grace, but I cannot marry you." She looked at him fixedly, with wide-open eyes that seemed to him to grow unnaturally large, and then change to a lighter colour as she looked. Her white lips moved, as if she tried to echo his words, in sheer amazement; but no sound came from them save a Httle choking cry, with which she fell heavily to the ground. Hubert Walgrave remembered the scene of the viper in CI eve- don Chase. He knelt down and raised her gently, with her head upon his knee, calling loudly for help. The domestic offices were not remote, and it is possible that the newly -hired servants were lurking a little nearer than their kgitimate abiding place. A young woman rushed into thi room, shrieked, glanced at the heap of tumbled silks, jumped at once to the conclusion that her master and mistress had been quarrelling, and then began the usual formula in fainting cases. "Without any effect, however. Grace Redmayne lay like a statue, white and cold, with her head upon her lover's knee. " She is in the habit of fainting in this way," Mr. Walgrave said nervously ; " it's constitutional. But I think you'd better send for the nearest doctor. Quick, quick ! — good God, woman, what are you staring at ! " The housemaJd fled to the cook, whom she dispatched in quest ©f a surgeon. Mr. "Walgrave Hfted the statue-Uke form ^vitn an effort, and placed it gently on the sofa. He knelt down and laid his hand above the heart. Great heavens, what an awful ptillnese! He bent his e?^'- c!jwn to the girl's breast and lis* liened. but could heai nc sound; and in a sudden ten'or rushed Mr. Walgrave i» Translated. 129 U> the bell, rang violently, and then oaue back, to Hing mora water over the pallid face. It was Bomething worse than pallid. What was that cold bluish shade which crept over it as he looked ? He had not long to wait the answer to that question. The local surgeon came in, pushed him aside unceremoniously, and stooped down to examine the patient. " Good God ! " he exclaimed, after the briefest Bcrutiuy, " n case of heart-disease. She is dead! " CHAPTER XVIII. KIU WALGRAVE IS TRANSLATED. All through the long dead hours of the night, and after the cheerless winter morning had crept in through the close-drawn >enetian8, Hubert Walgrave sat alone in the dainty Httle draw- iiig-roon, httered with the things he had bought for Grace lledmayne, gay yni\\ hothouse tlowers that languished in the close atmosphere, fairy roses and waxen camellias which her hands were to have tended. She lay u])stairs, in the pretty white-draperied bedchamber that was to have been her own — lay with her hands folded oi her breast, more lovely than he could have supposed it possible for death to be. The two servant-maids, and a weird old woman who came he knew not whence, had summoned hkn to see her, when their dismal office had been done ; and he had stood alou© liy the white bed, looking down at her, tearless — with a counte- nance that seemed more rigid than her own. He stayed there for a long time — knelt down and tried to fashion a prayer, but could not ; he had not command enough over himself to shape thoughts or words into any given form. There was a confusion in his mind which in all his life had never before oppressed him. Once he bent over the cold hands, and covered them with passionate kisses. " My angel, my dove, come back to me ! " he cried; " I wiH jot believe that you are dead." But that awful coldness, that utter stillness, gave him an egony that was more than he could endure. He turned away, and went back to the room below, where he sat alone till morning, with scarcely a change of posture, thinking of what he had done. To say that if he could have brought her back to life he would have married her, would have flung every hope of worldly ad- vancement, every consideration for tne prejudices of mankind to tlte windb, is to say very little. Looking back now at his coadact. £30 To the Bitter l!nd. in the light of this calamity, he wondered how he could eve? nave counted the cost of any sacrifice that he might be called on to make for Grace Redmayne. " I loved her with all my heart and soul," he said to himself^ " :i,8 I never loved before, as I never can hope to love again. What more had I to consider? The loss of a fortune — a wife's fortune P What ! aa I such a sordid wretch as to hold thii t worth the cost of a wrong done to h^r? But, O God, how could I think that I should kill her ? I meant to be so true and loyal to her. I meant to make her life so bright." He looked round at the scattered silken stuffs, lying in a heap on the floor as he had kicked them aside when Grace fell — the dowers and glove-boxes, and fans and scent-bottles ; looked at thorn with a bitter laugh. " I have been taught that women only care for these things," lie said to himself; " and yet a few heartless words of mine killed her." He thought of all his plans, which had seemed to him so reasonable, so generous even, in regard to Grace; this dainty t^iiburban home, an orderly little establishment — no stint of any- thing that makes life pleasant — a carriage perhaps, for his durUng. His professional income was increasing daily, he saw liimself on the high road to distinction, and could afford to regulate his life upon a Lberal scale. And for his marriage with Augusta Vallory ? That was not to be given up — only deferred for an indefinite period ; and when it (lid take place, it would be like some royal marriages on record, a ct-remonial poUtical alliance, which would leave his heart free for ( i race. But she was gone, and he felt himself something worse than a murderer. There was an inquest next day, ud unspeakable horror to Hubert Walgrave; but he had grown strangely calm by this Lime, and regulated his conduct with extreme prudence. He had taken the house and engaged the servants under the name of Walsh. Before the coroner he stated that the young l;idy who had died yesterday was his sister Grace Walsh. The housemaid had heard him caU her Grace while they were both trying to restore her, so any concealment of the Christian name would have been impossible. He had been down in to the country lo fetch her from a boarding-school, whence she was coming to keep house for him. She was his only sister, aged nineteen. Tlie case was a very simple one. There had been a post- mortem examinatioD^ and the cause of death was sufficiently obvious. " There ma organic disease," the doctor said, and then weul Mr. WalgrMve is Translatrd. 131 on to give his technical eiplauatioa of the case. " It was tha excitoment of coming home to her brother, no donbt, that pre- cipitated matters. But she could hardly have Hvod many yearn — a sudden shock might at any time have killed her." " Tliere could have been no sudden shock in this case, though,*^ remarked the coroner; "there could be nothing of a sudden Of startling character in a prearranged meeting between brother and sister!" " Probably not," replied the medicjJ man; "but extreme ex- citement, a feverish expectation of some event long hoped for, emancipation from school-life, and eo on, might have the same fatal effect. The nature was evidently extremely sensitive. There are physiological signs of that." " Was your sister much excited yesterday, Mr. Walsh P " askfld the coroner. *' Yes ; she was considerably excited — she had a peculiarly sen- ■itive nature." The housemaid was examined, and confirmed her master's story. They had both supposed the young lady had only fainted. Mr. Walsh said she was subject to fainting-fits. The coroner was quite satisfied; everything was done with extreme consideration for the feelings of Mr. Walsh, who was evidently a gentleman. Verdict : " Heart-disease, or fatal §yncope." In less than a week from the day of her flight, Grace Redmayne was laid quietly to rest in the churchyard of Hetheridge, Herts — a village as picturesque and sequestered as any rural nook in the green heart of the midland shires. Mr. Wulgrave had a horror of cemeteries, and the manner in which tho solemn business of interment is performed in those metropohses of the dead. He chose the most rustic spot that he could find within a reasonable distance of Highgate, the spot that seemed to him most in consonance with the character of hia beloved dead. And so ended his love-story. Afar off there hong a dark im- pending cloud — trouble which might arise for him m the future *ut of this tragedy. But he told himself that, if Fortune ittvoured him, he might escape all that. The one great fact was his loss, and that seemed to him very heavy. The business of Ufe had to go on nevertheless, the great Car- dimum case came on, and Hubert Walgrave reaped the reward of a good deal of solid labour, spoke magnificently, and made a considerable advance in his professional career by the time the trial waa over. In the begpnning of December the Acropolis- square house emerged from its state of hibernation, and began to give dinners — duiners to which Mr. Walgra?e wao in duty bound to go. 182 1^0 the Bitter Jtn^ When he called npon Miss Yallory after one of these baiiqoetat •he expressed enrpnae at seeing a band on his hat. " I did not know yon were in mourning," she sai^, " Yon did not tell me that you had lost any one." " It was hardly worth while to trouble you about it, since the person was a stranger to you, and not a near relation of mine." " Not a near relation ! but your hatband is as deep as • widower's — as deep as that of a widower who means to marry again almost immediately, for they always wear the deepest." " Is it P " asked Mr. Walgrave with a faint smile; " I told the batter to put on a band. I gave no directions as to width.* " But tell me all about your relation, Hubert. You must know that I am interested in everything that concerns you. Was it an uncle, or an auntP" " Neither ; only a distant cousin." " But really now, Hubert, that hatband is absurd for a distant cousin. You positively must have it altered." " 1 will take it off altogether, if you Uke, my dear. After all, these ' customary suits of solemn black' are only ' the trappings and the suits oi woe.* But I have a feeling that there is a kind of disrespect in not wearing mourning for a person you have esteemed." " Pray don't suppose that I disapprove of mourning. I con- nider any neglect of those things the worst possible taste. But a distant cousin, hardly a relation at all — the mourning should be appropriate. Did your cousin die in London ?" ' No ; in the country." He saw that Miss Vallory was going to ask him where, and anticipated her. " In Shropshire." He said this at a venture, having a vague idea that no one knew Shropshire. " Indeed ! " exclaimed Augusta ; " we have been asked to visit friends near Bridgenorth : but I have never been in Sliroj»- fhire. Did your cousin leave you any money P Perhaps that is the reason of your deep hatband." " My cousin left me nothing — but — but a closer acquaintance with death. Every loss in a family brings us that, you know." " Of course, — it is always very sad." The Cardimum case being a marked and positive triumph for Hubert Walgrave, he assumed his silk gown early in the ens'iiiig epriug, Tery much to the gratification of his betrothed, who was really proud of him, and anxious for his advancement. Was he v.i>t indeed a part of herself? No position that her own money could obtain tor her would satisfy her mthout the aid of somft distinction achieved by him. She knew to the uttermost what ;n confoundedly formal." *' At any place, and at any time, I should be happy to hold myself at your disposal," Mr. Walgrave replied politely. " Thanks ; I know you are veiy good, and all that kind of thing ; but I wanted a friendly talk, you see : and I never can have half an hour in the Old Jewry free from junior partners or senior clerks bobbing in and out, wanting my signature to this, that, and the other, or to know whether I will see Mt. Smith, or won't see Mr. Jones. The truth of the matter is, my dear Walgrave, that I am very much pleased with you. I may say more than pleased — surprised. Not that I ever for a moment doubted )'our talents; no, believe me," — this with a ponderous patronage, as if he feared that the younger man might perish untimely under the fear of not having been appreciated by him — " no, no, my dear fellow, I was quite aware there was stuff in you, but did ncit know how soon — ha, ha ! — you might turn your stuff into silk. I did not expect your talents to bear fruit so rapidly." " You are very kind," said Hubert AValgrave, looking steadily down at his plate. He had an apprehension of what was com- ing, and nerved himself to meet it. It was his fate; the destiny he had once courted eagerly, set all his vrits to compass. Why should he shrink from it now ? What was there to come be- tween him and Augusta Vallory ? Nothing — but a ghost ! " Now I am not a believer in long engagements," continued Mr. Vallory : " I am a man of the world, and I look at things from a worldly point of view, and I can't say that I have ever Been any good come of them. Sometimes the man sees some one he likes better than the girl he's engaged to, sometimes the girl sees some one she likes better ; neither is candid enough to make a clean breast of it ; and they go dawdUng on, pretending to be devoted to each other, atid iiltimately marry without s ha'porth of love between them." " There is sound philosophy in what you say, no doubt ; but I should imagine where the affection is smcere, and not weakened by separation, time should strengthen the bond." " Yes, when a man and woman are married, and know that the bondage is a permanent business. Now when you first pro- posed *» my daughter, with a foil knowledge of her position ai a young woman who might fairly expect to make a much better mat<*,h, I told you that £ could not consent to your marriage 184 To fU Bitter EnS. \jtttil you had achieved some standing in your profession — inooiud was a secondarr consideration with me. Augusta has enough for both." " I hope I made you understand clearly that I could nevei tmbmit to a position of dependence on my wife P " Mr. WalgravJ said hastily. " Quite so ; but you can't help absorbing the advantages cl your wife's money. Your wife can't eat turtle-soup at her end of the table, while you eat mutton-broth at your end. Auguata is not a girl who wiU cut her coat according to your cloth. She will expect the surroundings she has been accustomed to from h(T cradle; and she will expect you to share them, without question as to whose banking account contributes the most to the expenses of the household. What she has a right to expect from her husband is personal distinction ; and as I believe yon are on the high road to achieve that, I give my full permission to as early a marriage as may be agreeable to you both." Mr. Walgrave bowed, in acknowledgment of this concession, without any outward semblance of rapture ; but as they were both EngUshmen, Mr. Vallory expected no such demonstration. " You are very generous, my dear sir," said the younger man qtiietly ; " I am Augusta's slave in this matter ; her will is mine." " So be it. I leave you to settle the business between you. But there is one point that I may as well explain at once — my late partner Harcross's will is rather a remarkable one, and pro- vides for the event of Augusta's marriage. He was a peculiar man in many ways, my old friend Harcross, and had a mon« Btrous reverence for his own name ; not that he ever pretended that any Harcrosses came over with the Conqueror, or when the Conqueror came were all at home, or anytning of that kind. His grandfather was a self-made man, and the Harcrosses were a sturdy, self-reliant race, with an extraordinary opinion of their own merits." Mr. Walgrave raised his eyebrows a little, wondering whither all this rambling talk was drifting. " And to come to the point at once," continued Mr. Vallory, "my good friend left it as a condition of his bequest, that wUf>- ever Augusta married, her husband should assume the name ci Harcross. Now the question is, shall you have any objecti'm to that change of name r " Hubert Walgrave shrugged his shoulders, and raises ip ey« brows just a shade higher. " Upon my word I don't see why I should opject," he «;iid. "The proposition seems a little startUng at first, as if one wen? «fike«i to dye one's hair, or something of that kind. But I biii>- jhise any shred of reputation I may have made as Wfll^jniv^i «iil stick to me as Harcross." jRichard Redmayne^s Return. 18S •* Decidedly, mv dear boy ; we will take care of that," Mr Vallory answered.. "There ia no name better known and respected in the legal profession than the name of Harcross. As Hubert Wa] grave you may be a very clever fellow ; but as Hubert Harcross you will be associated with one of the oldest firms in the Law Li$t. You will be no loser professionally by the change, I can assure you." " Then I am ready to take out letters patent whenever you and Augnsta desire me to do so. ' Hubert Walgrave Harcross,' not a bad signature to put at the foot of a letter to the free and independent electors ot Eatanswill, when I go in for a seat in Parliament by and by. Hubert Harcross — so be it ! What's in a name, and in my name of all others, that I should cherish it P" CHAPTER XIX. RicnAUD redmatne's retttrx. A GREAT ship far out at sea, an English ship homeward bound, from Melbourne to the port of Liverpool, and among the passen- gers on board her one Eichard Redmayne, agriculturist, gold- digger, and general speculator, saUing back to the home of his forefathers. He is returning to England sooner than he had hoped to return by at least a year. Things have gone well with hia during the last eighteen months; almost as well as he had fancied they might go in his daydreams under the old cedar at Brierwood, in those summer-afternoon reveries in which he had watched his daughter's face athwart the smoke of his pipe, arid thought what a grand thing it would be to go out to Australia and make a fortune for her. He has done it. For a long time the Fates seemed against him ; it was dreary work Uving Hie hard rough life, toiling from misty morning to mistier evening, facing all weathers, holding his own against all competitors, and with no result. Many a time he had wished himself back in England — ay, even with B«erwood sold to strangers, and only a field and a cottage left him — but a field and a cottage in England, with English flowers peeping in at his casement, English fere, English climate, and tiis daughter's sweet face to make the brightness of his life. What did it all matter P he asked himself sometimes. Did a big house and many acres constitute happiness? Had his broaiil fields or goodly rick -yards consoled him in the early dayi of luB widowhood, when the loss of his fair young wife made all the aaiverse seem dark to him P A thousand times, no. Then 136 To the Bitter End, welcome poverty in Kent, among the orchards and hop-gardon« with the daughter of his love. He had been sick to the heart when the tide tnmed. His first successes were not large ; but they cheered him beyond measure, and enabled him to write hopetully home. Then he fell int-i companionship with a clever adventurer, a man who had a smattering of science, and a good deal of rough genius, in his pecuUar way ; a man who was great upon the chemistry of soils, but lacked a strong arm, and herculean muscles, like Rick Redmayne's ; whereby there arose a partnership between the two, in which the farmer was to profit by the knowledge of Mr. Nicholas Spettigue, the amateur chemist, while Mr. Spettigue on his part was to reap a fair share of the fruits of Rick Red- mayne's labour. The business needed four men to work it well ; »o they took a brace of sturdy Milesians into their company, whose labours were to be recompensed by an eqiiitable share in the gains; and with these coadjutors began business in real earnest. Nicholas Spettigue had got scent of a virgin guUey, beyond Wood's Point, a little way off the beaten track, and reputed worth working. The four men went in quest of this El Dorado alone, and camped out together for a spell of many months, toil- ing manfully, remote from the general herd of diggers ; standing knee-deep in running water for hours on end, rocking the cradle with a patience that surpassed the patience of maternity; living on one unvarying fare of giilled mutton and damper, with un- limited suj^plies of strong black tea, boiled in a " billy," and unmollihed by the produce of the cow. They slept in a cavern under one of the sterile hills that sheltered their Pactolus, and slept none the less sweetly for the roughness of their quarters. Not very long did they hold the secret of their discovery : other explorers tracked them to their land of promise, and set up their claims in the neighbourhood ; but Mr. Spettigue had spotted the best bit in the district, and Fortune favoured him and his Kentish partner. They were not quite so lucky as a certain Dr. Kerr, who, in the early days of uio gold discoveries at Bathurst, found a hundredweight of gold flne fine morning on his sheep-walk, lying under his very nose lu it were, where it had lain throughout his proprietorship of the land, and might have so lain for ever, had not an aboriginal shepherd's eye been caught by the ghtter of a yeUt/w streak amidst the quatrz. They did not fall upon monster nuggets, but by patience and toil realized a profit varying from ten pounds a week per man to forty. When they had exhausted, or supposed they had exhausted, their field of operations, they divided the spoil. Richard Red< mayne's share came to something more than three thousand poands. All he owed in England could be paid with half thii Richard Redmat/ne*g Re f urn. 187 Cmoani. He had seen a good deal of the country since he had beon out — had seen something of its agricultural capabilities, and wanted to see more ; so now that the chief business of hi* exile was accomplished, he gave himself a brief hoUday in which to explore the wild sheep-walks of this new world. He was not a man who loved money for its own sake; and having now more than enough to pay his debts, and set him going again in the dear old Kentish homestead, he had no desire to toil any longer : much to the surprise and vexation of Nicholas Spettigue, who had his eye upon a new district, and was eager to test it« capabilities. " I shall have to look out for a new pal," he said. " But I doubt if I shall ever find an honest man with such a biceps aa yours, Rick. If you'd only keep on with me, I'd make you a millionaire before we shut up shop. But I suppose you're home- sick, and there's no use in saying any more." " I've got a daughter, you see," Richard Redmayne said, look* ing down with a thoughtful smile, " and I want to get back to her." "As if I didn't know all about your daugi ter," exclaimed Mr. Spettigue, who had heard of Grace Redmayne very often from the fond father's hps. "Why don't you write to her to come out to the colony ? You might settle her somewhere com- fortably, and go on with your work up here, till you were as rich as one of the Rothschilds." Richard Redmayne shook his head by way of answer to this proposition. " A colonial life wouldn't suit Gracey," he said ; " she's too tender a flower for that sort of thing." " I daresay she's an uncommonly pretty girl," Mr. Spettigiie remarked in his careless way, " if she's anything like you, mate." " Like me ! " cried the farmer ; " she's as much like me as a lily's like me — she's as much like me as a snowdrop is like a sun- flower. If you can fancy a water-Uly that's been changed into a woman, you can fancy my daughter Grace." " I can't," answered the practical Mr. Spettigue. "I never was good at fancying, and if I could, your water-lily- faced woman is not my style, t like a girl with cheeks as red as peonies, and plenty of flesh on her bones, with no ofi'ence meant to you. Rick." So the partnership was dissolved, and Richard Redmayne bought himself a horse, and set ofi" upon an exploring expedition among the sheep-farms. In the course of these wanderings, in which he met with much hospitality and kindness in solitary homesteads, where his bright face and cheery voice won a joyous welcome, Mr. Redmayne came upon a lowland farm in Gypps Land, whose owners had fallen on evil days ; the rough loghouse was emr)ty, the land neglected To the Bitter End. \ tnd a family of vagabond wanderers wlio had taken up theh abodo in one of the bams told him that the estate was to be sold hj auction at Melbourne, in something less than a fortnight. He went over the land, and his practised eye was quick t« perceive its value. It had been badly worked, and the man wha owned it had gone at a rapid pace to the aogs ; but the occupants of the bam told Mr. Redmayne that this late proprietor had drunk himself into deUrium tremens three or four times c year, and had squandered every sixpence he earned playinj^ " poker " and other equally intellectual games with any wander- ing stranger whom Providence sent in his way. The farm had fallen into bad odour by reason of his non-success, and had been put np to auction already, and withdrawn from sale, the biddings not reaching the reserved price which the late owner's trade assignees had put upon it. " You might get it by private contrack, I dessay," said th« man, when be perceived Mr. Redmayne's inclination to buy, " if you was to look sharp about it, and make yer hoffer to the hauctioneer between this and nex' Toosday week." Richard Redmayne was fascinated by the place, which waa called Bulrush Meads, there being a considerable tract of low- lying meadow land, with a broad stream meandering through it, richly fringed with tall bulrushes — superb land for stock. ' There was lull as well as dale, and the site of the rough log \ dwelling-house was as picturesque as anytliing he had seen in \ his holiday ramble. What a king he might be here with Grace ! he thought to himself. The life would not be rough for her, safe sheltered under his wing, and with honest Kentish lassep for her servants. His quick eye told him how the place might b4 improved : a roomy parlour built out on one side, with a wide verandah supported by rustic pillars, a pleasant shelter beneath which his darling might sit and work on sunny afternoons. Au.^ what a prospect for those gentle eyes to gaze upon ! what a ▼iried sweep of hill and valley, bright silver streamlet flashing athwart greenest of meadows, a thousand sheep looking no bigger than so many daisies upon the distant uplands, a blue lake that was vast as an inland sea in the foreground, and far away on the left of the landscape a forest of almost tropical richness ! A couple of bedrooms could be added above, wooden Wkf the rest of the house, which was strongly though roughly built. Vines and pumpkins climbed to the shingle roof, and all kinds of flowers, brighter and larger than the blossoms of hii native land, overran the neglected garden. On one side of the low rambling edifice there was an orchard of peach-trees ; on the other a grove of cabbage-palms, eighty feet high, their tall trunks entwined by a luxuriant flowering parasite ; a giant fig-tree spread its broad leave? near at hand. Sichard Redmayne's lielurn 180 «iJe by eiie with a huge etinging-nettle tree, all a-glitter witli •ilvery Mpiculae, like a vegetable needle manufactory. The fancy once having seized upon him was not to be put away. He was very fond of Brierwood — tend with a traditional love which was an instinct of his mind ; but he had always been more oi less cramped in that narrow orbit, ^%i^ rough- ind-ready Ufe, with such wide space for roaming and adventure, juited him a great deal better than the dot-and-go-one round of a farmer's existence at home. And then the novelty of the thing had a powerful witchery. To take this neglected estate in hand, and make it a model of high tarming, was a task worth an enterprising man's labour. At Brierwood everything was so narrow, his best experiments had failed for want of room. Here, in this wide field, he saw his way to certain fortune. Fevered by visions of a veritable Arcadia, of which hin beloved Grace should be queen; fired too by the squatter, who hung about him as he explored the place, and was eager to curry favour with a probable purchaser, cherishing his own peculiar vision of a comfortable berth under the new rule, — Mr. Red mayne ultimately resolved to make a bid for Bulrush Meads, and mounted hid horse to ride to Melbourne. Ha turned his back upon the fertile plains of Central Gypps Land, aptly termed the garden of Victoria, and entered th« narrow bush-track cut through that broad belt of forest with its undergrowth of dense jungle, and fern-tree gullies, which surrounds the plains of Gypps Land. He thought not of the hardy M'Millan, who first explored the rich country he had left behind, from the New South Wales side ; nor of the indomitable Streletzski, who first mapped-out its water-shed and penetrated the inmost recesses of its dark forests ; nor of the surveyor who cut and cleared the track over wliich he was then riding, and must continue riding for another forty miles before he could reach the open country on the other side. Hardly did he pause to admire the picturesque scenery in the fern-tree gullies, the rnbj«H;t8 of many a glorious painting by Gerrard and Chevalier, now household words among the art-lovers in the colony. Up hill and down dale he plodded, obliged to follow in the deep tracks of the bullocks, which, on their way to the Melbourne market in wet weather, had converted the cleared space between the dense jungle into a sort of new-m >ulded potato-field, tilted at angles to suit the varied steepness of the hills, that rose mage on range before the traveller in an endless perspective. Obhged to camp when darkness overtook him, Richard Red- mayTie short-hobbled his horse in one of the valleys where some alight promise of food for the jaded animal met his eye. Here he selected some monarch of the forest whose butt had been hollowed out by a bush fire, broke off an armful of branchft") 140 To iht Bitter End. from the nearest fern-tree for his ted, ate hia lonely risjiper rolled himself in his blanket, and was soon deep asleep tinder th« southern stars, dreaming of Brierwood and Grace. With daybreak he resumed his journey, and in a few hours reached the open country, where the cheery sight of human habitations gladdened his eyes, and the good road to Melbourne was under his horse's feet, which town he reached upon the fourth day after his departure from Bulrush Meads, and in time to attend the sale. He made no attempt at negotiation, think- ing it wiser to await the hazard of the auction. Circumstances favoured him; the biddings were feeble and spiritless; and Mr. Redmayne bought Bulrush Meads for eight hundred and fifty pounds — just one hundred above the reserved price. The auctioneer congratulated him upon having got the estate for an old song, and drank a bottle of champagne at the lucky purchaser's expense. " And, upon my word, it ought to be a three-dozen csim," ho Baid, " considering your luck, Mr. Redmayne." All legal rites being duly performed, Richard Redmayne went back to take possession of his estate, thoroughly delighted with his investment. He left his vagabond friend as a kind ot care- taker, giving him a ten-pound note as an advance payment for work to be done in the way of repairing fences and improving boundaries. " If I find you know anjrthing about farming, I shall take you on as a regular hand when I come back," he said ; " and I shall come back as soon as ever I can settle my affairs in England." He meant to let Brierwood, or to leave his brother James in possession, if things had gone as prosperously as James asserted they had gone in his absence, and thus work the two estates. For himself, it seemed to him that no state of existence could be so delicious as a wild free life at Bulrush Meads, with a prosperous farmyard and a goodly array of com ricks, a com- fortable hearth by which the wandering stranger might rest, a hospitable table at which there should always be room enough for the traveller, and half-a-dozen good saddle-horses in his stable. He would teach Grace to ride, and she could canter about the farm with him, ride beside him many a mile on moon- light nights across that splendid country, over grassy hill-tops two thousand feet above the southern sea. The fact that the life might be somewhat lonely for his daughter flashed across his mind occasionally ; but he dismissed the notion carelessly enough. What mode of existence could be duUer than her life at Brierwood ? In Kent she was only a small farmer's daughter. Here in these backwoods she would b& a Qoeen ; &nd he had confidence enough in her affection la Siehard Hedmayne^st Return. 141 bolleve that anj fife would be acceptable to her that wam to hi shared with him. Of the day when she might desire to form new ties he thonght but vaguely. No doubt that time would c^me : eome handsome young emigrant would woo and win her ; but even that event need not result in separation between father and daughter. There was room enough at Bulrush Meads for a patriarchal household ; and Richard Redmayne could fancy himself sitting under hia vine-clad verandah, cool and spacious as a Sevillian patio, witli a noisy crowd of grandchildren clambering on his knees. " I will never part with her," he said to himself fondly. He sailed from Melbourne early in March, and arrivesl at Liverpool towards the end of May. He had received no letters from home for some months before his departure; but this was the result of his own nomadic habits rather than of any neglect on the part of his correspondents. The last bore the date of October and told him that all >v as well. He was not a man to be tor • ciented by morbid apprehension of possible evil. He made his homeward journey in high spirits, full of hopes and schemes for the future. He nad a rude map of Bulrush Meads, which he used to spread out before him on the cuddy-table and ponder Qpon for an hour at a stretch, with a pencil in his hand, marking out so many acres for wheat here, so many for barley there, inferior tracts for mangel-wurzel, patches of turnips, odd bits oi outlying land that would grow beans, wide level pastures for his cattle ; dotting down hedges and boundaries, putting in every live-barred gate which was to impart to that fertile wilderness the trim aspect of an English farm. And so it came to the end of May, bright joyous weather, the first flush and bloom of summer, and Richard Redmayne, with u hr-irt as hght as a feather, trod firmly on the soil of his native Ui'.id. lie lost no time. Up to London as fast as an express train could carry him, fi-om one railway-station to another in a rapid hansom, at London Bridge Terminus just in time to catch the train for Tunbridge, from Tunbndge homewards in a fly. He c>ccusing tone. " Begin at the beginning. She is not dead ; but she is gone. When did she go, and how ? " " On the 11th of last November, secretly, stealing away one raoming at seven o'clock, when we were aU busy. But her letter will tell von the most. We know so httle." Mrs. James went to a side-table, where tliere was a huge .Mahogany desk, which she unlocked, and from which she took Grace's poor little letter. It had been read and re-read many times. The folds of the paper were almost worn through. Richard Redmayne read it aloud twice over, rapidly the first time, then very .slowly. " Well 1" he exclaimed, " a runaway man-iage ; there's not so much harm in that. * I shall write to my father by the next mail to beg his forgiveness.* I missed her letter, poor child, along with my other letters. Bat why should the marriage be secret ? and who the devil did she run away with ?" " There was only one person ever suspected — a Mr. Walgry. She says in her letter that she was going to marry a gentleman, and he is the only gentleman she knew." " How did she come to know him ? " "He came here to lodge last summer. Mr. Wort recom- mended himP" "Came hereto lodge!" roared Richard Redmayne. "Who gave you leave to turn Brierwood into a lodging-house?" " It was to oblige Mr. Wort, and to make a twenty-pound note to help you on, Richard. He was a perfect gentleman." " you I " cried the farmer, with a tremendous oath. " A perfect gentleman ; and he stole my daughter I A f)erfect gen- tleman ; and he has ruined my daughter 1" Mrs. James pointed to the letter. " She was going away to be married," she faltered. "Going away to be m^arriedl As if every one didn't know that old atory I Is tiiere anything easier than for a villain to promise that P And my darling, that was httle more than a ciiild, a»4 knew no more than a child ! Keep out of my way. iHrJiari BeAmayne^s Betttm. 145 woman !'* cried Hick Redmayne, rising suddenly, with his hands aiiil arras twitching convulsively. " Keep ont of my way, for I lei'l as if I could murder you ! " Hannah went down on her knees before him. She was not a woman to be easily moved, but she had a heart. " If I had act or part in this trouble, Rick," she said piteously, •* may God and you forgive me. He knows I tried to do my duty, and that I loved the poor child truly. As I have a soul to be saved, I did everything for the best. I trusted Grace." "Yes, and brought a sti'anger into her home, and tiiisted him." " 1 had John Wort's word for his character." " And to please John Wort you made Brierwood A lodging- house, and brought about my daughter's ruin." "\Vhy should you look at it on the darkest side, Richard?" asked Mrs. James, who for her own part had never since Grace's flight taken any view except the darkest of the subject. But to console this grief-stricken man she was ready to affect a hopefulness she had never felt. " Has she written to you since she went away P** "No." "If she had been honourably married, and happy, do yon think she would have been silent?" There was no answer to that question. " Was she so ungrateful, so wanting in affection, that she could turn her back upon her home, leave her own flesh and blood to think her false and heartless, to blush for her perhaps, and never write a line to tell them whether she was dead or alive?" " She may have written to you, Richard." *' She may. O, my God, what a fool I was to be so carelesa about getting my letters I I never thought of trouble. I was coming home to my daughter, coming home to find — this \ " He looked round the room, with utter despair in his eyes, with the look which a man might give who stood among the ashes of his home. What would the burning of Brierwood, or the loss of every sixpence whereof he stood possessed, have been to him, compared with the loss of his child P " And it was for this I worked," he muttered, passing his arm across his forehead with a half-bewildered air ; "it was for this fortune favoured me 1" Then, after a pause, he said suddenly, " You did something, I suppose ; you took some means to find out what had become of her? You didn't sit down to eat and drink and sleep, while she was a wanderer and an outcast P " "We did everything, Richard," replied Mrs. James — hei nnsband stood by speechless, staring at his brother vrith dumb ooinj».-.«-:;ofi. "John Wort would teU us nothing about Mr. 146 Hh the Bitter End. Walgry ; but he was very sorry for what had happened, and h« went up to town to see Mr. Walgry, and taxed him with having tempted Grace away; and Mr. Walgry denied it. He kn>w nothing about her. He had never seen her since he left thia house, he declared." " Lying would come easy to the Djan who could tempt that child away. Was there no one else you suspected?" " No one else." And then little by little Hannah Redmayne told the whole Btory of Hubert Walgrave's residence at Brierwood. He had been attentive to Grace, it is true; but no more attentive than any man might be who happened to find himself in daily asso- ciation with a very pretty girl. From first to last he had shown himself a gentleman. Mrs. Redmayne was emphatic upon that point. Then came the reluctant admission that Grace had drooped after his departure ; and no one had thought of putting the two facts together. And then the story of the locket. Richard Redmayne sat like a statue, with a dark frown upon his face, but no farther expression of his anger, while aunt Hannah rambled on helplessly. His heart was on fire with resentment against these kindred of his who had suftered hia darling to be lost. In his mind it was a certain thing that they could have saved her, that she had perished by reason of their carelessness. But he said very little. Such a grief as his is apt to be dumb, and as yet there was a kind of numbness about his feelings that dulled the sense of grief. The news had stunned him. When aunt Hannah had said all she could say, with no in- terruption save a few words mumbled now and then feebly hj uncle James, Richard Redmayne rose abruptly and put on his hat. "You're not going out to-night, Richard P" exclaimed hig sister-in-law, glancing at the clock. It was half-past nine — a late hour according to Brierwood habits. " I am going to John Wort. I am going to call him to ac- count for this busincBS." " Don't be hard upon him, Rick," Mrs. James pleaded. " He did everything for the best." " Hard upon him I Between you, you have let my daughter go to her ruin. Do you think there can be much softness in me for any one of you P Hard upon him ; hard upon the man *rho sent a scoundrel into my house with a false character ! I wish to Grod the days were not over when men shot each othei down Hke dogs for a smaller injury." " He's an old man, Richard, and has been a good friend to yon. Remember that." "I'll remember my daughter. You've no call to look m i Richard Redmthfne's Ettum. 147 •cared, woman. I shall keep my hands off him. Nothing I could do to him would be any good to her. I want to tiiid xay daughter. Do you think any shame that has fallen upon aer will lessen my love P I want to find her, that's all, to take her away with me to the other end of the world. Once let me hold her in my arms, I'U answer for the rest. There do^n't Uve upon this earth the man who could divide na ; no^ not if he was her husband." He went out into the calm summer night, all the stars shin- ing down upon him from the vault above, not with the fiery lustre of those planets which he had watched of late, but with a milder, holier beam, that touched his heart like a memory of the past. O, dear famiUar garden, where he had been so happy with the child of his love ! the dumb inanimate things cried out to him like Hving voices. The home-look of the place struck him with a sharper anguish than he had sufi'ered yet. Everything was unchanged — and she was gone ! He passed quickly through the garden, steeUiig himself against this anguish ; out at the wicket-gat;;, through the fragrant meadow, and on by that footpath along which Grace had gone to her doom. Kingsbury was awake yet. It was ten o'clock when Richard Redmayne crossed the common after half an hour's sharp walking; but the lights still trembled feebly in the general shop; and the three public-houses, which made a kind of fiery triangle, a terrestrial constellation on the viUage-green, were still in the full flush of trade. How strange all things seemed to the wanderer, and yet how familiar! Had he been away half a century, or only a week? What a stagnant world it was compared to that he had Uved in of late 1 It seemed as if the same village idlers were gossip- ing at the open door of the Coach and Horses ; the same clumsy figure leaning against the doorjjost, pipe in mouth; the same carrier's horse drinking at the trough. He passed them by, with a sense of seeing them dimly as in a dream ; yet even with this drcamUke feeling there was blended the thought of how he shoi Id have come upon this same spot, these same people, had all bejn well with him, their noiay wel- come, their eager interest in him as an adventurer and a hero. He could aee the picture of himself amidst a circle of curioui friendly faces, telling the story of his travels. He passed them by unnoticed, and walked straight on to the green palings be- fore Mr. Wort's trim dwelling — one of the neatest habitatic-na in Kingsbury — a square box of a house, with dazzling green blinds, and a little flight of dazzling stone steps leading np to a great brass plate, so large as almost to ertinguieh the door that sustained it. The land-steward was a bachelor, ftnd throughout the period 14S To the Jfitter l.n*. of his mature manhood liad sat on one chair, on one aide of hv hearth, so that he had worn a shabby patch in the carpet at that particular spot; and as Mr. Wort never, or hardly ever, received visitors, all the other chairs had spent their lifetime ranged with their backs against the walls of the small square parlour, and had the air of being immovable, and not intende 160 To tU Bitter End. Bure of tliat, John "Wort ! and when I do find him, you'll hear of it." He left the office as abruptly as he had entered it. The steward Btood by his desk fumbling nervously with his papers, his eyes downcast, his aspect conscience-stricken. The criminal himself would have faced the situation boldly enough, no doubt ; but this innocent accessory before the fact drooped under the burden of another man's evil-doing. He had loved Grace Redmayne, and had a warm regard for Grace's father. But he held it a duty to shield Hubert Walgrave — if he were indeed the offender ; and who could be sure that he was, until Grace's own lips de- nounced himP At present there was so little evidence against him, and he had denied any knowledge of her flight. John Wort was strong upon this point; although, as a man of the world, he attached no great value to the denial. " if a man had committed a murder, he'd hardly tell any one for the asking where he'd hidden the knife," the steward had remarked to his housekeeper and confidential adviser, an ancient dame much tormented by rheumatism, and attached to him by the bonds of cousinship and long service. •'A pretty kettle-of-fish ! And all brought about by doing that young man a kindness," he muttered by and by, as he sat with his papers before him, trying to bring back his mind to that calm level of businesslike meditation from which Richard Redmayne had disturbed him. " But he comes of a bad stock, and I ought to have known that no good could ever arise out of any dealings with that lot. He seemed so different from his father, though ; such a steady studious kind of fellow. "^ had every reason to suppose he might be trusted." CHAPTER XX. "what is it that you would impart to KrE?** W HEN the passage of time had familiarized Richard Redmdyno with tne fact of his loss, when he had grown a Uttle mor'' accustomed to the aspect of Brierwood without Gr^^ce — and at best it seemed to him like a house in which a corpse was lying —he was able to sum up the few facts that much questioning had elicited from Mrs. James. The uttermost that she could tell him came to very little.^ She had fancied herself watchful and careful enough of her niece'B honour, and had se«n no (27x>and for suspicion of the stranger'n "Wliaf it it that you would impart to mef" 151 " I don't think for the first three weeks I ever had my eyes o£F Graco while he was in the house," she said, defending herself against her brother-in-law's charge of neglect, " for fear h« should be turning her head with foolish compliments, or any* thing of that kind." ** For the first three weeks P" echoed Richard Redmayne bit- terly ; " and after that I suppose you shut your eyes and ears, fttid let him say what he pleased to her." "I mayn't have watched them quite so close, Richard. I knew Grace was a good girl, and he seemed a perfect gentleman; ti i teen years older than her, too, if he was an hour ; and wrapped up in his books." And then Hannah Redmayne told the story of that vanished Bummer-time as it had seemed to her unpoetic mind — a bald bare outline of commonplace facts, which evoked no image in the brain of the listener. There had been a picnic, and Mr. W'algry had been attentive to Grace, but not remarkably atten- tive. She had fainted, and he had been sorry, and very kind. And shortly after leaving Brierwood he had sent her a hand- some gold locket, as an acknowledgment of her aunt's attention to him. That was all : let Richard Redmayne make out of it what he might. He could make very little of it : only that his daughter wa^ gone from him, and that this was the only man who had come athwart her pathway. Investigation showed him that the means his brother and his brother's wife had taken to find the missing girl were of the slightest. James had gone up to London, and had consulted an old schoolfellow, a solicitor in a very obscure way of business, who had sent him to a jirivate inquiry office. The chief of the private-inquiry office had said " advertise," and had opened an eager paw for funds with which to pay for advertisements ; but this James Redmayne had positively refused to do. He didn't want the whole county of Kent to know that his niece had gone astray. The private inquirer had suggested that his advertise- ment might be so worded as to be intelligible only to the niece nerself ; but James was in flexible. To advertise was to publish the family dishonour — if dishonour it were. " No," he said doggedly ; " if you can't find Gracey without putting her in the papers, I'll wait till her father comes home. He'll find her fast enough, I'll warrant." Simple-hearted James had an inordinate faith in his brother Rick. Whatever mortal man could do. Rick could do ; and the »t)rvii:e of professional private inquirers would be as nothing compared with the untutored intelligence of Richard Redmayne. The first thing Richard did was to adveilise in the Tiinea^ two other liondon daily papers, and the two local weeklies : — ^»2 fpQ tig Bitter JEnd. " Gracb. — ^Your father ia at home. Return, or rrriie. Love welcome, pardon." The adTertisement appeared day after day, week after we«hi month tiiter month. People speculated about it, became familial with the sight of it, and at last came to regard it as a standing portion of their journal, Uke the printer's name and address at ihe foot of the last column. And while they speculated and wondered, and anon grew indifferent, Richard Redmayne paced the streets of London in the long summer days, and far into the dismal autumn, looking for his daughter and his daughter's seducer. He did not even know the name of the man he wanted to find, Hannah Redmayne had never called her lodger anything but Mr. Walgry, and it was as Mr. Walgry she described him to her brother-in-law. When asked to write the name, she made severaJ wild attempts, and in every one of them lost herself in a laby- rinth of consonants. She could have as easily written the titles of John Milton's prose works. " How should I know how to spell his name ?" she exclaimed at last, feeling that those various combinations of consonants liardly looked feasible. " I never saw it wrote anywhere, and I never was much of a hand at writing. I can keep my dairy accounts with any one, and keep 'em correct to a sixpence ; but it ain't likely I should be able to write a name as I've never seen wrote. I know he was called Walgry, and that's all I do know about it." It was for a man called Walgry, therefore, that Richard Red- mayne made his search ; a hunter not gifted with those attribiitec most needed for the following an obscure trail and the tracking down of a foe, but with an indouitable resolution, and a firm belief in his own power to discover the man who had wrongeil him. He looked for a man called Walgry, ignorant of almost every particular of the man's existence, assisted only by the l-.iinteot word-picture of the being whom he sought ; and behold, even the man called Walgrave had vanished off the face of the earth BO far as the name is the man, aud had given place to H. W. Harcross, Q.C., of Mastodon-crescent, Grosvenor-place ; an elliptic arc of newly -built mansions, a little more florid in their architec- tural embellishment than the mansions of AcropoUs- square, but cast more or less in the same mould. Hubert Walgrave was goue, and there remained only this H. W. Harcross, popularly known as the man who had married old Vallory's daughter. Thu time know that she isn't in New York P" 168 To the Bitter End. " He baa some reason to suppose that she is in London. The man who is suopected of tempting her away is a man who liveo in London." " But, bless my soul, if you — if your friend knows the man who ran away with the girl, he can surely find her by applying to the man." "The roan who b suspected denies any knowledge of my daughter *' Richard Eedmayne stopped suddenly, and reddened to the temples. " The murder's out,** he said. " It's rwy daughter who's missing, Mr. Smoothey. You'll keep my secret, of course. I want to shield her from slander by and by, when I take her home." " I guessed as much before you'd said half-a-dozen words about the business," remarked the lawyer, in a friendly reassuring tone ; " your face was too earnest for a man who's talking of a friend's affairs. The more candid you are with me, the better I ean help you." On this Rick Redmayne told hia story, as briefly as it could «->e told, while the lawyer listened, with a grave and not unsyra- \ -athetic countenance. " Have you any grounds for supposing that there would be no marriage; that this Mr. Walgry would deceive your daughter ? " he asked, when he had heard all. " Only the fact of my daughter's silence. If — if all had been well, she would have hardly left her father in doubt as to her fate. My poor child knew how well I loved her. And then a man who mtcnt to act honestly would scarcely steal a girl away from her home like that." " The manner of the business, and the girl's silence, look bad, I admit," replied Mr. Smoothey. " Her letter stated that they were to be married in London, you say — you might give me a copy of that letter, by the way. Have you made any attempt to discover whether such a marriage took place P" " How could I do that P " " Advertise for information on the subject, i^flEering a reward to parish clerke, registrars, and suchlike." " What ! and blazon my girl's dishonour to the world ?" Mr. Smoothey smiled ever so faintly at this — as if the world at large were interested in the fate of a Kentish yeoman's daughter. "You could hardly advertise without making the girl's name public, certainly," he said ; " and that might do her mischief in the future. The written word remains. Put in an advertise- ment in to-morrow's Times about Tom, Dick, or Harry, and tha odds are five to one it may crop up as evidence agamst Tom, I>ick. or Harry at the other end of the world forty years hence. •* Wkai it a that you would impart to n«t^* 1S9 Upon my -.vord« Mr. Redrnayne, I can't Bee that you have any resource open to you except to put yourself in the hands of odo of these private-inquiring people." " My brother Jim did that, and no good came out of it.** "Never mind what your brother did. I know a man who can help you, if any one can ; as sharp a fellow as there is to b« found in London. He served his articles with me, and practised as a soUcitor for nine years in a small town in the west of England; took to drinking, and went altogether to the bad; then came up to London, and set up as a private enquirer. He drinks still, but has some method in his madness, and can do more work in his own particular line \I.-^a any other man I ever met with. I'll have him here to meet you, if you like, to-morrow morning, and we can talk the business over together." " I suppose I can't do better than put myself in your hands," Richard Redmayne said gloomily. " I reckoned upon finding my girl myself; but I'm sick at heart. I feel as if a few month, more of tms work would make an end of me." Mr. Smoothey suggested that fathers and daughters are in the hands of Providence, and that things must not be looked at in this manner. " ^Vhat ! " cried Rick, " do you want me to think that my child and I are like two pieces upon a chessboard, to be moved this way or that, with no power of our own to shape our lives P I tell you, man, I will find her, will save her, will take her from the villain who stole her away from me ! " " May God prosper your endeavours, my good friend I " said the lawyer, piously ; " but that is hardly a Christian way of looking at the question." " I have never been a Christian since I came home iA England, and found my daughter missing," answered Richard Redmayne. He met Mr. Kendel, the private inquirer, at Messrs. Gabb and Smoothey's office early next morning. Mr. Kendel was a tall bony man of about forty, with dark close-cut hair, a long red nose, a coal black eye of fiery brightness, glittering as that of the Ancient Mariner, a clean-shaven visage, a good black coat, and as respectable an appearance as could co-exist with the aforesaid red nose ; a clever-looking man, in whose hands Richard Red- mayne felt himself a very child. He jotted down two or three memoranda in a little blacl- 'bund note-book, and then snapped the snap thereof with the air of a man who saw his way to the end of tbs business. "If a marriage took place in London, I shaU have the evidence of it in a week," he said. " If anywhere in England, I pledge myself to know all about it vrithin a fortnight.** And on this the council broke up, Mr. Smoothey having; done 160 2b the Bitter End. nothing bnt take sntiff and look ineffably wise during the consnJk tation. At the end of a fortnight Mr. Kendel wrote to Richard Red« mayne, stating that to the best of his belief no marriage between Misb Grace Redmayne and any individual whatever had been celebrated within the British dominions since last November twelvemonth. He had put the business into good hands on the Continent, and hoped shortly to be able to speak as definitely with regard to any foreign marriage which might or might not have been contracted. In the meantime he was hunting for in- formation about Mr. Walgry, but as yet had not been able to get on the track of any person of that name answering to the de* Bcription of the suspected party. Richard flung the letter from him in a rage. " Easy enough to tell me what he can't find out," he muttered to himself moodily. " Jim was about right ; these fellows are no good." He left Mr. Kendel's letter unanswered, and went on with his own unsystematic wanderings : now in the remotest purlieus of the east, or in the haunts of sailors at Wapping and Ratcliff- highway ; now among half-deserted western squares, whose denizens were spending their Christmas holidays at pleasant lountry houses. He sat in Bparsely-fiUed theatres, indifferent to, nay hardly conscious of, what he saw, but peering into every dusky comer of the house, with the fatnt hope of seeing the Bweet pale face he was looking for. Christmas came and went. Richard Redmayne heard the joy- bells clamouring from half a hxmdred London steeples, and that was all. Christmas — God, how well he remembered Christmas at Brierwood a few years ago, his daughter's face radiant among the holly and mistletoe, the simple pleasures and banquetings, the quiet home joys ! " Shall we ever sit beside that hearth again P " he wondered; " we two together, my girl and IP" Bitter as this ignorance of his child's fate had been to him, a bitterer knowledge was to come. One bleak morning in January, about five weeks after his introduction to Mr. Ken- del, the office-boy from Gabb and Smoothey brought him a brief note, requesting his immediate presence in Gray's-inn-place. He followed promptly on the heels of the messenger, ani was shown straight into Mr. Smoothey's office. The lawyer was standing on his hearth-rug warming himself with a solemn aspect. Mr. Kendel was seated by the table with a short file l nnder the rounded chin, the reddish-auburn hair. \ There was no doubt it was his Grace. He had tra<:ked her to i the end of her brief pilgrimage. All his dreams of the future *i were over ; the fair home in which they were to have begun a " WTiat u it that you laouta impart To msF" 168 new life together, all the plans and hopes which had buoyed him np during that weary period of waiting, were done with now. Alas, whatever Ufe they two were to share lay beyond the stars ! Upon earth his search had ended. "Except for the man who murdered her," RickRedmayne said to himself. " God grant that I may live long enough to be even with him ! " He went to the house in which his darling died. There had been more than one set of tenants since that November day ; but the cottage was vacant again, and a board advertising the fact of its emptiness was up in the neat Uttle front garden: "Inquire of Mr. Selby, house-agent, Kentish-town ; or within." Bichard Redmayne went in, saw the little drawing-room where she had fallen, struck with death ; the pretty bedchamber above where they had laid her in her last quiet slumber. He looked at these things with an anguish beyond tears — beyond passion, oi curses even — although deep in his heart the»e was something bitterer than a curse against her betrayer. " Perhaps that man Kendel was right," he said to himself, as be stood by the white-curtained bed, on which he could fancy her lying m death's awful stillness with her hands folded on her breast ; " perhaps it was better she should die than live to be what that villain meant to make her. Thank God she never was his mistress ! thank God death came between them ! A nd yet to have had my girl again — even a faded flower — to have watched the pale face grow bright again 1 to have made a new life for her in a new world — God, how sweet that would have been!" He thought of Bulrush Meads; those fertile slopes and valleys, the silver water-courses and forest background — all their glory gone now. Thought of the place as he had pictured it from the first, with that central ngure, the child of his love- Without it what availed those green pastures, those crystal streams P what were they but a desert waste without Grace P An old woman was taking care of the house, an ancient bel- dame, with one shoulder higher than the other. " I helped 'em to lay her out, poor dear!" she mumbled, when Richard questioned her about the young lady who had died suddenly m that house a Uttle more than a year ago. " Such a pretty creetur*, with lovely auburn hair down to her waist. I never see her alive, though I was here when the gentleman took the house." " You saw him, then ? " Richard cried eagerly. " I should think I did. I sor him arter she was dead. O, bo gashly pale — paler than the corpse a'most, and so orftil quiet. Ah, it was a queer set-out altogether ! When he took the house, it was for his young wife, he said ; when the ingqnigg come, it 164 Jb the Bitter End. was his sister. Whatever she was, lie was precious fond of hen I was in the house till a hour before they came, helping th« servants to finish the cleanin' and suchlike; and to see th» things as he'd sent in — flowers, and hothouse fruit, and partiala »f all sorts ; birds, and a pianer that was a perfeck pictur' only to look at. Yes, whoever she was, he was rare and fond of her." " May the memory of her cling to him to his dying day," muttered Rick Redmayne, " poison his life, and bUght him oa his deathbed ! " The crone was too deaf to hear this smothered imprecation. She went on mumbling about the " sweet young creetuv'." " What was the man hke ? " Mr. Redmayne asked her pre- 33ntly. "Mr. Walsh P" " Yes, Mr. Walsh." " Rather a handsome man. Tall and straight and dark — not BO jonng as she was by ten year or more, but a fine-lookia' man." " Do you know what became of him after the inquest f " " No more than the babe unborn. He paid a month's rent, packed up aU the silk dresses, and slippers, and suchlike, into a big portmenter, had it put on the top of a keb, and rode away with it. The kebman as took him would know where he went — none of us knowed." " And you don't know where the cabman came from, I sup- pose ? " " Lord, no, sir ; he was fetched promiscuous. ]Mr. Walsh paid for every think liberal ; paid the cook and 'ousemaid their month, and paid me ; paid tne undertaker — it were a very gen- teel funeral, mourning-coach and pair, and feathers on the 'earrfe ; paid everybody, and nobody ast hira no questions. But it was a (jueer set-out for all that ; and there must have been somc- thmk to make that pore young creetur' go oflF dead like that." " Something," muttered Richard ; " yes — only a broken heart. She discovered that she had trusted a villain, and the discovery killed her. The story's plain enough." This to himself rather than to the crone, whose dull ears did, however, distinguish those two words, " broken heart." " Broken 'art ? Yes, pore dear," she whined, " that's azackly jrhat the 'ousemaid says, while we was a-smoothing out her beautiful hair : ' There was somethink as he told her — a some- think as he said to her soon after she came in — as broke her pore 'art;' and that 'ousemaid spoke the Gospel truth. It might be a diseased 'art, there's no gainsaying tne doctor ; but it were a broken one into the bargain." Two hours later ou the same afternoon, when the winter day* A Cold and Loveless Union. 168 light was growing gray and thick, Eichard Eedma^e stood alone in Hetheridge churchyard: a very quiet resting-phic^ remote, although within fifteen miles oi London, the burial* ground belonging to a village that lay oflF the main road, away from the beaten tracks of mankind — an unambitious grave-yard, where there were no splendid monuments, only an air of supreme repose. ** There will be no stone to mark where she hes, I reckon," Mr. Kedmayne said to himself bitterly, as he walked slowly t« and fro among the humble head-stones. *' A man would hardly set up a memorial of his sin." He was mistaken. Not in a nameless grave did Grace Ked- mayne slumber. He came at last to a broad slab of polished gray granite, with an inscription in three short lines : GRACE. Wed November 11th, 186-, aged 19. £heu, eheu I Her epitaph could hardly have been briefer: and thus her atory closed — with a tombstone. " T wonder where he will be buried when his time comes ? " thought Eick Eedmayne ; " for, as there is a God above us, if ever we two meet face to face, I shall kill him 1 " And he meant it. CHAPTER XXI. A COLD AND LOVELESS DNlOJf. Mk. and Mrs. Harcross lived in an intensely new honse in an intensely new neighbourhood. There are people who have an instinctive love of ancient habitations, whose souls yearn for ivy-clad manor-houses and moated granges: who languish for the narrow windows and red-brick fronts of Queen Anne, and are thrilled with delight by the oriels and mulUons of EUzabeth ; people who would endure any inconvenience for the sake ot knowing that the curled darlings of the Restoration had held their orgies in the dining-room, or that fair dames in hoop and wimple had made their bower in the best bedroom ; people who would imile calmly while the water came through every ceiling, if the nouse was warranted to have been part of a favourite palace of Anna Boleyn's; and, dear, how many favourite abiding-placed Henry Vltl., Anna Boleyn, and Elizabeth seem to have had. •loattered over the face of the country 166 To tne Bitter End. Angnsta Vallory was not one of these enthusiasts of anti qnity. Her ideas, likings, and dislikings, were essentiallj modem. A house could not be too new for her. She Hked ta see the walls fresh from the trowel of the plasterer, to choose every yard of paper-hanging, to know that no inferior clay had ever been sheltered by the roof that was to cover her own supe- rior head. " I hardly like the idea of a house other people have lived in," olte said; "especially if there are cupboards; they generally loave an odour ! " So when, prior to their marriage, Hubert Walgrave suggested one of the pleasant streets between Grosvenor-square and Park- lane — Upper Brook-street, or Green-street, for example — Miaa Vallory shook her head peremptorily. " My dear Hubert, all those houses are as old as the hills," she exclaimed ; " there would bft beetles, and all kind of hor- rors." Mr. Walgrave ventured to hint that the class of people who lived in Upper Brook-street would hardly submit to beetles — in the drawing-rooms, or on the principal staircase, that is to say. '* Putting beetles out of the question, Hubert, I know for a certainty that there are people in Upper Brook -street who lei lodgings. It is quite impossible that you and I can live — what is that horrid expression ? cheek by jowl ? — cheek by jowl with a lodging-house. Now, in the new district on the Marquis of Westminster's estate " Mr. Walgrave made a wry face. " I abommate new houses," he said. "That is to say, you abominate cleanliness and convenience. You might just as reasonably say one thing as the other. Near Grosvenor-place we can get a house fit for people of some posi- tion ; a house in which I shall not be ashamed to receive my friends ; and, of course, we must have our evenings, Hubert." " Our evenings ! Of course, my dear Augusta ; I shall make a point of spending my evenings at home, if you wish it." " I don't mean that. I shall expect you to stay at home after dinner naturally, when we have no engagements ; but I mean an evening a week for reception." " O, a ' Tuesday,' or a ' Thursday,' " said Mr. Walgrave, with another wry face. " Do you think that kind of thing pays, Augusta P To be obliged to stop at home on one particulai evening, and have no end of candles burning, and to see a pack of people come straggling in, in an inane kind of way, with th» air of performing a social duty and not expecting to get any« thing to eat — do you really think it paysP Isn't it rather q treadmilUsh kind of entertainment P" **I don't know why my friends should only 'straggle' ie," A Cold and Loveless TTnion. 167 Miss Vallory said, with rather an offended air ; " 1 trust they xrould come willingly." " O, no donbt, as willingly as any one ever does come to that undecided sort of entertainment. Still, to my mind, it is always more or less treadmillish ; and then there is the wear and tear of brain you go through all the week in trying to secure something a little out of the common — some pianist who lets oflF loudei ti reworks than the ^^eneral run of pianists ; some literary swell who has just pubhshed a successful book ; or an astronomical Kwell who has discovered a new planet ; or a legal swell who i» leading counsel in the latest sensational trial ; or a crack phy- sician who has just got a baronetcy ; some one to stare at and whisper about. Seriously, Augusta, don't you think we niiafht get off with three or four dinner-parties and a ball in the course of the season ? " " I hardly know what you mean by ' getting off,' Hubert. I like to see my friends, and I hope they like to see me." Mr. Walgrave shrugged his shoulders, with that accustomed air of polite indifference with which he was wont to end any dispute with his betrothed. "My love, if you like to establish a hebdomadal treadmill in your drawing-room, I cannot possibly object," he said lightly. So the house in Mastodon-crescent was taken, on a seven years* lease; quite a small house for that region of mighty maBsions. There were only nine bedrooms on the four upper floors, three bath-rooms, and some little stunted passages, with narrow pinched grates squeezed into comers, which were par excellence dressing- rooms. On the ground-door there was the regulation dining- room, with a gloomy den behind, which was to be the library and Bulking-chamber of the master of the house. The first Hoor was absorbed by the drawing-rooms, which were as the Acropoli* square drawing-rooms, with a difference that was hardly per- ceptible to the indifferent eyes of Mr. Walgrave. There was the grand piano, the vast tract of velvet pile, dotted with serpentino- backed occasional chairs, dos-a-dos, vis-a-vis, coude-a-coude, and other species of the sofa tribe. There was an ottoman which was twin brother to the AcropoUs-square ottoman; there were stands for portfolios of engravings and photographs — the minds of Miss Vallory's friends requiring to be sustained by engravings and photographs, as their bodies by coffee or ices. Hubert Walgiave looked round the room with the merest casual glance when he came with his future wife to see what a fashionable upholsterer had done for the house which was to be his home during the next seven years. If it had been a question of lodging there a week, his gaze could have hardly been more listless. " Are you 3*<:isfied. Hubert P " Miss Vallory asked, ufter bht 168 To the Bitter End. had given her own opinion about the carpet, and condemned a chair or two. " My dear, I am snpremely satisfied if you are pleased. There is such a family likeness in drawinef-rooms, that one comes to lose a good deal of one's interest in them. At Sir Daniel Dundee's summer lodge at Richmond there is no drawing-room, only a vast library with a bay-window looking on to the Thames ; and if I were gratifying my own fancy in a house, I would have no drawing-room. I would give the largest room the house con- tained to my books : a room to read in, to think in, to live in ; and if it were my unlucky lot to have many visitors, I would receive them in a winter-garden." "I trust your fancy will be gratified in this house," said Augusta, " and I do wish you would not speak of it in that cold way, as if it belonged to some one else." " A London house has no individuaUty, at least not a modem London house. Let us make it what we may, we should find the same kind of thing next door. I daresay I might walk into any dining-room in this crescent, sit down, and make myself at home, and not discover my mistake till a strange footman came in with the coal-scuttle." They ascended to the second floor, and made a tour of the chief bedroom, Mrs. Harcross's dressing-room, Mrs. Harcross's boudoir, Mrs. Harcross's bath-room ; Mr. Harcross's dressing- and bath-room — both in one — was on the floor above, and approached by the servants' staircase, the principal 8taircas6 breaking short off" at the second floor. Happily, Mr. Walgrave Harcross was not a Sybarite, and made no objection to the secondary staircase. " I am sorry they were obliged to put you on the next story, Hubert," Augusta said apologetically; "but they could not contrive my rooms any other way. A boudoir is no use unless •t is next one's dressing-room. En revanche, I give you up the library altogether ; I even told them to arrange the ventilation for smoking." " That was very considerate. Yes ; I shall be glad of a den in which I can smoke my cigar. I shall import .'ome of my booka from the Temple immediately I take possessiou." They wandered in and out of the rooms. The boudoir waa the prettiest room in the house : aU dainty fluted chintz rose-budb, butterflies, liHes of the valley ; a mantelpiece of gailj-coloured majoUca, with timepiece and candelabra of the same bnght ware ; a cottage piano, low and luxurious arm-chairs on each side of the fireplace, lem-cases and aquariums in the windows ; tables and cabinets all bird's-eye maple, inlaid with various coloured woods. It was a cheerless rainy day, a day that made the brightest things look dull, and Mr. Walgrave grew straiitjely sUent while A Cold and Lovelesg Union. VS9 Lis betrothed lingered in this gaily famished chamber : it re- minded him just a httle of another room that had been gay with birds and flowers on a dark November day. His betrothed was too much absorbed iu the consideration of her rooms to perceive the sudden gloom upon his face. Miss Vallory was in excellent spirits ; the upholsterer had executed her orders admirably. She felt a pleasure in the expenditure of her own m*ney, a pride in this house of her own furnishing, which she had never felt in the splendours of Acropolis-square , aud she was really fond of the man she was going to marry ! really anxious that his position should be improved by these handsome surroundings, that her fortune should assist him in his professional career. That indilferentism of Mr. W'al grave's, which annoyed her somewhat at times, she took to be nothing more than manner, a merely conventional Ustlessness, of no mor« real significance than the fashion of his clothes, which he wore liecause other men wore them. Jt had never entered into her mind to doubt the reality of his aifection for her. What could any man desij-e more in a wife than she could give — beauty, education, accomplishments, and fortune ? Mr. Walgrave assumed the name of Harcross early in the summer, l>iit the marriage did not take place until term was over — a very brilliant marriage at a fashionable West-end church. Mr. and Mrs. Harcross went to the Highlands for their honey- moon, and contemplated the beauties of that illustrious land in a cool leisurely way that was peculiar to both of them. In No- vember tliey came back to town, and began housekeeping in Mastodon-crescent, Hubert Harcross falling into the routine of bis wife's existence with a sufficiently graceful submission. She did not demand quite so much of him as many women might have demanded in her position. She had made up her mind to be a woman of fiishion, now that she had slipped her mcMDnngs e.fl it were, and sailed out into the open sea. As Miss Vallory ehe had been only a rich solicitor's daughter, always fe.;tered more or less by the narrow views of her father. As Mrs. Har- cross, with a handsome fortune, and a husband on the high road to distinction, she felt her social position secure. The very best society, she told herself, would be open to her by and by, when her husband had made himself talked about. In the meanwhile she was content to be a person of importance iu a somewhat lower circle, and to wait the hour when the doors of that higher paradise should be opened to her. Thus the new hfe upon which Hubert Harcross entered was by no means a domestic hfe. It was rather a perpetual round oi petty forms and ceremonies, which were almost as irksome to him IS the routine of court life was to Madame de ^laintpnon, in tViose dreary years oi hei ijr^'deai. when she lani^uujhud, uick at hoarU 170 To the Bitter End. for one half-hour of freedom. Mrs. Harcross liked to live **« eociety," which meant that all the best years of her life should be devoted to visiting, and receiving visitors. Her circle was always widening. People perpetually wanted to know her, and her weekly evening afforded an open field for the growth of new ucquaintance. Hubert Harcross sickened of the simpering strange faces; the men who insisted in talking shop to him, and compli- menting him on his admirable lil of argument in this or that case; the amateur tenors and sopranos, who were always warbling by the grand piano; the last celebrity whom he wae expected to worship. Man of the world as he was, he had hig own notion of a home, which was something widely different — O, how widely ! — from this splendid house in Mastodon-crescent, where the only room in which he felt himself his own master wae that vault-hke chamber looking on to a stony yard, and a high wall that shut out the sunshine. He submitted, however; allowed his wife to give as many dinners as she pleased, content to add his modest list of guests to her longer roll ; went with her to as many parties as she pleased, sat out all the new plays produced at fashionable theatres, wasted an hour or two at the opera every subscription night, put in an appearance at private views at all the West-end picture galleries ; and when his pro- fessional engagements permitted, would even submit to be paraded amongst the azaleas or rhododendrons at South Ken- sington or the Botanical. He was not soiTy, however, when his work grew heavier, and forbade these concessions on his part, until little by little he con- trived to drop away in a great measure from his wife's amuse- ments, pleading the exip'encies of his profession. She would have liked much better to keep him by her side ; but since she was bent upon his becoming a great man, she was fain to endure the Voss of his society, and to go on her frivolous way, for the most part, without him, serene in the consciousness that she was the handsomest woman and the best-dressed woman in her circle ; ipending a thousand a year or so on her toilet and small personal requiTf^ments; and considering that she acquitted herself of all h';r duties to her God and her neighbour, when she put a sorereign fa the plate handed round after a charity sermon, or 8ubscrii)eJ five pounds to an orphanage or hospital. The life was a barren life. They had been married more than two years, and no child had been born to them, to sanctify their anion. No innocent baby face shone out star-like amidst the eommonplace splendours of their home. That mutual source of interest and pleasure, which might have drawn husband and wife nearer together, was wanting. With a strange inconsistency, Hubert Harcross, whose whole career had been based upon a purely selfish philosophy, took this childlossnesa to heart, lutterlj A Cold and Lovelest Vnton. 171 disappointed, and thought of himself as he might have been with little children in his home, purified and elevated by thai sacred trust. He would rouse himself from gloomy brooding over this sub- ject sometimes with a cynical laugU. " Why should I languish for a sonP" he would ask himself. "What have I to bequeath to him P a name without association but such cheap renown as I may win for it, the blood ot a selfish cpendthrift, and a past which is something worse than a blank. And when my children grew up, would not their clear eyes per- ceive what their mother may be too blind to discover, our cold and loveless union P Better as it is, perhaps ; better that I should go childless to the grave, than I should live to see my children blush for me." Mr. Harcross had in nowise overrated the value of his marriage with William Vallory's daughter and Stephen Har* cross's heiress. His professional status had been very much improved by the fact of his private fortune. Perhaps there ia no reputation in the world of more use to a man than a reputa- tion for plenty of money. Mrs. Harcross's carriage, Mrs. Harcross's opera-box, Mrs. Harcross's evening parties, nay, even the pines and peaches on Mrs. Harcross's dinner-table in early May, brought Hubert Harcross more briefs than he could count. His clerk had learnt to decline retainers under a certain sum, and on one occasion, Mr. Harcross being at the Ryde villa with his wife, refused a fee of a hundred guineas, with daily refresher of twenty-five, on the ground that the weather was too hot for law, a refusal which was worth a thousand to him in reputation. The man who knows how to give himself airs at the right moment, is a man who knows how to succeed. Thug did Hubert Harcross prosper in the first years of his married Jife, and his name became a marked name, and solicitors in their agony besought his aid as a sure defence, a very tower of strength against the adversary. He was not a noisy advocate, not a florid rhetorical speaker. He had a good voice, which ha rarely raised, a qu', for Death r 186 edncatlca a yea/ or bO a_;u, at a convent in Bruges; and siDca ihen she has been travelling with me. But I daresay she has a latent taste for dogs and monkeys." " I don't think she can help liking Pedro," Miss Davenant replied naively, with an affectionate glance towards the warmest comer of the Uttle drawing-room, where that luxurious animal, the Java monkey, was coiled up on a sheepskin rug. Sir Francis rode homeward by moonlight, very well pleased with the eccentricities of the Bungalow. " Sinclair was right," he said to himself. " The Colonel is a capital fellow. I wish his stories of the Punjab and the Penin- sula were a trifle shorter. But that's a detail. What a lovelv face it is I Georgie — Georgie — Georgie Davenant ! " The name repeated itself over and over again, in time with the tramp of hia horse's hoofs, Uke an old rhyme. CHAPTER XXIII. "for lifb, foe death." ^Iiss Clevedon drove over to the Bungalow on the following afternoon. She was one of those nice easy-tem jeered girls whu are always ready to cultivate any one their brothers may happen to admire ; not a girl to place stumbling-blocks across a brother's path to matrimony, from any selfish desire to preserve to herself the advantages of his bachelorhood. It was very nice to reign over such a mansion as Clevedon Hall ; but Sibyl had no ^nius for housekeeping, and she felt that as a country squire it was Francis's bounden duty to take unto himself a wife. At breakfast Francis was full of his dinner at the Bungalow : the fountain ; the cook looking out of the wiudow , aU the ins and outs, and ups and downs, of the house, improved by the Colonel's architectural fancies; the zoological collection; tlie old soldier himself, with his long stories and vehement epithetu ; and finally Miss Davenant. " Is she pretty ? " Sibyl asked CTirioui-ily. " I think her remarkably pretty. 1 don't know whether she has a classical profile, a Grecian nose coming straight down from her forehead, or anything of that kind ; in fact, I rather think her nose has a slight upward tendency ; or it may be the way ghe holds her head — as high as if she were a prmcess of the blood royal. In short, you see, Sibyl, I can't positively say whether she is regularly beautiful; but if you take into con- sideration her eyes — which are splendid — and her expression, and vivacity, and a kind of je ne sais quoi-iahness, you cannot tail to admit that she is a lovely girL" 1«» To the Hitter Eni. ** Good gracious, Francis, what a confased descriptioii : splendlil eyes, and a tomed-ap nose, and her head stuck up in a conceited vmyl" " No, Sibyl, I didn't say in a conceited way. She has no more conceit than patient Grizzle." "Bother patient Grizzle!" Miss Clevedon exclaimed con- temptuously : " I never had any patience with that ridiculous creature. Of course a man wrote the story — it was like him to do it, just to show what foolish sheep-like beings you would Ukc ns to be, — and it never was true. Does she dress well ? " "Patient Grizzle?" " No, sir. This paragon of yours, who isn't pretty, and yet is." " I reaUy can't venture to express my opinion on such an im« portant question as that. She had a white gown and a green umbrella, and looked nice." " A white gown and a green umbrella ! what an absurd young woman ! I don't wonder Mr. Wort turned up his nose at these Davenants." " Now, there's no use in trying to be disagreeable, Sibyl ; it isn't your metier. Miss Davenant Ib r charming girl, and I'm sure you'll like her as much as ** " A.8 much as what, sir ? " " As much as I do." " What, Francis, again ? " This " again " had relation to certain passages in Sir Francis'i past life. He had not reached his twenty-seventh year without falling in love a few times on the way ; he had, indeed, been in and out of love, as a rule, about onoo in a twelvemonth ; and his sister, in whom he had been wont to confide, had no profound faith in the constancy of his fancies. A man who has a fair estate, the world all before him, and no particular occupation, is apt to be rather hard hit by any pretty face that may nit across "I think you ought to plead like those grotto- boys who be- sieged our carriage in London the other day, Francis, ' It's only once a year.' Pray is Miss Davenant prettier than Euphrasia Lamont, the Spanish-looking beauty you fell in love with at the convent ? " « What 1 that little tawny dwarfish thing P " " O, Francis ! you raved about her." " Did I P She was well enough, I daresay, for a JittLf ojm»| out this girl is as tail as — as Helen of Troy." " How do you know that Helen was tall P ** "Tennyson says so — "* divinely tan. And mont divinely &ur.' -For Life, for Vfiafhr tW 0» Fm itire of it. Of course Helen was tall; you can't fancy Clvtemnestra a little woman ; they were sisters, you know." " 'SVhat a horri d family ! " '* Well, yes, they were rather a queer lot, answering to some of our Enghsh nobility — a taint in the blood, I suppose. I think I remember that little Lamont girl had fine eyes, but such A duodecimo-ish creature. Lady Clevedon must be tall." " Lady Clevedon ! Has it come to that ? " " It has come to nothing, except— another cup of tea, if you please. You are going to call upon Miss Davenant, and see the zoological collection this afternoon." " But oughtn't she to call upon me first P " " I don't know anything about the oughts of the cnne. But you are going this afternoon — I told her so." Miss Clevedon submitted with a pretty httle grimace, and drove oflPto the Bungalow directly after luncheon, enjoying not a httle the novel splendour of her barouche and two men-servants. The visit was altogether a success. Sibyl admired all the eccentricities of house and garden, and the two girls were de- lighted with each other, swearing an undying friendship on the spot, as it were. After this call the Colonel and his daughter rode over to the HaU one morning ; whereby Sir Francis had the opportunity of seeing Georgina Davenant in her habit, which became her above any other garment, and also of showing the old Louse and grounds to his new friends, the inventive Colonel suggesting an alteration in every room they entered. "Invention — construction, perhaps I should say, is my fort«, iir," he said. " If this house were mine, I'd make it the finest in England." " But it is 80 already, papa — one of the finest, I should think,' replied Georgie. " Undoubtedly, my dear; but its capabilities of improvement «re enormous. That oriel window over the hall-door, for instance. 'V'ery fine, no doubt; but why not have oriel windows along the whole range of your front, instead of these flat things P Then there's the groined roof in the dining-hall, sombre to the last degree ; cut away all that antiquated woodwork, and paint your ceiling blue, picked out with gold stars. Then you have those open colonnades yonder ; a mere waste of space ; fill them in with violet-coloured plate-glass, and make one a smoking-divan and the other a billiard-room. That's what I call bringing modem enlightenment to bear upon Elizabethan incapacity." " I think Iprefer EHzabethan shortcomings to Victorian im- provements, Cfolonel," Sir Francis observed, smiling. " I should tardly care to change the character of the place." " Prejudice, my good sir ; the EngUsh mind all oiver. Yom tmc-bom Englishman will go on enduring any amount of inooi>- 188 To tie Bitter End. venicnce rather than infrmge a set of arbitrary nilen ma^Je bj Boine dunderheaded architect. Character, indeed I Where's the character in my house P Tet I think you'll admit it's comfort- able." " I most freely admit that it is a delightful house," said Sir Francis, with a little stolen glance at Georgie. " Of course everybody admits that it's comfortable ; but yon should have heard the opposition I had to encounter from olficious asses who call themselves my friends while I was building. ' You mustn't have your kitchen in the middle of your house,* says one ; ' you'll smell your dinner ! ' * And I like to smell my dinner,' I told the blockhead ; ' 1 like to know what I'm going to have, and to prepare my mind for it.' ' You can't have one bedroom upon one level, and another bedroom upon another level,' remarked an officious idiot. ' Can't I P ' said I ; ' I'll show you whether I can or not. If I want my dining- room loftier than my drawing-room, it shall be loftier; and I'll have every one of my bedrooms upon different levels, to spite you.* ' Yon mustn't have one side of your house higher than another,' said that prince of fools, the builder's foreman ; ' for if you do, your chimneys will smoke.' ' Then my chimneys shall smoke,' said I; and they do — when the wind's in the west; but I've got a German stove or two to remedy that ; and I've had my own way." After this came many interchanges of civility between Cleve- don Hall and the Bungalow. )Sir Francis organised drives und excursions to various points of attraction m the picturesque fine, in which the Colonel and his daughter consented to join, with pleasant returns in the sunset to the Hall or the Bungalow for a half-past eight-o'clock dinner. The two girls, Sibyl and Georgie, were sworn friends; English country-house lite was new to Miss Clevedon, and Miss Davenant was able to advise and enHghten her upon many questions. She wanted to do some small amount of good among the poor round Clevedon ; and Georgie, who with her dogs was a familiar visitor in many humble households about the WeUs, and had a wonderful knack for getting on with poor people, volunteered to set her in tlie way of being useful. If Sibyl began by protesting against Francis's subjugation, she ended by almost worshipping the girl he admired. There was no such thing as opposition, therefore, to whet the keen edge of Sir Francis's passion. The course of this, his latest, love ran on velvet, and httle by little the fact came home to him that this last-born passion was something serious. He had been doubtful of himseli at first, remembering those former episodes in his Lite, and how he had more than once seemed to be very far gone. But no, this was the real tiling; he had admired a good many Mr Life, for Beafft. 189 pretty vromcn in hie time, but mind, heart, afld booI had never bct'u neld in bondage as they were now by Georgio Davenant. The bright frank face, with ite innocent young beauty, the proud generous nature which unconsciously revealed itself in trifles, what more need he desire in the woman who was to share and brighten his existence P He watched Sibyl and Georgia's grow- ing affection for each other with delight. His only sister was very dear to him, and it would have distressed him if his choice of a wife had brought about any lessening of the bond between them. It would have seemed a hard thing to him if he had brought a wife home to Clevedon Hall who would have made the place anything less than a home to his sister. He looked back upon those bygone flirtations as so manv glorious escapes. What if he had flung himself away matri- monially upon one of those fallen idofi, and come home tc Clevedon bound b^ the fetters of an injudicious marriage — come home to behold his " fate " in Georgie Davenant ? " She would have been fatal to me, let me meet her when I might," he said to himself. O, the anguish of meeting that radiant creature too late! For a man so completely his own master, the process of wooing is apt to go swiftly. There was no ground for hesitation or delay ; and before these two young peoi)le had known each other a fortnight, it might have been tolerably clear to the eye of a competent observer, that th« ailmiration was mutual. In tho5? confidential discourse, Sibyl now and then ventured on a leading question, and had contrived thu« to discover the state of her mend's affections. Georgie was not engaged, that she admitted without hesitation. " I am so glad, dear," cried SibyL " But why ? " Miss Davenant inquired, blushing a little. " O, I really can scarcely say why. But I am glad. An engaged girl is always so taken up with her lover, and never seems to think of anything except what she is going to do after she is married ; in short, an engaged girl is hardly any good for a friend. And I like you so much, darling, and want to have you all to myself." Miss Clevedon, whose conventual education and foreign life had given her few opportunities of learning the equestrian art, was glad to ride with Georgie Davenant, who was as peerless in the saddle as Di Vernon, and as good a whip as if she had been « member of the house of Nero. Under this gentle guidance, also, Sibyl learnt to drive a pair of rather spirited brown cobs, without feeling in mortal terror and blind uncertainty as to what the cobs might take it into their heads to do. They were very happy together, and the two bright girlish faces grew to be welcom» i*i> the pretty cottages round Clevedon, a i>a»^. jf Kent 190 To the Bitter End, in which the ruetio population is lodged with a certain Inxnry ol architecture, dainty gothio cottages, with a neat half-acre of garden and orchard, dotting the well-kept high-roads hent and there. So things went on their Bmooth course, as things do go now and then for the favoured ones of this world, until one bright October morning, towards the end of the month, when he had known her more than ten weeks — an age of hope and happiness — Sir Francis, beguiling his idle morning with a gallop in Felsted Wood, overtook Miss Davenant, who happened to have ridden that way for her daily airing, on her gray Arab SeUm, attended by the most discreet of grooms, a gray-moustached old lancer, whom the Colonel had taken from ms own regiment. The syce, as the Colonel insisted on caUing him, fell back out of earshot as Sir Francis accosted his young mistress, and the lovers rode on side by side, over the fallen fir-cones, through the spicy atmosphere, radiant with youth and hope, like Lancelot and Guinivere. It was the old, old story, told in the frankest, manliest words that ever came straight from the heart of a speaker. They rode out of the pine-wood plighted to each other, "for life, for death.** CHAPTER XXIV. georgie's settlement. The Colonel was delighted. Of course he had seen, from an early stage, which way matters were drifting; and he had Bufiered them to drift, without interference or hindrance from him, proving himself the very wisest of match-makers by that iudicious quiescence. He had lived his own life, consuming much ivatakia, or mild Turkish, in his atrium; conversing with his ,. cook; scheming various alterations and improvements in the \ Bungalow; educating Pedro, the monkey, in those polite arts which make a monkey a gentleman ; and otherwise enjoying himself ii. the serenest manner ; always ready to join the young P«»ple in aay excursion or party they might choose to plan, and boaming upon them with a countenance which was as the very spiritu^ Ught and sunshine of a jovial mind. When that solemn question came to be asked, which is som»- what awful for the briefless barrister or the fledgling curate, but easy enough for a man with a landed estate, and seven thousand per annum in shares, debentures, consols, Egyptian bonds, and en on. the Colonel behaved with an airy grace that was charminflr Otorgie's Settlemeni. 191 "My dear fellow, if I must part with my little girl— and I needn't say that it's a hard thiug for a man in my position to do it — my only tie to life, sir, except the mungoose; if I must part with Georgie, I'd rather it should be to you than to any one else. First and foremost, you're a good fellow, and I've a ■ respect for you. Secondly, my little girl wiU be near me. You're not like those fellows in the service, who have come pro- posing for her, coolly informing me that as there was every prospect of their regiment being ordered off to Japan, or Cochin- China, or Timbuctoo, as the case might be, earl^ in the spring, they would like the wedding to come off soon, if I pleased. I did not please, and, luckily for me, Georgie didn't please either ; for a tear or two from her would have knocked me over at once." Thus, and in many more words, with the mungoose prome- nading about his capacious chest and shoulders the whUe- did the Colonel give his consent. Then came a little talk dbout settlements ; Francis eager to lavish the chief part of hif vealth on his betrothed, the Colonel protesting against that quixotic generosity. " We will do what is right, sir, and no more. I'm not a man of business myself; but we'll put oui'selves in the hands of some conscientious fellow who is a man of business, and he shall decide what is fair and equitable in the case. Rolling-stone as I have been, I have not gone through life without gathering some small amount of moss. I can give my girl a few thousands, and at my death she will inherit — " the Colonel paused, and seemed to sweU with importance at this point — " the Bungalow ! I think, although it may not suit her convenience to occupy it, my child will value the work of her old father's hands when ha is under the turf. She will take care that the roof is kept in repair, and that the fountain works daily." The marriage was not to take place until early in the following spring. Francis would fain have had it sooner ; but the Colonel and Georgie both declared that even this interval would make a very brief engagement. " You can know so little of me," she said to her lover. " How a^jx I feel sure that I am really the sort of person you think me P Suppose, when we are married, you should find that you liave made quite a mistake after aU. Wouldn't that be dreadful ! Sibyl teUs me you were in love ever so many times abroad, and that you always ended by finding out that the young lady didn't suit you in the least. How can I tell that you may not find out the same thing about me P " " My darUng, I nave known and loved you from the first tfiao I saw yon, and I never loved jmy one before in my Ufe." " 0, Frank ! after aU Sibyl has told me " " Sibyl's statements are true and false, dear. I have had C 192 To the Bitter JBnJ. sort of a — kind of a — predilection for two or three young wome« in the course of my life ; have, perhaps, flirted — I suppose you would call it, and have even gone so far as to fancy myself iu love ; but from the moment I loved you I knew that those othe» affairs were the merest fancies. In short, I have had a series of escapes, Georgie, and my fate has always been waiting for me here and if it comes to any examination of antecedents, Miss Daveuant, I shall be glad to receive some information about that Captain Bangle, who wanted you to accompany him to Tim- buctoo, and Major Hawkins, who was anxious to export you to Japan." *' 0, Frank ! I never gave either of them the faintest en- couragement. They were friends of papa's, and used to dina with us very often, and were always extremely polite, asking m« to sing and play, and pretending to be interested in Pedro and Tufto, and even to admire the mungoose; and then all at once they broke out in a desperate way, asking me to marry them. But indeed, Frank, it wasn't my fault." " And it isn't my fault that I love you to distraction, darling." That was a happy Christmas at Clevedon Hall — an innocent Arcadian Christmas ; very different from the gourmandism and curaQoa-bibbing, and whist and ecarte playing, which had ob- tained there when Sir Lucas was in his prime; a Christian festival, with much pampering and petting of the humble tenants, and pleasant party-giving in the servants' hall. Sir Francis began like a prince who meant to be popular. They had plenty of friends already in the neighbourhood ; everybody had been eager to know them ; ancient squires, who remembered Sir Lucas iu his best days, stretched out the hand of friendship to his son ; matrons and daughters vied with one another in civilities to Sibyl. There was a shade of disappointment when, about November, it began to be patent to the world within a twenty-mile radius of Clevedon that Sir Francis and Miss Davenant were engaged to be married. " Not one of the county families, you know, pt- dear, and altogether a poor match for him," the Kentish damsel > told one another. It did seem rather a hard thing that the baronet had been so prompt in his wooing, that there should have been no clear course open to those fair young thoroughbreds, «vrho would fain have entered themselves for the Clevedon Stakes. Happy days and nights, thrice happy youth ! Christmas and the New Year fled like a dream — skating on the great pond ia the Chase, sleighing on the snow-bound roads; dinners, and carpet-dances, and acted charades. Sir Francis spent his money ■*>yally, but in >«v»>i)le pleasures, in which seven tnon^sand ? yea? Oeorgie's Settlement. 193 would go a long way. He had no idea of following in the Sootsteps of his father. Spring came ; a warm spring, with sloudless blue skies. Sir Francis and Miss Davenant were to be married when the haw- thorn was in flower. The Colonel was to take his daughter to London in April to complete her trousseau, and pay duty visits to numerous relations, who had a right to her confidence on such an occasion. Sir Francis could hardly be expected to exist in Kent while Georgie was staying at Westboume-terrace ; so he went up to town with the Colonel and his daughter, and estal hshed himself at a West-end hotel, within a ten minutes' cab drive of his betrothed. There were the settlements to be arranged; and the question of trustees, being propounded to the Colonel, sorely puzzled that gallant officer. " I'm an old man myself," he said, " and never was a man of business, so I'm no good. I know plenty of men — men whom I could trust — but the misfortune is, they're most of them about my own age, so they're no good. A trustee to a marriage settle- ment ought to be younger than the husband and wile, by rights. I'll talk it over with old Vallory." To talk things over with old Vallory — the great William Vallory, of the firm of Harcross, Vallory, and Vallory — was one of the Colonel's reasons for being in London. His wife had been a Miss Harcross, niece of that very Stephen Harcross who left all his money to Augusta Vallory, much to the indignation of his relatives. His brother, George Harcross, married the girl whom he, Stephen, had desired to marry ; whereby the lawyer bad abjured all kindred with his rival, and refused to sea Georgina, his niece, the sole offspring of this marriage, until some time after her father's death, when he relented so far as to show some small kindnesses to her widowed mother. He was tolerably civil to that dashing young Lancer, Captain Davenant, who fell in love with Georgina Harcross and married her within the space of three months. The marriage settlement — a very ■mall mat ter, the late George Harcross having failed ignomini- ously in the silk trade, and the Captain having little more than bis sword to bestow on his wife — had been drawn up by Harcross and Vallory, and from that time forward Harcross and Valloi-y had been Thomas Davenant's solicitors. He had an unbounded confidence in their learning and sagacity, and it was to them htJ oame naturally for counsel in his present difficulty. He was admitted to a conference in that sacred chambet wherein William Vallory, in his own person, communicated the words of wisdom to his most distinguished — or most profitable — ch'-'tita, a chamber almost as unapproachable as that inmost temple wliere the MikaJo of Japan shrouds his glory from Uie vulgar eye. Here he found the chief of the hrm trimminK hi£ 19i To the Bitter JLntf. nails meditativelj before a table covered with papers, and with three clerks in attendance, who vanished quietly on the eutranca of the client. " Come and dine with me this evening," said the Bolicitor, in his most cordial tone ; " come to Acropolis-square, and we can talk the business over after dinner. Delighted to hear your daughter is going to make such a good match. I know some- thing of the Clevedon estate ; we had Sir Lucas in our hands, in point of fact, when he was a young man, and a deuced slippery customer he was. The property is clear, I hope, by this time?" " The <»Rtate is as clear — as clear as — as the Bungalow," ex- claimed the Colonel, triumphantly. " I beg your pardon " "The Bungalow — my little place at Tunbridge Wells. En- larged and improved it with my own hands, sir; can lay a hundred of stocks or plaster a wall with any bricklayer in England. You ought to come down and see me, VaUory ; I can give you a good bed, a good dinner, and a good bottle of wine." " You are excessively kind — I should be most happy ; but I have really so little time for relaxation, and when I can get a week or so, I run down to Eyde. Is Sir Francis in town ? " " Sir Francis is at the Leviathan." "Then ask him to come with you, and your daughter too. My daughter and her husband are coming to me to-night — Mr. and Mrs. Haroross — he took the name of Harcross when he married, you know ; it was one of the conditions of the will." The Colonel did know, or had at any rate been informed of the fact at the time. A man who cared much for money might have scarcely rehshed the idea of meeting a lady in the posses- sion of wealth which should by rights have come his way ; bat Thomas Davenant was not a lover of money, and was quite ready to clasp the hand of amity with Mrs. Harcross. " Your son-in-law is beginning to make rather a figure in the world, isn't he ? " said the Colonel, who was an assiduous student of the daily papers. " My son-in-law is one of the best parliamentary barristers we have," replied Mr. Valloiy, with a satisfied air. The marriage hud turned out so much better than he had expected. Hubt-rt Harcross was making between two and three thousand a year, And Mrs. Harcross's visiting-book was becoming almost i\u aristocratic as the Almanack de Gotha. " If you've a lot of people with you this evening, we shan't hare much chance of talking over this settlement business," said the Colonel. " Well, perhaps not an opportunity for any long talk; but 3 can think the matter over in the meantime, and give you mj Qeorgie'9 SeltUment. 195 «pinion in three words. All you want is a ^ood trustee ; the •ottlement itself I can arrange with Sir Francia Clevedon's soli ?itor in an hour. You want a good man of business as trustee, and I have a man in my eye who'U suit you, if he will undertake the responsibility." "Who is he P^' "Never mind that; Td better sound him upon the subject before I mention his name. Half-past seven this evening in AcropoHs- square, No. 10." CoIoneUDavenant and his daughter were staying with a mar- ried sister of the Coloners in Westboume-terrace — a lady who had made a very good match in India under the Colonel's guar- dianship; and who, being childless herself, took an amazing delight in all the details of Georgie's courtship, and the preparation of the trousseau. At half-past seven o'clock that evening the Acropolis-square drawing-rooms opened their lofty doors to admit Colonel and Miis Davenant, and Sir Francis Clevedon, announced by a gran- diose air by Mr. Vallory's butler. T^'ere was a subdued murmur of conversation in the room as th«y entered. The Harcrosses had arrived, and the inevitable Weston Vallory was airing himself before the fireplace. Mrs. Harcross advanced wiih her father to receive Miss Davenant, and almost crushed poor Georgie with the splendour of her presence 1v& sparkling coquettish little face seemed well-nigh extinguisaed by Augusta's regular beauty, expansive figure, and gorgeous attire. She was as cordial to Miss Davenant as she could be to any '^ne. " I really feel as if we were a sort of cousins," she said, alter the first greeting ; " I hope we shall see each other very often while you are in town " " Sir Francis Clevedon, my daughter, Mrs. Harcross," said Mr. Vallory; and Augusta made the baronet a gracious curtsey, which she had learnt from a French dancing-master ; such a curt* sey as Marie Antoinette might have made to a courtier in those days when she appeared above the horizon, " glittering like tlie morning star, full of life and splendour and joy." But in the very act of acknowledging her father's introduction Mrs. Harcross gave a little cry of surprise. " What's the matter, my dear P" inquired her father, surprised ftt this outrage of the proprieties. *• How strange that you never told me, papa i" " Never told you what, my love P" " Of the likeness between Sir Francis Clevedon and Hubert." Mr. Vailorr looked at his son-in-law, who was standing on the hearth-rug, hstening, with no great appearance of interest, to some remark of Weston's — a taU commanding figtire, a dark \ma which was distingxiished-Iooking rather than tiandsome. 196 To the Bitter End. " A likeness between Sir Francis and Harcross," said tbe soli- eitor, looking from his son-in-law to the baronet. " Well, yes. there maybe something of the kind ; but, upon my word, I never remarked it until this moment, and I hardly think that Sir Francis will be flattered by the comparison. Harcross looks ten years older than he does " " But the likeness is something wonderful, papa T beg your pardon, Sir Francis, for tal*^g about it, but 1 wi>j really taken by suq)rise ; papa ought to have told me " " But, my dear, I didn't see the likeness." " Then, papa, you can have no eyes." "I really feel honoured by being supposed to reaemble any one so distinguished as Mr. Harcross," said Sir Francis good naturedly. " Will you introduce me to him, Vallory P " Mr. VaUory called his son-in-law, and Hubert Harcross came forward in his most leisurely manner, with that air of deliberation and absent-mindedness which was apt to be so aggravating to the other side in his parliamentary business; his opponents know- ing fully well that, after opening a case as if he had forgotten what his brief was about, he would show himself presently a most consummate master of every detail and ramification of the affair m hand. He saluted the baronet with an almost insolent cool- ness, and went back to the hearth-rug as soon as the introduction was over, leaving his wife and her father and the Davenant party stranded by the ottoman, as on a green satin island in a Pacific Ocean of velvet pile. Miss Davenant went down to dinner with Mr . Vallory ; the baronet had the honour of escorting Mrs. Harcross ; the Colonel »ave his arm to a washed-out young lady in ringlets, who> had been allowed to fill a corner of the table by reason of a fine con- tralto voice, which was useful as a second to Mrs. Harcross ; and Hubert and Weston straggled in the rear. In so small a party, the conversation to be pleasant should be general ; and happily where Colonel Davenant was there was no lack of talk. He plunged into his father the general's Peninsular experiences before the soup was done with ; retreated gloriously from Cor- runna with the salmon ; took Badajoz while the whitebait was going round ; and had followed Wellington to his tent at Water- loo by the tune the last of the entries had made its solemn cir- cuit, where be kept that g^eat captain wrapped in a profound slumber on the morning of the decisive battle, while he supplitsd himself with currant jelly for his final shce of mutton. Sir Francis and A ugusta Harcross talked to each other a Uttle dniing this campaign. She expressed herself interested in Georgie. "Such a sweet tace," and so <5n — quite the usual style of thing - rt condescension which delighted tne lover. "I'm so glad yi.n like tiff: bat everybody doesi she finds friends wherever she go^n," L4 Otorgie's Settlement. 197 (Mtd. "Ton must oome down to Clovedou and bee ns by tmd bj. We mean to be quite settled by the autumn ; we shan't take a long honeymoon; in point of fact, all our life is to be honeymoon , but we shan't stay away very long, making believe to seclude ourselves from our fellow-men. We want to begin life at home as we mean to go on, a country snuire and his wife — no pretence U fashion — easy-going comtortable people, with our friends around as. "You will go into Parliament, I suppose ?" "Must I, do you think? Upon my word, I'd rather not; I don't fancy I've any of the necessary qualities for statecraft, and I want to be so much with Georgie. That sort of thing would keep nie away from home, you know; for if one goes in tor a thing at all, one ought to do it thoroughly," "You'll have a house in town, of course P" "No. When we want to come to Loudon, we can take a fur- nished house. But we mean to live the best part of the year at Clevedon," "Do you think Miss Davenant would like that?" "I don't think she would like anything else. She has been brought up in the country." ]\h-8. Harcross shuddered. What strange Arcadian notions this young man had ! She wondered idly what her own life would be Like, if she and Hubei-t were compelled to live in the country. WTiat would they do with themselves ? Would the isolation bring them any nearer together P She could fancy her husband yawning over his newspaper, as ho yawned sometimes even now in Mastodon- crescent, with {ill the pomps and vanities of London at his elbow. "Young people who are going to be married have such roman- tic notions, ' she said ; " I daresay a year hence we shall hear of your furnishing a house in Mayfsir." The Colonel had done with Waterloo with the advent of the ice- pudding, from which culminating victory he harked back to Sir Arthur Wellesley and his brother the Marquis in India, and so brought himsdf to the later period of his personal experiences, into which he v* armed with the dessert " What a nice person the Colonel must be to live with if he always talks in this style ! " Weston reniarked aside to Mr. Har- cross, when the ladies had retired. Gleorgie grew quite confidential with Mrs. Harcross in the back drawing-room, while the contralto lady yawned over a volume of Egyptian photographs, and wondered if the banquets of Thebes were as dull as the dinners of Acropolis- square. Encouraged by Augusta's air of interest. Miss Davenant told her a great deal fiU^nt "Frank's" transcendent merits, and about the things they mt-a:;'^ to do wjien they were married. Then there came rmisio; Ms». Harcross and Miss Parker thecoutralto sang "Deh Contti;" 198 To the Bitter End. (Jeorgie consented ehy^ to warble one of lier lover's favourito ballads, an old eon^ of Haynes Bayley's, set to Sir Henr_^ Bishop'c music ; and this, with a little desultory straggling taJk in coupleo and trios, ended the evening's entertainment. Just at the last, Mr, Vallory took the Colonel into a quiet comer of the back drawing-room for a few confidential words. "I have found you a trustee," he said. " My son-in-law, Har- cross, has no objection to assume that responsibility, if you and Sir Francis would like him. He's a first-rate man of business, and a highly conscientious feUow." " Nothing could be better," replied the Colonel carelessly, " if he'll take the trouble." " Well, you know, I consider it a duty ; Augusta's obligations to my friend, Stephen Harcross, seem to constitute a kind of connection between her and your daughter, and anything she or her husband can do to be useful, you know " " So be it," said the ColoneL " Of course I don't pretend to deny that I should have been uncommonly glad if old Harcross had taken it into his head to leave his money to my daughter instead of yours ; but he didn't, and I bear no malice, and I'm pleased <>> see Mrs. Harcross take so kindly to Georgie." Mrs. rlarcross invited the Colonel and his daughter to dinner; sne coci-i give them the choice of two days — Tuesday and Than* day in -he ensuing week. " I H^iould like you to come to me on my own day, Thursday if potiiuble, for I shall have some nice people in the evening, said Augusta; so the engagement was made for Thursday, Sir Francis being of course included in the invitation. The business of the settlements would be arranged in the Old Jewry in the meantime. " He is like you, Frank — that Mr. Harcross, I mean," Georgie said to her lover, as they drove home, " but not nearly so good- looking : I don't quite hke his expression, he has such satirical eyebrows." " Rather an off-handed beggar, certainly," replied Frank, ''but he really has the Clevedon face, and reminds me of some of the old pictures at home. You see Nature can't afford au original pattern for all her children, she must faU into replicaa now and then ; Mr. Harcross is a decided infringement of tho Clevedon copyright." CHAPTEB XXV. KBS. HABCBOSS AT HOHB. Six o'clock on a brilliant June afternoon, and Mrs. Harcross ul home. The great drawing-rooms in Mastodon-crescent are filled Mrtt. SarcroM at Ilome. IW to the brim and mnnine over with fluttering creatures in airy raiment : the rainbow sheen of silk and satin— the latest devices in Parisian millinery — transform the gorgeous rooms into a kind of human flower-garden ; in contrast with these brilliant speci- mens of the human species, the very exotics in the conservatory tpening out of the inner drawing-room pale their splendour. How poor and dingy a being then does the lord of creation appear, in his invisible-blue morning coat and quaker-hke drab trousers, as he is hustled hither and thither amidst this many- coloured crowd ! For the last two hours Mrs. Harcross's dearest friends have been fluttering in and out, so enthusiastic in their expressions of rapture on seeing her, that a bystander might fairly conclude that they had suffered an enforced severance of years. There are a few notabilities sprinkled about the rooms, people whom other people struggle to see, although inspection generally results in disappointment. Mrs. Harcross never per- mits herself to be at home without this sprinkling of notabili- ties. They have their function, Uke the satelUtes of distinguished planets, and she would feel herself small and mean without them. There has been some music, chiefly of the classical order ; and in an ofi" room downstairs there is a perennial supply of ices, and tea and coffee, which knights-errant, in very short coats and with flowers in their button-holes, carry upstairs with a perse- verance that might almost prepare them for a course of treadmill. What with the classical music, the buzz of many tongues, some- times in a polyglot jargon — for at least a third of Mrs. Harcross'a visitors are foreigners — the heat, and the perfume of stephanotis from the conservatory, there have been a few stifled yawns, but, guilty as the delinquents feel, no one has seen them ; and as the crowd begins to tnin a little, the airy toilets melting away silently, like the sea foam receding from the shore, Mrs. Harcross feels that this particular Wednesday afternoon has been a suc- cess. Herr Thumpanthunter has been grander than usual in his exposition of Sebastian Bach ; Mr. Rorhedd, the great naturalist, has given one of his liveliest descriptions of an interesting dis- covery of extinct mammalia on the coast of Peru ; Lord Shawm, the evangelical lay-preacher, has held his own particular circle rapt and breathless in a comer of the back drawing-room, while he urged them to have their lamps ready. At a quarter-past six the two large drawing-rooms are empty, and Mrs. Harcross has flung herself wearily into a low arm-chair by one of the open windows. The wide stucco balcony is feill of flowers, and slim iron pilasters, with Australian clematis and passion-flowers climbmg up them, break the view of the tall straight line of houses over the '.vay. One of her guests stiU lingered, the indefatigable Weston. He was gtandirif by the low mantelpiece, glancing over kiia fiOO To tie Tiiffer Fnd, shoulder at the reflection of his faultless morning coat — the very smallest thing in coats — a mere segment of a coat, as it were. " Trying, isn't it, this kind of afternoon P " he remarked at last by way of commentary upon a profound sigh from Augusta. " I don't know that I ever felt so completely worn out," replied the lady, " There were so many second-rate people, such bustle and clatter — second-rate people are always noisy." " Do you think so ?" demanded Weston with his languid air — the stereotyped languor, and quite different from Mr. Harcross's languor, whicE had at least the merit of originality — " do you think so? I thought your heavy swells were noisiest — royal dukes, and that kind of thing. I fancied the afternoon was a great success. Lord Shawm was in very good form : how the girls thronged round him in his comer ! It was quite a blockade of the back drawing-room door. And Rorhedd was uncommonly liveljr. Did you see him flirting with that girl in pink, the prettiest girl in the room ? I've observed that your elderly scien- tific party has always a correct eye for that kind of thing." " I didn't see anybody," Augusta replied, rather peevishly ; " I was tired when the thing began : and 1 have no one to help me. I believe Hubert makes a point of being away." " He had a parliamentary case on at three, hadn't he P" in- quired Weston, sticking his glass in his eye, and taking another backward glance at the reflection of his coat. He began to think there really was a wrinkle at the back of the left armhole. " I am sure I don't know ; of course there's nothing easier than to say he has a parliamentary case, when I want him to be at home." " Come, come, Augusta," said Weston, in a soothing tone, " I'm sure Harcross is quite a model husband, — in his own fashion." Mrs. Harcross turned on him more angrily than he ever re= membered her to have done in all their iutcrcourae. "In his own fashion!" she exclaimed; " what do you mean by that ? Have jou ever heard me complain of him P " " I really imagmed you were complaining of him just now." " Not at alL If I complained of anything, it was of that herd of people. I think I never had so many that I don't care a straw about knowing." " Ah, my dear, if we could go through lift with only the peo- ple we do care about knowing, how very small a world we mipht uve in ! But I fancy I have an expansive soul : I really like everybody." They lapsed into silence. " A screw loose somewhere about our friend Harcross." mused Weston Vallory, " but it seems rather too soon for me to put my oar in." "Mrt. TTarcroM at HomB. 201 He watched his cousin as she lay back iu her chair, pazing a>)Sf-iitly at the flowers in the balcony. An occasional brougham r'.;ied ewil'tly by, and now and then there came the slow tramp of a foot passenger. The dinner-party traffic had not yet begun, and at this time of a summer evening Mastodon-crescent was ai quitf; as the grave. " 0, by the wajr," said Weston, after a long pause, "Ibirsnght you something tins afternoon." "Did you?" Mrs. Harcross inquired, without turning her head; " new music, I suppose ." " " No, a print for your porttblio; rather a rare one, I believe. A proof- engraving of a picture by Sir Thomas Lawrence; one of nis latest." " You're very good," Mrs. Harcross said, with a slight yawn : " I don't pretend to care much for that kind of engraving. 1 like the German school so much better. But your present sha'i have a place in my portfolio. Where is it ? " " I left it in the refreshment- room ; I'll send for it, if you'll allow me." He fang, and dispatched a servant in quest of a roll of paper, left somewhere in the cloak-room. Mrs. Harcross had not ceased irom her contemplation of the ferns and geraniums iu the balcony when the parcel was brought. Weston unrolled it carefully, and came to the window with it. "Kather a good face, isn't it?" he asked standing at hia cousin's side, holding the engraving up to the light. " A great deal of character about it." Augusta looked up with the air of bein§[ supremely bored by the whole business, but at sight of the picture BtarteJ to her feet with a cry of surprise. " Weston !" she exclaimed, " don't you know what it is ?" " A veiT charming portrait of a very charming woman, I've no doubt, he answered carelessly, without taking any notice of his cousin's astonishment. " You've been in Hubert's chambers, haven't you P" she asked wharply. " Yes, three or four times. Mr. Harcross has not shown so warm an appreciation of my visits as to induce me to go there oftener." " But you have been there, and you must know that picture!" " Upon my honour, I cannot perceive the faintest connection between the two ideas." '•Nonsense, Weston; there is only one picture in Hubert'g room, the portrait over the chimneypiece, and that print is a copy of it." " Really, now ! " said Weston, with a most natural air of Burprise. "Yes, I do remember rather a striking picture in Harcross's room. I concluded it was something he picked uji 202 To the Bitter JEni. in WardoTur Street, or at Christie's, perhaps; b'kely to catch • man's eye as rather a nice bit of colour. But I had quite for- gotten it. Yet I had a notion, when I found this thing in a portfolio of old-fa&hioned engravings at Tombs'e, that I had seen the face somewhere before. This is a portrait of Mrs. Mostyn, the actress, renowned in comedy before the days of Mrs. Nesbit You are too young even to have heard of her." " An actress ! " exciaimed Augusta, very pale. " Yes, here's her name at the back, written in pencil : ' Portrait of Mrs. Mostyn, as Viola in Twelfth Night, painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence.' Why, my dear Augusta, how pale and scared you look ! One would think you had made a most appal- ling discovery. Mrs. Mostyn has been dead thirty years ; Tombs told me all about her; you can't possibly be jealous of her! " " Jealous ! " cried Augusta, with a look that ought to have annihilated him. " What a fool you are, Weston ! " and then in quite a different tone, and to herself rather than to him, she vepeated, " An actress ! " She was silent for some moments after this, and then turned to her cousin suddenly, and said, — " You heard all about this Mrs. Mostyn, you say. Was she a good woman ? " " Good is such a very wide word, Augusta. She was very charming, Tombs tells me, and extremely good-natured." " You know what I mean, Weston," Mrs. Harcross exclaimed impatiently. " Was she a respectable woman ? " Weston shrugged his shoulders. " I hardly think the dramatic profession went in for respect- aljility very seriously thirty years ago," he said. " The women were nandsomer than any we have now, but I believe their repu- tations leaned rather the other way. Of course there were a few brilhant exceptions. As for this Mrs. Mostyn, Tombs's account was r:ther vague. She was not very long before the public, but dunng her brief car^^er was the rage. She was a married woman, I suppose, or else why the ' Mrs.' ? but Mr. Mostyn appears to have been a somewhat mythical character. She had numerous admirers among the men about town of that day — men who wore straps to their pantaloons, and incredible hats, you know, Augusta, and sometimes even turned back their wristbands — and is reputed to have finished her career by running away with one of them." " Indeed I *' "Yes, and one of the worst among them, but Tombs had forgotten the man's name. He was quite clear about the main facts, however. The lady was spirited away one fine morning, during the run of a new comedy at the Coliseum Theatre, to the constomation of the manager, and was oeen no mor^v She h Mrs. Harcrosu at Home. 208 supposed to have died abroad a tew years later. I aakdd whs \ became of Mostyn, or what Mostyn said to the elopement; but he appears not to have expressed any opinion ; in point of fact, no one seems to have known Mostyn. Curious, isn't it ? IIow- river, the lady may have been a widow when she made her debut." Augusta had taken the engraving from her cousin's hands, and sat looking at it in silence for some time after he had told her all he could tell about the subject of the picture. Weston strolled out upon the balcony, amused himseH" by some small horticultural experiments, plucking off a faded leaf or two, and coaxiijg the tendrils of the clematis into a more graceful twist, but he kept his eye upon his cousin nevertheless. 8he seemed to emerge from a profound reverie by and by, rose fiom her low chair, and threw the picture on to a side-table with her most indifferent manner, and then jomed Weston on the balcony. " Thanks for the engraving," she said ; " I have no doubt it is a very good one; I daresay Hubert picked up tlie original portrait very much in the manner you suggest, at a time when ne was not rich enough to invest largely in pictures. Hark ! isn't that his step in the Crescent ? " Weston peered over a stucco vase fiUed with scarlet geranium. " Yes, I perceive Mr. Harcross half-a-dozen doors off. What a correct ear you have, and how I envy Harcross the faculty of inspiring such solicitude ! " " Do you P " Augusta demanded coolly. " I suppose, when you marry, your wjJe will know your step, unless shu has the misfortune to be deaf." " An alliance with deafness is a calamity I am very sure to escape," repUed Mr. Vallory sententiously. " Indeed ! " " Because I mean never to marry at all." " 0, I daresay you'll change your mind on that point when you meet the right person." ^ " My dear Augusta, it is my unhappiness to have met the right person ! " The look, the tone, were unmistakable; nor was Mrs. Har- cross the kind of woman to affect unconsciousness. " If jrou are going to take that sort of tone, Weston," she nud, with a freezing look, " I shall be under the unpleasant necessity of shutting my doors upon my first cousin." " 0, 1 see. A tame cat must never show temper; his ex- istence must be one continuous purr. Forgive me, Augusta; I promise not to offend again ; but you must nover talk of my wife in the potential mood. There can be no such person. I am R confirmed bachelor, and have no higher vocation, nor aspire to rnything higher, than to be your slave." Tliit was a kind of homage to which Mrs> Hircropf had no 204 To the Bitter End. objection. She gave Weston her tand— a very cold hand on tla* Bultry stunmer afternoon — and gave him a Bmile that was almost as cold. "You have always been very good," she said; "I should be extremely sorry if anything were to interrupt our friendship." She was quite sincere in this. Weston was really useful to her; fetched and carried; hunted lions for her; kept her posted up in that superficial knowledge of passing events without which conversation is impossible ; supplemented her own read- ing, for which the claims of society scarcely left her one clear hour a day, by his much wider reading ; did a hundred Bmall things for her, in fact, which she sometimes felt ought to have been done by her husband. But Weston Vallory always seemed to have so much more leisure than Mr. Walgrave Harcross. Walgrave Harcross came in almost immediately upon the reconciliation of the cousins, and flung himself into a chair with a suppressed yawn. " Not begun to dress, Augusta P " he said, in a surprised tone ; •' Weston must have been uncommonly interesting. Are you aware it's seven o'clock ? I never yet knew you to dress under an hour ; and in all my calculations I generally allow you some- thing more like two." •• I'll say good-bye," said Weston; "I don't think I've been an obstacle to the toilet, have I, Augusta P You rarely stand oo ceremony with me." " Not at all. I don't think I shall go out to-night." " Not to ' dear Lady Basingstoke's,' Augusta? I thought yo« •nd she adored each other." " I would rather disappoint any one than JuUa Basingstoke," replied Mrs. Harcross; "but I have an intolerable headache. Don't stand staring at me in that pitying way, Weston. I onlj want a little rest. You can go to the dinner without me, Hubert- I know Juha is very anxious to have you there." Weston shook hands and departed, curious and thoughtful. " There's something queer about that picture," he said to him- self, as he walked Charing-crosswards ; " and I wouldn't give very much for Mr. Harcross's domestic felicity this evening. Yet it can hardly be jealousy — of a woman who died thirty years dgo — unless that portrait in his chambers is an accidental like- ness of some one he has cared about. Perhaps that is Augusta's Kuspicion. Yet, if that were the notion, why should she be »j strangely aflFected at finding out the history of the picture P It's a queer business, altogether ; but I'm very glad I came across that engraving at Tombs'a, it may serve me as a fulcrum ! " " I'm sorry you can't go to the dinner," said Mr. Harcross, with his eyes half closed. He would sleep for ten minutes or so At will, and r'^m from pm/^ brr ^f slumber like &n intellectual Mr». Sarcrott at Kom«. 905 fjisnt refreshed. " Was the herd larger than uaual, and more ibdii nsnally oppressive P " "I have had rather a fatiguing afternoon; and as yon can cover give me any assistance " " My dear Augusta, were I the idlest man in the world, I «)ionld shirk that Kind of thing. I have not the knack of seem- ing enchanted to see a host of uninteresting people. I rather like a good ponderous dinner — people brighten wonderfully iniidst the clatter of knives and forks and the popping of ^liampagne corka ; and if one has a good cook, as we happily have, one sees one's friends at their best under those genial influences. IJut an afternoon party — a crowd of meanderers circulatiig inanely, buzzing like so many gadflies, a little music, a litcle literature, a little science, a little religion, a little scandal, all going on at once in the most distracting manner — upon iny word, fashionable woman must be a devoted creature if she can stand that kind of thing. But had I been ever so willing, 1 Could not have been at home this afternoon ; we had a field-day in the committee-room." Augusta was standing by the open window, pa!«i as her maslin dress. Should she talk to hira now, or wait till ho netumed from the dinner? That which she had to say to him was of an agi- tating nature ; she, who was ordinarily so serene and emotionless a creature, felt that she might hardly be mistress of herself when once that subject was broached between those two. Would it not be best to wait till night, when there would be no hazard of a servant coming in suddenly while they were talking ? She looked across at the clock on the chiraneypiece — a quarter-past Beven* and at eight Mr. Ilarcross was due at her dear friend Lady Basingstoke's. She hud promised her dear Julia that he should come; and she knew that her dear Julia relied upon him as tnr intellectual Samson who was to sustain the weight of a eomewhat heavy banquet; for dear Julia's guests were exalted, but dull. If they were both absent, people might talk — indeed, if even one were wanting, people might talk — since she herself had been seen that afternoon m all her accustomed brilliancy. Mrs. Harcross shivered at the thought Ihat her dear friends might lay their heads together, as the phraae goes, and speculate alx)ut her — might even conjecture that she and her husband haJ qneuTelled. She knew that was the general opinion when a wife, rom any unexj>lained cause, failed to come up to time. "I have a distracting headache, Hubert," she said; "but perhaps I had better go with you. I know dear Julia depends Dpon ns." "Very well, my dear," murmured Mr. Harcrooa, without o^>eniDg his eyes; " go by all means, if you really think you can iU«as ia three-quarters ot an hour. Or •ooldn't 70a woar thai g(jQ To the Bitter End. peach-colouf ed and white thing you have on f It'a unoommonly ^\tb. Harcross looked down at her mauve-silk train and Indian- muslin overskirt, with a contemptuous shrug. " I wonder you can propose anything so absurd. Hubert, whm I have been seen in this dress by at least a hundred people t)ii« very afternoon, Julia Basingstoke amongst them. "In that case you had better make haste. I can dress »a twenty minutes." , ,, . ii i i,„ Mrs. Harcross took the engraving from the table where she ,ad thrown it, rolled it up carefuUy, and earned it away to her Jressing-room, where she locked it up m one of her private drawer! before she rang for Tullion. the maid. At five minutes before eight she came downstairs in h«r evemng splendour, radiant in pearl-gray satin, and airy tulle, with great bunches of crimson azaleas gleaming amidst the cloudy draperies, and a roronet of azaleas and diamonds on her dark hair. It there were any glory in being the husband of one of the handsomest women in London. Mr. Harcross certainly enjoyed that distinction. But there was no elation in his countenance to-mght, as he stood at the foot of the stairs and cahnly surveyed the splendid figure descending towards him. If his wife's splendour and beauty evoked any feehng in his mind it was wonder-wonder that any human creature of average intelligence could be satis- fied with a life so empty— this perpetual shifting of gorgeous raiment, this house which was never a home. Mrs. Harcross had usually plenty to say for herself, in a certam commonplace way; but to-night she was silent, though tfce^ve to the Tvburnian district, where the widowed LadyBasingstoke had set up her tent, was rather a long one. Mr. Harcross was tired, and leant back in the carriage, without any disturbing considerations about his " back hair," and closed his eyes. He was not off-ended by his wife's silence, nor did it inspire him with those vague apprehensions which some men are apt to teel under such circumstances, a foreboding of curtain lectures to come. He concluded that "the herd" had been troublesome, and this particular Wednesday afternoon a failure. The evening at Lady Basingstoke's was as other evenings Mr Harcross talked a good deal, and talked well. In the brief pauses of his life, between the day's labour and the evening s r^leasure, a man may reflect upon the emptiness of this kind of existence, and tell himself that it is all vamty ; but once m the ring, with all the light and sweetness of society around him, hw i.piSt8 are apt to rise. The intoxication is of the highest. perhapB. but pleasant enough while it lasts. Nobody at Lady Basingetoke'B could have supposed that Mr. Harcross was tired ''f li£». Hr. and Jifrt. ITarcroin "begin to Understand each other. 7ff1 Dear Julia thanked her dear Augusta with eiFusion at parting. " So good of yon to come, I never saw Sir Thomas Heavitree BO agreeable; he and Mr. Harcross seem to get on so well together. It was quite a relief to see him so much amused." " I'm very glad we were able to come, Julia. Hubert had a committee before the Lords to-day. I was half afraid he wonid be too much exhausted to dine out." "But he is so wonderfully clever, and takes everything so oooUy. I should fancy he could hardly know what fatigue means. But you are not looking well to-night, Augusta. I observed it at dinner. I never saw you so pale." " I daresay it's the colour of my dress— rather an old colour, isn't ilP I told Bouffante so, but she insisted upon my basing it" "Your dress is lovely, dear, as it always is. But you really are not looking well." With these and many other expressions of sympathy the friends parted, and Mrs. Harcross went oflF, with Hubert in her wake, feeling tolerably satisfied with his evening. The party had been rather a dull business perhaps, but he had been the source and centre of any brief flashes of brilliancy that had enlivened it. This kind of social success was one of the prizes that he had set himself to win, or rather an appanage of his pro- fessional position. He had nothing better to look forward to, only to mount a little higher upon the ladder which he had been fllowly ascending from his youth upwards, and every rung of which was familiar to him. Were he to become Lord Chancellor, life could give him very little more than it gave him now. He had reason to be content. CHAPTER XXVL n. ijn> mta. habcboss begin to undebstaub each otkevc * Will you come into my room for a few minutes' talk before yon go upstairs, Hubert, I want to ask you a question P ** Mris. Harcross made this request on the threshold of her Cnoming-room, just as her husband was turning towards that secondary staircase which led to his dressing-room. " I am quite at your service, my dear Augusta. Thia ig juat the time in the evening when I have the least possible inclination for sleep. What is it about P Another dinner at home, made up on purpose for Sir Thomas Heavitree? I fimeied yon wert medii«ting vomethini; in the carriage, yon were ao unnsnallr 206 To the Bitter End. silent. Yon didn't even say anything about Lady Hijavitre*»'i cheese-coloored moire, with satin upholsterer's work about the skirt, which I really thought would provoke your powers of ridi- cule." He strolled after his wife into the pretty chintz-draperied sitting-room, where a moderator lamp shed its chaste light on a table heaped with new books and periodicals. The easiest chairs, the most perfect appliances for writing in all the house, •were to be found here. Mr. Harcross dropped into his favourite chair by the fireplace, which was artistically screened at this season by a little grove of ferns. " I was not thinking of anybody's dress to-night," Mrs. Har» croRS said moodily. " Indeed ! then I may fairly conjecture that, like Louis XV. wlieu he didn't hunt, your majesty did nothing." " You are very polite. I hope my ideas do sometimes soar al>ove toilets, even m society, where one is not supposed to think very seriously. But to-night my mind was absorbed by a some- what painful subject." " I'm sorry to hear that. I cer^/iinly thought you wore con- foundedly quiet. Is it anything wrong in the house ? Does Flu man want to Isetter himself? " Fluman was a butler of unusual accomplishments, who had assisted Mr. and Mrs. Harcross to maintain their estabhshment at its high-pressure point of excellence. " How can you be so absurd, Hubert ? As if I should allow nyself to be worried by anything of that kind ! " " But I can't conceive a greater loss than Fluman. We should collapse utterly if he left us in the middle of a season. I'm sure, at the beginning of a dinner, when things look rather dull, I often say to myself, * Never mind, we are in the hands of Fluman ; ' just as in graver aifairs one would say, ' We are in the hands of Providence.' I think he has recondite arts in the admini£.tration of his wines — derived from the Romans, perhaps, who cultivated dining from a more artistic point of view than we have ever attained. I have seen him warm the stupidest people mto sprightliness by judicious doses of Chateau d' Yquem ; and if conversation flags towards the close of the banquet, hs can work wonders with pa/rfait amour and dry curacjoa. I should consider it a domestic bereavement if he wanted to leave us. If he were to take it into his ht'ad that he was losing caste by living with a professional man, for instance, or anything oi that kind." " When you have done talking nonsense, Hubert, I shall be very glad to speak of serious things. I suppose that is the sort of stuff with which jfm iw«iK (fraciously." " As yon please," she said, in an icy tone. "The natae conW make very little diflPerence. It would not make the dishonout deeper, or lees deep ; nothing can add to or Jeesen the shame 1 have felt to-day." " What is my birth to yon P " cried Hubert Harcross passion- ately. " Have I failed in one tittle of my bargain P Have I fatten^st society i" and this state of things would have entirely satw- fied Mr. viiory's daughter, had it not been for that bitter secret which vexed the repose (if her soul. , , j j •<•» Wide as the gulf had always been between husband and wife. it widened 8 Uttle more after this, or perhaps it was rather that the severance became more perceptible^ There was a kind of embarrassment in their intercourse. Huoert « manner was at once cold and apolegetic. Augusta gave way ^o ™elancholy bj the domestic hearthf instituted a chronic headache, and isola^d he?sTL her moming-room with the ferns and chintz rosebuds That splendid interior in Mast^don-crescent did not make a lively Sure! when there were no guests to caU forth the social mstincts of Mr. and Mrs. Harcross. But they never quarrelled ; on that point Augusta congratulated herself with a loftvpnde. ^ » I htve^ever quarreUed with my husband." ste said to herself, "not evenonthat dreadful nightwhen he deliberately insulted me. There were not many evenings, however, on which the house in Mastodon-crescent was thus gloomy. Dunng the season. Mr and Mrs. Harcross rarely stayed at home together, except to WvT^mpany. There^ were occasions when the gentleman S^:edHm^self^l•om going out, and sat a^ne m the chiU j librarv tiU the small hours, cramming himself with tacts and fiS for the next day's business ; but Augusta was not fettered bfhfs labours, and went forth alone, radiant and splendid, to awaken envy in the breasts of less fortunate matrons. . Mrs dross and Georgie Davenant became fast friends m the interval that elapsed before the damsel's marriage. George was an enthusiastic worshipper of the beautiful, and that cold Sect face of Augusta's had won her heart at once. She SedSriawyer's^aughter into a heroine ^^^ was as much flattered bv Augusta's notice as if she had been one of the ^reSlSieVTthe land. Other girls had complained of.the fmpossiliHty of «« getting on" with Mrs. H^^^/^^ ^ut bnght little Georuie warmed the statue mto some kind of hfe. It Mrs Harcross (iuld be warmly interested in any subject, that subject was dress rid at such a period it was natural y a theme o/ no Tmdl Srtance in the eyes of Miss Davenant. In giving her nTwfrien^her sympathy, Mrs. Harcross perhaps regarded her LsT as a young lady who was going to be married than as a young ^aa/who^required a trousseau. She camed^Iiss Davenant Ibou^shoppinS with her in h.r own barouche brougham, as the weather suggested, until Mrs Chowder, the damsel's aunt, feeling herself a creature of limited ideas m com- parisonwiSi Mrs.Hfrcross.dropi>ed i-^.^^^j^^J^Sn.Tr'hS ind contented herself with ordering recherche InnchflonB for her rtyli^CXand placidly coinciding with all AugusU'. owuioua. ilr. and Mr». ffareroii beptt So Vnder^fand Mch other. 21A By Mrs. Harcross MIbb Davenant waa presented to the great Bouffante, who comsented, although the pressure of business at this time was something unprecedented, — the Duchess of Dur- ham's water-party, Lady Doldrum's private theatricals, Mrs. St. Quintaine's fancj ball, all crowding upon the mighty mind of the milliner within a single fortnight, — consented, solely to oblige Mrs. Harcross, to undertake a considerable portion of Miss Davenant's outfit. It was a favour which Greorgie must of course feel to the end of her life. The two ladies kissed each other in the brougham after it was all settled. They had spent a whole afternoon at Bouffante's, turning over silks and satins, and consulting about fringes and laces, gimps and furbelows, and refreshod by afternoon tea, served on a massive salver by the milliner's lacquey. " Bouffante gives herself intolerable airs," said Mrs. Harcross; •• but her style is inimitable. No one can touch her." " How ever shall I bring myself to wear those dresses ! " ex- claimed George ; " it's delightful to choose them, but, do yon know, I can't imagine myself flourishing about in them; I should have to give up the society of Pedro, and all the rest of the animals. I have scarcely ever worn anything but pique or hoi land, so that I could run about the garden and play with the dogs just as I liked. But imagine me in that mauve silk smothered with chentUe fringe, like the picture Madame Bouffante showed us, and half-a-dozen Newfoundland puppies •crambling into my lap." " My dear chUd, yon must give up those abominable dogs and that atrocious monkey when yon are married. I hope you don't mean to overrun Clevedon with such creatures." " Not have some of my dogs to live with me !" cried Georgie. with a piteous look. " Of course there are some that are such favourites of papa's, I couldn't rob him of them. But I must have some at Clevedon. Besides, Frank adores dogs. I wonder you don't care for them. Don't be offended, Augusta, but do you know, that splendid house of yours always seems to ma rather dull because there are no dogs in it. I shouldn't appre>- ciate the handsomest drawing-room in England, if there wer# not a Maltese terrier or a Skye on the hearth-rug." "Perhaps you miss something else in my house," said Augusta, with rather a moody countenance. " I have no children, you know." " 0, dear no, it was not that," exclaimed Georgie, blushin-^f, and fearful that she kad wounded her friend ; " I never thought about the absence of children. I have not been accustomed to children, and urn not extraordinarily fond of them. It Bouniii dreadful to mj that, doesn't itP I see dear little blne-eysd things in the ooltageb where I viut> and they seem to take ^ 216 To the Bitter End. me; but, iear, tlieir poor little noses and pinafores are eo dirty, and their fingers always wet or sticky, and I can't help thinkir^ that Newfoundland puppies are nicer." Sir Francis Clevedon and Miss Davenant were to be married at Kingsbury. Mrs. Harcross went down to the Bungalow 14 be present at the wedding, but Mr. Harcross was compelled tg forego that pleasure. Every hour of his worlcing day was appr* priated, just at this time, he told his wife : the thing was utterly m]ix>38ible. " It's excessively provoking, Hubert," said M's. Harcross, when he demonstrated this fact to her. " I hate going amongui a herd of strangers without my husband." " But your dearest Georgie and your dear Colonel are ncft strangers." " Of course not, but their friends are. It seems so unnaturrl for me to be there without you. However, I've promised G eorgie, and can't disappoint her." "Go, my dear Augusta, and enjoy yourself. What is that fiong Miss Davenant sings, ' They tell me thou'rt the favoured guest 'P Go, and be the favoured guest, my dear; I shall be pleased to know you are happy while I am drudging in the com- mittee-room." " The session wiU be over soon, and then, I suppose, I sLill occasionally be favoured with your society," said Augusta, with rather a sulky air. "Of course, my dear. But upon those occasions when I can give you my society you are apt to be alflicted by one of your nefulaches." Augusta was silent. Tt was not a tete-a-tete evening with her liusband for which she languished. She wanted him to escort her to flower-shows and evening parties. She wanted the world to fee that her marriage was a happy one. "I am afraid people will think there is some estrangement between us, Hubert, as we are so rarely seen together," she said. " What does it matter what people think, so long as we are not estranged ? " asked Mr. Harcross in his coolest tone. " Be- Bides, we are continually being seen together. Only, when you ask me to go down to Tunbridge Wells for a couple of days in the busiest part of the year, to see a young lady married, voh ask an impossibility." "Kingsbury Church," said Augusta meditatively, " isn't \hax ine little village church you told me about in one of your letters from that farmhouse you went to for change of air after yoiur illness ? " " Yes, it was King something — Kingsbury, perhapa." ** And the name of the farmhouse — I've forgotten it. Wbsi. wae thii bfijztt of the farmhovso. Hubert? " Mr. and Mr$. Harcross legin to Understand each other. 217 •• Upon my word, my dear, Fve forgotten it too," Mr. Harcrosa peplieo, after a pause. " But what can it matter P " " Not very mnch, certainly ; only, if we are driving aboui while I am at Tunbridge Wells, I should hke to have a look at the place where you stayed so long. You sent me quite a tasci* Dating description of it, you know, in your usual off-hand way. I should like to have seen it." " There is nothing worth seeing, my dear. It is a nice old* fashioned place, smothered with roses; but you may see hall'-a- dozen such in every rural neighbourhood. You'd better not trouble yourself about going to look at it. I believe the peojjie I stayedf with have left the country." " How odd ! I thought that kind of peoj)le were fixtures, nx)ted as firmly as their trees." "There are tempests that tear up the strongest oaks." " That sounds as if there were some romantic story connected frith the people." " Nothing more romantic than insolvency. The farmer had been doing badly for some years when I was there, and I beheve he got tired of failure at last, and shipped himself and his fu'niJy for one of the colonies." " How very sad ! " exclaimed Mrs. Harcross, and the subject was exhausted. It was not quite done with in the mind of Hubert Harcross, however. He had but a slippery hold on facts and figures that night as he sat alone, pretendmg to work, in his gloomy den. The memory of the past was strong upon him, — alas ! when was it ever weak ? But to-night it was stronger than usual. Kingsbury Church ! How the very name of the place brought back the memory of that first Sunday; the very atmosphere with its balmy warmth and rustic quiet; the fair young face looking up at him in that homeward walk by the fragrant hedge- rows ; the utter peacefulness in his own heart, which had not yet gone astray ! Yet was not that guiltless Sabbath afternoon the commencement of his undoing P Kingsbury Church ! Would to God he had married her there, and so escaped the horror of knowing himself her murderer, and bo won her for the joy and comfort of his days ! " I would not have let her die," he said to himself. " I would have made her Ufe so bright and happy. What a sweet flower it was, lying in my hand, and I flung it away! Yet, O God, how could I dream that I should kill her? How could I tell that she was of so much finer a clay than other women P " Mrs. Harcross came back from the Bungalow directly aftei the wedding, much pleased with her entertainment. There was a httle dinner in Mastodon-crescent that ^venin?:. — a smnll and careful bauQuet made for two oi three le«;ai lumuuuiud whoui it 2i§ to the Bitter End. moment off duty. „ mi^ g^g ^^j^ usual just in time to dress for la fed, turning the leaves correctly to a crotchet, and talking to ler in the pauses of the music. He asked a good many questions .".Ijimt Kingsbiiiy, and the old farmhouse in which Hubert had Bfcif'ped, and seemed singularly interested in this episode in the lif*' of Mr. Harcross. But he contrived to put his questions ia ti" } airiest manner, and Augusta's only idea upon the subject vfHs a conviction of her cousin's frivolity. " I shouldn't wonder if there were something mysterious in that farmhouse business," Weston said to himself, as he smoked a midnight cigar during his homeward journey to the Surrey hills. " Harcross looked rather glum when I mildly suggested a possible flirtation in that quarter. Did ever any man on the right side of forty live six weeks at a farmhouse without a stronger motive than the desire for fresh air and new-laid eggs P And I remember how uncommonly close my friend was on the subject of this rustic excursion when I met him in AcropoUs- square, the day after his return. I am inclined to think there is something ; and if there is, look out for squalls, Mr. Harcross. I've had a trifle too much of your de haut en has manner, to say nothing of your having swindled me out of the woman I meant to marry, and I should vastly like to drop down upon you uuex- pectedly some fine morning." Christian meditations to carry through the soft summer night, but they were hardly unpleasant to the soul of Weston Vallory: they did not gnaw or rend his vitals with a vulture-Uke rending, but agreeably titillated his senses, and gave a zest to his contem- plation of the future. He felt so sure that, sooner or later, h« should be able to drop down upon his fortunate rival. " That httle accoxint has been a long time standing, my friend Ilarciuos," he said to Limstlf, *' but I mean to equar* it.' CHAPTER XXVIL •'KORE FELL THAU ANGDISH, HUNGEE, OE THE EEA." Changes at Brierwood. The land was let off to a sturdy rod- faced farmer sprung from the peasant class, who lived with hi* numerous progeny in a roomy cottage remote from the old tomestoad; a substantial tenement, which had been built £al " More Fell than Anguiiky Hunger^ or the Sea." 221 the occupation of a bailifiT in the days when the Brierwood peo* plo were gentry. The house and garden remained cared for by Mrs. Busn, the charwoman, and her husband, who was of tht gardening persuasion. No article of the old furniture had been removed, but the rooms were for the most part tenantless. For the last twelve months Ricliard Redmayne had been across the seas, at Bulrush Meads, where James and Hannah's industry had created quite a model domain. He had been to see how they thrived, but the prosperity of his estate gave him little gladness. She who was to nave been the glory of his home could never look upon those fertile valleys, could never wander by his side across those breezy hills. The brightness and the beauty of his hfe had vanished ; he lived on, ate, drank, slept even, very much as he had done before, and did not always dream of her. But, O, how often — how often in his slumbers the pale sweet face smiled at him ; he heard her voice, felt the touch of the clinging hand, and told himself that it had all been a delusion, a false alarm — she was not dead. And then came the waking and the dreary reality. She was gone 1 " G<")d'8 curse Ught on her murderer," he said to himself, ** av my hate and vengeance shall follow him to the end!" Time had not dulled the edge of hiu hatred- Of the man who had tempted Grace away from her home he never thought but one thought. That man had slain her — killed her as surely, and \silh as deep a villany, as if he had planned and executed a di- liberate murder. " He would have slain her soul," he told himself. ** There was CO earthly friend to save her. God sent hia angel Dflath to snatch her from him. But that man would have killed her soul. Is he less guilty of her death because he did not mean to kill her body f And when his fancy had tired of her, would he have careid in what river she hid her dishonour P " James tried his hardest to detain his brother on that side of the world. " You've no call to go back. Rick, old feUow," he said " You've let the land to a good tenant. Why shouldn't you Bt«p with us for the rest of your days, and take your own place as owner of the property P The climate suits you. There's plenty for you to look after here, a good horse for yon to ride» and good friends to keep you company within a day's easy joui* ney. What have you got to do in England P" " To find the man who murdered my daughter." " Poor Gracey 1 Well, it was the next thing to a murder," said James, who had shed not a ^ew guiet tears over his niece's fete, brushing a rough hand across his eyes many a time when Grace's image rose before him as he walked alune in the sun- •ainejg He had children of his own, and loved them heartilj 282 To (he Bitter End. but not as he had loved Oracey. She Beamed so different from ihem — like a moss-rose in a cabbage-garden. " It was a cruel thing to tempt her away, Rick ; bnt, you eee, we don't know. He may have meant better than we think. He may have meant fairly by her ; there's no knowing." •• Don't talk like a fool, Jim. Does a man ever mean honestly who acts as that man acted? Mean fairly by herP Why, he lied about her when she was dead, as he had lied to her when she was alive ; perjured himself, and called her his sister, because he knew himself to be a villain, and hadn't the manhood to speak the truth, even when she was dead, even when she lay dead under his roof. Thank GJod, she died ! It is hard to lose her ; yet I say, thank God, she died! And 0, Jim, if you know me at all, you know that I would barter all the rest of my lifo against one year with her." " Stay with us, Rick ; stay, and be master here, where it's all your own." " No, Jim. I'll get a lawyer to draw up a deed of gift, and make you a present of this place. I may come back some day, when my business is done, and end my days in peace among you. I can never know peace at Brierwood any more. But I'm bound to go back there for a little while. I've something to do." " Oome. "Rick, be reasonable. What's the good of hunting after a needle in a bottle of hay ? You'll never find that man ; and if you did find him, what then P " " I'll settle that when I've found him. That's enough, Jim ; I'm bound to sail in the hucy Ashton next Thursday week." He sailed in that teak-built clipper, made the homeward ▼oyage once more prosperously, and came to Brierwood one bright June afternoon, when Kingsbury joy- bells were ringing as if they had gone mad. " What's all that row about?" he inquired of Mrs. Bush, the housekeeper, as he walked in at the open kitchen-door with the air of having come home from a day's outing. He had crossed the fields, and come in by the garden. There was no pleasure in Buch a coming home — no expectation. His fields were in the possession of others ; his house was kept only in memory of the d ^d, as he would have kept a tomb. "Lor, Mr. Redmayne!" cried Mrs. Bush, letting fall a loaf which she was in the act of taking from the oven; "what a tunj you did give me, to be sure ! " " I told you I should come back some day." " Yes, to be sure; and we've looked for you many a time, but not expectin* to see you so suddint, without so much as a line to say you was comin', and your bed not aired nor nothink. But we'll soon get things straight. There's a beefsteak in the larder, as L got for my Sam to-morrow, and I can cook a bife of (Jinno • More Fell than Anguish, Hunyer, or the Sca,*^ 223 for you, and have eveiytbink comfortable. And I hope you've kept your healtli, sir, while you've been in foreign parts." " I've been tolerably well ; the climate yonder buiIs me. What xre those confounded joy-bells ringing forP" " Don't you Uke 'em, Mr. Redmayne ? I think they're so cheer- ful when they ring Uke that. I don't much care for them of a summer's evening rung slow, they make me feel sohd. Don't YOU know about the wedding ? It's a great day for Kingsbury, and there's a dinner at Clevedon — my good man's gone there. Sir Francis Clevedon was married at Kingsbury Church this morning." " 0, Sir Francis is come home, is he ? " said Richard Ustlessly, looking round the familiar room, with its heavily timbered ceil> ing, and lattice windows looking out on a spacious stone yard, and tumble-down low-roofed outhouses, a pump, an empty dog- kcanel, and half-a-dozen fowls scratching on a shrunken manure-heap. How well he remembered Grace flitting in and out of the old stone-flagged kitchen, pretending to help a little in the household work, sitting down by a sunny window to shell a great basket of peas, and running off before they were halt done, and forgetting to come back ! " Sure to goodness, Mr. Redmayne, didn't you know about Sir Francis?" exclaimed Mrs. Bush, who evidently supposed that English newspapers would have made it their business to supply the colonies with the latest news of Clevedon Hall. " How should I know ? " " Dearey me ! He's been back going on for a year. Let me see, it was last August as he come, and you not to know any- tiiink ! He was married this morning to as sweet a young woman as yon ever see — Colonel Davenant's daughter of the Wells. I ■went over to see the wedding, but it was as much as I could do to get inside the church-door. I don't suppose as Eangsbury Church was ever so full since it was built." Richard Redmayne seemed quite indifferent to Sir Francis Clevedon and his affairs. He left the kitchen, and roamed through the old house, unlocking the doors of the rooms, which had been kept carefully locked in his absence, and going into one after another, only to stand for a httle while looking round him, with a slow half- wondering gaze, as if he could hardly believe he had ever lived there. The rooms were all faultlessly clean, but had a damp chilly atmosphere, and a certain dreariness of aspect, as if they had been thus shut and thus disused for the last fifty years. If Richard Redmayne had been a behever in ghosts, he might almost have expected to see one in those dusky chambers, where i,he half-opened shutters let in the afternoon light grudgingly, having obscure comers where a ghost might lurk. But foi Rick K..dmayne there was only one shadow, and that was with hii«» aJways 224 To the Bitter Ikd. He had lived and been happy in those rooms once upon o tamsk His thoughts went back to the days of his early manhood, before his wife's death, to pleasant peaceful days, when hia worst care had been a doubtful harvest or sickness among his cattle, and from that quiet time they wfent to the summer afternoon on which his young wife left him smoking his pipe in the garden, left him with a light word and a loving smile, a little look back at him which he remembered to this hour, and thus left him for ever. Bitter memories ! Can any life into which death has once entered ever again be perfectly happy P Eick Redmayne had out- lived the sharpness of his grief, but not the grief itself. Ten years after that day of horror, with his fair young daughter by his side, loving her vnth all the force of his strong heart, the recollection of that loss was as fresh in his mind as it had been in the first week of bereavement. And now that Grace was gone, he forgot the tran- quil years that had intervened between those two great sorrows. It seemed to him rather as if an angry Deity with one sweep of hia hand had left him desolate, robbed him of all hope and comfort. If he had any virtue, it was that of Job. He did not curse God, and die. He lived : but he lived to cherish a purpose which perhaps was worse than the suicide's desperate sin. He lived on m the hope that fate would give his child's false lover into hig hands — a vague blind hope at the best, but strong enough to keep him alive. Sorely had he changed since that day when, dashed a little by .nisfortune, but stUl daring and hopefcu, he had asked the indul- gence of his creditors before he sailed across the world to redeem his fortunes. In mind and body the man was alike altered; moody where he had been social — doubtful and suspicious where he had been open and trusting as a child — brooding alone over his injuries, angry with the very world for having held such a traitor, rebeUioi 5 against his God for having permitted such a wrong. In his outward aspect even the change was striking. It was not so much that his dark brown hair was streaked with iron-gray, that there were deeper lines than his actaal years would have warranted upon the handsome rugged face. The change of expression was a greater change than thia. The face had hardened, the eyes and mouth had grown cruel. At its best now the expression was at once gloomy and reckless; at its best the face of Richard Redmayne was the face of a man to be feared. He came back to his old home, but not to his old habits, or his *ld friends. The friends had fallen away from him long ago, chilled and repelled by a change so obvious. Of the details of that sorrow which had changed him, the outer world, his small wcH-ld. knew very little. People in Kmitsbiiry knew that Grao* •Um/ O, ths TTeavy Change note TIiou art OoneJ** 226 F^imayne had gone away from home, and had died away from home, but when and where she had died had been told to none. This very silence was in itself mysterious, and to the minds of most people implied disgrace — some sad and shameful etory which the girl's kindred kept hidden in their own hearts. CHAPTER XXYTII. * STJT O, THE HEAVY CHANGE NOW TUOU AB,T GGNlil'* RiCTTARD Redmatne sat in the old rooms, and paced the old garden, or lay smoking his pipe on the grass under the cedar day after day, and made no attempt to occupy himself, physically ca. mentally, but let the days drag themselves out how they would. They were very slow to pasa, yet so empty, that when gone they Jeemed to have travelled swiftly, like the days in a workhouse or a jail, where there is no greater event to mark the passage of time than the monotonously recurring hours for meals. He shrank from being seen in his old haunts, and from being greeted by his old companions. If he had himself committed some un- pardonable crime against society, he could hardly have avoided nis fellow-men more persistently than he now avoided all the friends of his youth and manhood. He rarely went beyond his own garden and orchard in the daytinie ; but at night sometime.^, when the rover's restlessness was strong upon mm, he would set out long after dark, walk fifteen miles, or so, across country, in a reckless mood which took no heed of distance or direction, and come back to Brierwood in the dewy dawn, worn out and haijgard. "i try to walk the devil down, you see, Mrs. Bush," he said to his housekeeper, on returning from one of these rambles, i speech which filled the honest woman with consternation. "There's something unked about Richard Redmayne," she told her husoand. "I don't think he's ever been quite right ia his head, poor soul, since he lost his daughter." He was in England, and he had come back to find his child's destroyer, yet he did so little. He went up to Mr. Smoothev'? office, made an appointment with Mr. Kendel, the private inquirer, and offered that gentleman any terms he chose to demand if ho would only find the man who had called himself " Walgry" on one occasion, and "Walsh" on another. He pressed the business with such a feverish eagerness, that Mr. Kendel, who did not by any means see his way to making tliff required discovery, affected a kind of hopefulness for very charity. 226 To the Bitter End. "It is rather a diflSctilt matter," he said. "Yon see, I havs positively no cine. The man takes a famished honse at Highgate, .t^ives it up, pays every one in cash, no cheques or anything of that kind, and vamshes. I have no photograph of the man, no know* iedge of his surroundings, antecedents, anything ; and yet you ask me to pick him out from the entire population of this city, sup- posing him to be an inhabitant of this city, which we are by no means sure he is." Richard Redmayne sat with his back to the dusty window of the dusty office, listening to these arguments with a gloomy countenance. "Never mind the difficulty," he said abruptly ; "it's your trad* to get over that. If it was easy to find him, I should have found him long ago. Find him, Mr. Kendel, and I'U pay you what you like for your difficulty." *' But, my good Redmayne," said Mr. Smoothey, in his com- fortable famUy-solicitor-like way, " supposing the man found, what then P You have no redress. The law which makes ab- duction a crime would not tell here, since your daughter was nine- teen years of age. Nor can you prove that any wrong was done her, or that any wrong was intended. To what end, Uien, would you trace the offender?" " Never mind what end. Find him for me, that's all I ask yon to do. I may have my own manner of reckoning with him. I want to see him face to face. I want to be able to say, ' You killed my daughter.* " " Upon my honour, Mr. Redmayne, I think you look at thif business from a very false and fatal point of view. Granted that a great wrong was done in tempting your poor child to leave her home; but remember that it is a kind of wrong committed almost every day, and a kind of temptation to which every good-lookmg young woman among the middle classes is more or less subject. The fatal result was not a part of the wrong, not contemplated by the wrong-doer. Had your daughter lived, who knows that this gentleman might not have married her P Even if it were not his immediate intention to do so, he might have done so ultimately, prompted by con- science and affection." "Don't try to humbug me by that see-saw kind of argument — if he didn't and if he did," cried Rick Redmayne roucfhly. " I only know that he stole my daughter away from her homoi and that she died of the shame he brought upon t ^^ and that I hold liim her murderer." There was no use in talking to such a man.^ £lie words of wisdom were wasted on this passionate undisciplined soul. Mi*. Bmoothey shut his spectacle-case with rather an impatient snap. " You must do as you please Mr. Redmayne," he said. " I ^/ V f ** JJ]^ O, ^A« Heavy Change now THou art Gone ! " 22? ) doubt Kendcl will do Ms best with your business, and of "' legal advice you may want from me is at your Bervioe; ,ly cannot see your motive." lat man's in a bad way," said the astute Kendel, when the • had left the office. " The sort of man who would scarcely surprise me if he did something desperate. I shan't help him to find the seducer. In the first place, I consider the thing ^ beyond the limits of possibility ; and m the second place, even if I could find the man, it would go against my conscience to have any hand in bringing those two together. Yet you know, S Smoothey, that my conscience is rather elastic." "Toughish, certainly," answered the lawyer; "and warranted to stretch. However, I quite agree with you about this poor fellow Redmayne. The man has brooded on this subject until it has become a monomania." Richard Redmayne went back to Brierwood soon after this interview, belie\nng he had done his uttermost, but not till he had been to look at the cottage where his daughter died, and the grave in which she lay. The pretty little gothic bandbox on Highgate Hill was let. He could only prowl up and down by the railings for a little, screened by the laurel hedge, listening to the fresh voices of children in the tiny garden. There were guelder roses in bloom, and a bed of standard roses in the centre of the minature lawn, bird-cages in the open window, the whole aspect of the place bright and joyous. He looked up at the window of that room where they had laid her in the last solemn gluinl>er, looked at it, and thought of the day when she had lain tl)ere, a dull November day, with the rain beating against the window-panes, perhaps, and all nature gloomy. It wounded him to see the house under this cloudless June sky, to hear happy voices from the room where she had died broken-hearted. He walked all the way to Hetheridge — seven miles along the dusty north road, then away westward, by a quiet cross-road, to the quietest village within twenty miles of London. He passed the village green, and the pond were the ducks were floating lazily in the sunshine, and went on beneath the shelter of chestnut and lime to the churchyard where Grace was buried. Thig sixth of June was her birthday, and he had chosen this day of all others for his pilgrimage to her grave. " I might have brought some flowers or something,''' he said to himself as he opened the low wooden gate. "What a hard- ocarted wreteh I must be not to have thought of it 1 Did I ever go to see her empty-handed when she was at school t " The churchyard was not a particularly pretty on«^ only very solemn and tranquil, with a great yew-tree making a wide circle of shadow above the quiet green hillocks. There was no splendid monuments o\ modem db&te. but here and there a ponderous 228 To the Bitter End. tomb within a rosty railing, a monlderiug stone flarcophague* with einaona ivy creeping in and out among the cracks m the stone, and a dank moss thick npon the time-worn inscriptions. The charm of the scene was its utter tranquillity. A village churchyard on a hill, with a wide stretch of landscape below it, and only the faintest indication of a city in the far distance. Richard Redmayne found his way to the gravestone. Waf not every detail of the quiet scene burnt in upon his brain? The churchyard was empty of all humau kind, yet on the granite slab there lay a wreath of waxen-petaUea exotics, all purest white, and as fresh as if it had been that minute laid there. Rick Redmayne went back to the gate, striding over the low graves recklessly. Who was there to bring votive wreaths to her grave — who, in all her httle world — except the man who had destroyed her ? " He has been here," the farmer said to himself; *' is here still, perhaps, loitering somewhere. O God, if I could only meet him, 'B this place, by her grave ! It seems the fittest spot for us two to come face to face ; and if we do meet here, I think I shall strangle him." The muscular hand closed with a tighter grip upon the oak napling which Mr. Redmayne carried as a walking-stick. He planted himself by the church-yard gate and waited listening for a footstep on the gravel-path. "I wonder that he can ha«^e the heart to stand beside her grave, knowing that he killed her." He was not softened in any degree by this indication that lus lost child was still held in loving remembrance. His only senti- ment was wonder that her destroyer could presume to lay his wreath npon her grave — that he dared approach the scone which must needs remind him of his crime. He waited an hour with a dogged patience, but no one came. Then he made a careful round of the churchyard, and meeting no one, knelt down and said a short prayer by his daughter's tombstone; not Huch a prayer as Christianity inspires — reverent, submissive, confiding; but tinctured rather with that fiery spirit which might have breathed in the supplications of some outraged father in the old Greek days, when men's gods were of the sternest mould; an appeal to the Eumenides — a blind wild cry for retribution. He took *ihe wreath in his strong hand when that prayer waii ended — t.^jk it, intending to scatter those frail blossoms to the summer winds. The dehcate petals seemed almost to shrink and shiver in hia rough grasp; but after looking at it for a few momenta with a moody countenance, he laid it gently on the stone where it ^id Iain when b^ found it, encircUng his daughter'* **But O, the Heavy Change now Thou art Oon«t** 22l> " She was go fond of flowers, and these white Bweet-acented ones above all," he said to himself. " No ; I won't spoil it, even though he put it there." He rose at last and left the churchyard, meaning to make iu« qniries in the village as to the appearance of any stranger wh« might have been observed by the innkeeper or his gossips. In ■o small and primitive a place a stranger could hardly escape observation; but at the gate Richard Redmayne encountered the sexton, who had espied him from his cottage a few paces oflp, and had come out to see whether there might not be a sixpence to be earned in this direction. " Would you like to see the church, sir?" he inquired. " No ; I don't care about churches. Have you been about here all the morning?" " Yes, sir ; in and out, on and off." "There's been a man here; a man who brought some flowers to lay upon one of the graves." " Like enough, sir. There's many as bring flowers; that's the beauty of this place; nobody ever mterferes with 'em; the olul- dren never lays a finger on 'em." " You haven't seen any stranger, then, this morning ? " " Well, yes; there was a gentleman I met, coming out of thig here gate, like as I might meet you now this minute, above an hour ago." " You didn't know himP" " Not to call to mind his name ; but I know his face well enough. He's got somebody buiied with ns, I make no doubt." " Does he come here often?" " Not as 1 know of. I took the liberty to wish him good- morning; but he only made answer by a nod, and walked off be- fore I could ask him if he'd Uke to see the church." " Look here," said Richard Redmayne, with his hand in hia pocket. " Here's half-a-crown for you. Tell me what the man was like, as close as you can, and I'll make it five shillings." He tossed the coin to the sexton, whose shrivelled old counte- nance wrinkled into a rapturous grin. " Lor a-mussy, sir, I wish I were a better hand at that sort o work. The gentleman were tall and dark, with his eyebrow* marked very strong, like, givin* him rather a fierce look. Hia fa«e looked to me as if it were made of wrought iron; but he was a personable sort of a man for all that, and quite the gentleiuati." " That will do," said Richard Redmayne, tlirowing him a second half-crown. "If ever that man comes this way agaiii, you get some one to foUow him, and if you find out where he goes, and where he lives, I'll give you a five-pound Bote. Rd« member that." " Lor. air, it's a thing as I never did in all my bom dars," cried 230 To the Bitter End. the aexton, ^7;mg at Eick Redmayne with an awo-strickeTi ooniv tenance; " you bain't one of these here perlice orcifers in plain clothes, be ye?" " Never inind what I am; you do what I tell yon, and earn o five-pound note. You can telegraph to m« at this address when yon find out what I want to know, and you shall have your money by return of post." Eick Redmayne wrote hia address on a page of his pocket- bock and tore out the leai, which he handed to the sexton. " I am as willing as any one in Hetheridge to earn a honesii penny, sir; but follerin* any one do seem so out of the way and under'and-like. Certingly, there's my grandson Thomas, as sharp a lad as ever any one need wish to see, and as fleet-footed, he might foller any gentleman afoot or a-horseback, and 1 don't believe as he'd be left behind; and a rare artful lad too, and an uncommon favourite with our parson! Lor, how he do give out the responses in the psalms; you might a'most hear him out here — that sharp and shrill!" " Find out where this man lives, and earn your money," said Mr. Eedmayne. " Don't lose that bit of paper with the address. Good-day." He walked away rapidly, leaving the sexton pondering, and scratching his head with a puzzled air. " As to artfulness," he muttered to himself with an inward chuckle ; " if it comes to that, our Thomas might get his hvin' by folleiin'; but 1 don't know what parson would say to it. liowBumdever, there's no call for him to know." CHATTER XXIX A KECOVERED TREASURE. RiCHABD Redmatnb went back to Brierwood after his visit to j Hetheridge churchyard, and the dreary days went on. A ghost pacing those garden walks, or loitermg under the old cedar could hardly nave been a more dismal figure than the tanner, with his listless gait and haggard face, unshaven chin and slovenlj attire. He was waiting idly for his agents in London to do some- • thing ; speculating on the possibility of discovering his enem^ by the intervention of the sexton — a dreary business altogether; his land in other hands, no work to be done, no interest in tha young green com, no care, no hope ; his whole being consumed by one fatal passion — more constant than love, more oitter tli&n A Recovered Treasure. 231 He had not spoken to John Wort since that night when he ournt in upon the ayent in his little office, — sudden and nolent Bs a thunderbolt. The two men avoided each other. Mr. Woit had his own reasons for that avoidance, and Richard Redmayne shrank from all companionship. He smoked all day long, drank more than he had been used to drink in the old days, and paced the weedy gravel path, or lay at full length under the cedar, lost in gloomy thought. If he had needed any external influence to sharpen his sense of loss, the famiUar home, once so happy and now so desolate, would have furnished that influence; every flower in the garden, every petty trifle in the house, where all things were old and familiar, was in some wise associated with his daughter. He could not have felt her death more intensely ii" he had spent his days and nights beside her grave. The longest day had dragged its slow length along, and the corn was beginning to change colour, when, after some weeks of sultry and oppressive weather, there came a great storm — one of those tempests which spread consternation over all the country side, filling tlie souls of farmers with hideous visions of beaten corn and hghtning-struck cattle, and which people talk of and remember for the rest of the year. It was on a Sunday evening, just after church-time, when the first thunder-peal roared hoarsely among the distant hills, and the first vivid flash of forked light- ning zigzagged across the low leaden sky. Richard Redmayna was sitting under the cedar, smoking, as usual, with an unread Sunday paper lying on his knee, and his eyes fixed dreamily on the Hue of poplars that rose above the garden wall. He was not afraid of a little thunder and lightning, and sat for a couple of hours, after this first swelhng chord in the tempestuous sym- phony, watching the progress of the storm with a gloomy dehght in its awful grandeur, with almost a sense of relief in this sud- den awakening of earth and sky from their summer silence, aa if his own sluggish heart were stirred and lightened a Uttle by the storm. It was only when the rain began to fall in torrents, and Mrs. Bush came out, dripping like a rustic naiad, under a dilapidated cotton umbrella, to entreat him piteously to come indoors, that he roused himself from that morbid sympathy with the elements, and rose from his bench under the cedar, stretching himself, and looking round him half liewildered. " It's that dark as you can't see your hand before you, Mr. Redmayne, between whiles, and that vivid when it lightens ag you can distinguish every leaf on the trees, and to think of youi Bitting here all the time ! My good man says as how you xnxisi have gone to Kingsbury village. I've been that fidgety about you, I didn't know what to do ; so at last I says to my Sam, 'If I gets wet to the bone, I'll go and see if he's in the ^rdeni' 282 fb tks BiUsr JSnd. and as soon as I come to the edge of the grass, which is like a bog, it lightened just in my eyes Uke, and I see yon sitting here like a statter. You'll be a lucky man, Mr. Redmajrne, if v®u are not laid np with the rhenmaticks along of this night's work." "A few drops of rain won't hart me, Mrs. Bush; but 111 come indoors, if yon like. ITie storm is worth watching; bnt I reckon it'll be bad for Davia's corn. It's lucky the hops are no forwarder." Davis was the tenant, for whom Mr. Redmayne had some natural compassion, as became a man whose interests and desires had once been bounded by those hedgerows. He went indoors to oblige Mrs. Bush, but would not allow the garden door to be barred that night, and sat up long after the housekeeper and her husband had gone to their roost in their garret — till the tempest was over, and the sun was shining or ♦he sodden trees and beaten flower-beds, and the birds were twit- tering in the calm morning air, as in the overture to William Tell. He walked round the garden, looking idly at the ruin of roses and jasmine, carnations and lavender bushes, before he went upstairs to his room. It was late when he came down to his solitary breakfast, and the countenance of Mrs. Bush was solemn with the weight of a startling communication when she brought him his dish of eggs and bacon. " Such a calamity, Mr. lledmayne," she exclaimed ; " I felt certain sure as the storm would do some damage ; and it have. Mr. Davis have had a fine young heifer struck dead, and the pollard beech in Martinmas field is blown down." " The old pollard beech ! " cried Richard ; " the tree my mother was so fond of, — and Grace too. I'm sorry for that." Mrs. Bush shook her head in a dismal way, and sighed plain- tively. He so rarely mentioned his daughter, although she was bursting with sympathy. " And so she was, Mr. Redmayne — poor dear love — uncommon fond of Martinmas field and that old tree. I've seen her take her book or her fancy work up there many an afternoon, when 30U was in foreign parts. * I'm tired of the garden, Mrs. Bush,' elie'd say; 'I think I'll go up to Martinmas field, and sit a-bit.' "And I used to say, * Do, Miss Gracey ; you look to want a blow of fresh air ;' for she was very pale that last autumn before we lost her, poor dear. And when the hop-picking was about, she'd sit under the poUard beech talking to the children, no matter how dirty nor how ragged, she was that gentle with 'em- It was enough to bring the tears into your eye^ to see her." " I'm sorry the old beech is gone," said Richard thoughtfully He remembered a tea-drinking Utey hifoJ bad by that tree on«. mild afternoon in the hop harvest, and Grac& sinking her simple ballads to them afterwarda by rhe light of the hunter's moon. What a changed world it was without her ! He made short work of his breakfast, wliich was as flavourlens as all tlie rest of his dismal meals; and set out immediatel / afterwards to inspect the fallen beech in Martinmas field. Verj rarely had he trodden the land tenanted by Farmer Davis, but to-day he was bent on seeing the nature of the accident wliich had robbed him of one of his favourite landmarks, the tree that Lad been ancient in the time of his great-grandfather. The ruin was complete; the massive trunk snapped like the 8|>ar of a storm-driven vessel, broken short off within three feet from the roots. A couple of farm labourers — men who had worked for Richard Redmayne when he farmed his own land — were already hard at work digging out the roots, which spread wide about the base of the fallen tree. Farmer Davis was a pmart man, in the transatlantic sense of the word, and did not Buffer the grass to grow under his feet. " Gettin' rid of this here old beech wiU give him a rood of land more at this corner," said one of the men, when Mr, Red- inayne had surveyed the scene, and said a word or two about the stxjrm. " He alius did grumble about this tree, the grass was that sour under it ; so now he'll be happy." " I'm sorry it's gone, for all that," replied Rick, contemplating it gloomily. if e seated himself on a gate close by, and watched the men at their work, idly and hopelessly, thinking of the days that were gone. He sat for nearly an hour without speaking a word ; and the men glanced at him now and then furtively, wondering at the change that had come upon him since the old time when the^ hud called him master. He took his pipe from his pocket, and solaced himself with that silent comforter. He was sitting thus, ^/\ih his eyes fixed on the distant horizon, when one of the men, who had been digging out a rugged arm of the root from a little hollow into which the dead leaves had drifted, tossed some glit- if-nng object away with the leaves upon his spade, and uttered a cry of surprise, as he stooped to pick it up. " ^Vhy, what's this here? " he eyclaimed, turning it over in his broad hand. " A gold brooch ! " It was not a brooch, but a large oval locket. Richard Red- mayne roused himself fiom his reverie to see what this stir was about ; and at sight of that golden toy broke out with a loud •ath, that startled the men more than the finding of the treaures. " It's Grace's locket," he cried ; " the locket my daughter lost three years ago ! See if there isn't a bunch of blue flowen painted inside." He had heai«4 ^Le history of the locket from Mrs. James, au4 234 2b tht Bitter ICrid. had forgotten no detail of the one gift which the fatal strangel had sent his child. " It's uncommon hard to open," said the man, operating upon the trinket with his clumsy thumb. "Yes, here's the blue Howers, sure enough, and I suppose there ain't no doubt about the locket being your property, sir, so here it is." "And here's a sovereign for you and your mate," replieil Richard Redmayne, tossing the coin into the man's hand. He took the locket, and sat for some time looking at it thoughtfully as it lay in the palm of his hand — poor relic of the dead. She had worn it round her neck every day, Mrs. James had told him ; had loved it for the sake of the treacherous giver. *' I ought to have thought of hunting for it about here," he said to himself, " knowing she was fond of sitting under the beech. I suppose it dropped from her ribbon and fell into the hollow, and so got buried among the dead leaves. And she grieved for the loss of it. Hannah told me. Poor chUd, poor child ; she wai no more than a child to be tempted by such toys." He put the trinket into his pocket, and walked slowly home- wards ; and from that time forward he carried it about him, with liis keys and loose money, in an indiscriminate heap. The spring, which was made to defy the eye of jealousy, was not proof against this rough usage, and became loosened from con- stant friction. Thus it happened that, when Mr. Redmayne dropped the locket one day, the false back flew open, and the miniature stood revealed. He swooped upon it as a kite upon its prey. Yes, this was the face he had heard of; but how much handsomer and younger than Mrs. James's description had led him to suppose ! He sat for an hour gazing at it, and thinking of the time when he should come face to face with its owner, should look into the "yes of the living man as he now looked into the eyes of the picture. Nemesis had put this portrait in his way. " It'U be hard if I don't find him now," he said to himself. He went up to London, took the miniature to a photographer, and had it copied carefully, painted in as finished a manner as the original ; and this copy he gave to Mr. Kendel, the private laquirer. •' You told me you could do something if you had a picture oi the man I want to find," he said ; " and here is his miniature." " An uncommonly good-looking fellow," remarked Mr. Kendel, as he examined the photograph. "I'll do my best, of course, Mr. Redmayne, and the portrait may be of some use; but if I were yon, I wouldn't build too much on fiudiug tbo ma:i." Look Bach! a Thought tohth Bofdert on DetpairJ* 233 CHAPTER XXX. " VOOH BACK I A THOUGHT WHICH BORDERS Olf DBSIATR.** The London season waned, and Mr. and Mrs. Walgrave Har- cross went on a duty visit to Mr. Vallory, at the villa in the Isle of Wight; not an unpleasant abiding-place after the perpetual streets and squares, with their dingy foliage and smoky skies. They had the Avion, on board which smart craft Mr. Harcross could Ue under an awning and read metaphysics, without giving himself much trouble to follow the propositions of his author ; while Augusta talked society talk with the bosom friend of the moment. Of course they came to Ryde when the place was fullest, and it was only a migration from a larger heaven of Dinners and At Homes to a smaller, with sUght variations and amendments in the way of yachting and picknicking. Weston was with them. He was now much too usefula person to be neglected by his uncle; he had indeed become, by hia inexhaustible industry and undeviating watchfulness, the very Ufe and soul of the firm in Old Jewry. There was still a tradition that in affairs of magnitude Mr. Vallory's voice was as the voice of Delphi ; but Mr. VaUory indulged his gout a good deal, gave his fine mind not a little to the science of dining; and the rising generation of City men were tolerably satisfied with the counsels and services of Weston. He was less inclined to formaUty than the seniors of Harcross and Vallory had been ; brought his own mind to bear upon a case at a moment's notice; would take up his pen and dash off the very letter in the vain endeavour to compose which a client had been racking his brain by day and night for a week. He leaned less on counsel's opmiou than the firm had been wont to lean ; and indeed did not scruple to profess a good-humoured contempt for the gentiemen of the long robe. The business widened under his fostering care ; he was always to be found ; and his ante-chamber, a spacious room where a couple of clerks worked all day at two huge copying machines, damping, pressing, drying the autograph epistles ot the chief, was usually full of busy men eating their hearts out in the agony of waiting. He was free of access to all, and therg was now much less of that winnowing in the sieve of Messrs. Brown, Jones, and Robinson, articled clerks, or junior partners. 80 great was Mr. Weston VaUory'e power of dispatching hnsiness, flo rapid his comprehenaion of every legal entanglei Sod lb eh0 Sitter JSnd, ment, every undeveloped yearning of the client's mind, that tli« jaiiior paiitners found themselves reduced for the most fiart to drawing up small a^eements, fiUing-in contracts that Weston had skeletoned, writing msignificant letters, and such small detafls. Weston held the business iu the palm of his hand, and yet he was able to attend his cousia's " at homes," and escort her to classical matinees when Hubert Harcross was too busy. A man at his club asked him one day if he ever went to bed, to which Weston repUed blandly," sometimes, in the long vacation." He was at Eyde now, neat and dapper, with a freshness of complexion and general youthfulness oi aspect, which many an idle young patrician, a stranger to intellectual labour and Citv smoke, might have envied. " I don't know how you do it, Weston," Mr. Harcross said to him, one wet afternoon when they were weatherbound in the pretty drawing-room which looked across a sloping lawn to the sea. " You must have some elixir, I think. Do you drink the blood of innocent young children, or do you wrap yourself in the skin of a newly-flayed ape occasionally, or by what other mediaeval nostrum do you preserve that Hylas-like appearance of yours P" " Do you really think I'm looking well P " inquired Weston, with his placid smile. " My specific is of the simplest order, I assure you. I don't gorge myself as some men do. I never drink any wine but Amontillado. I lunch on a biscuit and a bottle of soda-water. 1 have my clothes made by the best men in London, and I make a point of taking life easily. I am like that citizen of London, who got out of bed one night when half the streets of the city were being consumed in a general confla- gration, and after ascertaining that the fire must bum three hours before it reached him, went quietly back to hia roost and finished his night's rest. 1 never anticipate trouble, and it must come home to me before I concern myself about it." "Would to God that I were master of your admirabls philosophy ! " said Mr. Harcross, with one of those Uttle buret* of passion which sometimes set his wife wondering. She looked up at him now from the pages of the last Toinm^ r»f fashionable hterature, with astonished eyes. " I hope your Ufe is not so very disagreeable that you need to be sustained by philosophy, Hubert," she said in her coldest tones. " My dear Augusta, what can be better than my life ? and is it not the very existence that any sensible man would choobC for himself? A little heaven here below, which many a man dreams of for years, labouring u^availingly, and never enters. How thankful, then, should I be iot the m-gic pass which haa i^lmittet^ me within the gates of that earthly paradise! liut. • JCooJr Saeh f o Thought whie\ Boriferg on Deitpair,** 237 yoa see, mere are olondd on the aonniegt day, and I have m^ hours of ahadow." " You certainly have not the gift of high spirits," replied Angnsta, " exceptinc in society." "Can a bottle oi champagne go on effervescing for ever?" asked Mr. Harcross : '* yon may goad it into a factitious sparkle with a sippet of bread, but what flat stuff it is after that transient resuscitation 1 Society asks two much of a man. He IS perpetually being uncorked, perpetually called upon to sparkle, whereby hia domestic condition becomes flatness. If you would let me take yoo through Spain this year, now, Augusta, you would find me tt*e hveliest of companions. I am well posted up in all the Spanish pictures, and we should be away from the people you call your set. Yon can't imagine how I should revive under the genial influence of solitude ; or if you would Uke a short sea voyage, we would go to St. Michael's and see the oranges growing.' " What preposterous propositions, Hubert! You have heard a hundred times that there is not an hotel in Spain fit for a lady to enter. Don't you remember that story of the innkeeper, who was also a cobbler by trade, and who made an omelet in his dirty leather apron? Imagiae my having to eat omelets made in leather aprons 1 Besides, you know very well that I have promised to go to the Clevedons on the fitteenth of August. Sir Francis Clevedon's birthday is the twenty-ninth ; and theie is to be a luncheon in the park, and a ball in the evening, and a tl^te for the tenantry and poor people, and so on." " A failure, no doubt," said Mr. Harcross in his drearier t way ; *' those elaborate inventions, those bringing together of s'entle and simple, a double debt contrived to pay, always result ai a fiasco. Cannot Sir Francis keep his birthday — the idea of a man keeping his birthday ! — without our assistance P I don't :;are about going to Clevedon." " I cannot understand what mysterious objection you can have to this visit," expluined Mrs. Harcross with evictent dis- pleasure. " One would really suppose you had some association with the neighbourhood — either so pleasant that you do not care to revisit the place under altered circumstances, or so painful that you cannot endure to renew your acquaintance with it." Mr. Harcross fro>vned, and glanced at Weston, wondering whether this hint of suspicion arose from any suggestion of his. " I have no myeterioua objection to Clevedon," he said ; " and of course if you make such a point of it, I shall go. I have oever refused any request of yours that I had the power to comply witL. But I tell you again that I hate other people's iiouaee. When I have a hoUday — and heaven knows my noli- <>ayB are few and far apart — I Uke to live my own life, not to b* 238 fb the Bitter End. awakened at half-past seven in the morning by the bmit ol Bomebody else's gong, nor to find my host swelling with a sens* of outrage because 1 was not down in time to hear him read family prayers. When the season is over, I languish for scenea remote from West-end man. I should hke to take you to Algeria, and scrape acquaintance with the Moors. I should Hlr« to charter a ship and sail away to the Arctic seas, if there weio time enough for such a voyage. Anything rather than Belgravia, and Tyburnia, and Kensingtonia out of town." " I am sorry that the duties of civilized existence will not permit us to go to the North Pole," replied Mrs. Harcross, with a little scornful laugh; "but, you see, if you do not value friend- ship, I do, and I should be very sorry to disappoint Georgie Clevedon. Poor child ! it is such a new thing for her to b« mistress of a great house like Clevedon, and I have promised to ^ive her a good deal of advice about the management of her household." " WTiat ! Do you know anything about that science P " asked Hubert incredulously. "Have you ever stooped to such petty details ? I thought Fluman and Mrs. Candy managed every- thing." '* How stupid you are, Hubert 1 Of course I am not my own housekeeper, if that's what you mean. I never interfered with anything of that kind in my life ; no woman dare do it who hopes to hold any position in society. Imagine one's mind being distracted by a question of dinner. With papa, I made it a point never to find fault with a servant. If they did not suit, they were dismissed ; and the housekeeper had full authority. ' I never question anything yon do,' I said; 'and in return you must never disturb me by so much as a hint of household annoyances.' " " In that case, would it not be better to send Mrs. Candy to Clevedon ? She would be best able to advise Lady Clevedon." " You surely don't suppose that Georgina Clevedon wishes to be advised about soups or jellies, or housemaids' wages, or soap and candles. I am going to put her in the way of taking her position in the county." " But, my dear, do you know anything about counties P " " I know society," replied Augusta with dignity. " Society in Kent is the same thing as society in Mastodon-crescent." " Unhappily, yes," cried Mr. Harcross with a faint groan. " It was said that the printing-press had driven away Robin Good- fellow and the fairies : and I fancy that the railway system has, in the same manner, banished ail individuality. There is no puch thing as a counbry gentleman. If Sir Roger de Coverley u-ere aUve now, who would not rejoice to visit him P And ther« would be some fan in spending a week with Squire Western : thft fellow wa« at least raoy." - Look Back I a 27tougke whiek Borders on Despair** 289 " Then I am to understand that you will go with me to 01ev&. don, I suppose," said Augusta, after a pause, during which she had returned to her book, and Mr. Harcross to the contempla« tion of the raindrops chasing one another down the plate- glass window, or the leaden sea beyond. Weston stood with hig back to the chimneypiece, pretending to read the Times. This discussion about Clevedon was particularly interesting to him, and he became more and more inclined to think that Mr. Wal- grave's visit to the Kentish farmhouse was associated with some episode worth his knowing. " I will go, of course, u you really wish me to go. It cannot eignify very much where I spend the last weeks in August." " We need not stay longer than a fortnight at most," said Mrs. Harcross graciously, evidently softened by this concession. " And then, if you really care about the Continent, I shall be happy to go anywhere you please." " Even to the North Pole," Mr. Harcross observed with a smile, " We could hardly be a colder couple if we spent our lives there," he said to himself afterwards. " Weston is invited," continued Mrs. Harcross, — " Sir Francis asked him when they met in the square. Papa was asked too, but, with his gout, he prefers remaining quietly here. I don't think there'll be a very large party staying in the house, for Sir Francis has few old friends in England, and of course Georgie does not wish to crowd the house with her people.** It was settled, therefore, that Hubert Harcross should visit Clevedon ; should eat, drink, and oe merry in the place where ho had Bpent that one idly happy summer day — in a place that was associated with the dead. He thought of the room with the eriel window, the room where he had told Grace Redmayne his fatal secret, where he had held her in his arms for the lirst time. He wondered how that room would look — changed or the same — and how he should feel when he looked upon it. For a long time after that hideous November day, when she sank dead at his feet, he had Uved in constant apprehension of some encounter with Grace Redmayne's kindreA. But nothing had come of this dread except a visit from John Wort, who had accusd him straightly enough of having tempted the girl away, and to whom he had deliberately lied. So, little by little, his fears had worn themselves out. He had heard of the migration of JMrs. James and her family, heard that the old farmhouse was tenantless, and believed himself tolerably secure from the evil consequences of hia sin. But notwithstanding his sense of «ecurity, nothing could have been more repellent to him than the idea of this visit. It was only from tJie fear of awakening sus- picion in the mind of his wife that he consented to go. Had he been asked what it was he dreaded, or why he, who was not & 24(0 To the Bift^r EnA man prone to sentimentality, should so shrink from ooking once more on that familiar scene, his explanation must have b^n of the vaguest. He only knew that he did shrink from this visit, and that it was against his own judgment he consented to go to Clevedon. " If there is any danger for me in that neighbourhood — dangei of scandal or unpleasantness of any kind — I am running into the teeth of it," he said tt himself; "but I hardly think there can be. The whole family are in Australia, and Brierwood farmhouse is shut up. Poor old house, where I first learnt that my heart was something more than a force-pump to assist the cir- ciilatinn of the blood. Poor old garden, where I was so foolishly happy." CHAPTER XXXI. HUSliA_NDS AND WIVES. SiE Francis and Lady Clevedon left the Swiss monntains and valleys early in August, and came to their Kentish home, des- perately in love with each other, and altogether a most foolishly devoted couple, as Sibyl Clevedon informed them after a day or two spent in their society. " You really do flirt abominably," she said, " and I don't think I shaU be able to stand it, if things are always to go on in this way. My existence here will be a perpetual state of doing goose- berry. Don't you think you might find some eligible person to fall in love with me, Frank : so that I may set up a rival business f The present state of affairs is awfully slow." xS ot slow for the principals, however, to whom life just now seemed a summer holiday. The young couple certainly made the most of that happy week of perfect liberty which preceded the arrival of their visitors. They wandered in the park all through the sultry summer morning, exploring their territory like a married Robinson Crusoe and his wife, " running about," as Percy Shelley's wife called it, when she spoke of herself and her boy-husband in their Welsh cottage. They rode about the sur- rounding villages, made themselves familiar with the boundaries of the estate, and formed the acquaintance of numerous small tenants and farm labourers, all of whom wanted something done, and took advantage of Sir Francis Clevedon's defenceless stat-a in a ruthless manner. John Wort rated his master soundly fur «uch foUy. " If you go giving *em everything they ask," he said, " you may an well divide your estate among 'em at once, and go ap<^ Miuband* and WiveM. 241 be a Plymouth Brother. It'll oome to the same thing ; for I'm blest if ever yon'U get sixpence a year out of the property, il you liston to your tenants' •whims and fancies. I never give 'em anything ; that's my rule. ' Don't you Uke the pla^ PI ask, if they come whining to me. ' Because if you don't, you've got your remedy next quarter-day. There isn't an acre of land or a nouse on the estate that I couldn't let over your heads three deep ; so if you want to better yourselves in some other direc- tion, pray don't stop out of poliNness to me.' That generally brings them to their senses. But of course, if the proprietoi goes tampering with the tenants, I'm done. Once give 'em any- thing, and they'll never leave off asking; and if you begin by giving inches, yonll find yourself let in for ells before you know where you are. Sir Francis looked penitent, and referred to a dainty little note- book of Georgie's with a gruesome countenance. " I'm afraid I committed myself to a new chimney or two, and a Uttle improvement in the way of drain pipes, where I found the cottages hardly as sweet as Breidenbach's shop ; and here's a case where I think something inexpensive ax the shape of a stable would be an actual chanty, for the fjimily have a donkey which Uves with them in their common sitting-room — uncom- fortable for the donkey, which must find himself hustled about when the family are busy, and perhaps a check on the freedom of conversation ; for who can tell what a donkey may or may not understand P My wife pleaded piteously for the brute. I'm afraid her compassion went to the donkey rather than to the family who were compelled to have him in their parlour. Here's an oven, I see, to which I certainly did pledge myself, at the request of a woman whose cottage was a perfect model of cleanliness. And if she had an oven she could give her old man a bit of pie for his supper, or a toad-in-the-hole for his dinner. What is a toad-in-the-hole, by-the-byeP I've heard of viper broth being given by the Italians to people in extremity, but a toad is a new idea. Come, Wort, be philanthropic, andf redeem all my promises without any more grumbling. I daresay I've been a fool, but you see a man does not get married many times in his hfe, and may he excused a little weakness on such sm occasion." "Of course, if you say I'm to do these things, Sir Francis, I must do them," replied tfohn Wort, with the sigh of resignation. •• It isn't my place to make objectioas. I suppose you know that Ton've It^ yourself in for a couple of hundred pounds, at th< frast." " Well save the money somehow. Wort, depend upon it," answered the delinquent gaily. " You have no idea what a financif^r 1 am. Lady Clevedon and X were planning a Swisi 24:2 To the Bitter End. eottage in the loveliest comer of tlie park to-day — a sequestered nook where we might spend our afternoons when we wanted ^a be alone, in order that our servants might teU people we were not at home without outraging their own moral sense. We'll defer the building of our Swiss cottage, and that wiU balance matters." " This here feet-shampeter will cost no end of money, I reckon," observed the unappeasable steward, who, conscious of having made the shipwrecked estate sea-worthy by his own exertions, was inclined to consider that he had a prescriptive right to grumble. " O, dear no ; it will be the simplest thing in the world. Be- sides, that's out of your jurisdiction, you know. Wort ; a mere domestic expense." " I know that, Sir Francis. I know there ain't many masters as would let me speak that free as I do to you. But, you see, I've worked hard for the property, and it's almost as near and dear to me as if it was an only child ; and I don't want to see you ruin yourself, as Sir Lucas did. Shampeters was in his line, you know, sir." " Don't alarm yourself, Wort, I've graduated in the science of economy. Remember what I lived on abroad. And you don't Know what a treasure of a wife I have secured. There'U be no extravagance in this household, depend upon it. O, by the way. Wort, il you're not in a hurry this morning, I should like to aek you a question." " My time is your time. Sir Francis." " Sit down, then, and make yourself comfortable. I'll ring for some sherry and soda. I've been looking over the maps of the estate, and the family history, intermarriages of great- uncles and great-aunts, ramifications of cousins, and so on ; and I find there's a small estate my father got rid of about seven years before I was bom, a place I never heard of in my Ufe, called Ravenhurst. It seems to have been a farm of about three hundred acres, with a house of some importance upon it. I wonder I never heard my father speak of it." " I don't," said Mr. Wort decisively. "But why not P" " Does a man ever care to talk about a thing he has parted with ? " asked the steward philosophically, as he removed the wire from a soda-water bottle. " It s always a sore subject." " But how did my father come to sell this Ravenhurst estate ?" inquired Sir Francis. " Wasn't it in the entail ? " " No, sir ; it was your grandmother's property. She ' "^ an heiress, you know, a Miss Blandford, only daughter oi Oolnnd Blandford, who made no end ot money in the Canwrtxa — what •ver that may be — and bought a good deal of land hernHbo;it«." Hunhanck mnd THvet. 243 '* Humph 1 CtirioTis I should never have heard of the estate. %ly father's difficulties had begun, I suppose, when he sold it ? " •* Well, yes, sir. He did'nt sell it without a strong necessity." ■' And did his creditors get all the money P " " Not the common run of his creditors," replied Mr. Wort, who had a thoughtful air, and seemed indisposed to be com- municative. " They didn't touch a penny. It was a debt of honour, which Sir Lucas settled with the price of Ravenhurst." " Ah, that fatal play ! Fox, and that card-playing set, who made it the fashion for a man to ruin himself, had a great deal to answer for. Who bought the estate ? " "A Mr. Quinlan, a gentleman farmer, whose property it joined; but the land was sold again at his death. Ravenhurst has been through otber hands since Sir Lucas sold it ; sevcn- and-thirty yearc ago, you see, sir. It belongs to a retired builder now, who has divided it into three small farms, and soH the frontages for building ground." Sir Francis was satisfied. It was strange, certainly, that his father had never mentioned Ravenhurst, and yet like his father to have avoided an unpleasant topie. He put the subject out ef his mind. Ravenhurst was gone from him and his heirs for ever. He had not the insatiable hunger for land which possesses some men. It was hard upon the poor old Colonel, who had fouglit^ and possibly plundered, in the Carnatic, that his estate should have been thus lightly disposed of, but it was scarcely a hard- ship for Sir Francis. That idle happy week with his young wife seemed the briefest of his existence : one long ride through shawdowy woods and sunny green lanes, where the hedges were full of flowers ; one lazy morning, dreaming under the chesnuts in the park ; one tranquil evening, made musical by two sweet girUsh voices blen- ded in old familiar melodies such as the heart of man loveth. They spent the peaceful evenings of this initiatory week in Georgie's morning room, that very chamber with the oriel window in which Grace Redmayne's girhsh form had first been folded in a lover's arms, that room which in Hubert Walgrave's memory held a place as solemn aB a mortuary chapel. The furniture had not been changed ; the old Indian cabinets— Bombay blackwood — and Poonah desks and card-racks, which had been good enough for Colonel Blandford's daughter, the heiress of spoils from the Carnatic, were good enough tor Georgie. A new Persian carpet, with new blue sUk window-curtains, and blue silk covers for the antiquated chairs and sofas ; a dainty maple- wood cottage pianQ in a snug resess by the fireplace ; a huge cage of Australian birds, and a prettily carved ivory frame, containing all the photographic portraits that had ever been taken of Francis Clevedon — from the lioy at a German Universary to the Master of Clevedon 244 To tJu Bitter JSnd. Part : sacli trifles as Aeae had BuiEceJ to make the room i^erfcoj in the eyes of Georgie. The 15th of August — ^the day on which their gneeta were to arrive — came too swiftly for the wedded lovers. " Frankie, do you know I'm afraid I hate visitors P " Georgie said, with a solemn face expressive of profound self-abasement, as she stood by her husband's side at an open window in the square parlour in the early summer morning. " What a horrible cotilession for the head of a county family ! And yet yoo were anxious that Mrs. Harcross should come to ycu, Georgie." " Was I, Frank P Mrs. Harcross ! Well, you know, Mrs. Har- cross was very good to me about my trousseau. You've no idea what trouble she took. But for her you might have had such a dowdy wife. She said aunt Chowder's notions were a quarter of a century old." " I don't think it would have disturbed my peace of mind very much, Georgie, if that calamity had occurred. I should love you 1'ust as well if you had only one faded grown — like Enid. Indeed, ' have serious thoughts of putting you to the test, as that young lady was tested ; or taking a leaf out of the Decameron, and making a modem Grisel of you. I wonder how you would come through that kind of furnace." " You can't say I'm wanting in fortitude, Frank, when I parted with Pedro for your sake. But don't let's be silly, please. I want to talk very seriously." " J im all attention." *• No, you're not, sir ; you're staring oat ol the window with all yocr ij;iight." " Look at the shadows of the chestnuts, Georgie, and that group of deer ; don't you think those are worth staring at ? " " Yes, of course : but I want you to talk of the people who are coming to-day. First and foremost, there is aunt Chowder. I had a tremendous discussion about the rooms with Mrs. Mixer, and I really thought we never should settle things so as not tc offend aiij one. Aunt Chowder is to have the yellow room, with the little dressing-room, which by rights belongs to the blue* room ; but that we give to a bachelor — Mr. Weston Vallory — and he can do without a dressing-room," " Weston Vallory 1 " exclaimed Sir Faucis, with a wry faoa. •• Did we ask that snob P " " Why, Frank, you know you invited him yourself j " " I know nothing about it, my dear. A man who is going to oe married may be expected to be a little oflF his head. I Bup« pose I did ask the fellow in some expansive moment." " Don't you like him, dear P " ** Do I like cobras, or skunks, or musk-rats, or any othot Hwhand* and Wive*, 245 anclean things P I should think "Westop Vollory was of the mask -rat species; and that if he ran across the Dottles iu my cellar, he'd iwiaon the wine inside them : ca sent le snob." " How can you be so unjust, Frank P Mrs. Harcross told rot- that her cousin is a most good-natured man. He Is quite d»> voted to her." " Yes ; and hates her husband with all the venom of a small nature. I tell you, Georgie, Weston Vallory belongs to the venomous tribes. I was a fool to invite the two men together. However, I suppose in good society one must have people who iate each other. Go on with your list, my dear." " The tapestry-room for the Harcrosses," said Georgie, count- ing on her lingers ; " the room the prince slept in for General Cheviot and his wife; the oak room for your friend Captain Hardwood ; the cedar room for my friends the Miss Stalmans ; and one of the best rooms on the top story for your learned friend Mr. M'Gall, the Scotchman who writes for all the reviews. I think that's all. Papa is to be with us every day ; but he won't sleep away from the Bungalow, you know, if he can possibly help it, for fear there should be a fire in the night, and f JEnd. And through fire and water Weston Vallory was qtiite jfr* pared to go, with one end and aim held steadily in view. CHAPTER XXXIL " Oy PLEAStlKE BKNT." Summer skies and snmmer wooda, quaint old j^ardens brimTning over with roses, a fair supply of carriages and horses, a good cook, and a considerable prof>ortion of youthful spirits, combined to make the httle gathering at Clevedon a very pleasant busi- ness. There were plenty of show-places and a sprinkling of interesting ruins in that fair garden of England ; and Lady Clevedon's visitors were rarely at home for luncheon, but were to be found at that social hour either picknicking on the smoot b turf in the chancel of a dilapidated abbey, or roughing it in the sanded best parlour of some rustic inn, or camping on th« summit of a hill, with a Turneresque landscape spreading wide beneath, and melting into the blue sky beyond an opposite range of wooded hills twenty miles away. Sir Francis Clevedon's horses, and such job-horses as were to be hired in the village of Kingsbury, had rather a hard time of it during these festivities, and may reasonably have wished themselves in any other state of life. Little rest had they in the gloomy, substantial old stables, in the spacious quadrangle, where pear-trees and yellow jasmine climbed over the dark red- brick walls, and a great clock clanged the hours, half -hours, and (]uarterB, with a dissonant clang that outraged the summer quiet. As 8iX)n as the cheery, loimging breakfast was over, the morning papers read, and perhaps a stray game of billiards indulged in, while the ladies were dressing for the day's excur- ;etual mental reireshnieut in his briefs, dull and c«^mmonplace as they mif,^ht seem to an outsider. There was always some interesting technicality, some legal knot to be un- tied by his dexterous hand, some subtle pitfall to be planned for the opposite side. But in this company-life, this little colony of guests thrown together at random, like shipwrecked strangers on a desert island, pretending to be congenial and perpetually amused, he could find neither interest nor deUght. He was walldng to and fro in a dreary way, letting his idle thoughts wander where they would, when the door at the end of the gallery opened and he heard the rustling of a silk dress. Perhaps no one else of his acquaintance ever wore such rich silk or such long trains as Augusta, or it may have been a mere fancy on his part; but he always imagined that her garments had a peculiar rustle, and he looked up now, startled by the familiar sound, to find that he had not been deceived. It was his wife who had opened the door. She came towards him slowly, with a rigid look in her faco, tliat hardly promised a pleasant encounter. " The idea of your being here, Hubert, all by yourself ! " " Why should I not be here, Augusta, and by myself, for o»ce in a way ? Have I not been Uving in public long enough to satisfy even your views of one's duty to society? I'm rather glad to stretch my legs here, and think my own thoughts and do a little yawning. If you knew how often I've languished foi a comfortable yawn lately ! " " What nonsense, Hubert ! " Mrs. Harcross exclaimed, with vexation. " I've been looking for you all over the house. Even? one else is in the biUiard-room." " Then I am sure I cannot be missed." " O, yes, you are. Your friend the youngest Miss Stalman has been inquiring about you — ' Mr. Harcross would be able to decide that ; * * Mr. Harcross would be so interested in this ; ' and 80 on. How I detest girls who are always going on about married men ! " " Has the youngest Miss Stalman that infirmity? Perhaj-»a it has arisen from a dearth of single men ; they do seem rather a scarce commodity. However, Miss Stalman can exist very well without me for an afternoon or bo. I hope you haven't been dull, Augusta." " I have not been particnlarly gay. I don't care about billiards, 9a you know ; (xad I have lookea through all the books in the lant 258 To the Bitter End. box from London, and there is really nothing in them ; and Uievo ueems no chance of our getting a drive before dinner." " Not unless you defy the elements, my dear. Suppose yon Btop and have a walk with me — this is a capital room for an in- door constitutional ; and we so seldom have any opportunity for confidential talk nowadays. Don't you think this kind of visiting is something like living under a glass case P" " I do not find that we ever have much to say to each othci* when opportunity does favour us," Mrs. Harcross replied stiffly. " You appear to be much more eloquent in the society of Miss Lucy Stalman." " Miss Stalman is not my wife," replied Mr. Harcross, with a careless shrug. "I am not obliged to be in earnest when I talk to her ; I am only doing company. Besides, that kind of balder- dash is my trade, and I may as well keep my hand in ; it is the sort of stuff with which I beguile my adversaries and amuse my colleagues at Westminster. Come, Augusta," he said, seeing nc sign of brightening in his wife's moody countenance, " you are not going to be jealous of Lucy Stalman, par exemple. I thought that kind of thing was quite out of your line." " I suppose you thought it out of my line to care for you, or to feel your coldness," she answered bitterly. " My dear Augusta, how unreasonable this is I" exclaimed Mr. Harcross, taken somewhat by surprise at this unwonted display t>f feeling. " Can you for a moment imagine that it has been any gratification to me to talk to that young woman, or that I take the faintest interest in her P I was obHged to do something — to put on a kind of spurious gaiety — to contribute my quota to the general clatter." They had not begun their promenade, but were standing in tha middle of the gallery, near a carved-oak buffet, on which there was a dusty collection of oriental china, cracked saucors, and Canton cups, which had been considered priceless gems of art in their day. Mr. Harcross stood idly fingering the fragile teacups, changing their positions as if he had been playing a game of thimble-rig with them. Mrs. Harcross walked away to one of the windows with a Httle impatient sigh, and stood looking out at the dim rain-blotted landscape. " It is not that," she said presently, in a contemptuous tone. ** You cannot suppose that I could be jealous of such a frivolous chit as Lucy Stalman. It is not that, Hubert ; it is only " She broke down suddenly with a choking sound that was like » stifled sob. *' Only what, my dear P " Mr. Harcross asked, tearing himself away firom the teacups and going over to her. Her face was turned so resolutely towards the window that he could not see it without a greater effort than it was natural for him to make ; h» ** And One with You I could not Be." 259 oould onl^ lay his hand gently on her shoulder, and repeat his question m a somewhat graver tone. There was no answer, but the choking sound waa not repeated. Mrs. Harcross stood steady as a rock. " What is the meaning of all this, Augusta P What is amiss between us?" " What is amiss between us?" she repeated. " Do you need to be told that ? Is it not sufficiently obvious to the dullest comprehensiou what is amiss between us ? A trifle. Only that you Dave never loved me." " Wlio has been putting this stuff into your head, Augusta ?" " My own reason. The knowledge began to dawn upon me a long time ago, even in London, where our lives were so busy, and we were hardly ever alone. It has become a little clearer to me, perhaps, in this house, where we have been thrown more to- gether, and where I have had time to observe other married couples, and to see the difference between their union and ours." " I suppose you mean Sir Francis and Lady Clevedon, who are only just out of their honeymoon, and are in the gushing stage. Unfortunately, you see, I cannot gfush. If you expect that kind of thing from me, you will always have ground tor complaint. In the first place, I am, I daresay, ten years older than Frank Clevedon ; and, in the second place, I am built of a harder kind of wood. I don't break out into leaf and blossom as that sort of man does." " I don't exact anything, Hubert," his wife answered gloomily. " I have only made a discovery. It is one that I have made by degrees ; but I think it has come fuUy home to me in this house." If she had hoped to wring protestations of affection from him by this upbraiding, if she nad thought to extort some tender avowal by this complaint, she must needs liave been sorely di*- ajipointed by the calm buainess-Uke tone of his reply. " My dear Augusta," he began, with a manner that was at once kindly and serious, " I am the last man upon earth to argue such a point as this ; indeed, it is not one that will admit of argument. Call domestic love into question, and it ceases to be. It is too delicate a blossom to bear rough handling. Grod knows I have tried to do my duty, have never knowingly thwarted a wish of yours, however trivial. So far from wishing to loosen the tie that binds us, I would gladly have it made closer. I wish we had children, my dear, and that our fine house was more like home. I wish society claimed rather less of your attention, and that you could sympathize more warmly with my pursuits and aspirations, small as they may be. Oome, Augusta, let us leave matrimonial bickerings to silher people than you and I. I told jou tiiis was an unlucky house for me to come to; do not makd me too true a prophet." «iBO To fh* Bittisr End. "An unlttcky house for yon to come tot" echoed AagosUv turning to him wth a sudden suspicion in her face. " No ; you •lid not say that. You were only unwilling to come. What do you mean by this being an unlucky house r " " Does it not seem in a fair way to prove so, when you begin a kind of upbraiding which I never heard from you before ? " "You are always talking in enigmas, Hrbert, and I never knew any one from whom it was more difficult to get a straight answer. I want to know why you call this house unlucky. " Are you very anxious for an answer P " he inquired, with a provoking coolness. They were standing face to face by this time. He had not often seen his wife so much in eai-nest. He smiled at her eager- ness with a somewhat wintry smile. " I am very anxious." " Then I will answer you in five words — Because it is not mine." His wife looked at bim for a few moments in utter silence, aa if petrified by surprise. " Because it is not yours, Hubert !" she repeated. " Yon call this house unlucky because it is not yours ! Do you wish me to suppose that you are capable of so paltry a sentmient as envy; that you actually envy Sir Francis the possession of Clevedon P " " Hardly that. Frank Clevedon ip a good fellow enough, and I harbour no grudge against himi. In point of fact, I rather like hira. Yet were I disposed to be bitter, this place is very well cal- culated to inspire bitterness. I am only human, Augusta ; status is the prize I have worked for, and you know how hard I have worked, and how Uttle of what people call the pleasures of this life 1 have tasted. A man cannot serve two masters : my mast-er has been Success, and I have served him well. Yet 1 think I would rather have the position that a good old name, supported by such an estate as tms, gives a man than the best place I am ever Ukely to win at the Bar." "That is quite possible," replied Augusta, rather contemp- tuously. " I might like very well to be a duchess ; but if my most intimate friend happened to be one, I should not envy her lier strawberry leaves." " The cases are not parallel, my dear. There maybe peculiar rea- BOQ8 why I should feel some touch of bitterness about Clevedon " " PecuUar reasons ! What reasons for bitterness can you possibly have in relation to a place that you never saw till ten days ago?" " How do you know that I had not seen it before P '' " Because you did not say so." " I might not care about talking of the place. You knot? that I did not like coming to it — ^that you brouglt me hoi« against my will-" -'And One with Ton 1 could not Be" 261 ** T begin to tliink Weston was right, and that some associa- tion with your stay at Brierwood Farm made this visit painful to you !" The dark stem face flashed, and then paled- In spite of the mastery which Mr. Harcrosa had acquired over his emotions, there were some home thrusts that made their mark. " I was not thinking of my stay at Brierwood," he said, re- covering himseh' promptly. '* I had seen Clevedon before I saw Bnerwood." " How singularly uncommunicative you were upon the sub- ject, then ! " said Augusta in an otfended tone. Never had ?he felt so angry with him ; no, not even on the night of their first quarrel. It was a smouldering fire, which perhaps had been kindled then, and had been fanned into flame by Weston's in- sinuations. " 1 tell you again it is not a subject I care about discussing. By the way, you mentioned Weston Vallory just now, in a manner which leads me to conclude that I am indebted to him for this afternoon's unexpected outbreak. Now, I am not given to threatening, but it is only fair to tell you that any interference of that kind, and from that quarter, is just the likeUest influence in the world to make a life-long breach between us. I know Mr. Weston Vallory by heart, and — tolerate him. But let me once see his finger in my domestic afi'airs, and it will be war to the knife between us. You would have to make your election be- tween your husband and your cousin. It's hardly worth while prolonging a conversation that seems destined to be unpleasant," he added after a brief pause. " I'll go down to the billiard-room and see how the match is getting on." He walked towards the door, but Augusta stopped him. " You shall not leave me like that, Hubert," her voice tremu- lous, her breast heaving with suppressed passion. *' What do I care for Weston Vallory ? He is ray first cousin, and he is useful and obhging ; but you know that I do Uttle more than — tolerate him. But I am not going to be put off" in this way. I am determined to penetrate the secret of your disUke to this house. I don't think I have a jealous nature, but that there should be a cecret between you and me is something more than I can bear. There is a woman at the bottom of this mystery, Hubert." " What if I admit the fact ? " said Mr. Harcross cooUy. "There t» a woman concerned in your secret, thenl" cried Augusta breathlessly. " Yes. My secret, as you call it, concerns a woman who died thirty years ago, and that woman was my mother." " Your mother ! " " Yes, Augusta. You have goaded me into this confession, lus you Burpriised me luto a former one. Utsavon knows whethw 2G2 To the Bitter End. it is best for both of us that I should be thua candid ; whethu» we shall seem any nearer to each other when you know all thaj makes the brief and bitter story of my life ; but since you mak« this business into a grievance, and seem to take the matter so deeply to heart, I may as well tell you everything there is to be told. Do you remember the night Sir Francis Clevedon dined at your father's house — the first time you saw him ? " " Perfectly," murmured Augusta, looking at him with a faca full of wonder and vague expectancy. " But what can that have to do with your secret?" " You remember that on that first meeting you were struck by tbe likeness between him and me, and since we have been here you have heard all these frivolous fools babbling about my resemblance to the Clevedon portraits." " Of course I have heard them." " And yet the fact has never suggested any idea, any sus- picion ? You have never so much as wondered whether there might not be a reason for so marked a Ukeness between two men, who are, to aU appearance, strangers?" 'MVhat reason could there be?" exclaimed Augusta, with a, frightened look. " That Francis Clevedon's father and mine were thr same." '* What ! " cried his wife, with unutterable horror. " You an^i the — illegitimate brother of the master of this house ? " " No ; I will not take upon myself that stigma. I have no certain knowledge as to the legitimacy or illegitimacy of my birth. I only know that the man who blighted my mother's life was Sir Lucas Clevedon. I have told you before to-day that I could never discover whether he did or did not marry her. There was only one man likely to know the truth — that man was Lord Daitmoor, my father's most intimate friend, but he died and made no sign. All that I know is, that about a jear boforp my mother's death, Sir Lucas, at Lord Dartmoor's instigation, sold an estate of some value, and settled the purchase-money upon my mother and me. Now I do not believe Sir Lucau Clevedon was the kind of man to make any such sacrifice with- out a motive, and that a motive stronger than a selfish man's love. It is quite possible there had been some sort of marriago abroad, and that this settlement was the price he paid for secrecy. Yet I hardly think if the ceremony had been valid — a marriage that would hold water in a law court — my mother would have sold my birthright. I love her too dearly to believt that she could be unjust to her child. I love her too dearly ta believe that she was ever anything less than mj father's wiie." " And you have never even thought of asserting your rights P" asked Augusta. " Never. If I have rights, I have no evidence to prove them. " And One with Ton I could not Be " 263 not BO mnch as the certificate of my birth. Nor do I even know where I was born, nor by what name my wretched existent* wan recorded in the register of humanity. I am not the man to advance a claim I could not support, or wantonly to bring dis- honour upon my mother's name by dragging the question of my birthright before the world. The settlement which my father made was sufficient to secure me a good education, and to keep me respectably while I waited for my first brief. I owe it to Lord Dartmoor that I began life at Harrow and Oxford. I owe it to Lord Dartmoor that I was not a shoelriss pickpocket, sleep- ing under the dark arches in the Adelphi." Augusta Harcross covered her face with her hands and shud- dered visibly. She was a woman to whom this kind of thing, this doubtful birth, this possibihty of naked feet and dark arches, was unspeakably horrible. To her, who had been nur tured in the luxurious lap of middle-class prosperity, th* thoughts of these degrading circumstances were as glimpses of some nethermost gulf, too black and deep to bo looked into. She covered her face involuntarily, as if by that gesture she would fain have shut out the full horror of the situation. That she should have married a man so situated seemed to her the bitterest shame that could have befallen her — a disgrace from which there could be no recovery. And she had chosen him as a man hkely to achieve distinction for her — a man whose name it would be an honour to bear. Great heavens ! what a revela- tion ! Future ages would know of her as the wife of Sir Lucas Clevedon's illegitimate son. Such secrets may be hidden for the moment, but leak out in history. " His brother ! " she said at last. ** Sir Lucas Clevedon's un- acknowledged son! O, why did you ever bring me hereP " " It was you who insisted on my coming." " Do yon suppose that I would have come here if I had known this ? " cried Mrs. Harcross indignantly. " The very n;irae of the place would have been detestable to me." " If it has become so now we can go away at once," replied Hubert quietly. " There is nothing to hinder ns." " And challenge suspicion by the very fact of our going ! After all the talk about your likeness to these Clevedons, too! I daresay there are people who suspect already. It is too horrible to think of." "" I am sorry I told yon this, since the discovery is so painfnl to yon." " Painfnl 1 You have stung me to the heart. To think of my husband in such a position — not daring to acknowledge his own brother — a visitor m his father's house without the rigiit to atter his father's name ! " "It is a pity my parents were not wiser in their eeneration." J64 To the Bitter End. Baid Mr. Harcross with a contemptuous laugh. "If m;y mother had drowned me in Lake Lucerne, tor instance; ot if my father had dropped me out of the travelling carriage on the edge of some convenient precipice, you would have been spared this humiliation." " Laugh at me as much as you please. But dearly as I have loved you, I think I would rather you had died long ago than that I should have lived to suffer what I suffer to-day," said Mrs. Harcross ; and with those words she sundered the frail bond that had bound her husband's heart with a sentiment which was half remorse, half gratitude. His gratitude and his remorseful sense of having wronged her perished together, an he Ustened to that ruthless speech. " I do not think there are many wives who would have taken such a revelation in such a spirit," he replied, with an exceeding calmness ; " but I do think that your character is the natural outcome of your surroundings, and I am hardly surprised. Am I to conclude that you wish to remain here until the pro- posed end of your visit P " " Certainly. I will do nothing to make people talk." " As you please. I came here to gratii'y you, and shall remain until you're tired. It's halt-past six, I see," looking at hia watch. *' Isn't it time you began to think about dressing for dinner ? " His quiet tone betrayed no emotion whatever. If he were offended ever so deeply, she could not tell how much or how little. There was no quickened breathing, no unsteadiness of the voice, nor the faintest quiver of the firm thin lips. " Your toilet is such an important business," he said ; " and mine only an affair of half an hour. I'll go and smoke my cigar in the colonnade while you make your election betweeu pink and blue." And so they parted ; he to go, as he had said, to one of the stone colonnades at the end of the house, wlu^re he took another solitary promenade, and solaced his wounded spirit with a cigar. "I'm glad I told her," he said to himself. "I'm glad she showed me her nature in all its nakedness. Great heaven ! what a narrow selfish soul ! Not a thought of my loss, or my dishonour. Only herself — the cheat practised upon herself. 1 don't think I ever understood her thoroughly untQ to-day. At least I have done with compunction ; I shall feel no more remorse for having contracted an engagement I cannot con- scientiously fulfil. She only wanted a position, and that I have won for her. Loved me 1 she never can have loved me ; if she had, she would have flung herself upon my breast to-day, and sobbed out her shame for me upon my heart. If I had told Graoe Bedmayne my story 1 O God 1 I can see the sweet "And One with You I eould not Be.** 265 «ympathetio face lifted up to mine, the tender eyes shining through a mist of tears. I can almost feel the touch of the dear dead hands. O, my love, my love ! you would have perished to save my soul from pain ; yet your memory is ' the worm that meth not, and the fire that is not quenched.' " Tullion had rather a hard time of it that evening at the toilet of her mistress. Mrs. Harcross, althou£?h distinguished at all times by a bearing which her maid called " orty," or " stand-offish," was, for the most part, a Itdy of even temper. She was too proud to fly into a passion with a servant, or betray vexation at the failure of a new dress. That omnipresent and mysterious deity called " Society " reigned supreme even in Augusta's dressing-room. She would not suffer her maid to see a countenance which she could not present to Society. Thip evening, however, Mrs. Harcross was evidently out of sorts. " Why didn't you order a fire in my room, Tullion ?" she ex- claimed, looking contemptuously at the grate with its summer finery of paper shavings. " On such a miserable day as this, ft fire is an absolute necessity." "I can light it this moment, ma'am, if you like," replied the dutiful TuUion, ready to speed off in quest of coals and wood. ■' And smother me with smoke !*' cried Augusta. " No, thank you. I daresay all these old chimneys smoke abominably. What induced you to put out that diamond necklet ? " she asked, [lointing to a fiery serpent, coiled ou a purple velvet cushion, a chef-d'(Bit,vre of the jeweller's art, and her lather's wedding pre- sent. "Do yoa suppose I am going to parade the contents of my jewel-case every evening P " " I beg your pardon, ma'am, if I was wrong. But I thought you would wear the amber silk and black lace, and being rather a 'eavy dress, it wants the relief of di'monds, You've not wora the amber yet." " I hate amber. Every woman with black hair wears amber. And the dress with the Maltese flounces is not amber, but maize. I wish you would learn to call colours by their right names. You can take out my black silk train." "Black silk, ma'am!" exclaimed Tullion, aghast. "Thore ain't a death among the crowned heads of Europe, is there, caa'am P " *' Crowned heads, nonsense !" " I thought it might be rile mourning, ma'am. Yon so seldom wear black." " Pray don't argue tie point, Tullion ; I shall wear black silk this evemng." It was a pel* J capiiice, no doubt, for uo loftj a mind. BhI 266 To the Bitter JEVtrf. Mrs. Harcrosa haci conceived a Budden lion-or of aU tliat finerj whicli had been hitherto the chief occupation and delight of hof days. The treasures of those vast travelling-cases, brimming over with silks, and satins, and laces, and furbelows, seemed all at once transformed into so much sackcloth and ashes. Grood heavens, was she to make herself splendid and conspicuous only to be pointed out as the wife f£ Sir Lucas Clevedon's natural eon? How could she tell how many people knew the story of her husband's birth ? This Lord Dartmoor who was in the secret might have told his friends right and left, and such know- ledge spreads like a prairie fire. It was not because Mr. Har- cross fancied his story unknown that it really was so. Half the people who shook his hand and ate his dinners might be familiar with the circumstances of his birth, and might secretly despise him. It was like living in an atmosphere of contempt. So the glittering snake, and two infant snakes, his com- panions, which had coiled themselves into earrings, were put away in their velvet beds, and Mrs. Harcross wore a lustrous black silk dress, with a train three yards long, over which, when hard pressed by Tullion, she consented to wear a tunic of old point lace, which a Roman-catholic bishop might have envied. JDressed thus, with a knot of scarlet ribbon in her dark hair, and an antique cross of black pearls upon her neck, Mrs. Harcross looked more distinguished than in a more elaborate costume. " There's nothing that don't become you, ma'am ! " said the maid rapturously, as she looped up the tunic with a spray of scarlet geranium. " Even black, whch is so very trying to most brunette ladies." Mrs. Harcross contemplated herself contemptuously in the cheval glass before which she was standing, with the maid oti her knees at her feet. What did it matter how well or how ill she looked ? Sha was only the wife of Sir Lucas Clevedon's illegitimate eon. CHAPTER XXXIV. "but dead that other WAT.** Mk. Weston Vallort, by an undeviating persistence m the habits of industry, had brought himself to such a high state of training, that it was impossible for him to be idle. At his box at Norwood, neatest and daintiest of bachelor boxes, Weston rose with the lark, and was out and about before the milkman. Woe be to the housemaid and the cook if Mr. Vallory's morning *Sut Dead that other Wa^r 267 cap of strong tea was not on the little table by his t*id-eide eX half-past fire in the snnuner and at six in the winter V Woe be to the gardener if his master, in his early constitntional, found ft weed perking its shameless head amidst the lobelia or verbena in the nbbon bordering, or if the iron roller were not at work betimes upon the gravel, or if the miniature croquet lawn was not close-cropped as the hair of a convict's head ! Like clock- work were the arrangements of Weston's modest household. He would give little dmners that were perfection, with his two servants, and a brace of men with trays, who ran down express from Birch's, and gave the finishing touch to their dishes in the tiny Norwood kitchen. Weston could get twice as much work out of his servants as any common master, by reason of his own unflinching industry. *• I never ask you for anything at unreasonable hours," he said; "I never keep you up late at night;" and indeed his latch-key would have rendered this a useless tyranny, as well as an inconvenient one : for few people, besides Mr. Weston Vallory himself, were acquainted with the hour of his return. The servants rarely heard him go upstairs to his room, but at half-past six in the morning he was walking in his garden, fresh and blooming as his standard roses. " I can do with very little sleep," he said, in his moments of confidence. " Indeed, I consider the habit of going to bed every night an absurd conventionality. In the age of iron, depend upon it, there was no such custom. Do you suppose Julius Caesar or William the Conquerer called for his chamber-candle every night, and shuffled ofi" to bed like a retired tallow- chandler ? There never would have been any stir in the world, if the leaders of men had wasted half their ume in sleep in our jog-trot fashion." A medical friend of Mr. Vallory's, who heard these remarks, ventured to suggest that our lunatic asylums would be more thickly peopled if sleep went out of fashion. "Very possibly," repUed Weston, with his careless air; "I daresay there might be a run upon the mad-houees. You see the questioB depends very much upon the stuflF a man is mad« 5f. Take Napoleon the First as an example. He was content with four hours' sleep, and yet be kept himself sane under cir- eumstances which would have sent most men ofi^ their heads." Weston Vallory, perhaps considering that he was made ot Napoleonic stuff, rarely indulged himself with more than four hours of that placid slumber which is apt to bless the pillow '^ R man who is thoroughly satisfied with himself and nis own line of life. Thus it was that at Clevedon, after leaving the smoking-room among the last of the night birds, Mr. Vallory Keuerally made hi? morning tcnlet to the earhest muaie of thin 268 lo the Bitt&r En4. thrnshM and blackbirds on the lawn under his window. Othei guests, who would be eaxly enough a week or two hence, turned their faces to the wall, and pleaded against the stem sense of duty for a little more sleep and a little more slumber. He was in the garden among the rain-beaten roses and passion flowera when the stable clock struck sii, on the morning after that day of hopeless downpour which had sorely afflicted the butterfly Kests at Clevedon — a peerless summer morning, with a cloud- 8 blue sky and the balmiest air that ever fluttered the roses. If he had been a lover of nature in a Wordsworthian sense, he would have yielded himself up to the soft intoxication of the hour — would have drained to the last drop the enchanted cup of a vague deUght. If he had been a painter, he might have revelled in a feast of form and colour — might have composed any number of graceful pictures, with fair figures of his own imagining in the for^round, and those long -vralks and stiff yew hedges and ancient nower-bordere for background and frame- work. If he had been a pre-RaphaeUte, there was enough in every single dew-laden rose-bush ; in every cluster of taU lilies lifting up their slender stems amongst tangled masses of carna- tion or periwinkle; even in the time-worn sundial, gray and grim and stony and moss-grown, amidst the flaunting young hollyhocks, flaming crimson and yellow, to hold him spell-bound, idly gazing. But as he happened to be none of these things, his only impression was of a garden carelessly kept, and of Sir Francis Clevedon's weakness of mind in allowing his work to be done so badly. Not long did the garden suffice to employ his active mind. He was not a student of velvet-rose petals begemmed with dew. He smoked his " Cavajal ;" took a thoughtful walk under the rose-laden arches, and then departed by a little wicket opening into the park. " I shall have time to reconnoitre thia mysterious Brierwood before breakfast," he said to himself. "I wonder how our firiend Harcross likes the notion of my being down here. He ought to know thal^ if there is any little secret history attached t© his experiences in this part of the country, I am just the kind of man to hunt up the detaUs. How ridiculously fond Augusta is of him ! Not because he is handsomer, or better, or deverer than other men. I verily beUeve it is simply because he does not care a straw about her. There wa« profound truth in that remark of somebody's : ' The only way of making love nowadays is to take not the slightest notice of the lady.' He walked through that wilder pari, of the park, where the Spanish chestnnts rose like leafy towers towards the summer sky, by the way that Hubert Walgrave and Grace Ecdutikyne had takea in the sunset whoi they met witii the viper. Foi ^BtU Dead that other WayV 20B turn that wild foreat rerdxm had no peonliar oharm — was, in* deed, no more lorelj than a trim pubbc garden fresh from the hands of some modem Ca{>ability Brown. Yet he did not walk with his eyes cast down, as one whose outward viBion is in abeyance, while sordid speculations fill his eouL He looked about him and perceived that everything was very )^een and blue and sunny, like Kensington Gardens run wild, and shifted beyond the odour of London smoke. " A fine old place ! " he thought; " a man who keeps it in no better order than this hardly deserves to have it." The south lodge was better tenanted and more uniaitly appointed than it had been on that summer day when Grace and her lover entered this sylvan scene by the dilapidated oaken gate. The little Gothic dwelling-place had been patched up, scarlet geraniums were trained against the newly pointed brick- work. There were no broken windows now, as there had been in those days of poverty and neglect, but shining lattices, with crisp mushn eurtains behind them, and in one special window !> basket of bJdu«-and>y«llow beadmork, with a canary hanging in u brass cage above it. " Woma/f'8 wen the little gothic door oper.ed VI uh a sudden bounce, and a damsel tripped out with the key ot the gate. She was the daughter of the head gardener, and a somewhat dis- tinguished young person in her particular walk of Ufe. She was, bv common eonsent, allowed to be the prettiest girl in the three villages of Rayton, Hubbleford, and Kingsbury, and the most contiummate ifirt. At twenty -three she had broken more bectts than she cared to count, and was now busily engaged in de- nioliahing a very honest one, in the possession of Joseph Flood, Sir Francis Clevedon's own groom, her recognised and legitimate adorer, a young man who had money in the savings-bank, and a praiseworthy yearning to begin Hfe as a grocer and confectioner, with a dash of ready-made boots and shoes, and perhaps a aprinkhng of linendrapery, in the village of Rayton, a little fringe ii houses and tiny shops on the high road near Clevedon Park, which was familiarly known to the Clevedon retainers as " up- street." As Jane Bond came tripping across the tiny lodge garden thii morning, serenely conscious of a well-starched and well-fitting cotton gown, Weston Vallory thought that he had never seen a prettier woman. He was not a man of ultra-refined taste in the matter of feminine beauty. This florid full-flavoured style, this shining black hair, these black eyes, rosy cheeks, and ripe red Hpe, realised his highest notions upon the subject. His arch«>< tjijol wuiiiuji would hare b««o no loveiitu* than iixxM Bund, wLuM 270 To th« Bitter En£. featoxea were regnlar although commonplace, and whose bold black eyes were set off by a peerless complexion of the rustic brunette order. He went towards the gate quite silently, stmck dumb for the moment by admiration, but not for long. His agreeable cockney breeding quickly reasserted itself, with that gracious ease of manner which was wont to distinguish him. " Do many people come to Clevedon this way P '* he asked, surveying the girl with a look of somewhat audacious admira- tion. " Not Tery many, sir," Miss Bond answered with a carelsa* shrug, not at all disconcerted by that undisguised homage. " Iff awfol dull." " Then I'm sure they can't know what a pretty girl there is to open the gate," said Weston, " or they'd come by this lodge if it was a mile out of their way. The men, 1 mean, of course ; the women would hardly like to be reminded of their own ugliness by such a contrast." This wa« the sort of thing which suited Miss Bond, and to which she was tolerably accustomed. She was able to retort npon Mr. Vallory with an impudent readiness which was apt to pass for wit among her admirers — " to give him as good as he brought," as she said afterwards when she described the littl* scene to the postman's daughter, her friend and confidante. Her ready answers charmed Mr. Vallory, so, although on busi> ness intent, he dawdled a little in the early summer morning, to indulge in a kind of badinage which he had practised consider- ably with young ladies of the ballet-girl and barmaid class, and which he knew how to adapt to the simpler tastes of this rustir beauty. He wasted a.quarter of an hour or so in this conversa- ^on, and by the end of that time was on quite a friendly footing with the damsel. She had informed him that her father was a Primitive Methodist, a member of the flock led by a certain Joshua Bogg, an enlightened tailor, whose temple was at Hubble- ford, and that he was very strict and stern with her. She had told him what a dull life she had at the south lodge, and how much she had preferred living up-street in Rayton, where she and her father had abode untd Sir Fratkcis came to Clevedon, Plough their dwelling there had been less couTenient, and they bad had no garden. " Tliere was always some one to speak to at Rayton," she said, •• if it was only old women and children. But here there's no one." " Isn't there ik>w P " said Weston. " Why, I should have thoo^t people would come any distance to talk to snch a giri as you — a girl who is as olever as she's handsome." " Ah, there's ]>lenty of that kind," repUed Miss Bond, wHk a Uitk) aaperoilious torn of h«r head ; ** plentv tfant would eoz^e and •* Bui Dead thai other Way.** 171 kang about the place, if Fd let 'em, and g«t me into disgrao« with father, and set people talking. Bat I don't want that kind of thing ; I never have enoouraged it, though they do call me a flirt." " O, thej do call yon a flirt I ** said Weston. " Bnt, my dear urirl, yon are a great deal too clever not to know that slander is a kind of tribute which the world pays to superior merit. If yon were not the prettieBt gfirl within twenty miles, no one would trouble himself — or herself, for it is generally herself who is troubled about such matters — by remarking your flirtationn. Therj are women who would give the world to lose their repnta» tion in the same way." Miss Bond did not dispute the wisdom of these remarks. ** It don't mush matter to me, any way," she said, " except when it sets father scolding, and ding-donging the Scriptures at me, as if I was the daughter of Sion, or as if I ever sat upon seven hill a. Howsomedever, I shall be out of it all soon, that's one comfort, and out of this dull hole, and living in Kayton." This was stdd with a tone and a simper which were quite enough for Mr. Vallory's enlightenment. " You mean that you are going to be married ? " he said. " Yes, I suppose so, before very long. I've been a long time making up my mind, but I've been bothered into making it up at last. I'm going to settle." ** Settle ! " cried Weston. " What an odious word, miserably expressive of an odious fact ! Such a beauteous butterfly as yon ahonld never 'settle' upon one flower, while all the gardens ci earth lie before you. Settle ! Make an end of all the uncer- taintiea of life, and tie yourself down to a cottage at Bayton. If you only knew your own value, my dear Miss Bond, you would not dream of such a sacrifice. Settle ! Why, a woman with your advantages should never dream of marrying on the right side erf thirty. How can a woman tell what her chances may be till she has come to the meridian of her beauty P At eighteen she may be engaged to a gardener, and at eight-and-twenty she may find herself a duchess. But perhaps you don't know the history of the slave girl, who married the great Russian emperor; and possibly you may never have heard of the famous Polly who became Duchess of Bolton, and who never was ^oor equal m good looks." " I suppoee you know this young woman yo* call Polly f ** Ai.n to this kind of talk. It opened dazzling vistas of thought, ft vague glittering vision of a possible future. She had dreamed «eT ambitions dreams, even in the lonely south lodge; but the wildest imaginings that eould arise spontaneously in her nntu- kored brain had bees small and sordid, in oonipanson with «ti«h Vn To the BitUr JBud. Hew M ir«re oonjured ap by the anf^geatioM of Weetwi Vallory. "No," he said with his BuperdKons grin, "I had not the honour of knowing Polly. She was before my time. Bat I have seen her y^ortrait by Hogarth — a sallow sharp-featnred beauty, in a mob-».'*p, acting Polly Peachum between two rows of fine gentlemen seated at the side eoenea. You are a hnndred times handsomer than Polly." He looked at his watch. This mstic philandering was plfnsant enough, but at the best it was a waste of time, and ^Vf stoii Vallory's industriouB haUts had made waste of time almost impossible to him. He had businCBS to get through that morn- ing before breakfast. You know Brierwood Farm, of course. Miss BondP" he said. The girl stared at him wonderingly. This sudden transition from a florid complimeut to a commonplace question took her a little by surprise. "Lor, yea, I know Brierwood well enough — Farmer EeJ- mayne's.* " Eedmayne — yes, I think that is the name. But the Red- mayne race have migrated, have they not? They have all gon* to Australia, I hear." " Gone and come back," Miss Bond answered carelessly, twirl- ing her big key with a somewhat offended air. She did not quite relish this unceremonious cutting short of the talk a1x>ut ner own beauty and possible offers of marriage from dukes. "Comeback?" " Yes ; Mr. Redmayne — Richard Redmayne, O, come back this ever so long — before the hay was carted, about the time Sir Francis was married. And they do say he's changed so that those who knew him best five years ago would hardly know him now." "And what has changed him in such a remarkable manner P" asked Weston, with eager interest. " Troubles," answered Miss Bond, shaking her head solemnly. " What kind of troubles ? — money troubles ?" " O, dear, no. Folks say he found no end of gold in Australia, and that ho could buy Clevedon off Sir Francis, if (he chose. It isu't want of money makes him so gloomy. I met him on Kingsbury Common one evening, just as it was growing dark, close upon a month ago — they say he never goes out in the day- time — and I'm sure I was almost frightened at his dark angry- looking face. I shouldn't have known him« for I remember him such a good-looking free>Bpoken man ; and I wished him good- evening, but he never answered a word, or gave me so much aa a civil nod — only stared at me ia a wild kind of way cu if I'd \.^i\ a mile off." **Bui Dead that other Wat/.** 27P ** A bad aoooimt, Misa Bond. I fear this Mr. Eedmayno mnst be in a bad way. Bnt what can be the cause of it P If Aot money troubles, what kind of troubles P" " You're a stranger here, or you'd know pretty well as much as I do," answered Miss Bond, still twirling her Key, but with a gossip's growing interest in the discussion of other people's business ; " yet you spoke just now aa if you knew au about Brierwood and Mr. Redmayne." "Yes, yes, I know a good deal about him, but not all his family afl^ira," said Weston, rather impatiently. " How about this trouble — what was itP" " His daughter," answered the girl tersely. "His daughter P" " Yes, an only daughter, which he doated on th« very ground she walked upon ; and while he was away in Australia, she died." " Hard lines," said "Weston, in his practical way, " but a fate to which all men's daughters are more or less liable. Is that all P " " She died,'* repeated Jane Bond, with wide solemn eyes — " died awful sudden ! " "Made away with herself?" inqtiired Weston, with keener interest. " No, I don't suppose it was quite as bad as that, though nobody I know of can say for certain. The Redmaynes have been so uncommon close about it. She went away " " O, she died away from home, then ? " " Yes, went away, and no one ever heard where she went or why she went, and no one heard for ever so long after that she Tvas doad, and no one ever heard where she died, or who she was xrith when she died. It was nobody's business, of course, but her father's and her friends' ; but still people will talk, yow, know, and when other people are not free-spoken and abovt«- board, it makes one think there's something in the background." " Something in the background ! " repeated Weston ; " no doubt there was something in the background. A lover, for inHtance. Did you ever hear of any lover r " " Never. There wasn't a auietar girl than Miss Eedmayne ; she went to school at the Wells, and was brought up quite tho lady. No I, never heard of any one. There was a gentleman lodged there, I beUeve the summer before Miss Bedmayne died* but I never heard a word about him and her." " Do you remember the gentleman's name ? " " No. I heard it at the time, I daresay, but if I did, Fto riean forgotten it." " Did you ever see him P' " Never." 274 To the Sitter End. " Humph," muttered Weston thoughtfully, " and the girl die