A: Ai 01 Oi 1 I 4i 2i 5 1 vl 7 = 7 I p hmast A ml .^iij HARPER'S LIBRARY OF SELECT NOVELS. Z^" Mailing Sotice.- -Hakpek & Bbotueks ivill send their Hooks by Mail, postage free, to an'j part of the United States, on receipt of the Price. C^" IIaepee'8 Catalogue and Tuade-List will he sent by mail on receipt of Five Cents, or they may be obtained gratuitously un application to the Publishers ijersonally. PUICE Pelham. By Hulvror $0 75 Tlie I lisowueil. Hy Llulwcr 75 Dovereux. Uy IJuhrer 50 l'u«l Cliltord. By Buhver 50 Eugene Aram. By Bulwor 50 The Last Days of Pompeii. By Bulwer 50 The Czarina. By Jlrs. lloflaud 50 Kienzi. By Bulwer 75 Self- Devotion. By Miss Campbell 50 The Nabob at Home 50 Krnest Maltravers. By Bulwer 50 Alice ; or, The Mysteries. By Bulwer 50 The Last of the I'.arons. By Bulwer 1 00 Forest Days. By James I>0 Adam Brown, the .Mercliunt. By U. Smith ... 50 Pilgrims of the Rhine. l!y Bulwer 25 The Home. By Miss Bremer ."iO The Lost Ship. By Captain Nealc 75 The False Meir. By James 5) The Neighbors. By Miss Bremer 50 Nina. By Miss Bremer 50 The President's Daughters!. By Miss Bremer. . 25 The Banker's Wife. By Mrs. Gore 50 The Birthright. I'.y Mrs. Gore 25 New .Sketches of Every-day Life. By Miss Bremer .50 Arabella rStuart. By James .W The Grumbler. By Miss Pickering 50 The Unloved One. By Mrs. Ilofland 50 Jack of the Mill. By William llowitt 25 The Heretic. By Lnjetchnikoflf 50 The Jew. By Spindler 75 Arthur. By Sue 75 Chatsworth. By AVard 50 The Prairie Bird. By C. A. Murray 1 00 Amy Herbert. By Miss Sewell 50 Kose d'.\lbrct. By James 50 The Triumijhs of Time. By Mrs. Marsh 75 The II Family. liy Miss Bremer 50 The Grandfather. By Miss Pickering 50 Arrah Neil. By James 50 The Jilt 50 Tales from the German 50 Arthur Arundel. By II. Smith 50 Agincourt. By J,ames 50 The Ilegent's Daughter 50 The Maid of Honor 5;) Safia. By De Beauvoir 50 Look to the i:nd. By Mrs. Fllis 50 The ImprovLsatore. By .Andersen 50 The Gambler's Wife. By Mrs. Grey 5:) Veronica. By Zschokke 50 Zoe. By Miss Jewsbury ."50 Wyoming ^{) De Uoh in. By Sue 50 Self By the A uthor of " Cecil" 75 The Smuggler. By James 75 The Brc-acli of Promise 50 Parsonage of Mora. By Miss I'.remer 25 A Chance Medley. By T. C. Grattan 50 The White Slave 1 oo The Bosom I'riend. By Mrs. Grey 50 Amaury. By Dumas 5f) The Author's Daughter. By Mary Howitt .... 25 O.lly a Fiddler, I'S.c. By Andersen .50 The Whiteboy. By Sirs. Hall .50 The Foster- Brother. Kdited by Leigh Hunt. . . .50 Love and .Mesmerism. By H. Smith 75 Ascanio. By Dumas 75 Lady of Milan. I-dited by Mrs. Thomson 75 The Citizen of Prague 1 00 The Koyal Favorite. By Mrs. Gore 51 Tlie Queen of Denmark. By .Mrs. (fore .50 The I ".Ives, Ac. By Tieck 50 75. The ."Stepmother. By James 1 25 Jessie's Flirtations .'>0 Chevalier d'Harmental. By Dumas .50 Peel's and Parvenus. V,y Mrs. Gore .51 Th" ('omm.ander of M.alta. By Sue ."SO The Female Minister 50 pniCE 81. Emilia Wyndham. By Mrs. Marsh $0 75 82. The Bush-Banger. By Charles Kowcroft 50 S3. The Chronicles of Clovernook 25 84. Genevieve. By Lamartine 25 85. Livonian Tales i;5 8G. Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh 25 87. Father Darcy. By Mrs. Marsh 75 83. Leontine. By Mrs ilaberly 50 80. Heidelberg. By James 5i) 90. Lucretia. By Bulwer 75 !)1 . Beaucharap. By James 75 92, 94. Fortescue. By Knowles 1 00 93. Daniel Dennison, 1.53. Time, tlui .Vvenger. By Mr.s. Marsh 50 1 .54. The < lommissioner. Bv Jame.? 1 00 1.5.5. The Wife's Sister. By'.Mrs. Hubback .50 I.''^6. 'I'he Gold Worshipers ,%0 1.57. The D.Tughter of Night. By Fullom 50 1.58. Stuart of Dunleath. By Hon. Caroline Norton 5<) XTfi. \rtbur tJonwav. My Captain E. H. Milman. . 50 160. The Fate. By.'amca .50 161. The Lady and the Priest. By Mrs. Maberly. . 50 Harper's Library of Select JSToveU. PRICE 162. Aims and Obstacles. By James $0 50 1G3. The Tutor's Ward 50 1G4. Florence Sackville. By Mrs. Burbury T5 165. Ravenscliffe. By Mrs. Marsh 50 106. Maurice Tiernav. By Lever 100 167. The Head of the Fam"ily. By Miss Mulock.. . 75 IG-i. Darien. By Warburton 50 16D. Falkenburg 75 170. The Daltons. By Lever 1 50 171. Ivar ; or, The Skjuts-Boy. By Miss (Jarlen . . 50 17'-'. Fequinillo. By James 50 173. Anna Hammer. By Temme 50 174. A Life of Vicissitudes. By James 50 175. Henry Esmond. By Thackeray 75 176. 177. My Novel. By Bulwer 1 50 17S. Katie r^tewart. By Mrs. Oliphant 25 179. Castle Avon. By Mrs. Marsh 50 180. Agnes Sorel. By James 50 181. Asjithala. Husband. By Misa Mulock 50 lS-2. Vuiette. By Currer Bell 75 1S3. Lover's Stratagem. By Miss Carlen 50 184. Clouded Happiness. i3y Countess D'Orsay. . . 50 18.5. Charles Auchester. A Memorial 75 1S6. Lady Lee's Widowhood 50 187. The Uodd Family Abroad. By Lever 1 '25 188. Sir Jasper Carew. By Lever 75 189. Quiet Heart. By Mrs. Oliphant 25 100. Aubrey. By Mrs. Marsh 75 191. Ticonderoga. Br James 50 19J. Hard Times. By Dickens 50 193. The Voung Husband. By Mrs. Grey 50 194. The Mother' .s Kecompense. By Grace Aguilar. 7.5 195. Avillion, and other Tales. By Miss Mulock. . . 1 25 196. North and South. By Mrs. Gaskell 50 197. Country Neighborhood. By Miss Dupuy 50 193. Constance Herbert. By Miss Jewsbury 50 199. The Heiress of Haughton. By Mrs. .Marsh. . . 50 200. The Old Dominion. Hy James 50 201. John Halifax. By Miss Mulock 75 202. KveljTi .Marstoa. I'.y Mrs. Marsh 50 203. Fortunes of Glencore. By Lever 50 2(14. Leonora d'Orco. By James .'JO 20.5. Nothing Ne»v. By Miss Mulock 50 206. The llose of Ashurst. By Mrs. Marsh 50 207. The Athelings. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 20S. Scenes of Clerical Life. By George Eliot 75 209. My Lady Ludlow. By Mrs. Gaskell '.'5 210, 211. Gerald Fitzgerald. By Lever .50 212. A Life for a Life. By Miss Mulock 50 213. Sword and Gown. By Geo. Lawrence 25 214. ^H3rep^esentation. By Anna H. Drury 1 00 215. The Mill on the P'lo.ss. By George Eliot 75 216. One of Them. By Lever 75 217. .\ Day's Hide. By Lever 50 21 S. Notice to Quit. By Wills 50 219. A Strange Story. By Bulwer 1 00 220. The Struggles of Brown, Jones, and Kobinson. By TroUope 50 221. Abel Drake's W'ife. By John Saunders 75 222. Olive Blake's Good Work. Bv Jeaflfreson 75 223. The Professor's I jidy ' 25 j 324. Mistress and Maid. By Miss Mulock 50 325. Aurora Floyd. By M. E. Braddon 75 | 226. Barrington. By Lever 75 i 327. Sylvia's Lovers. By Mrs. Gaskell 75 22^. A First Friendship 50 229. A Dark Night's Work. By Mrs. Gaskell 50 | 230. Mrs. l.irriper's Lodgings 25 I 231. St. (Jiavcs 75 232. A Point of Honor 50 23,3. Live it Down. By Jcaffreson 1 00 234. Martin Pole. By Saunders .^O S.l.^. Mary Lyndsay. By Ijidy Emily Ponsonby... 50 236. Eleanor's Victory. By JL E. Braddon 75 237. Itachel Kay. By Trollope 50 235. John .Marchmont's Legacy. By M. E. Braddon 75 239. Annia Warleigh'a Fortunes. Bv Holme Lee. . 75 240. The Wife's Evidence. By Will's .50 241. Barbara's Historv. By Amelia B. Edwards. . . 75 242. (Musin Phillis. Bv Mrs. (Jaskell 25 243. What will ho do with It ? By I!ulwer 1 ."iO 244. The Udder of Life. By Amelia B. Edwards. . 5(» 24.5. Denis Duval. By Thackeray .50 24 ■>. .Maurice Dering. By Geo. Lawrence 50 247. Margaret Denzil's 1 iistory 75 24-i. Quito Alono. By George' .\ugiistug Sala 75 249. Mattie : a Stray ir, 250. My Brother's Wife. By Amrlin B. Edwards. . .50 251. Incle Sila.'<. By J. S. Le Fixiiu 7.5 9.59. liovel the Widower. By Thackeray 25 253. .Miss Mackenzie. By Anthony Trollope 50 pr.icK 254 On Guard. By Annie Thomas $0 50 2.5."). Theo Leigh. By Annie Thomas 50 256. Denis Donne. By Annie Thomas 50 '257. Belial 50 25S. Carry's Confession. By the Author of "•Mat- tie : a Stray" 75 259. Miss Carew. By Amelia B. ICdwards 50 260. Hand and Glove. By Amelia B. Edwards fJO 261. Guy Deverell. By J. S. Le lanu 50 262. Half a MiUion of Money. By Amelia B. Ed- wards 7.5 263. The Belton Estate. By Anthony Trollope 50 264. Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 265. Walter Goring. By Annie Thomas 75 266. Maxwell Drewitt. Bv Mr.^. J. H. Itiddell 75 267. The Toilers of the Sea. By Victor Hugo 75 268. Miss Maqoribanks. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 269. The True History of a 'Little Ragamuffin 50 270. Gilbert Rugge. By the Author of "A First Friendship" 1 00 271. Sans Merci. By Geo. Lawrence 60 272. Bheraie Keller. By Mrs. ,1 . H. Riddell 50 273. Land at Last. By Edmund Yates 50 274. Felix Holt, the Radical. By George Eliot 75 275. Bound to thn Wheel. By John Sauuders 75 276. All in the Dark. By J. S. Le Fanu 60 277. Kissing the Hod. By Edmund Yates 75 278. The Race for Wealth. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell. . 75 279. Lizzie Lorton of Greyrigg. By Mrs. E. Lynu Linton 75 280. The Beauclercs, Father and Son. By Claike. 50 281. Sir Brooke Fossbrooke. By Charles Lever .. . 50 282. Madonna Mary. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 283. Cradock Nowell. By R. D. Blackmore 75 284. Bernthal. From the German of L. Miihlbach. .50 285. Rachel's Secret 75 286. The <;iaverings. Bv Anthony Trollope 50 257. The Village on the Cliff. By Miss Thackeray. 26 283. Plaved Out. Bv Annie Thomas 75 289. Black Sheep. By Edmund Yates 50 290. Sowing the Wind. By Mrs. E. Lynu Linton.. 50 291. Nora and Archibald Lee 60 292. Raymond's Heroine 50 293. Mr. Wynyard's W.ird. By Holme Lee 50 294. Alec Forbes of Howglen. By Mac Donul J 75 295. No Man's Friend. By F. W. Robinson 75 296. Called to Account. By Annie Thomas .50 297. Caste 50 298. The Curate's Discipline. By Mrs. Eiloai t 50 299. Circe. By Babington White 50 300. The Tena'nts of Malory. ByJ. S. LeFanu 50 801. Carlyon's Year. By the Author of " Lost Sir Massingberd," &c 25 802. The Waterdale Neighbors. By the Author of "Paul Mas.sie" 50 303. Mabel's Progress. ^By the Autlior of "The Sto- ry of Aunt Margaret's 'i'rouble" 60 304. Guild Court. By George Mac Donald 60 305. The Brothers' Bet. By Emilie Flygar.; CavU n 25 306. Playing for High Stakes. By Annie Thomas. . 50 307. Margaret's Engagement 60 308. One of the Family. By the Author of " Car- lyon's Year" 25 309. Five Hundred Pounds Reward. By a Barrister 60 310. Brownlows. By Mrs. Olipliant 37 311. (Charlotte's Inheritance. By M. E. Braildon . . 60 312. Jeannie's Quiet Life. By the Author of " St. Olavcs," &c 50 313. Poor Humanity. By F. W. Robinson 50 314. Brakespeare. By Geo. Lawrence 50 315. A Lost Name. By J. .Sheridan Le Fanu 50 316. Love or Murringe? By William Black 60 317. Dead-Sea Fruit. By M. E. Braddon 50 318. The Dower House. By Annie Thomas 50 319. The Bramleighs of Bi.y Bnrnington, the second son of Lady Caroline's brother, the Ivirl of Lynton. Lady Caroline explained the whole circumstances of the case to Dora the first morning they spent together ajiart from Helen, who had gone out riding witli her father. "They used to play together, and be little lovers, when they were children, and so it came njjon us unawares. ]\Iy brother didn't like it a liit at first ; he had other views for Digby, and Helen will not have mncli money ; but Digby was so earnest, and Helen was so good about it, that he has consented now ; and they are to be married as soon as ever Digby is of age. He has been trained for di|)lomacy, and his father means to get him appointed attache' somewhere or other as soon as he's married ; for it will be useless his going back to Oxford then. He will never study nuich more, you know. It was Helen's beauti- ful conduct in not wishing to have any engage- ment until his university career was over, that made Lynton relent and agree to the marriage," J^ady Caroline said to Dora ; and Dora, to whom the loves of this boy and girl were very iminter- esting, thought that her young sister was very clever in thus making her self-abnegation — her apparent sacrifices — tend to her own aggrandize- ment. About her brother, the heir to Court Royal, she heard that he was an Eton boy, and was to be an Oxford man— that his name was Robert, and that at present he was taking a vacation tour abroad witii a private tutor. Dora — beautiful, bright Dora — put on her mouming robes, and in ever}' other way adapted herself without delay to the wishes and habits of those witli whom she had come to dwell. Some- times the memory of the former life faded away until it appeared oidy as a dream to her ; but at other times she remembered it keenly, and made strenuous eft'orts not to forget those who had been so much to her, and to whom she had been every thing. But it was in her to see the past but dark- ly, as in a vision at most times. It was her na- ture to be indilfcrent to those who were out of her sight — feeling that they were drifting from her. She woidd shari)ly stir herself up at times, and write long letters that strove to be interest- ing and interested, to her grandmother and Aunt Grace. But it grew harder and harder to make the effort as the days rolled on, and she became nn>re identified with life at Court Royal. Every ihing was so very difi'ercnt. If there had been some similarity in any of the pursuits or ideas of those who were past and those who were present, Dora would have made a stand against casting the former into oblivion. But as it was there was nothing in common between them, nothing here to remind her of what they might possibly be about there. Moreover, none of the Elliots were what can be called good correspondents. Tnie, they wrote fre"^y dear, I shouldn't vex myself about it, if I Tvere you ; but Falconer is not "the sort of 2 fellow to ask a girl to do a thing in order that he may talk about it." "I don't even want Dora to be thought little of — much less spoken about," Lady Caroline said, earnestly ; and he believed her, and loved her for this carefidness regarding the child who was his and not hers. But still, though he believed her, he could not share her fears. So it was not Dora's indiscretion which caused the cloud between her father and herself. It was simply that he had marked, and been stung by, the e\ident chagrin which Dora could not conceal as she came up to the ones who nourished and clierished her, when he had been powerless to act in her behalf. He loved his eldest daughter dearly ; but as he read some of her selfishness, some of her false shame of them, and for herself, in her beautiful face, the thought crossed his mind that his heart would not liave been more wning by her if she had died with her mother. Some one else marked Dora's chagrin also, and having heard her ston.', was stung by it, too. She had been so frank and symjjathetic to him that ilr. Falconer had begun to like her veiy much. It was not pleasant to detect a littleness in her. Her person was a direct contradiction to any qualification of the sort. She had the bearing and figure of a young Diana — beautiful, bold, erect, fearless. To see her pulled uj) by jiiiltry considerations of this sort was disappointing to him. She was attractive — wonderfully atti'active. Even Digby Bumington (who had hitherto seen no beauty in any other colored hair and eyes than Helen's) o^^^^ed the beauty of Dora's golden-dash- ed chestnut locks, and her deep violet eyes. "She takes the color out of me, doesn't she, Digby ?" Helen said, calling his attention to Dora, as the latter came into the room and seat- ed herself at some little distance from them on the opposite side of the table. And Digby said, " She'll twist some fellow round her fingers before very long, but she doesn't take the color out of you, dear ; she only shows you fViirer." "That is a pretty way of putting it," Helen laughed ; and then she ttuTied to Jliss Elliot, who sat by her and made that lady hajjpy by expatia- ting on Doras exquisite loveliness. The moral atmosjjhere was very much clearer after luncheon. There was the excitement of expecting other arrivals. Lady Caroline had for- gotten Dora's inicjuity, and conse(iuently had for- given her. The young lovers, Helen and Digby, had gone for a walk in the home jilantation. Mrs. Elliot and Grace had retired to take a little siesta in their respective rooms, on Dora's recommend- ation. Mr. Jocelyn was busy with his head game- keeper arranging about the order of sport that was to be observed, and the number of guns that were to be carried on the first. Lady Caroline was entertaining some inopjiortune callers. It was accident, therefore, and not design, Jlr. Fal- coner told himself, which caused him^ to be alone again with Dora Jocelyn. lie had been walking up and down on the broad space before the house when lie saw her seated at an open French window that was a door into the libraiy. She had a book ojien on her lap, and her head was resting on uuc jiand ; and he saw that the shape of both hciid and hand was perfect. There was something very classical in 18 ONLY HERSELF. her pose, in the graceful bend of the deer-shaped liead, in the fi-ee soft falls of her drapery, in the cun'e of her throat and arm ! "I have seen only one woman in my life who can compare with her," lie thought ; and as he thought of that one wom- an an impatient sigh escaped from him. " Shall I interrupt your studies if I sit here ?" he asked, going up to her and pointing to the out- side ledge of the window against which she was resting. " Indeed you will not ; I was not studying — not even reading. I was only thinking, and that's often a synonym for wasting one's time, you know," she said, smiling. "It's my greatest luxury, and my greatest curse, too," he said ; "but for you it must be all luxuiy as yet." " I was thinking about you," she said, quickly. And a light came into his eyes as he asked her, — " If he might know in what way ?" "Yes, certainly," the girl said, carelessly throwing doA\-n her book, and leaning forward in one of her lines of lissome grace. "Take care you don't flatter me too much, Miss Jocelyn." " I won't flatter you at all; I Avas thinking what a pity it would be if your life abroad had unfitted you to live happily in your own English liome. " ' ' 'Wliat if I told yon that I am not veiy san- guine about ever living happily anywhere ?" he said. "Then I should feel it to be more than a pity. I should feel it to be grievous. " And the violet eyes were fraught with unmistakable interest in him as they were raised to his. Bear in mind that he was the first j'oung man of his order with whom slie had ever been thro\\-n ! Bear in mind, also, that when a woman wants to please she generally knows how to do it. He did not ask himself what had generated this interest. He looked into the lovely eyes, and be- lieved all that they expressed ! And he was thirty-two or three, and had never seea her be- fore this morning ! She leaned a little fiirther out of the window, and broke off an .encroacliing jasmine spray, and twisted it about in her fin- gers. "Give me that before you quite destroy it?" he said, suddenly; and as she gave it into his hand, she quoted softly, — " ' Tt Bmelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet. It made me creep, and it made me cold.' "Do you remember Owen Meredith's 'Aux Italiens,' Mr. Falconer?" "I rememlier it," he said shortly, for the rec- ollection of it had caused a certain chill to fall uijon his feelings. "And liow, after all, old things are best," she went on chanting in a low voice ; "well, at any rate, my exjjerience of old things doesn't tell me so." " Not even your experience of old friends ?" he asked, tliiiikiug of the little scene he had witness- ed in the moniiiig. But she had quite forgotten lier grandmaninia and aunt and Iicr chagrin, in the new interest that was dcvoloiiing for her. So she answered with the most innocent uncon- cern, — "It seems to me very possible that one new friend may be better than all the old ones put to- gether." And then she blushed a little, and he feasted his eyes on her glowing beauty. They sat there talking — not very instructive talk, perhaps, but still most absorbing to the girl, and sufiiciently interesting to the man, until the afternoon was waning. Then she rose with a languid unwillingness that contrasted most forci- bly with the bright animation that had character- ized her manner while sitting there. " I must go and sit with my grandmother un- til it is time to dress for dinner," she said, in ex- planation of her retreat. Then she went away, and with her vanished some of the sunshine. ' ' I would not disturb you before, because I thought you would both be resting," Dora said quite affably, as she went into the dressing-room which divided the Elliots' bedrooms. " I woidd much rather have taken a little walk in those lovely grounds, or have seen a bit of the house," Mrs. Elliot said. ' ' Oh ! grandma ; I wish I had known it. "I have no doubt you were better engaged," the old lady said, nodding her head. "I have been talking to Mr. Falconer." "Is there anything in it?" Mrs. EUiot asked eageriy. " In what? — in my talking to him ? — any hann do you mean ?" "In your intimacy with him, my dear; is there any prospect of any thing coming of it ?" "I saw him this morning for the first time," Dora said, rather crossly. "*" I wish you wouldn't say such things, grandma ; Lady Caroline wouldn't like it at all." "Just as I thought," Grace said to herself; the poor child isn't too tenderly treated by Lady Carohne. Dora is afraid of her father's wife." Dora recovered her temper by a little effort, and lapsing into suavity again, proceeded to tell them who was come, and who was coming. ' ' I\Ir. Falconer has been away for ten years, and is only just come to live at Dollington, his place that is. Mr. Digby Burnington is Lord Ljmton's second son, and is engaged to Helen. They have adored each other ever since they were children and are to be man-ied next year. Lady Lynton I haven't seen yet ; but they're come, and we shall see them at dinner ; and now really we ought to dress." "Do look at my caps, and choose one for me to wear to-night ?" ]Mrs. Elliot cried in a sudden panic. "I'm sure it's lucky I have liad the gray moire," Grace said. And tlien they laid bare all their toilet details and doubts to the young author- ity to whom they were ready to bow. Lord and Lady Lynton were not nearly so for- midable in the flesh, as they bad ajipeared when contem])lated as part of the future. Dora wns made known to them by Lady Carohne in a quiet way that carried witli it the conviction to tliem that Dora was not a disgraceful Jocehn family circumstance — a fear that they had always labor- ed inider from the moment of their bearing of Dora's existence. "She takes tlie shine out of your oAvn girl for bcautj-," Lord Lynton said to his sister ; and Lady Lynton made things jileas- anter by adding, "Of course Caroline is far too sensible ever to have deluded herself with the idea that Helen is a beauty." " No,"Laily Caroline said, in all sincerity, "I left that for IJigby to do." And tlie shaft that was not aimed in malice wounded more deeply ONLY HERSELF. 19 than the one Lady Lpiton IiaJ delicately tipped with ])oison. Then the Elliots, mother and daughter, came in, and Lady Caroline made them known to her grand relations ; and, as has been said, they (the Elliots) fumul that the Lyntons were not so for- midable in the flesh as imagination had painted them. There was one other new arrival since lunch- eon, Mr. Carlyon — or Bertie Carlyon, as all the Lynton family called him familiarly. He was a guest at Court Koyal for the tirst time, and even to a novice in society like Dora it was evident that he was not a guest to be easily bidden or to readily accept an invitation to a house. He was a younger man than her first fi-iend of that day, Mr. Falconer, and by reason of his excessive, al- most girlish, transparency and fiurness of com- plexion, he looked even younger than he was. "A mere boy," Dora thought, as he bowed to her in the drawing-room, and offered her his arm, on being introduced, to take her into diimer. But his real age was twenty-seven, and his expe- rience was unlimited. His history can be quickly sketched. He was the younger son of a good, poor family, who could do notiung better for him than get him a Treasury clerkship. He was very handsome, in a polished, refined, bright way, that was eminently seductive to men and women too. His blue eyes and his smootli cheeks and brow were as unruffled as a woman's ; and yet Mr. Bertie Carlyon was not exactly a Sir Galahad. He was clever in a light superficial way, that was as useful as coin of the realm to him. He could write sufficiently amus- ing novels and pungent little burlesques, and act in these latter "after Fechter." He was adroit in the use of his tongue, the billiard cue, and his influential friends. Consequently, he was never at a loss for a roof to cover him, or a board at wliich to sit, although he spent rather more than his official income in dulicate-hued gloves. He made but little beyond that official income though, and he belonged to two clubs — one an ultra fash- ionable, and the other an ultra Bohemian one — and always rode an unexceptioinxble horse in the season. These tilings were mysteries. Still his acquaintances had no right and no inclination to try and solve them. The young ApoUo of his set was better liked than many a better man, and mammas of maiTiageal)le daughters rallied round his standard, because he never compromised a young girl on promotion by his attentions. He singled out married women and devoted himself to them ; and as he was only a detrimental, after all, this conduct of his was deemed ])raisewortliy according to the code of morals of the matrimcj- nial mart. He was attractive and he was amusing to Dora ; for he found out in a moment that the tidk of the town, which he was accustomed to filter out to the partners of his dinner-hour, would be as a sealed book to Miss Jocelyn. So he did not speak of peojde or of tacts concerning the world he knew, but he took her on the wider and Ciisier grountl of literature, art, ami the drama. Not that she knew very much about the two former things, but she read the " Athena'iim," and the " Saturday," and so was aufait with the best, or at any rate the most generally received ojiinions. " Are you not supposed to be out yet ?" he ask- ed in some surprise, when Dora failed to follow him once when lie la])sed into an allusion to some notable folly that had characterized the lately past season. "Yes, I am out as much as girls are out in the country," she said, hesitatingly. ' ' Then of course you're out in town, too ?" " My father does not care for tlie fatigues of a season," she said, hoping he would not question further. But he admired her quite enough to feel convinced that she Mould not have escaped his notice had she been in noticeable places, and so a feeling of curiosity prompted him to say — " Have you never been in town yet ?" CHAPTER V. IN WHICH ADVICE IS GIVEN. There Avas a degree of impertinence, Dora thought, in this close cross-questioning concern- ing her former lot in lifei This added to her dis- inclination to talk about it. She did not at all desire that these people who were now meeting her for the first time in her father's house, should know of her as one whose right to be there had been neglected for so many years. If Mr. Car- lyon knew any thing of that past passage in her father's life which connected him with her moth- er, his cross-examination of her (Dora) was an act of discourtesy, and all acts of discourtesy de^ sened to be punished. At any rate, she was de- termined that the oftense should be brought Avell under her father's notice; and at the same time all who heard her should find that the dignity of her father and herself in this matter were identi- cal. So she attracted her father's attention, and then said quite clearly and distinctly, but with- out any apparent eft'ort to be heard by him, — "My mother died when she was quite a girl, and my grandfather, who brought me up, never recovered her death, and would never go into society. I was explainhig to Mr. Carlyon, pajia," she continued, smiling at the success of her stroke, " because he was expressing so much suqirise at never having seen me in town." Then Dora went on eating her dinner with much calm satisfaction and virtuous ai)])etitc. She had made her father uncomtbrtable, and she had caused Bertie Carlyon. to writhe with the conviction that he had been caught out and ex- posed in a tactless proceeding. But then each of them had been the cause of her suffering in ditt'erent degrees, and the beautiful Dora was not one Ui bear and forbear, unless she had any thing to gain by it. In this case, her rapidly develop- ing acumen told her she would have lost by ex- ercising forbearance towards Mr. Carlyon. Several people heard her speak. Laily Lynton, sitting on the other side of Mr. Jocelyn, heard the words travel down from the middle of the ta- ble on the other side, and stared at the offender with all her aristocratic might. Dora had taken iij) the idea, and was acting upon it, that to a certain extent there was war between all these ])eo])le and herself. She foresaw, or fancied she foresaw (and for all puqjoses of animosity fancy is as efficacious as fact) that they would resent and look slightingly upon her claims to be treat- ed as the elder daughter of the house. And she was very willing that there shoidd be war, since 20 ONLY HERSELF. sl'.e was very secure in her father's sense of justice towards her, and her step-mother's desire to make reparation for a ^vTong she (Lady Caroline) had never wrought. The one thing for which Dora was sincerely grateful to the Elliots was, that they had entered fully into the minutii^ of her moth- er's sad fate to her. The full knowledge she had of the circumstances was as armor and a sword to her. She did not wish to draw that sword — she had no particular desire to engage in mortal combat with any one ; but if she was compelled to do it — well, she would fight with all the strength she had, that was all. For a young girl, she had man'ellous command over her coimtenance. In her heart there was a httle triumph as she reflected how completely she had worsted the practical London man who had treated her like an unfonned countiy girl. But none of this elation betrayed itself in her face. The beautifid ^-iolet eyes gleamed as softly at him, the lovely arclied rose-bud lip Avi'eathed itself into its sweetest smile for him. It was difficult for a man to believe that a girl could smile at him in such a way, and strive to socially murder him at the same time. Now to convict him of an open blunder, of a gross piece of presumptuous ciu'ios- ity in this way, was to socially murder him. And Bertie Carlyon prided himself a good deal on his insight into character, and on his power of portray- ing it in three volume novels of fast and fashion- able life. Yet, for all these tilings, he was taken in by Dora's innocent suavity. Another man was taken in by it also, and that was Mv. Falconer, who was seated opposite to Dora, and was finding Dora's grandmother par- ticularly dull. But he was very pleasant to the old lady, for he sympathized with her in her dis- like to travelling by train, and in her admiration for the flowers that graced the table, and in her di-approval, on grounds connected with digestion, of such late dinners, and on the few other topics on which they could meet for discussion. Any one would have seemed dull and a bore to him just then except the owner of the beautiful face, above which masses of mostluxiuiant golden chest- nut liair towered in a high chignon, that did not look ungainly or monstrous, or any of the hard things he had been accustomed to consider it, now that he saw it on Dora's head. He began to look at his future at Dollington as possibly bright and happy and peaceful ! He who for ten years had believed himself to have done with brightness, and hai)piness, and peace. J'y-and-by when the dinner was over and the ladies were back alone in the drawing-room, Dora would have given much to have spirited her grand- mother and Aunt Grace back to Kusscll S(iuare, and to have known them safely and happily seat- ed in their own home. "I have a difficidt game to l)lay, and they make it more difficult," she said to herself, peevishly. Though in what her difficulties cf)nsisted it would have been luird to tell. Probably strangers would be curious about her for a time. A grown-uji daughter who is not legitimately accounted for is a])t to excite curios- ity in friendly breasts. But she was not specially called upon to take the wliole ouus of gratifying or baffling their curiosity upon lierself Nor did her real happiness and well-being depend in any way on the favor and smiles of siicli as Lady Lynton, who seemed very much inclined to with- hold tliem. She wished, however, on this occa- sion, to indulge in the selfish luxuiy of thinking solely and wholly about herself, and the best ef- fect she could create, and the surest way of doing it. Additionally, she wished to think of Mr. Fal- coner, in connection with herself still, and of what "the faint sweet smell of that jasmine flow- er " had reminded him. It was a tremendous sacrifice of her OAvn will to give up thinking of these things, in a low chair in a corner of the room close to the open conservatoiy, in order to gratify Mrs. Elliot, who had beckoned her over to a remote comer, where she might not be found by Mr. Falconer for ever so long after he came in. However, she obeyed the behest, and forced herself into listening and replying while Mrs. El- liot delivered a rimniug commentaiy on the din- ner, the saloon in which they were then the guests, and the arrangements. " We were asked for a week or ten days," she said to Dora, " and when we started your grand- father said he knew we should wish om-selves out of it before the week was over ; he was never more mistaken in his life — I am enjoying myself verj' much." " vSo is Aunt Grace, I should think," Dora said, demurely directing her gaze to an obscure part of the room, where Grace sat rather rigidlj^, with her hands before her, with nothing to do, and no oiie to speak to. "In some respects I am younger than your Aunt Grace now, my dear," Mrs. Elliot said, en- ergetically, " she can't adapt herself to new scenes and new people ; now I can — in a few days I shall be quite at home here. Dear me ! how your father is altered, to be sure. I remember him a mere slip of a boy, nearly as fair and even younger-looking than that gentleman who sat bj' you at dinner. AVhat is his name ?" " He's a Mr. Carlyon," Dora said, and just then Lady Caroline came over to speak to IMrs. Elliot, and Dora moved away into Lady Lynton's sphere. Lady LjTiton was a woman of middle height and middle age — and extreme proportions. Her figure was fat and unwieldy, and her face was in- significant in feature, and angry in color. The firm, fieiy red of it never seemed to wax faint or to abate in any way, and yet she held her face as proudly aloft as the most jiatrician beauty coidd have done, in the vain hope, Dora thought, of draining some of the blood out of it. She was a horrible woman to many people. Not horrible in mind or in acts, but horrible to look at, although a famous man-milliner, in I'aris, had made a study of her, and created robes that made the best of her. An unsliajjely, fiery-faced woman, with small greenish gray eyes, and a nose that was nothing at tlie bridge and a mere button at the tip, had no business to indulge in the luxuiy of aristocratic j)rejudices. But she was full to tlie brim of tlieni — full even to overflowing — for she was the daughter of a hiuidrcd earls, and her fam- ily had immense ])atronage. Slie was beautifully dressed now, in a rich cream-color silk, covered witli magnificent black-lace flounces, and rare dia- monds gleamed ujjon her red coarse neck and arms, and a brilliant that would have worthily decked a queen glittered above her mean, badly- formed brow. Dora jilaced herself in such a j)o- siiion that her own cxcpiisite grace and beauty was reflected in a pier-glass almost side by side with tliis oraament of the peerage. ONLY HERSELF. 21 As they sat in a juxtaposition that was crael to Lady Lynton, a sen-ant brought them cottee, and Lad}' Lynton, wlio was anxious to avoid a tete-a- tete with Dora, to whom she had conceived a dis- ta,ste, made a move — a talse one as it tm-ned out. " Give this to Miss Jocelvn," she said to the sen-ant, " and ask her to come and tell me what she thinks of it." This was a photograph of her owni unpleasing self which she had already been exhibiting to Lady Caroline. Dora — clever Dora — saw her advantage and took it. "Lady Lynton means iliss Helen, Stephens," she said,'out peo]ile and l>laces about which he failed to throw a halo of interest even to himself. He went up to Iiis room after that unexpected return to Court Koyal on the " lirst," and sur- rounded liirnself with paper and j^ens, and turned his back resolutely on the open window through wliich the woods in the distance looked so seduc- tive and shady. It was hard work to concentrate his thoughts on the young people of ids brain after tiiat meeting witii the beautiful rich widow who had it in lier power to place him above such toilsome necessities as these — if only she had tlie will. He had had this thought in his mind for some months now, and it was such a pleasant one that he did not like to test its frailty, by actually proving her will in the matter. But a golden opportunity would be his next week, when they should both be under the same roof, and there would be none to oppose him ! But in the mean tinie it was incumbent upon him that he worked ! — worked for the worst. The walk home had been a long and a hot one, from tliat hamlet between the hills where he had espied Mrs. Bruton. His forehead felt fevered. The turgid beer which, in default of sometliing better, he had been glad to drink at the little vil- lage inn, had got into his head, and had unfitted him for a clear comprehension of the case in which lie had left his chief characters the night befoie he came down to Court Koyal. Added to tliis lie could not find the schemes of the novel M-liich he had written out for his own guidance, when he did feel vague about what had gone be- fore I And there on a table before him was a let- ter from his Publisher, urging him to "send up his book at once, as he had room for a novel, and should be obliged to take another which had been offered him, and bring it out, and give it the run of the reviews before he could touch 'False Flay,' if ' False Play' were not immediately forth- coming. " A shaq) remembrance of what the ex- tortioners would do when tiiey found that his book was thrown over, urged iiim to renewed ef- forts. He made tliem with a weary l)raiii, with a hot weak hand, witii an almost hopeless heart. He had been making similar ones for so long a time, and they had repaid hini so ])oorly as yet. There was anotiier element that was antago- nistic to the composition of "False Play" that day. This was the keen memory he had for the better, higher work that he really did mean to do in the future. Impeding memories of a good vein of character which he had struck out, and a good train of incidents which he had imagined for that "higher work" now laid aside, rose uj) and made his interest in this which he had in hand very lax and feeble. "Unless some god- dess of good-luck aids me, I shall never win a resting-place in which I can give my brains fair play," he said, at last, throwing down his pen. Then the form of Mrs. Bruton in the guise of that beneficent goddess rose up before him, and tantalized him as only visions can, and made him feel how frail all his hopes of success were, after all. It was wearisome, hard, impossible to concen- trate his interest on what he was about this dav. He buried his aching head in his hands, aiid made half-resolutions. He would never let him- self be driven so hard for money again. He would avoid all scrapes that might lead him into extravagance for the future. He would do as a famous novelist, to whom the production of three volumes seems an easy and pleasurable pastime, dofes, namely, get up at five in the morning, and write before the day brought forth either joy or sorrow to internipt him. But good resolutions as to his future course would not write this book that was needed in the present. I)is])iritedly he sat himself to his task again — strove to buclde liis brains down to the present needs and the neces- sary number of pages. "A mere fiction machine!" he had read the phrase as applied to himself in an uncompliment- ary review of one of his own books some few months since, and he had aft'ected to deride it then for its ill-natured exaggeration. But the words i-ecurred to his mind now as he poured out masses of badly-amalgamated matter upon the paper, and realized that this which he was writing now had no connection in his own mind with what had gone before or with what might follow after. "The public won't bear such padding much longer," was his one fear. That the pub- lic would bear it until he had provided himself with other means of support, was his one hope. Another thought, another form, rose up to disturb and hinder his work this day. That newly-made acquaintance of his, that newly-acknowledged daughter of the house in which he was staying, impressed herself upon his mental vision!! and checked the free running of his phrases and his pen. There might be some hitch about the prop- erty old Bruton had left to his widow (as yet Mr. Carlyon was ignorant of the real nature 'of the will, and of the terms on which the handsome widow enjoyed her wealth), but there was no doubt, from what Digby Burnington had said last night, about the Oaklands property being Dora's eventually. " And a man might run on at Oak- lands veiy well for a time, if he had the means of getting away from it occasionally," he thought. Three hundred a year from Oaklands, and w hat he could make by his pen if he were free to j)ly it constanth' instead of being compelled to give the best of evciy day to his official duties, would be better than hanging on to the forlorn hope he now had of immortality through the agency of that unwritten book and Mrs. Bruton. How- ever, he resolved to do nothing hastily, but just to wait and see the jiair together before he de- cided as to their respective claims to his consider- ation. But the thinking of them at all, even the making up of his mind that he would think of them no more for the i)reseiit, fettered his com- position, and frittered awaj- his time. It was part of a plan he never deviated from, that he sliould be found strolling about with an air of having done notiiing save stroll about for hours, when the rest of the men came lunne. He liked to hear it asked wonderingly, "When Ber- tie Carlyon did his work, it never kept him from going anywhere, or doing any thing!" He was u brilliant fello>v in his way, but Ids apparently 28 ONLY HERSELF. easy method of bearing his portion of the burden that is on humanity to work, caused him to be considered an ever-so-much more brilliant fellow than he really was. His novels were always readable, and as no one ever knew when he wrote them, the general impression was that they were struck out in a white-heat of inspiration. There- fore as they, ■nTitten at a dash as they were, were so readable, what might not be expected of the otlspring of his matured judgment and well-con- sidered thoughts ? He maintained the illusion that "he took^no trouble about it, and that it took nothing out of liim physically " well. He never looked haggard, wearied, broken down. Long hours of hard, high-pressure Avork, left no traces of pallor and dyspepsia upon him. Yet, be it understood, that lie is not represented as one of those monsters of dissipation and genius who can submerge their brains in any amount of intoxicating beverages one hour, and use them to any extent in the cause of literature or art the next. Mr. Carlyon never looked haggard, pallid, and broken down, how- ever hard he worked, or however much rest he denied himself, because he never drank fiery fluids that made his words and his brow alike fevered and painful. He was essentially an ab- stemious man. Starting in bis London life with a sound constitution and a perfect physique, he retained both by never resorting to the stimulants which he did not need. Consequently, for him, there Avere no ' ' to-morrow mornings " of burn- ing eyes, and shaking hands, and muddled brains. He had a good many faults, but they were par- tially redeemed by this characteristic surely. Perhaps this fact may account for the other one that puzzled people ; namely, how he could go on writing intenninably without seeming tired. He was out strolling about, as has been said, when the mail phaeton came home full of success- ful sportsmen. They had had a good day, as the laden bags that followed them in a spring-cart testified ; and in spite of the pointer's premature death, they were all in high spirits. As they got out, and stood about on the lawn in knickerbock- ers and shooting-coats, they formed a well-look- ing, self-satisfied group, and prominent among them was Mr. Falconer, who had enjoyed his day, and was now glad that it was over, in order that he might see more of Dora. " You lost the best of it, and had a hot, tiring walk home, I'm afraid, Carlyon," ]\Ir. Jocelyn said. " You missed the luncheon, too, which met us at tlie Western Lodge." "I managed a luncheon on my way home," Bertie Carlyon began ; and then as Dora and Helen came out to join tiiem and hear what sport had been had, he deteiTnined to make himself the hero of the minute, and engross the girls' power of listening, aitliough he Jiad returned early and ignominiously. "I managed a luncheon and made a discoveiy." "What of? Where did you have lunclicon, l\Tr. JocelyftJJ Did you fall in with Tracey ?" "Mr. Tracey may be most hospitable, but his hosjiitality was not extended to me ; I found a small ' Blue Boar' tliat had never been found by civilized man before, I sliould say, and got it to 7)rovide me with bread and beer, and some com- jiressed curds called clieese ; it was all very sim- ]>Ie and Arcadian and nasty, l)ut it satisfied my hunger, and gave me new emotions. 1 was soi'- ry I had eaten luncheon for the first time in my life." "And what discovery did you make, Mr. Car- lyon ?" Dora asked, just as Bertie remembered that he had promised ]\Irs. Bruton not to betray her whereabouts. "This hamlet in the bills, the home of the Blue Boar," he said, promptly. When he began he had intended describing the pretty widow and her lau-, but he bethought him of her request in time. " Hamlets amidst the hills are common enough here," Dora said contemptuously; "I was in hopes it was something fresher ; for my own part, I am as sick of the hills as of the hamlets." "But my hamlet was exceptionably pretty and picturesque," Mr. Carlyon interpolated. "Let us make a party to-morrow, and go and see it, "Helen said. " Papa, it must be Dale-End that he means — coming across it from Oaklands. We will meet you there at two to-morrow with the luncheon. Mr. Carlyon wiU think it still more picturesque if he sees it through some better medium than ' bad beer and compressed curds. ' " " It's scarcely worth while taking so much trouble to look at my hamlet, Miss Jocelyn," Mr. Carlyon said, feeling that he had brought the very possibility about which Mrs. Bruton had de- clared herself anxious to avoid, "it came in my way. I should not have gone out of my way to see it." "But we will," Dora said impatiently. The scheme of meeting the sportsmen there at lunch- eon was pleasant to her. She had passed a veiy dull day out driving with her grandmother and aunt, and the projected scheme, if carried out, would do away with the possibility of passing such another. So she clung to it, and declared it to be delightful, and finally appealed to Mr. Falconer for his opinion about it. "Nothing could be better," he said, heartily. "I believe Mr. Carlyon is bored by the thought of the interraption we shall be," Dora said, laugh- ing; " he looks quite blank ; it seiTes him right for tiying to romance to us about rural beauties ; he shall \>ay the penalty of our presence, for hav- ing suffered himself to talk shop to us." " You must make your presence agreeable by bringing something veiy good," her father inter- posed, and then they all went into the house to prepare for dinner, and Bertie Carlyon felt that it was a settled thing that they shoidd go to Dale- End on tlie tbllowing day. Meanwhile Mr. Falconer was verv' happy, in a state of admiration that was the dawning of love for Dora, and of absolute ignorance of the near Ancinity of the beautiful recluse of Dale -End. That note which she iiad written to him had been carried liy a little lioy into the Court Koyal stable- yard with a view of being there delivered into the hands of some lower helj) whom the little boy felt capal)ie of approaching with coherent words. But in this stable-yard big dogs were kenneled, big attractive dogs of the mastiff and retriever or- ders, and the boy felt his boyhood strong witliin him as he listened to their yowls, and looked into their faces. One of the stable-doors was open too. and he caught a dazzling vision of the tail and hind legs of a horse. Gradually he slouched in at the doorway, and there, with nuich frizzing, a Dale-End boy was i)olishing the shining satin coat of u bay mare. The compatriots fraternized. ONLY HERSELF. 29 The one who was naturalized to these bewildering sights and scenes of "high life" was beneficent to his little fellow-countryman. Tlie little plough- boy was inducted into some of the mysteries of gentleman's stable lore. He partook of beer with some grown-up grooms. A retriever puppy investi- gated the contents of his pockets, and eat the note with whicli he was intrusted. So the curly- headed ploughboy, when he did awake to a sense of the responsibilities of his mission, found it null and void by reason of the absence of his credentials. It was no use becoming retrospective and stating what had brought him there now ! The yoiuig philosopher lield his peace on the subject, and tradged home, relying on providence not putting it into Jlrs. Brutou's mind to ask him any ques- tions. CHAPTER VIII. THE LUNCHEON AT DALE-END, The remainder of that day on which Bertie Carlyon had fallen athwart her, and the morning of the day following, passed wearily with jNIrs. Bruton. She had suddenly, within the last few days, had an old excitement rekindled, an old hope revived within her. And siie had given way to these things and permitted them from the force of their novelty to lead her into error. At least she had permitted them to lead her into what she had for ten years taught herself to believe was error : namely, a display of feeling, an exhibition of sj-mpathy, a tacit acknowledgment that she had been in the wrong. "I was a fool to write to him; why didn't I let well alone, and by-gones be by-gones ?" was the refrain of the song she kept on singing to her- self "We shall meet on Monday in the order of things ; at least, we should have met on ]\Ion- day in the order of things if I hadn't sounded a stupid alarm, and made him think I attach more meaning to the meeting than I do ; as it is, I was a fool for writing." Then she almost made up her mind that she woidd go back to Brighton without beat of drum, and leave Jlr. Falconer to tliink her inconsequent, piqued, afraid to meet him, any tiling, in short, rather tlian remain pas- sively within reacli, depressing herself with con- jecturing imjirotjable possibilities. If she coukl only have looked into the curly- headed ploughboy's heart through his honest, open, undesignhig yoimg face, she woidd have ob- tained such relief, and have been made so hajipy by his faithlessness. But his heart was a sealed book to her. She lost her appetite, and grew in- tensely weary of the farm-house sitting-room, which she had hired for quite another purjiose than this of sitting in it alone and bemoaning herself, and called herself "a fool for writing" over and over again. This was Saturday, and on Monday her maid and her boxes were to meet her at the railway- station, and siie was to go to Court Rdval. If she was going to turn coward and tlce from the encounter, she nuist do so witli little delay. She hardly knew how the hours had gone in this place, cut otf as she was from all her usuid occupations and amusements. They had seemed very long ; still, for all that, she was surprised when she rose up fiom the unappetizing meal that was set be- fore her as dinner to find that it was only ludf- past one. She determined to go out and sit do\\'n on the slope of a hill, and tliere, in the invigorat- ing air, make up her mind as to whether it would be more dignified to stay and eat of the fruit of her blunder, or to flee away to regions where the blunder was not known by the five o'clock train. " Riglit down Dale-End was the prettiest walk, father said," the woman of the house told her in answer to her inquiries. So she went away list- lessly in the direction indicated, feeling painfully that the beauty of a walk is veiy dependent on the walker's state of mind. This eiilogized path which she was following seemed to her little better than a rough mistake which might lead her into some- thing more unpleasant still. But she pursued it, because for the present there was nothing better for her to pursue. Dale-End was the name of the hamlet, but Dale- End proper was a point where the valley narrow- ed itself into a mere gorge between abruptly, steep- ly-rising hills. Trees clustered thickly here, and a rividet ran between them, and the sides of the hills were covered with a fragrant growth of grass and wild thyme, and a grayish-green, tiny-leaved herb, that tasted bitter and was called ' ' Boy 's-love " by the coimtiy people. Altogether Dale-End, in default of any 'thing better, was a passably pleasant spot in which to idle away a few hours on an au- tumn afternoon. She sat herself down on a mossv knoll, and tried to think that she was enjoying the fresh air and the pretty, sequestered nook, and the sereni- ty of the place. Tried to do these things and knew that she should not succeed, and felt inclined to laugh at herself for hazarding the effort. _' ' JMy day is over for this, among. other things," she thought, and then she went on to wish that she had brought Anthony Trollope's last novel with her, " for the love that his men and women make to each other is the love that is made by men and women who live, and I can bear to read of it still. Still," she said, " still, " as if love were among the things for which her day was over. Fresh air in a sequestered nook, and the utter serenity of the same, has different effects on dif- ferent "people. It did not soothe Mrs. Bruton ; she grew more disquieted within every minute; and, at last, she rose u]i with an imjiatient excla- mation against the futility of the means of coming to a determination which she had adopted ; rose up just as a couple of ladies, followed by a couple of sen-ants carrying a hamper, came toiling up the ascent close to where she had been sitting. There were a few surpiised ejaculations, a chaos ofinquir}-, answer, and explanation, that did away with all possibihty of either knowing what the other meant, and then IMrs. Bruton and Ilolon Jocelyn fairiy recognized each other. In a min- ute liora and the widow were introduced to each other with the words, "This is my sister, Dora, who lias been kejit away from home until now, like a beautiful prin- cess' in a fairy tale, by hergrandflither and grand- mother. Dora, this is my great friend, Mrs. Bru- ton, about whom you have heard me raving." Then Helen turned to superintend the arrange- ment of the luncheon, and Mrs. Bruton went down on her knees in order the more easily to cut up and mix a salad ; and Dora, being the ' only unemployed one, was the first to espy and { give notice of the approach of the party of sports- ! men whom they had come to meet. 30 ONLY HERSELF. Mrs. Bruton was in for it now. Whatever cause she might have had to long for his presence, or whatever motive she might liave had for avoid- ing him, there was nothing for her to do now but to bear the worst and make the best of it. It was more than ten years since she had seen him, and they had parted like lovers, he kissing her, and she pledging herself to be his with all the tender words and caresses a young girl employs wlien her love is allowed. Now, in a moment or or two, they must meet, for he was coming up with buoyant, rapid strides, and she was the wid- ow of another man, and he had not answered her note. She could hear his voice now, speaking in light- hearted accents to one of the other men. It was the same voice she had known so well and loved so well. Gro^vii a little deeper, perhaps, but still with the same tone in it that she had once thought and sworn was the only tone to which her heart should ever throb responsively. Well, she had not been time to her vows, that was all. And it was time now to cease from the salad, and get up from her knees and speak to Mr. Jocelyn and Lord Lynton. Helen was already helping her greatly by explaining to the others that about which she (Helen) was very fiir from be- ing clear herself ; namely, why and how ]\Irs. Bruton came to be there. And Lord Lynton and Mr. Jocelyn were more curious about their lunch- eon than about ]\Irs. Bniton's unexpected ad- vent, and there was such reassuring admiration of her in Mr. Falconer's eyes, wl- a the first blaze of surprise died out ; and, above all, she was so accustomed to be self-possessed, so very much used to seeming the thing she Avas not at the moment, that she came through the ordeal gloriously, and was felt to be a superb addi- tion to their party at once by every one of them, even by Mr. Falconer, whom she accepted quite affixbly as a friend of the Jocelyns, nothing more, in a way that almost made him think he must be di'eaming about that parting scene, which had got itself printed pretty deeply into his heart and brain. She was felt to be a superb addition to their party by every one of them ; every one of them, that is, but Dora. The girl could have seen the others succumb to the witchery of the beautiful woman who mixed salads as though they had been potent charms for the bewilderment of men, but she could not bear that irrepressible look of admiration which flashed out of Mr. Falconer's eyes. So, for th^ first time, two dnys ago, had he looked at her when he asked her for the jas- mine. So had he looked again at her last night and this nioming. Dora was not one to regard any woman who took such tributes from her as a superb addition to the society in which she dwelt. Mrs. Bruton was feeling this encounter to be ill-advised, a bigger blunder than she had made before, a -wTetched combination of unlucky circumstances, and various other things of the same sort. Simultaneously Dora was condemn- ing it as a pre-arranged jilot, a ])iece of attected artlessness, and an old-fashioned alfectation. "To be found here enjoying the beauties of nature in seclusion just wlien she hiew a shoot- ing-i)arty was coming u])," the girl thouglit, in- dignantly. "Which of thorn does she want to fool, I wonder ?" and Miss Dora's iieart foreboded that if Mrs. Bmton wanted to fool both Mr. Fal- coner and Mr. Carlyon, that she would not have much difficulty with the first-named man. They re-met as strangers — that pair who had parted as lovers ten years ago. It was not alto- gether deceptive design on their part that made them do so. It was a feeling that came upon them both in the first tumult of their minds that each would find it easier to face the other as a stranger than as a fonner friend before these re- cent acquaintances. Perhaps, in addition to this consideration for the other, each had a sense of its being just as well for their present relations that their past should be out of sight as much as might be. Not even the woman about whose past there had been a something that the rigid might call reprehensible was ashamed of herself. They were neither of them abashed at the recol- lection of what had been. Nevertheless, there would have been an awkwardness about the re- suscitation of the dead love and the buried mo- tives. So they bowed quite pleasantly to each other, and remarked upon the beauty of the day, and the peculiarity of that good-fortune which had brought Mrs. Bruton out into the wilds in time for a shooting luncheon. "I did not betray you," Bertie Carlyon took an early opportunity of whispering to her. He had made up his mind to strike a blow for for- tune this day, since Fate had brought about a syl- van meeting between them. He told himself, with a cross between a smile and a sneer, tliat sparkling wine and a long walk in the sun (if only he could persuade her to take one) would soften her brain and her heart to the degree of making her listen sympathetically to him. At any rate he was determined to try her, and so he would not let her believe for an instant long- er than was necessary that he had disobeyed her injunctions and brought the Court Royal people ujion her. ' ' Didn't you ?" she said, carelesslj'. She had forgotten now how earnest she had been impress- ing secrecy upon him the day before, and so she unden'alued his honorable obsen-ance of her com- mands. "I am very glad I have met them all in this off-hand way, for I M-as getting tired of my solitude, and I should have been ashamed to flee from it until Monday." ' ' At any rate you exonerate me — even though it is from what would have been a trifling error to-day," he went on. " Oh! yes, j'es," she said, impatiently, "how pretty slie is, Mr. Carlyon ; my friend Helen pales before her; a clever girl, too, I should think." " I have not tested her talents yet," he said, slightingly. It was not his object just now to seem impressed with, or interested in, Dora Joce- lyn. " Are you all going shooting again after lunch- eon ?" she asked, presently. ' They were seated round the cloth now, and the clatter of knives and forks, and the dooping sound of drawing of corks, interrupted with jjeqjetual directions to the serv- ants to do something which they were just about to do. Like all out-door repasts, it was noisy in its nature. As Mr. Falconer and Dora were seat- ed at some distance on the opposite side of the cloth, Mrs. BiiUon felt that she could ask what questions she pleased. " Are you all going shooting again after lunch- eon ?" she asked, laying a slight stress on the all. Mr. Carlyon was not apt to make mistakes, and ONLY HERSELF. 31 he did think now that she was interested in what he did alone. All things seemed to combine to urge him on towards the golden goal he hoped to wnn. She was looking lovelier, softer than ever he had seen her look before, and she was looking it for him ! He was not actuated solely by his ' desire to enjoy her fortune. He was admiring herself very truly, and feeling enthusiastically how j splendidly and surely such a wife backed by money would help him on in his best ambitions. "I am not going note" he said, in a Jew tone, "I can only answer for myself." j " The others are keener sportsmen ?" she in- | terrogated, carelessly, because she was conscious that it behooved her to say something, and she could hardly concentrate her attention upon him sufficiently to say any thing. ! ''Not that, I think, but the others have not ^ such a powert'ul counter-attraction," he said, and then she did concentrate her attention upon him in a way he did not like. " Don't tr\' to make pretty speeches while you are eating partridge-pie, ]Mr. Carlyon," she said, looking him full in the face and smiling. "I had a good example of the possibility of doing the two things well at once just opposite to me," he whispered, and as ^Irs. Brnton's eyes fol- lowed his to the spot where Mr. Falconer lounged by Dora's side, the widow's heart beat faster than seemed well to her. Something like a jealous feeling shot through her, " though she could nev- er be nearer to him tlian she was now," she told herself promptly. But it was hard that he should have kept the feith to her for so many years, only to let her see him break it in the first hour of their reunion ! Some such thoughts swept across her mind, but in manner she was barely interested in that wliich Bertie Carlyon had pointed out. '■ Oh, that sort of thing does very well between quite young people," she said, looking away from the sight that pained her, and so by chance bring- ing her soft sweet eyes to bear upon the man at her side again ; " but we are old, sensible people, who enjoy the partridge-])ie the more for eating it uninternipted by any light skirmishing of the sort. I see your new novel advertised. Do you write Avith both your hands and feet, or do you buy up all the rejected manuscripts of less for- tunate authors ?" " I do it, how I can hardly tell you," he said, shrugging his shoulders gayly. ' ' I have a favor to ask you in connection with my new novel by- and-by." " Ask it now." " No; when we are alone," he said, and she told him "As you please." CHAPTER IX. THE SHOOTING LUSCIIEOX. A GREAT many fallacious statements are con- stantly being uttered relative to the marvellous power of a woman's will in all matters of ma- na?uvre and of the heart. The assertion is often made that if a woman sets her mind upon achiev- ing the temporary subjection of a man, that it is useless for that man to try to wriggle free of the coils she has wrapped about him, or to strive to bend straight the circumstances which she has Avarjted to her own will. Real life shows us a veiy different picture to the ideal that is so flat- teringly painted of a woman's omnipotence. As a case in point, it may be mentioned that on this occasion Mrs. Bruton made up her mind while she was eating her hmcheon that immediately after it she would compass a conversation with Mr. Fal- coner. She would even go so far as to make an opportunity for him to address her, and her rec- ollections of old days justified her in thinking that he would gladly embrace that opportunity. For- tified and supported by this inward resolution to make a clean breast of it very soon, she bore the sight of his devotion to Dora meanwhile very bravely. But her fortitude was severely taxed when, the luncheon over, in spite of her will to the contrary, Mr. Falconer sauntered away by the side of the young syren who glowed into great- er grace, and brightened into a more brilliant beajity with every little fresh triumph. Slowly the other men gathered themselves and their guns together, and went oft" to renew their sports. The two defaulters from their ranks (for Bertie Carlyon never stirred from his place by Mrs. Button's side) spoke of them pityingly \\-ith calm, contented superiority as of "toilers after pleasure, who were not graced with the abihty to take the goods the gods gave." "^\niat good are the gods giving you at this moment ?" JNIrs. Bruton asked Bertie, rather crossly. IMr. Falconer and Dora were slowly but surely removing themselves from all chance of inteniiption from a commimion with their fel- lows, by a gradual ascent of the steepest hills. No wonder ]\irs. Bruton felt cross, for she had given her old lover one of those looks of invitation that a man is not readily forgiven for hanng dis- regarded. And he had so disregarded it that she felt additionally angiy, for he met it and replied for it with a negative look — a cold, discouraging, negative look. Bertie Carlyon's beatific state grated harshly upon her — although she was the cause of his beatitude. " Mr. Falconer is soon slain after his return, isn't he ?" Helen asked, laughingly, and in utter unconsciousness of the pain her words caused her admired friend the widow. Digb}' Bunnngton, whose fiite, as for as Helen was concerned, was accom])lishcd, and who therefore had nothing further to win in that direction, had gone off" bhthe- ly from his betrothed. It was only those whose love was being weighed in the balance still, and who dreaded that it might be found wanting, who lingered. By reason of this dispensation, Helen had nothing to do save to look at the others, and so naturally her regards fell upon those who gave her the most to look at. "Your friend IMr. Falconer is not married, then ?" Jlrs. Bruton said, resting her elbow in her lap and sup]iorting her cheek upon it as she leaned forward languidly. She was looking spe- cially well m one of the fantastic much-])uti'ed dresses of the day — a dress of rich material and excpusite make, and yet, for all that richness of material and faslnonableness of form, a dress that was not incongruous with the surroundings and the situation. No woman wotdd have been absolutely pleasing in Mr. Carlyon's eyes who dressed herself either meanly or incongruously. The only thing that jarred u]jou his vision in the picture before him was the jilain gold ring upon her left hand. That she was a widow was a draw- back to him in his eves. But it v\as a drawback ONLY HEKSELF. that she could not remedy now, however willing she might be to do so at his instigation. And there was compensation for her widowhood in the thought of that wliich her Aridowhood had brought her. He was determined to do it, therefore it would be well, he told himself, to do it quickly. His pro- posing to her before she came to Court Royal, or rather before the day fixed for her to come to Court Royal, might be considered a premature step by some people. But to his mind there was neither indelicacy, prematurity, or any thing of the sort about it. If she accepted him, and did not desire to have her acceptation blazonecf forth directly, he would keep silence about it, of course, and deport himself accordingly. After all, his raptures would not be so intense as to lead him into any unseemly demonstration of gratified love or joy ! And if the other alternative was the oiie adopted — if she refused him ! Wliy then he could but bow to the situation, and leave her un- molested ; and so, success or failm-e, he would dally no longer with opportunity, but would snatch the hour, and force it to sen^e him ! " Helen, will you come back with me and see the house I'm lodging in ?" Mrs. Bruton said, when Mr. Falconer and Dora had walked quite out of sight. " I don't think I can," Helen said, dubiously. " Why not? Scrupulous about leaving your sister ?" Mrs. Biniton said, with a faint smile. ' ' I think she will be well guarded ; come back ■\\ath me, and we will leave word with Mr. Carlyon that they are to follow us, and have some tea in an old- fashioned garden at the back of the farm-house, when they do come back." "But 1 don't see why I am to be left behind alone for their convenience," Mr. Carlyon pro- tested , " if they must not be left to their own de- vices (which seemed remarkably pleasant ones), let us all wait for them ; don't condemn me to solitude." "Poor Mr. Carlyon, he shall not be called upon to offer up sacrifices on the altar of friend- ship," Helen laughed. "Or on the altar of politeness," Mrs. Bruton muttered ; but Helen did not, and Mr. Carlyon would not hear her. " I like the idea of tea in an old form-house garden," Helen said, jumjiing up, "I will lam af- ter Dora and call her ; she will like it too." "Will she?" Mr. Carlj-on remaiked, as the girl ran off and he found liirasclf at length alone Avith Mrs. Bniton. ' ' I am going to ask my favor of you now," he continued. " Will you come a little farther away from tlic scene of our revels — there's an atmosphere of broken meats here that isn't pleasant." " No ; I think I will sit still, though," the lady said, pouring some eau de' Cologne into her hands as she spoke. "Here; is that more refresiiiiig ?" and she sent a light shower of it to- wards iiim. "Then I must sit still, too," he said, and he drew himself an inch or two nearer to her, and her instincts told lierwhat the nature of the favor he woukl ask of her was. " If I seem abrupt you will pardon me, won't you?" he began; "they will be back in a few minutes — I feel I am running a race against time." "Always a foolish thing to du," she said ; " be- cause time is so strong and so sm-e, that he must beat you. " "The favor I would ask is for myself." ' ' I thought it was for your novel ?" " That's part of the favor," he said, catching at a legitimate opportunity for deferring the import- ant question ; "I want you to let me dedicate it to you." " That you may do, certainly ; if I were not rather sun-stricken and tired just at this moment, I woidd say pretty things glibly, and accept the dedication more flatteringly, as it is,i avi tired," she woimd up with suddenly, and it dawned upon Bertie Carlyon that she was not in an auspicious frame of mind to address. Still, he reminded himself, it is for a man to make successful oppor- tunity, if successful opportunity be not made for him. He did not fear his fate too much. At the veiy worst she could but say him nay, and then he would be in precisely the same position he was in at present, neither better nor worse. It was really nothing to be tremulous about. "I'll consider aU the other pretty things as said, and be flattered by them accordingly, if you will only say one pretty thing now ; and that is ' Yes,' to my entreaty that you will let me dedi- cate the new novel to my wife," he said, drop- ping his voice. " Certainly, you may dedicate it to your wife ; but I did not know that you were going to have one." "Nor did I know that I wished to have one until I met you again yesterday." Then he changed his tone, and asked her in all seriousness, if " she would let herself be that wife to whom he might dedicate his book." She was not the type of woman who ti-embles and grows pale and agitated at such words as these. They would not haye fluttered her had they been addressed to her by the being in the world who had the sole masteiy of her heart. As it was, lier neiTcs were in perfect order, and there was not the faintest display of confusion or em- barrassment, for she was entirely indifferent to the man at her side. Nevertheless, she had no de- sire to put him in the position of beiug openly worsted. In however small a degree his aim had been lofty, she did not wish that the Court Roy- al servants should see it thrown to the dust. Rising up gracefully, and without the least fuss or hurry, she said — "Let us follow the example the others have set us," and he found himself carried along at he» side for some couple of lumdred yards with his question still unanswered. Wiien they had turn- ed the corner of one of the over-lapping hills, the long chain of which on either side of the valley caused an air of decej)tively dangerous seclusion to reign, she paused and said — "We can speak here quite comfortably. Do you know I am very sorry you asked nie tliat fa- vor, as you call it, because it's the one tiling I can't grant." She waited, but he neither pleaded, expostu- lated, nor protested. So siie went cm. "You want my reasons for saying this, natu- rally ; and I haven't the least objection in tlie world to give them to you. Of course I strike you as l)eing a wealthy woman, and equally of course yr)u would like a wealthy wife — " " And eijually, of course, I see you are ready to condemn me as a mere mercenary," he said. ONLY HERSELF. 33 " Not at all ; I have for too liifi;h an opinion of myself, of my merely personal and mental claims, to believe that any man who wants to marry me wants my money alone ; bnt the fact is, that the man whom I may marry eventually will have to be satisfied with that unremunera- tive endowment. I lose every thing by the terms of my husband's will should I marry again ; a merely mercenar}- man would have discovered that fact before he committed himself to an of- fer, Mr. Carlyon," she wound up with holding her hand out to him frankly. Then, seeing that his position was painful, that he coidd not actual- ly renounce his worded hope of having her until she helped him to do it, she added — " Therefore, you see that it is out of the ques- tion ; if I were a romantic young girl, and very much in love with you, I should still hesitate be- fore I accepted an offer that would cut me off from the indulgence of much that I have learnt to love in life. As it is, I am not a romantic young girl, and I'm not in love with you — but I am your rery good friend, and I hope to see you witli a better wife than I should have made you, xnuler the most auspicious circumstances." lie was in a difficult position ; in such a diffi- cult ]iosition that he found it very hard either to speak or to keep silence. It was true that, after what she had told him, be could not, in justice to himself and in common-sense, wish that her definitive had been di •Cerent. But it was also true that it was remark.ibly awkward to tell such a frank woman this fact with equal frankness. There would have been ioibecility in pressing his suit ; but, on the other hand, would there not be something like pusillanimity in so suddenly re- linquishing it? But it wi's imperative on him that he should say something. " I am grateful for your friendship, since I can win nothing warmer ; very gi-ateful for it, Mrs. Bruton,">he said, at last. " Afterwhat you have told me I shall never have the presumption to look for any thing higher at your hands ; I do not so rate myself as to believe that I could compen- sate in any degree for ' the loss of the things you have learnt to love in life.' " He attempted to give the quotation from her own words in a little tone of bitterness, but she would not have it so between them. Her own heart was heavy enough just then, poor woman. She did not want to have a misunderstanding with a man whom she rather liked than other- wise. So she turned from his case to her own, and said — "Are not snch conditions of enjoying money cruel ? Mr. Bruton, I believe, never hoped or wished that I should be so faithful to his memo- ry as never to love again ; he hoped that I should love and l)e loved, and be made to smart and wa- ver, and finally be left. lie wanted me to be made to suffer, not to be made secure." She looked eager, angry, interested, injured, as she spoke, and she gained the point she had in view when she commenced speaking. Her com- j)anion ceased to think more of himself than of her. " I can only hope for you that you will keep your heart always in as perfect check as you have done hitherto." "I have not kept it in check hitherto," she said, looking half sad and half cross as she said it, but not one bit ashamed. " I have let my- 3 self anticipate and imagine all sorts of impossi- bilities — even within the last few days." This confession she made with all amplitude, in order that he might feel the less chagrin for having raised his hopes, and for having won disappoint- ment to himself through so raising them — . "A fellon'-feeling makes us wondrous kind." This truth she suggested to him for his comfort. It had the effect she desired, but it also raised his curiosity. "And is it possible that the reality has f;illen short of your anticipations and imaginings ?" he asked. " The reality bids fair to be veiy bitterly pain- ful tome," she said, with all the energy that pique and pride, and wasted love, could impart into her tone. " Come, let us go back to the place where they left us, Mr. Carlyon : by this time even the gratified beauty and her new slave must be tired of wandering about in the heat, and ready to resume society." When she said that, Mr. Carlyon began to suspect that Miss Dora Joce- lyn had in some way or other crossed Mrs. Bru- ton's path of gold; but in what way, or with whom, he could not guess. "This is all to be as if it had not been, mind that," she said to him, as they walked slowly back to the spot where the shooting luncheon had been eaten. "When I come to Court Eoyal on Mon- day, if I don't find you there to give me a glad welcome, I shall be unfeignedly hurt." " I will obey you, Mrs. Bruton ; at any cost to mj'self, since you wish it ; I will stay on — and get more severely singed, perhaps." lie was only too glad to obey her and stay on at Court Koy- al ; but too much gladness shown would have im- paired the grace of his concession, he fancied, ' ' Not that it's too pleasant for a fellow to be thro^vn into the society of a woman who has just refused him," he continued stealing a glance. "Ah ! but consider the circumstances. They take away all the sting, don't they now. Here we are back just in time ; does not Miss Jocelyn look triumphant ?" " As a woman may look who has just accom- plished her destiny," he said, carelessly ; and then Dora and Helen and Mr. Falconer came too close to the pair whose footsteps have been followed for further pri^■ate colloquy to be possible be- tween them. " Triumphant as a woman may look who has just accomplished her destiny." These were the words used to describe Dora's appearance, and, it is a fact, that they descril>cd her appearance re- markably well. She did look triumphant, success- ful, c.ipable of carr^'ing all before her. Great as Mrs. Bruton's beauty was, it lacked this crown- ing charm that her young rival ])ossessed — name- ly, the look of j)ower of carrying all before it by right of her youth. It has been said in a coin- mendaton,' spirit of Mrs. Bruton, that there Mas nothing extreme about her. But in an e(iually commendatory spirit it maybe said of Dora Joce- l_\-n, that there was a most charming air of extreme vitality about her. She had that vigor of i)iiy- sicjue and manner which betokens perfect jiurity of mind and body. The active mind nuiy, and frequently does, dwell in the limp, enfeebled frame, and the healthful vigorous frame oftentimes con- tains the limp, enfeebled mind. But the sup- position that the two arc united — that the vitality 34 ONLY HERSELF. of the one is but a fitting illustration of the vitality of the other — imparts a rare chann to the happy possessor who is accredited with both. In the gloiy of her youth, tasting at this mo- ment of the first fniits of that sun of joyous love- liness which she had about her, tiying her flight into hitherto luiknown (though not undreamt of) regions of conquest and excitement, Dora Jocehoi did give beholders the impression of being ra- diantly, triumphantly happy. "lie has taken the leap — he has proposed to her," Mrs. Bmton thought, with a prick at her heart as she thought it, as the two wandering forces joined themselves together. And though the beautiful widow had resigned this, man of her own free will ten years ago, it seemed to her now that she was being called upon to make a fresh sacrifice, and compelled to a more soul-sub- duing resignation. "Not one word in private with him yet — not one look at me which he might not bestow upon a stranger. And in the veiy first hour of our reunion he draws out a fresh scheme of happiness for himself." She al- most rejjented herself of not having embraced ])overty and Bertie Carlyon's ofter. At any rate, if she had forfeited her fortune and taken that agreeable and extravagant young man for better and worse, she would have had full occupation in keeping, or in trjing to keep, a variety of hungry wolves at bay — wolves that had been created by Bertie's former habits, and unavoidable wolves that the exigencies of eveiy-day life in her new domestic relations would be sure to bring forth and multiply. Then she remembered how es- sential to her well-being, comfort, and unchecked expenditure, and a superiority to the dull details of a never-ending sj'stem of economy each and all were. And in the midst of her annoyance and heart-soreness, she felt glad tiiat she had not been angry enough with another man at the mo- ment Bertie spoke, to do that rash thing which would only have intensified her misery. And then she fell to watching Dora and Mr. Falconer ^nth hungiy, haughty glances that did not escape the fornier, until the time came for them all to go home, and till that time Dora was so triumph- ant. But when the two Miss Jocelyns had seated themselves in the pony- carriage, and it seemed impossible but that in another minute Mrs. Bru- ton must be left alone, that lady roused herself. Tiie JoceljTis' pony-cannage was one of those basket sociables which can, on an emergency, hold four, and Dora, as she seated herself, while Helen was gathering up the reins, compressed her dress down to make more room, and looked with an inviting smile at Mr. Falconer, and told her sister " not to be in a huny," and othenvise hinted that the emergency had come. But Bertie Carlyon, who had no object now in waiting on the widow, and who had equally no object in furthering Dora's and Mr. Falconer's advances towards each other, foiled Miss Jocelyn's plan. He stepped in and seated himself opposite to Helen, requesting that he might be permitted to do so, and apologizing for doing so in the same breath. And when he had done tliat, it seemed to dawn ujion them all for the first time that Mrs. Bruton must not be permitted to walk home alone. "Be a dear, sensible woman, and come home with us iit once, and send a seiTant for your things," Helen urged, holding in her ponies with difficulty. "Mamma will think all sorts of things, if you don't." " At the risk of over-charging Lady Csiroline's mind, I think I must stand to my original inten- tion," Mrs. Biiiton said, smiling. "But to leave you here at the top of Dale- End alone does seem so shabby." ' ' Mrs. Bruton need not be alone, if she will accept my escort," Mr. Falconer said, coming forward. And Mrs. Bruton did accept his escort, and Dora's air of being triumphant faded in a moment. CHAPTER X. DORA IS CONGRATULATEn. The pony-carriage drove off, Helen nodding and smiling adieu in the free affable way in which a girl whose heart is not touched by him can smile adieu to a man who seems to be devoting himself to another woman. But Dora was in- capable of this feint of being friendly and satis- fied. She was feeling horribly angry and offend- ed both with Mrs. Bmton and Mr. Falconer. During the last hour or two — especiaUy during the time they had been strolling about alone — she had been taking pains to put herself in the fairest light before Mr. Falconer. She had not said very much to him in words, but she had said much in manner, and in looks, and by her very silence. The few sentences she had uttered had been sufficient to convince him that she had a good memory for all that he had said and had implied to her. Anl he had shown himself pleased by her, and interested in her, and dazzled by her, although that other beauty, that Mrs. Bruton, had blazed upon them so bewilderingly. He had told her a great deal about Dollington, and about his early life, while his flither, and mother, and only sister had been alive. The people who had been occupying it for the last ten years had let it fall into decay to a great degree. "The gardens have gone astray, and the furni- ture looks faded and shabby to me now," he said. "It used to look all right when we lived there ; but now it strikes me as being tawdry and vul- gar." "You can't fail to associate it with the stran- gers who have been using it so long — that is why it will never seem the same to you again," Dora said, and there was a strain of sympathy in the speech that pleased him. Then he went on to tell her how he hoped gradually to re-embellish Dollington ; to get tlie home-look to come back to tlie place, and to do away with every evidence of its having known other inhabitants than the Falconers. " It quite hurt me to see that they have turn- ed what was a pet anemone bed of my mother's, into a croquet groimd," he said. " I have no right in reason to be hurt about it, because I nev- er hinted my desire to them when I left that they should keep any of the arrangements intact ; my heart was heavy at the time, and I thought every thing that was outside the cause of that heavi- ness a trifle." " Your heart was hea^y at leaving Dolling- ton ?" " No, no. I rejoiced in the power I had of ONLY HERSELF. 35 leaving "Dollington. M}' troulile came from quite atiotiier quarter." Then lie paused for a moment Of two, and tlien continued with a hiugh, " it was a young man's trouble — I may ask you to listen to it some day." Iler heart had throbbed when he said that, and she had stolen a glance at him which was eloquent, and informed \vith that tender curiosity which is pure symjnrthy. " I shall be so glad when that day comes," she .said, in a soft Aoice ; and as she .said it he did feel glad that he had kejjt the faith to Mabel Bruton until he had met with this peerless young beauty, who liked him for himself with such win- ning celerity. Could that day, on which he should ask her to hear the tale of his former and liis pres- ent love come too soon for his own happiness ? He thought not. Still he held himself in check, and resolved not to shock her by a jiremature dec- laration of his passion. Yet, for all this resolve, he could not abstain from giving utterance to the half-hints and protestations with wliich men do at sucli times conceive they have a right to per- plex and bewilder a girl. "Yes, I shall tell the tale of that old trouble to you. Miss Jocelyn, whatever it may cost me," he said, bending his head to look into her face, as he walked on at her side. "If it costs you pain to speak of it, I could not bear to hear a word," she replied, lifting up her eyes. " It is not the pain I dread, it is what my am- ple confession may cause me to lose. Still I shall make it, if you will hear me. I think I shall wait imtil I get you to Dollington one day ; you will be more softly disposed towards me — more inclined to grant my request when you see how solitaiy I am there.'' "Am I likely to see Dollington soon?" she asked, with a slight access of color and confu- sion. " I am going to ask Lady Caroline to make a party there to luncheon next week." " I should like best to see Dollington alone with you, Mr. Falconer : but I know that can't be managed. Lady Caroline would faint at the impropriety of the suggestion ; but we shall be such a party next week that I shall be afraid of looking upon Dollington as a show place, and I hate show places." " But you mustn't hate Dollington." " Why not — why must not I hate Dollington ?" She asked it with much seeming innocence ; but for all that seeming innocence, he saw that she was bent on making him speak out if possible. He felt flattered by the desire ; at the same time, he was not going to gratify it just now. So he only said, — "Why not? Because Dollington is mine, and is to be my home. I shall be veiy much j)ained and disappointed, if you do not leam to love Dol- lington." And when he had said that, they both felt that he had gone very far indeed. Still, Dora was resolved tiiat he should go a little farther, if it was in her power so to make him go. Accord- ingly, she said, — " And wlio will teach me the lesson ? I must have a master, you know ?" " I will be tliat master," he was saying, when Helen came u\> to look for them. No wonder Dora went back feeUng and looking verj' triumph- ant, and even less wonder tliat she leaned back in aggiieved sulky silence wlien she was driven away from the sight of the man who had said those words in attendance on another and equally love- ly woman. Jlr. Falconer had felt bound in courtesy to offer his escort to the unprotected lady whom the oth- ers were about to leave alone amongst the hills. But he made the offer constrainedly, feeling that it would be well for him if she should refuse it. He had been considerably upset by that acciden- tal meeting with her this day, and in the con- fusion of mind consequent on that iqisetting he had suffered himself to say more to Dora Jocelyn than seemed well in his own judgment just yet. For many years he had observed a sincere fidel- ity of heart to the lady who had jilted hiiu, and who now had come before him again, a widow, free to be wooed and won, for all he knew to the contrary. But, for all that fidelity, he had no de- sire, in this their first meeting, to so woo and win her. It seemed like a special interposition of Fortune to him that the other girl should have fallen across his path three days ago, since she was the only one who had been gifted with the power of putting Jlrs. Bniton out of his heart. "A week ago and this chance meeting would have made me as abject a slave to her as of old," he thought, as he glanced at the wonderfully beautiful woman walking by his side so quietly, " but I have a talisman against her now." The talisman he referred to was Dora's ready recep- tion of his rash remarks. Perhaps if he had not permitted himself to go as far as he had gone with the one, he might not have experienced such an absolute sense of security now that he was alone with the other. "I shall not tax your politeness and try your powers of walking too severely, I hope ; my lodg- ings are very near." These were the first words she brought herself to say, and she said them with a double motive. She really wishetl to relieve him of any uncertainty he might be feeling as to the length of the walk, and she also really wish- ed with equal earnestness to discover whether or not he had received her note. The possibility that he might not have done so was just dawning upon her. "Are you lodging do\ra here? It is a very pretty country. " So he might have said to an acquaintance made on the previous day, and to be droi)ped with cer- tainty the next hour. She was in revolt in a mo- ment naturally at his saying it to her. "A very pretty country, and the day is most charming, quite seasonable. One wonders why nature should be so good and true when one's fel- low-creatures are such superficial shams," she said, her voice trembling a little and her face gaining an additional tinge of color. Now that she was alone with him, she coiild not helii waking some of the old chords — and thrilling to them herself. "Trutli and goodness are often so very much thrown away upon one's fellow-creatures,'' he said, dryly, thinking the while that her speech was amarvellously cool and daring one to be made by a woman who had violated any number of vcjws and protestations as she had done with re- gard to him. " Not thrown away," and now she turned her face slightly towardshim, and he could not help seeing that it was a face fraught with beauty as 36 ONLY HERSELF. great, or even greater, than Dora Joceljn's. Beau- tiful and channing as it had been to him in days of yore, it possessed a richer beauty and a fuller chann now to his more mature taste. A feeling of savage regret seized him that all tliis should liave been denied him, that all this should have been v.-asted on another man, on the old business brute she had mamed. She almost thought with liim for that instant. There M'as a dangerous look of correspondence in their eyes as they met, and she repeated, " Not thrown away, good seed always springs up sooner or later, and bears fniit that is not al- ways seen by the sower." ' ' Fruit that may be very bitter, if the seed has been in the ground over-long," he said, slighting- ly; "but why are we talking in parables, Mrs. Bruton, the style of to-day is so much easier ?" " But so much can't be asked and told in the style of to-day," she said, softly. For the life of her she could not help feeling in love with and unhappy about this once discarded lover of hers, no\v tliat he was before her in the flesh again. And reason and common-sense and selfishness alike told lier that it Avas hopeless, altogether hoi^eless, however he might incline towards her. She could not give up all and go penniless to a comparatively poor man, and in her eyes the master of Dollington was a comparatively poor man. Stili, for all this knowledge, she could not help hankering after some show of interest from him. If lie would only betray that, and ask her about lierself, and tell her about liimself, and con- \ince her that lie had never taken another wom- an to wife because of his unforgotten love for her, she would be happier tlian she had been for years. She was yearning to be fi-ee, and friendly, and confidential with him, and she could not break the barriers down at once. " But so much can not be asked and told in the style of to-day," she said. ' ' I think so ; I think I can find words for all I have to ask and tell," he said, laughing. And that laugh broke down lier wall of pru- dence, and stung her into the imprudence of show- ing him how much she felt. " You have so little to hear about and to say to me, you are so absolutely indifferent to every thing concerning me — " '• Mrs. Bmton, you evidently forget that it was your own hand, not mine, that severed us, and pointed out the utter absurdity of our taking any interest in each other. I am delighted to see you well and happy." " You are not bitter against me ?" she pleaded, fervently, bent on winning him to softness now. "You arc not bitter against me? Let me have the consolation of hearing that you are not bitter against me ?" Tiiey were A'ery near to the ftirm-house now, and it was quite time that the climax should be reached. "No," he said, coolly striking a stone out of Ills path with a roiigli ash stick lie had cut and trimmed. Tlien he added an untruth, " I never felt hitter against you after I knew that you were actually mamed to Mr. Bruton." "lie was very good to nie," she said, with a sudden soberness, a sudden rush of recollection, a sudden sense of loyalty to the dead man. Then she asked hurriedly, and apparently without much purpose, — " Wei-e vou veiy much sui-prised to see me to- day?" "Very much, indeed. Is this really where you are lodging ?" ' ' Yes, " she said, humedlj-, with a rush of re- Hef at having ascertained that her note had not been received and scorned by him. "Yes, Mr. Carlyon called on me yesterday, so the poor little representative of Mrs. Grundy down in this part of tlie world won't be shocked if you come in and see how I am lodged." But he coidd not brijig himself to cross her threshold yet. Meantime, the two girls and Bertie Carlyon had driven home. Dora still silent, sad, and sulky from an undefined dread of miscomprehen- sion on the part of some, and wavering on the part of others. It seemed to her that Mr. Fal- coner had been so veiy marked in his manner towards her ; that he liad, indeed, said enough to her to justify her in thinking that he meant much, and other people in thinking that he meant more. And her own desire was that he should mean all that his words might mean. She had often heard it stated, as a well authenticated fact, that a man does not propose, in other words, does not ask a woman to be his wife in so many words. Surely, if such was the case, Mr. Falconer's lan- guage was the veiy plainest that could have been used. lie had said that he hoped that she would learn to love his old home, and Avhen she had asked who the master was to be that should teach her the lesson, he had declared that he would be that master. Nothing coidd be plainer or more satisfactory save the plainest and most satisfacto- ry direct oifer that people said ' ' never was made. " She turned the matter over in her mind, over and over again, and she looked at it from every side. From eveiy side, that is, where the view was l>leasant and coincided with her own wishes. Finally, she decided that "he must have meant it." "It" being an offer of marriage, and she then, with a flash of happiness queerly dashed with doubt, felt convinced that she was engaged. But how would the truth come out? How, and when, and to whom ? "Was it his part or her part to make it known to the home depart- ment ? She had read many a tale of the iiii(iuity of young girls who conceal such important events as proposals and engagements from their nearest and dearest, to the grief and anger of these latter. There was a vagueness about her betrothal, cer- tainly, but then (on the authority of jieojjle who ought to know) so there was about the majority of betrothals. Dora was very clever in many things, veiy correct in many of her deductions. She told herself, with some truth, that INIr. Fal- coner was not the type of man who would like to be looked ujjon as having behaved badly to the daughter of Mr. Jocelyn of Court Koyal. "If it comes out in the course of conversation with my sister, it will be a most natural thing, and I can't be called indelicately hasty in an- nouncing it," Dora thought to herself as, on their return home, she slowly tr.avelled up-stairs to her room, " and if Helen knows it, most of tliem will know it iKjfore that woman comes on Monday." " That woman " was Mrs. Bruton, against whom Dora's instincts warned her already. Her first engagement ! It is an epoch in the life of every young girl ; and shady and unde- fined as Dora to herself allowed hers to be, still there was something iullnitely agreeable in the ONLY HERSELF, 37 thought of it — when she did not tliink of it too cleaily. There was sometliing deli{,'htfnl to the girl who had been accustomed all her life to be nothing save to the inmates of licr grandfatlicr's house, in the idea of the accession of consequence that would be hers when it was knowni that she was engaged to be married to Mr. Falconer of Uollington. There was sometliing delightful in the anticipation of the freedom of a married wom- an's life. She pictin-ed herself dispensing hospi- talitv to and charming the neighborhood, and lead- ing "the local fashions, and gradually improving the local mind. There was more that was de- lightful in tlie reflection that she miglit openly and honorably show her regard for and interest in IMr. Falconer, as Helen showed hers for the boy-lover Digby Buniington. These thoughts were so delightful that they nearly drove all doubt- fulness as to the reality of the bright j)ieture she had painted out of her head ! His words had been conclusive enough. But if further evidence had been wanting, had she not the testimony of his thrilling tones and manner and looks to satisfy and assure her. So she was detenninately satis- fied and assured and longing to unburtlien herself of some portion of her new-born felicity by the time Helen came up to speak to her before di'ess- ing for dinner. " Nearly ready, Dora, and I haven't got as far as taking otf my hat yet. Oh dear, dear ! how feeding out of doors in the heat of the day dis- ables one. I have been loitering about, waiting for Digby on the lawn ; and, behold, to me there came, instead of Digby, Mr. Falconer ! Mrs. Bruton didn't keep him long, did slie ?" "Of course not," Dora said, elevating her nose ; "why should she keep him long? How you do over-estimate that ^Irs. Bruton, to be sure ! " " It's impossible to over-estimate her beauty," Helen said, eagerly. "Look to your laurels, Dora, wlicn she comes. For my part, I can ftin- cy her winning any man frt)m any woman that he was not actually engaged to." " If he is actually engaged, I suppose the other woman needn't trouble herself to look to her lau- rels," Dora said, turning her head over her shoul- der towards her sister with a significant triumph- ant smile. "You don't mean that?" Helen said, start- ing u]). "What, already! Oh, Dora! how pleased jiapa and eveiy one will be ; it was wliile you were walking, wasn't it ; what did he say?"' " How can you remember what Digby said ?" Dora said, smiling still, though her spirits fell a little at the question. " Xo ; yes I can, though ; he used to call me his little wife when we were children ; and when we were grown up he said something silly that made me understand that he wished the old ar- rangement to last. One can never tell exactly what a man says at such times, I I)elieve." " Then why did you ask me what Mr. Falcon- er said?" Dora retorted, feeling infinitely re- lieved by tlie contemplation of the very favorable precedent Helen had liekl up before her. " You'll be married before me ; wiien does he want to be married ?" Helen questioned, in all the sympathetic excitement that a new engage- ment occasions. ' ' I really don't know ; he wants me to go to Dollington next week to look at the place," Dora said. "And to suggest improvements, of course? Nice man ! He isn't dilatory, that's one good thing ; charming to have you at Dollington, Dora, you lucky, lucky, dear girl. I am so glad ! He will have a solemn interview with papa to- night. Digby had that, I remember, and then they will come out, and your health will be drunk as the future Mrs. Falconer of Dollington." Dora's heart throbbed one instant with elation, then sank the next with a pang of something that was not quite either fear or doubt, but that might easily develop into both. Would all tlicse things that Helen was prognosticating in such a golden spirit of generous participation be for her (Dora) ? Above all, would they be soon ? She knew the feeling that cajised the pang now. It was neitlier doubt nor fear ; it was simply the dread of suspense. "I shall go and tell mamma at once," Helen said, after a little more desultoiy conversation. "She will be so jtroud and pleased ; and to have it ha])pen while Uncle and Aunt Lynton are here, too — it's so nice — and your grandmamma and Aunt Grace ; have you told them yet ?" "No," Dora had not told them yet. "Oh! shabby," the young girl exclaimed ; "defrauding them of such joy. Come along at once !" "But I'm afraid if I tell them all that they will say something to IMr. Falconer before he says more about it himself," Dora said, with a qualm of hesitation. "Not they — not a bit of it; come and tell them ; they all will feel jealous if it's not told to them all simultaneously. ' Say something to JNIr. Falconer,' indeed ! I wonder how long you'll call him Mr. Falconer.' You prettiest bride-elect that ever lived, come with me and publisli your triumph." Then, in utter ignorance of the tumult of mind that Dora was in as to how much was real and how much was fancy favored by circumstances, Helen dragged her sister off " to confess," as she called it, "to precipitate matters veiy rashly in- deed," as Dora felt herself to be doing. How- ever, having told Helen with such decision that she was engaged to Mr. Falconer, tliere Mas no appeal against Heleti's telling it to every one else. " See the conquering heroine comes," Helen said, opening old Mrs. Elliot's door, and jjeeping in ; " Aunt Gi'ace, Dora and Mr. Falconer are such impetuous people that they have agreed to be married before you and I have had time to think about such vanities." Then she left Dora to face the storm of congratulation and incpiiiy and wonderment that ensued upon this announce- ment, and ran ofi'to her mother, whom she found enduring Lady Lynton. ' ' Mamma, Mr. Falconer has proposed to Dora ! Let us be grateful to shooting luncheons, for he's just the man she ought to nuirry." "I am heartily glad of it," Lady Caroline said, fervently. " I will go and tell her how much happiness I hope she will have, and confi- dently expect she will have." So before dinner tliat day Dora went through all the ple'^^urable emotions of being congratu- lated on a thorougldy ausincious engagement. ONLY HERSELF. CHAPTER XI. A DILEMMA. Ladt Caroline's congratulations to her step- daughter on her prospects were all that was deli- cate, tender, and sympathetic. Dora felt a tem- porary elation — a foretaste of that which was to 1)6 her portion perpetually, she hoped — as Lady Caroline enlarged to an eager agitated audience composed of Mrs. Elliot, Grace, and Helen, on the advantages of tlie match. "The owner of Dollington would be a good match for any girl he loved, even if he were less well endowed with worldly goods than he is ; but, as it's worldly goods that we want while we live in this world, we can but rejoice that he has what he has, as well as that he is what he is," she said, warmly. " Dora is a most fortunate and enviable girl." Then Dora was kissed and caressed all round, an ordeal to which she submitted passively, feel- ing half stunned with the fear that things might not arrange themsehes in accordance with this \>art of the programme through which she was now passing, and half expectant of success re- warding the daring which was taking so much for granted. By-and-by, as the dinner honr approached. Lady Caroline disappeared from their midst, and Dora felt with dismay that her father was being told — of what ! Her engagement they all called it. And she could not in justice and equity blame them for so calling it, for had not she herself said or implied that she was engaged to jMr. Falconer ? Her cheeks grew hot and cold at the thought of the confusion that would arise should Mr. Fal- coner have meant less than she had fancied and asserted that he had meant. What awkward- ness it would occasion to them all ! WTiat hu- miliation to herself more especially ! Why had he been so mystical about what he really and tiu- ly wanted (she felt sure that he really and traly wanted her to marry him) as to plunge her into this agonizing state of doubt and uncertainty ? And why had they all pounced upon her unguard- ed statement like hawks upon a dove, causing her to reiterate and endorse it, and to give it all the weight of repetition ? Supposing he showed — but no, she could not suppose that he could do any thing so heartless and mean as seem suiprised when any thing was said to him about it by one of them, and she felt hombly sure now that one of them would soon say something to him about it. She longed to see her father and to implore him to hold his peace, and not seem to think any tiling about it until Mr. Falconer spoke. Then what if Mr. Falconer should never s])eiik at all I Wiiat if he should ignore that which had sounded to her like a word of promise ? What if he should think her over-anxious to secure him ? What if lie had been tritling with her ? Sliielding him- self under ambiguous words that when analyzed might have been addressed to her grandmother or aunt! What if — ! The second dinner-bell rang, and she was obliged to go down stairs witliout in- dulging in further miserable speculation. The report had been wafted all over the house — the report of her eng.agement. She read that they had heard it in the solemn set faces of the servants who threw open the drawing-room door for her as she hurriedly entered, wishing, oh I so ardently, that she could relive these last three hours. She felt it in the understanding sympa- thetic squeeze which Digby Biimington bestowed upon her hand as he grasped it in passing with Helen on his arm. She blushed under the con- viction that it was so, as she strove to bear calm- ly the meaning, kindly glances which Lord Lyn- ton gave her. The report had been wafted all over the house, and each individual in the house had heard of and commented upon it. How Avould they all look ? — what would they all have heard? — what comments would they all be free to make before this hom- to-morrow ? It seemed to her that there was mockery in her father's benignant glances at her. That there was satire deep and subtle in Lady Lj-nton's full- blown smile. For several minutes after she was seated at table (Bertie Carlyon had taken her in) she dared not look up and face Mr. Falconer, whom she felt sure was exactly opposite to her. He had, as on the first day of his arrival, taken her grandmother in, and Dora had a choking sensation of horror as the thought occurred to her that the garrulous old lady would be sure to com- mit her (Dora). But why should she call it " committing her," she asked herself, with quick- er indignation against herself even. She had thought that his words might lie construed to mean that gi'eat and important thing which she had assumed and avowed them to mean. If they were of less account, if they were capable of an- other intei^pretation, if in short she had ascribed to them a meaning which they did not possess, moi'e shame to him for rendering them so am- biguous, and no shame to her for the eiTor that was more of the heart than the head ! These were some of her thoughts as she sat tiying to eat and to seem unembarrassed, and conscious of a great burning desire to be no more troubled with the affair, but just to let it drift on under the management or mismanagement of others. But she knew that thus much would not be gi'anted to her. She knew that she would not be-suffered to remain quiescent, but that she would be called upon to explain why and when and how the mistake (if there was one) had arisen in her mind. How she wished that she had only held her peace. How she wished that Helen had not innocently led her (Dortt) on to the mak- ing of the vaunt that had brought this dire distress of doubt upon her. How cordially she loathed the well-meant sympathy and the genial congrat- ulations which they were all so unpleasantly ready to lavish upon her! How, above all things, she dreaded Mr. Falconer's solution of the diffi- culty ! You see she had not lied of malice prepense. She had been hurried into making a statement of what she believed at the moment to be Iier behef. She lost her faith in her own hopes and wishes being equivalent to ascertained facts, now that she had come to coolly consider tliem. But just while she had been speaking to Helen it had seemed to her that her own assertion tliat it was so, was the one thing requisite to give the affair a tangibility, to make of the ideal a material joy. If it turned out that she had been ])rematuie, there Avould be no bounds set to her anger against those wlio had been the cause of her being so. Bertie Carlyon was in very good spirits this night, but they were thrown aA\ay upon Dora. Slie could not listen to him, far less could she re- ])ly to liim. Her whole attention was concentra- ted on the other side of the table, on her lover, ONLY HERSELF. 39 and her f^vandmother ; and this not afFcctionate- Iv, but ill anxious agonized endeavor to make out what they were saying to one another, more especially what the old lady was saying to tlie young nian. From time to time she eaught the "words, '• Dollington" and "when I settle,'' and those raised her into a hopeful frame of mind. Hut then again she retiected that he might use these words if he didn't mean to marry lier, or if he did mean to marry somebody else ; and this reflection cast her into a despairing state of nund. Altogether it may be conceived tiuit she was heartily glad when Lady Caroline gave the sig- nal, arid she, amongst others, was free to Hee away into solitude and silence for twenty min- utes. But even now she only exchanged one form of uncomfortableness for another. They buzzed about like a flight of eager-for-inforniation bees as soon as they got into the drawing-room, and she had to listen to flattering hopes, and well- meant wishes again, until she grew absolutely sick at heart. "Why will you say so much about it until Mr. Falconer and papa have settled it ?" she was goaded into saying at last ; and then Lady Caroline smiled her own loving gentle smile that breathed the very soul of peace and good-will, and said — "Your papa isnot an absin-d conventionalist, my dear ; he will raise no trivial obstacles in the way of what will give him the most heart-felt jdeasure. Mr. Falconer will not find him difficult to deal with." It occurred to Dora, even as her stepmother spoke, that it was more than probable that her father would find Mr. Falconer dirticult to deal with, and that the transferring of the privilege of raising obstacles to the course of true love — the transferring it from the father to the suitor — would be a most unpleasant thing for her. How heartily she did wish that she had led Mr. Falco- ner on to be a little more explicit to her before slie had suftered herself to be so very explicit to Helen. The girl felt all the blood in her body rush into her head when the rest of the gentlemen came into the room and her father and Mr. Falconer remained behind. They were about it, then ! about giving each other that full ex])lanation which woukl either place her upon a ])iuna(le or idinige her into degradation. For a moment or two she must have been fainting, for the room and all the figures in it swam before her. The voices sounded afar off. The lights died out. She forgot every thing. Then the blissful uncon- sciousness passed away, and, out of the utter de- spair which supervened, the adventuress's sjfirit was born. She rose up, collecting her faculties, and resolving that let what woidd come she would carry her ))oint, and not a])pear in the light of be- ing rejected by Mr. Falconer. As she moved ([uickly about the room, trying to brace her nerves by motion and fresh air, it struck iier that if she did compass this end by any dubious means, -^hc coidd not exjiect to enjoy much married hapiji- ness with the man she could love so W'cll. Hut, again, she told lierself that it was "too late to tliink of that now." Her infatuation had got her into a dilemtna, and she was not one to suffer herself to calndy sink under the conseipiences of the same. What she should do she did not at- tempt to decide. She only felt sure that she slioidd be either desperate or wary to any extent, as there might be need for the display of either quality. If he was to be won she would win him, if only '•' the others," the absurdly-syni])athetic, and well-satisfied and disposed others, did not in- terfere, well-meaningly, and mar her plan. Hut if he was not to be won, he should be coerced. At any rate she would not stand forth labelled as a failure at the commencement of a career that her beauty ought to make a remarkably bright and glorious one. " Uora, my dear !" It was her grandmother's voice calling upon her softly fi-om a sofa at some little distance. She turned and looked .ind saw Mrs. Elliot and Grace in close communion. "They are settling already what it will be ' suit- able' for me to wear," she thought im))atiently ; and her spirit rebelled against going near them, she had so much to think of just now ! How- ever, she conquered her spirit, and walked up and stood in front of them. "What is it you called me for?" she said, and her voice jarred upon her own ears, it was so cold and ringingly clear by reason of that extreme tension to which all her neiTCs were subjected. " You don't look like yourself, dear ; you have not done what you are sorry for already ? It's an important step, a very important step, Dora." " Oh ! please don't make those speeches now to me, grandmother; I can't bear them," Dora said, pettishly. ' ' I thought you wanted some- thing, you beckoned to me in such a mysterious way." " I wanted to ask you if you were sure you loved him, " the old lady said in crest-fallen tones, while Grace shook her head and told herself that "the poor child was sacrificing herself to some mistaken feeling of duty," after the usual clear- sighted manner in which people do arrive at er- roneous conclusions concerning the cloudiness of their most intimate friends. Old jMrs. Elliot's was a very disagreeable and diflicult question to answer. Dora was blue eyes. But Mr. Falconer had a better home, a higher l)Osition, a larger income. She luid found out these facts already. ^Moreover he had fallen a jirey to her so very speedily that she felt sure she should discover him to be all that coidd be de- sired in her husband. Still the recollection of the long hours of soul-burning susjiense and har- rowing doubts slie had passed, intervened between her heart anil his entire possession of it. For more tiian an liour he sat with her talking to her of what his intentions and Iiopes had been in returning to Knglund, and how he looked for- ward now to her helj)ing him to carry them out. His estate had gone down, and his tenants had suft'ered in his absence ; and, in order to remedy these evils, he declared tliat for many years a strict system of economy would be necessary in his establishment. ' ' One ambitious extravagance 4G ONLY HERSELF. you must let me gratify," he said. " I mean to kand for tliis division of the county at the coming general election ; you see you won't be cut off from tlie world entirely, Dora, for you m ill spend a good portion of the year in town with me." She listened abstractedly, until he said that about her being in town — his possible parliament- ary success or failure was nothing to her. " I am glad we are not to be buried altogether at DoUington, lovely as Dollington is, from all I liear," she said ; " but I want you to tell me now the story of yourself you promised me the other day." " Not yet, Dora." ' ' Why not yet ? Now or any other time will be all the same to you, and just think of my impa- tience to make myself acquainted with all that has interested you. The stoiy is about a woman, I am sure." "Yes ; and a very beautiful woman, too ; but 1 have reasons for not telling you yet." "It is about Mrs. Bruton," she said, abruptly. And he was looking at her v\ith what in her heart she dubbed a stolid smiling composure, neither denying her statement, nor verifying it, when an interruption came in the shape of Lady Caroline ; and shortly after that Mr. Jocelyn came in, and somehow or other, with very little more being said, Mr. Falconer was fairly installed as the fu- ture son-in-law, and given the freedom of the house and family accordingly. It is a matter of much doubt -whether men prop- erly prize this freedom or not ? It is certain that in most cases when much is given much is ex- pected. The boon of a daughter is not bestowed without a very fair return in some kind or other being extracted from him. To be the tame cat of the household — to be treated with that genial confi- dence which shows that it looks upon it as a mat- ter of no moment at all M-hether he be inconve- nienced or not — to be made of accoimt only as an appanage to the successful young lady — to be treated to family parties, early dinners, cold meat, domestic dullness, an absence of the majority of the niceties and refinements which a hard stniggle was made to retain before him in the days anterior to his taking the leap, is agreeable to about one man in a thousand. Still it is an ordeal which most men of the middle classes have to pass through before they are fairly at anchor in the safe harbor of matrimony. Now, under the Jocelyns' auspices, the ordeal was made as pleasant as possible. vStill Mr. Fal- coner could not help feeling that it is the girl who gains in importance liy an engagement, the man wiio loses. It was not that he was not equally well regarded by the Court Koyal family and their retainers after the explanation which Dora had wrested from him ; it was not that he was not c([ually well regarded, but he was regarded in a ditVerent way. He was taken for granted, — not with ofli'usive familiarity, or with careless un- concern, — but he was taken for granted. It seemed to him that they all, Dora included, look- ed upon the step he had taken in ])roposing mar- riage as the most imjiortant step in his life. Now, he was not anxious to question or to quarrel with this view of the case. He was, on the contrar}-, quite willing to admit that it was an important, "the" imjjortant stejj, in fact. But from their point of view (it seemed to him) every other move he had made, or might make, sank into insignifi- cance beside it. At least this was the way the women viewed the business. Mr. Jocelyn and Lord LvTiton, and Digby Bumington, did still treat him as though he had had a previous — and was at present possessed of, an individual exist- ence — ^from Dora. But the ladies, the grand- mother and aunt, and even Lady Caroline and Helen, behaved to him as if now, at last, he had done the whole duty of man, and might rest sat- isfied with his labors. The day for seeing Dollington came at length ; and it must in honesty be owned, that from its veiy dawning it was a day of trial and humilia- tion. He was a proud man, and a sensitive, af- fectionate man ; and much of the warmest part of his nature he had inherited from a mother whom in return he had repaid with almost adora- tion. Dollington had been her very dear home — a home that she had made a pure and peaceful paradise to her boy while she lived. When she had died, and his heart had been riven and tattered with passion and disappointment by Mabel Grey (now Mrs. Bruton), he had turned away from Dollington and all its associations. The place was too hallowed by love and memory for him to dare to desecrate by his morbid gloom and love- sick misery. But now he had come home, a healed and whole man, and his old home loomed before him as the one perfect place — the place M'herein all that was best and highest in him was to be renewed and revived. Therefore notv in these early days of restored intercourse with it and its traditions, he did dread the possibly idle galling words which others might utter respecting it. He would like to liave taken Dora there alone. To have spent a few hours there with her in a solitude that should be rendered sacred by the way in which he would have introduced her to the old familiar places which his mother had taught him to love. But this had not been permitted. When he had proposed it to Dora she had said, " Wh)"-, I was looking fonvard to an in-door picnic there ; it's a shame to dream of going without the others ; besides, what would people say ?" Dora was evidently determined on being on the most conventional and blameless terms with him, and he could not urge her to do violence to that strong sense of propriety which would be his surest safeguard in time to come. Nevertheless, though he did not so urge her, he rose up on the morning of the day fixed for the family visit to Dollington with a foreboding that it would pass away less pleasantly to him than if Dora had shown herself amenable to his wishes, ' and had ridden over alone with him for the first : time. j INIrs. Braton was to be of the party, as a matter of course. She had been at Court Royal now for three or foin* days, and she had been exem- ]>lary in her demeanor both to the man who had desired to marry her for love long ago, and tlie man who had desired to mam- her for money the other day. She was a splendid woman to ex- change tender passages with, for she never betray- ed that such things had been ; and she shed a feeling of safety about the path of those who had stumbled and gone do^^^l before her once. She was a splendid woman for the rejected lover to deal with, as far as his pride and desire for secre- cy was concerned. But she was a dangerous woman for the rejected lover's later choice, Dora felt intuitively. ONLY HERSELF. 47 As yet Miss JocehTi did not l^now wliat had been the relations between Mr. Falconer and Mrs. Bruton. That there had been something, that ]Mrs. Bruton was the woman about whom he had the story to tell, he had confessed, as has been read ; but until ]\Irs. Bmton's visit at Court Hoy- } al came to an end, he desired that Dora's curios- ity should be held in check. * '* She will never have the power to t.ake one of my thoughts away from you, Dora ; let that suffice you for a few days," he would say, laugh- inglv, when Dora would press him hardly on the poiiit. "My heart belongs as entirely to you now as if it had never tlu-obbed for another wom- an." At first Dora would feign to pout and look dis- pleased, would even affect a trifling degree of jeal- ousy at this reticence of his. But, after a few days, she altered her tone, and declared that the "entire confidence, and the absorbed devotion that some engaged people expected from each other was absolute nonsense." It had begun to dawn upon her that she might not always find it easy to return confession for confession. The programme of the day at DoUington was an-anged as follows : — The whole party now as- sembled at Court Royal were to leave that place immediately after breakfast, in order to reach DoUington in time to see something of a lake on whose borders an echo dwelt, before luncheon. After luncheon an architect was to join them, to hear what improvements the future mistress of the mansion desired to see made, and to declare whether they were feasible or not. They were then to idle away the hours until dinner ; after whicli, about nine o'clock, they were to start for their moon-lighted drive home. The housekeeper at DoUington -had received orders as to their proper reception and entertain- ment five days ago ; there was, therefore, no fear that she would show herself wanting in aught. The sun was warm and glowing, as an English sun has learnt to be by fi'equent practice about September. Every one had expressed delight at the prospect of the morrow, on retiring to bed the night before, and in the delight and satisfaction to wliich one contributes largely there is much bliss ! Notwithstanding all these ameliorating circumstances, Mr. Falconer disliked his position this day more than he had disliked it before. He disliked turning DoUington into a domestic show, before Dora knew it ; he dreaded the improve- ments that the bride-elect might suggest and the architect pronounce capable of being carried out. He shrank from the notion of hearing Mr. Car- lyon address witticisms to the echo, because he wanted to touch Dora into tenderness about his dead mother, by telling how that motiier had been wont to carry lum down there and sing soft, sweet songs to him in his childhood. Above all, he revolted at the notion of Mabel Bruton being carried in triumph to see the home of wluch he had once hoped she would be mistress. But he did not revolt against it more than Ma- bel Bruton did herself. She had raised one faint olyection to going, had hinted something about whole days of pleasure being very ftitiguing. But her objection had been overruled ; and, moreover, she would have been afraid to stay at home now, for Bertie Carlyon had declared to her privately that if she staid at home so would he. This he did, knowing it would most surely act as an in- centive to her to go with the others, and he had his own reason for desiring that she should be one of the party at DoUington. It happened altogether perversely. Lady Lyn- ton, Lady Caroline, Mrs. Elliot, and Grace filled one carriage ; Helen and Digliy were going on horseback ; Mr. Jocelyn and Lord Ljuton, who dreaded night air at any season of the year, were inclosed in a small brougham. So it came about that Mrs. Bruton, Dora, and the two young men, Mr. Falconer and Mr. Carlyon, were compelled to make the best of each other's society, unde- fended by the presence of a single unconscious one, in an open carriage for a twenty-mile dri\e. It was impossible to avoid comparing and con- trasting them as they sat side by side in the lounging, graceful attitudes which women do fall into in a landau. The one in her bright vigor- ous, briUiant, golden, youthful beauty, full of spir- it, hope, and intense vitality. The other soften- ed and toned down, as it were, in the indescriba- ble way in which years and some sorrow does tone down and soften fonri and color, graceful with a rare grace that, in its seductive languor, stole admiration from the more impulsive, more active eharms of the girl by her side. Gifted with the witchery of well-choseti words, of well- balanced enthusiasm, of experience of men and their minds. Matchless in manner, and yet, though matchless, not superior in it to the differ- ent style that was Dora's. Looking more impas- sioned than the girl, at the same time looking quieter. Dora, even by right of the sovereign power of youth, could not dethrone Mabel Bruton. Bertie Carlyon looked critically on them both, and he could find no lault with them. On the contrary, he would have been well pleased to drive through Hyde Bark with them. Mrs. Bruton's dark wavy bro«n hair was croA\'ned with amber roses that did duty for a bonnet. Her creamy face was shaded and still shown so clearly under a deftly held amber-lined jjarasol. A dress of some clear material in broad blue and white stripes that had efi'ects of transparent gray in it, fell glisten- ing over an imder-robe of white silk. Rich black lace shrouded her shoulders. Exquisitely fitting gloves were on her beautiful hands. The j'oung- er beauty, the blonde with golden hair and violet eyes, was in clouds of clear white muslin, made as only Frenchwomen can make white muslin for morning wear, with subtle runnings of violet rib- bon about it. Her dress was young, and fresh, and*bright looking as herself, and the innocence of her tiny white hat was only matched by the innocence of her eyes, as she, through their half- closed lids, took keen note of the two men oppo- site to her. Once, and once only, did she suffer her glance to meet Mr. Falconer's, and then the desire to see if Bertie Carlyon saw their eyes meet was irresistible. She looked at him, and what she saw was flattering, but confusing a]:)parently, for she bent her head aside and studied the coun- try until the burning crimson color had faded from her cheeks. CHAPTER XIV. PLAYING WITH FIRE — BEFORE LUXCUEON. "I REALLY ought to be thinking about going home," Mrs. Elliot said, as freshly as if the idea could not by any possibility have occurred to any 43 ONLY HERSELF. one save lierself. Mrs. Elliot made this remark as the carriage whirled through the Court Koyal lodge-gates on its way to Dollington, and Mrs. Elliot spoke out of the fullness of a belief she had, that in some wise or other it was incumbent on her to reply to convei'Bational eftbrts made by her fellow travellers. Now Lady Caroline was essentially a kind- hearted woman ; but she was as far removed from being a hyi^ocrite, as she Avas from being a female hero. It had occurred to her, perhaps with more form than it had to Mrs. Elliot, that in all kindly conscience it was time for that estimable gentlewoman to be thinking of going home. So now, when Mrs. Elliot broke ground with the lit- tle speech above recorded, Lady Caroline said simplv, — "What day will you fix on, Mrs. Elliot? I Avill contrive that you liave a quiet evening before you start." This was not at all the sort of continuation of the conversation which excellent Mrs. Elliot had imagined. In fancy she had seen herself pressed, entreated, almost coerced into staying. "They have been so kind and pleasant that they can not wish me gone," she argued. And from this argument she deduced the conclusion that many liewilderingly lively days were in store for her at Court Koyal still. But she was frankly and openly taken at her word, and asked to fix the day of her departure. She did not like to fix the next day, as that might seem as if slie were- going ofi^" in a state of huffi- ness. She did not like to delay the day, as that might seem as if she were unwilling to move. She floundered about in the uncertainty of her own mind in silence for a few moments, and then she said, turning to her daughter, — " Hadn't I better hear what Dora says ?" "Why no, mamma," poor Grace said, in an agony. "Dora can't decide half as well as you can. I think if we say the day after to-morrow, that will give us one quiet evening, won't it?" slie added, ajtpealingly to Lady Caroline, who, pitying the confusion which she felt never* need have arisen, said graciously, — . "Yes; and Dora and my maid shall go up with you, if you will lodge them for a night ; and then, Mrs. Elliot, you can help Dora in the selec- tion of many things that must be got soon, as IVIr. Falconer wants to take her away from us in November." And then she called their attention to a cow and a clump of trees, and altogether succeeded in giving tliem the impression that she was not rejoiced that they A\ere going. Then there was a little gratifying talk about the fiiir pros])ects tliat luid o])ened for Dora through Mr. Falconer's love ; and then Lady Lyntcm (who as has been hinted was of a full habit of body, and a lethargic turn of mind) fell asleej), and silence was sutt'ered to reign in order that she might not be disturlied. It was jiast twelve o'clock when they reached Dollington, a beautiful irregularly-built old place that had been commenced in the last of the Tu- dor's reign, and that liad been finished in the Virgin Queen's time, in the style that takes its name from her. The ])ark was well kept, and compact rather than grand or striking. There was a high stone wall round it, that gave it the air of cxclusiveness and completeness which pos- sesses such a chunn for some people who like to know definitely where one thing ends and another begins. But there was none of the romantic beauty about what she could see in passing along the drive which Dora had been led to expect from its owner's enthusiasm for it. But the house more than equalled her expecta- tions, and her heart swelled with pride as she looked at it. She turned a deaf ear to some low- toned remarks which Mr. Carlyon addressed to her as she got out of the carriage, and bent her whole attention and regard on the fortunate man who had this to give her. He assumed a new and a higher position in her e3'es and her thoughts. She had liked him very much at first, she had grown to love him quickly (so qiuckly, indeed, that the love had grown weedy and weak) ; but now she felt pi'oud of him, proud of herself that she had won him. It came home to her now that she was here in this stately beairtiful house that was olderand grander than her father's, that she had won a great position in standing here as the future mistress. She had not pictured any thing of this sort when he had talked to her of the sys- tem of economy that it would be necessary for them to pursue. She felt herself quite strong enough to endure any system of economy that could be pursued in such a place as this. Her head swam with the giddiness of exces- sive elation as they came round her, congratula- ting her afresh with eye, and kindly pressure of the hand. Again and again she caught herself glancing at Mrs. Bruton, at tlie beautiful widow who was walking through the saloon that "was to be Dora's," with such an air of indolent un- concern. Again and again did she resolutely turn away from Bertie Carlyon, who always seem- ed to be near her, let her move where she would. At length, as she grew more and more absorbed in the contemplation of the house of which she was to be mistress, she let him keep close to her side without further eftbrt to shake clear of Jiim. At last after a brief absence he came back to her and said, — " Miss Jocelyn, I have just found a view of the lake where the echo lives ; will you come and look at it ? it's to be seen from a window in that room," and he pointed as he spoke to a door in the far end of the room in which they were standing. "The lake! oh, yes," and she followed him, only saying to the group, who were resting on divers sofiis and chairs, "I'm impatient to catch the first view of the lake." She swept softly after her guide, and as the pair went through the doorway, Mr. Falconer moved a step or two as if to follow them ; but he was arrested by a look of scornful meaning that fell upon him from Mrs. Bruton's eyes. " Can't you trust any qjie else to introduce the lake to Miss Jocelyn's notice," she said, in her sweet low voice. He could not bear to be taunted with the jjossibility of a suspicion or dis- trust of his future wife by his old love, and such a taunt was conveyed in Mrs. Bruton's didcet tones. He hesitated for a moment, and then he said, — " Mrs. Bruton would hint that I am jealous of the lake even. I think I may fairly trust such a picturesque and, clever word-painter as Carlyon to descant on its beauties." " I don't think you jealous of the lake," Mrs. Bruton said, with so faint an emphasis on the ONLY HERSELF. 49 last word that it caught his ear, and yet did not strike the others as being said with a meaning ; and now it seemed to him that rather a pitying than a tamiting spirit penaded her speech. He caught himself feeling that his old love was sorry for him. And he caught himself questioning why she was so ? He stood still abstractedly in front of a couch on which Lady Caroline and Mrs. Elliot had seated themselves, and tried to listen to their eulogies on the size and proportions of the room in which they then were. No one (save perhaps Mrs. Bruton) knew how ardently he desired to go into that other room from whose window the view of the lake was to be had. Dora was sure- ly wanting in tact and delicacy of feehng to leave him for another man on this introductory visit. To leave him ; paljjably to leave him at a loss for her under Airs. Bruton's penetrating, pitying, soft, sympathetic eyes. He was not jealous, but he did not like it. It is astonishing how very much a man may smart in a situation of this soi-t without being at all jeal- ous. But the line that he draws on such occa- sions is apt to be so fine as to be imperceptible to others whose grosser vision can still clearly see the situation. It was so in this case : Mrs. Bru- ton saw that he had cause for being so, and did not see that he was not aggrieved. To him, their host, this first pause, or hitch rather, in the smooth carrying out of the pro- gramme was fraught with awk\vardness. He did not like to move on to another room, leaving Dora and Bertie Carlyon entirely to their own devices ; he did not like to follow them into the little boudoir that had been his mother's and that he had expressly intended showing to Dora for the first time himself; and he did not like to re- main any longer in a motionless manner where he was, now that his guests had duly eulogized and examined eveiy portion of the apartment in which they then stood. It Avas not at all the sort of "business" he had foreseen when setting the scene at DoUington, with Dora as an actress there for the first time. Presently an end to the uncertainty of what it behooved him to do came in the person of a serv- ant who announced that luncheon was ready. He checked an audible sigh of relief, fearing that Mabel would see it, and took what was the ob- vious path of duty : that is, he offered his ann to Lady Caroline, and with her walked to the door of the little boudoir to summon the pair who had perplexed him so. He was not jealous, but he did wish almost angrily that Dora had a higher sense of the dignity of a betrothed bride than to stand in apparently confidential conversation with another man in her promised husband's house. He knew, none better, the character Bertie Carlyon bore for being blameless about marriage- able girls who might be compromised, and whose mothers' alarms would surely be raised by his at- tentions. It seemed to Mr. Falconer, therefore, that there was but one solution of this suddenly developed intimacy with Dora, and that one was that Bertie was trying to establish himself pleas- antly in the estimation of the future I\Irs. Fal- coner. "He thinks she will do as well as another, better than another because of her beauty, to pay his safe attentions to," he thought angrily. And again he told himself that there had been unwise precipitation in the matter of the engage- ment to Dora. But whose the unwise precipita- tion had been he was too love-loyal to remind himself. As she looked round in answer to his summons, and Bertie Carlyon moved in answer to a request that he ' ' would take care of Miss Elliot and the other ladies," there was an expression of impa- tience at the interruption on Dora Jocelyn's face. But she read something in her lover's eyes that warned her to banish it quicldy, and to substitute one of half-proud depreciation. The girl could assume any look she hked in a moment, and portray the feehng she ought to evince with equal facility. Instead of being vexed with her any more, Mr. Falconer, as she walked along by his side with downcast head, felt vexed with Sirs. Bruton, with Carlyon, with himself, with everj' one but Dora, As for the conversation which the call to luncheon had intennipted, it had not been of any very great importance in mere words. But then, as we all know, it is not the mere words on such occasions that do the mischief. The memoiy of a look, the thrill of a lightly touching hand, are to the full as haunting as the sound of a syllable. Bertie Carlyon had not said much, but it woidd have been better for Dora if he said even less. "There is the view I spoke of," he said, hur- riedly leading her into the window recess when he first lured her into the boudoir. "At least I conclude that's the vaunted lake. And as you said coming along, that 'you should love its banks, and spend much of your time there,' I wish you to associate it with me — as you can't fail to do now." How she blushed to hear her own words, the words that she had uttered with the intention of pleasing Mr. Falconer — quoted in this way, and made to serve this end ! Yet she assumed inno- cent unconsciousness, and asked, — " Why do you wish it ?" "Why do I? perhaps I had better not be tempted to tell you now," he said, and Dora knew that his eyes were bent upon her reproach- fully and sadly, and did not know that he had the power of looking thus at any woman at a mo- ment's notice. It was so new to her to have two lovers : one acknowledged openly and made se- cure, and the other unavowed, and unsuspected by the common herd of prosaic mortals who sur- rounded her, and who had not to combat the temptations of the flesh and the devil as she had to combat them. She meant to combat them successfully, too, at this epoch — that is, she did not mean to listen a moment longer than was dis- creet to the flattering words of Bertie Carlyon. But it was so new to her to have two lovers, that she could not bring hei'self to curtail a single pleasurable emotion she might experience through this monopoly, just yet. No ! not even though danger as well as pleasm'e must be taken as part pajTnent by her. It seemed to her that she had the ball at her feet, and that none could be ill-natured enough, or agile enough, or strong enough, to give it a kick in a direction that woidd be contraiy to her wishes. She was not a bad girl, but she had been accustom- ed to consider that she had a perfect right to manip- ulate circumstances, because circumstances had been harsh to her mother. And this idea was 50 ONLY HERSELF. an elastic one, stretching to any extent, and cloak- ing a subterfuge or " small sin," as she called it, from her own eyes. She did not desire to do any body any harm. She did not mean to imperil Mr. Falconer's honor, or her own fair name or any one's happiness. But what she did desire and mean to do was this — to make Bertie Carlyon like her as much as possible, and to see as much as she could of him, without causing evil report to arise when she was married. Intending to do this latter thing, she believed that it behooved her to be as amenable to his advances as she could be with safety before she was married. In short, the carefully nurtured, the hitherto closely se- cluded girl, who had grown up apart from all men but her grandfather, in Russell Square, was as thorough and rapacious a flirt as ever lived. So, true to her instincts, to the dangerous seduc- tive instincts which responded so swiftly to any touch of the kind, she asked him again, " Why not," with most pleading earnestness, when he affected to hesitate and say, "perhaps he had better not tell her now." He did not speak, he did not utter one compro- mising word in answer to her then. Some sen- timent of honor restrained him at this moment from making further verbal love to Mr. Falcon- er's betrothed, under Mr. Falconer's roof. But he had played the game a thousand times before, though never with such a set purpose as now. He had played it with foolish married women, ■whose recklessness regarding him he had often had to hold in check, because it could, if indulged in, have availed him nothing. But now he was playing it with Dora with a set purpose, and with Oaklands for the stakes. Therefore his look said more to her than his tongue could have ventured to utter just yet, and it was from that look that Dora turned with impatience at the interruption, when Mr. Falconer summoned her to luncheon. *' Was the view worth looking at ?" Mrs. Bni- ton asked, as they seated themselves at the table. "Yes," Dora said, "it is lovely; at least, I thought it lovely, and I suppose Mr. Carlyon did, too, or he woiildn't have called me to look at it." Somehow or other she resented any question- ing from Mrs. Bruton, even though that lady ac- companied her words with the sweetest looks of candor and confidence. Intuitively Dora felt that if ever she failed, and were found out, Mrs. Bru- ton would grieve more for the sin than the sin- ner — would grieve for the sin in such a way as would make the sinner seem a very hardened one indeed. " Your taste is always to be trusted where it is a question of beauty," Mrs. Bniton said, turning to Bertie Carlyon, and ignoring the air of defi- ance in Dora's reply. "You don't neglect op- portunities of cultivating it ; other men have the same, perhaps, but they waste them." It seemed to Mr. Falconer tliat the pretty wid- ow was almost openly commending Carlyon for his impertinent conduct in having monopolized I^ora just now. Was lie so much of a tamectit, an assured jmssession already, tliat his claims might be regarded or disregarded, just as it suited the whim of tiie moment ? There was some talk after this amongst the members of tlic family relative to the Elliots leav- ing them the day after to-morrow ; for it came to be fi.xed that they should leave on that day. "I was saying, Dora dear, that it would be well for you to go up and see your grandfather for a couple of days. Methold shall go with you," Lady Caroline said to her step-daughter. Dora felt her brow contract, yet she forced her- self not to quite frown, as she listened. To go np to town for a couple of days now ! Now, in the first flush of her triumph over these two men's hearts ! To go up with a couple of dull, female relatives, and spend her time in " useful shop- ping " with them and an even duller waiting-wom- an. It would be hard ! too hard, and she made up her mind that she would not do it. This bright time could never come again. Let her gain what dubious laurels she would later, this time had a piquancy of its own which, if she managed well, would always be pleasant to look back upon. In it, with discretion, she meant to taste the joys of a bona-Jide engagement, and a devoted secret at- tachment, simultaneously. The useful shopping, and the pure pleasure of telling her loving old grandfather how happy she was going to be, was but a poor and profitless proceeding compared with this plan which she had chalked out in that brief time while Bertie Carlyon had been show- ing her the view. She shot one glance at Mr. Carlyon, to see how he took the prospect of los- ing her, even for a couple of days. But he was playing a better, deeper, game than he cared to betray to the many ; so he kept his eyes fixed on his plate, and Dora could not help saying in a piqued tone, — " As you like. Lady Caroline ; of course I shall be glad to go and see grandpapa. " And then Mr. Falconer made Bertie's indifierence harder to bear by saying — "And I think it extremely likely that Mrs. Elliot will have me for her escort, Lady Caro- line. I must go up for a day or two. " And when he said that, showing them all openly that he could not bear the briefest separation from Dora, it was Mrs. Bruton's turn to feel stung, and sor- ry, and sad. There is a fatal fascination about playing with fire to some minds. Dora's was one of these. She had run a risk, and she knew that she had run a risk, by indulging in that tete-a-ttte with Bertie Carlyon before luncheon. But for all that knowledge, she longed to brave the danger afresh. She longed to hear him say " don't go," or to see him look "stay with me, and make me happy while you can." She longed to flatter him by telling him that she "disliked the idea of the jour- ney," leaving him free to draw what inference he pleased from the foct. She longed to feel that, young as her engagement was, it did not fetter her powers of fascination. In short, she longed to be alone with Bertie Carlyon again. But before this longing could be gratified she had to play up to another actor in a widely dif- ferent drama, in the little boudoir. Hither, af- ter luncheon, Mr. Falconer drew her alone. And then he told her why, and how much he had dis- liked seeing her introduced to it by Mr. Carlyon. " It was my mother's room, and I wanted to show it to you myself; here she used to listen to my boyish hojies and dreams, and pray for my happiriP'^s and welfare, and call me her ' dear Robert.' Ton have not called me by my name yet, Dora; do it here for the first time." ."It»not an easy name to bring one's self to speak naturally when one is told to do it," Dora ONLY HERSELF. 51 said. " So this was your mother's pet sitting- room ; -we'll refurnish it as -vve think she would have liked it refurnished, won't we ?" CHAPTER XV. AFTER LUNCHEON. It is a difficult matter to know what to do with four or five middle-aged people whom }ou have taken away from their customaiy ways and hab- its, and about the passing of whose time you have unwisely no professed plan. Mr. Falconer felt the force of that difficulty when he emerged from the retirement into which he had lured Dora, and found Mr. Jocelyn and Lord Lynton yawning undisguisedly, and their respective wives stifling ya^vns. Mrs. Elliot and Grace were too heartily and sincerely interested in eveiy thing that con- cenied Dora, however remotely, to be bored for an instant in the midst of the peace and plenty that was to be hers. Digby and Helen were al- ways happy wherever they might be while they were together ; and Mrs. Bruton and Bertie Car- lyon each had a private interest to keej) them awake and ready. But the elderly people who had lolled hither under the broiling sun to eat luncheon, and while away long hours that they would rather have been spending where there was less strain upon their powers of endurance, were l)assive reproaches to him, as they sat and looked smilingly miserable. " Shall we go domi and wake the echo now ?" he said, coming in upon them with an air of be- lieving them all to be as lively and well amused, as they wished him to believe them. " It would be veiy pleasant, but I suffijr, un- fortunately, from a weakness in my ancles which jjrevents me walking," Lady Lpiton said prompt- ly and suavely. She was suffering from a hon'i- ble sleepiness, poor woman, and was A^ishing all the others where the echo was, namely, at the bottom of the lake, in order that she might yield without reproach to the demon who was getting possession of her. " I really couldn't think of leaving Lady Lyn- ton," Lady Caroline said, apologetically, "be- sides old slow people will only hamper you." And tlien it was decided that only the young peo- ple should go down to the lake where the echo dwelt. There were six of them, and for a time as they walked over the open ground in front of the house it seemed as if they were going to keep together, and the conversation was general. It took its rise in a trivial circumstance enough. A good many unsightly dockweeds marred the fair surface of the turf over which they were walking, and, while stopping to prod up one with his stick, Mr. Falconer, half-jestingly, half-earnestly called them to witness the evil effects of absenteeism. ' ' What took you away when it would have been so remarkably pleasant to stay ?" Bertie Carlyon asked, and ]\Ir. Falconer felt the color mount to his forehead, and saw it creep into I\Irs. Bruton's cheeks as he answered, — "An evil spirit of wandering, or rather the law of necessity." ""The strongest moral power in the world," I\Irs. Bruton said, speaking veiy fast in order to divert attention from the consideration of the orig- inal cause of Falconer's absence, " it is always leading me to do things that I know I had better leave undone." "It is a pleasant theoiy that, though," said Bertie Carlyon, " it's comforting to feel that whatever you do amiss is not done out of the wickedness of your heart, but out of obedience to the great law of necessity." " Only the weakly inert, or the wickedly dis- posed, find any comfort in fatalism," Mr. Fal- coner said, with more gravity and decision than he would have brought to bear on the subject had he not remembered how Bertie had entrapped Dora into that boudoir in the morning. " Then I am weakly inert or wickedly dis- posed," Mrs. Bruton said, softly, " for every great act of my life has been against my wishes, my conscience, and my heart." He could not doubt but that she was meaning him to understand that her maniage had been one of those great acts which had been so antag- onistic to her wishes, her conscience, and her heart. And charming as she was to him still he could but doubt her wisdom in so enlightening him. "What is }-our opinion about the strength of the law. Miss Jocelyn ?" Bertie Carlyon asked, getting next to Dora as he asked it. "That my own strength is greater," she said, ' ' whatever I did I wouldn't i)retend that I was driven by an imperative necessity to do it : I agree witii Mr. Falconer, it's the weak or the wicked who are glad to deny the freedom of the ^\^ll.'' Dora said this with an air of having really thought about and considered the subject, where- as in sober tnith it had never been presented to her mind for consideration before. But intuition enabled her to aixive in a moment at a view of the case that she thought would be agreeable to both the men who were with her. To both the men — for it had come to this. Dora was most ardently desirous of pleasing them both. Acting under a law of necessity which she still refused to recog- nize, the girl was going on swiftly and surely to destruction of some sort. But she shed flowers about her as she went. It was a sweet thought to Mr. Falconer, who real- ly loved her and wished her to share his mind about many things, that she was with him even in such a trifling matter as a metaphysical dis- cussion. And it was a sweet thought to Bertie Carlyon, who really wanted her to love him, that she had the braveiy to avow that it was not fa- tality but her own free will that was leading her to look on and hsten to his advances so kind- ly. She pleased them both by her words, and she meant to please them both, — meant to throw the more matured siren into the shade; meant to add a fresh brick to the beautiful fabric of gratified vanity and dubious success which she was ujjrearing; meant to bind her chains about them in such away that all might hear them rattlb ! ;. ■ "= "No, no, not exactly that," she thought, as her vain intentions culminated in this not wholly imaginary danger, for if Bertie Carlyon rattled chains forged by her too audibly where would she be with the other one ? Bertie Carlyon ! How glibly she framed his name with her tongue in her heart, or her mind, or -wherever it was that these thoughts formed themselves. She had found it a hard matter to ONLY HERSELF. say " Robert " on compulsion to the man she was going to marry, but she experienced no difficulty in muttering Mr. Carlyon's name to herself; it was quite a different thing, the one was so pro- saic, the other so pretty. Moreover, there is such a fell foscination in playing with fire. They reached the borders of the lake at last, and two of them sauntered on to the border of a wood, quite regardless of any shafts of wit that might be lanched at them in consequence of their open preference for each other's society ; need it be said that these two were Helen and Digby. Tlien the others seated themselves on tlie shelving bank and silence reigned for a time. Mr. Falconer was waiting for Dora to express admiration for his favorite view, Dora was blind to it apparently. Bertie Carlyon was pondering on the best way to win Dora from Mr. Falconer ; and Mrs. Bruton was speculating as to how she could most surely separate Mr. Falconer from Dora. Fortune does not always favor the just. Pres- ently a large tall water-lily was made to favor their machinations against the only upright one of the party. ]Mrs. Bruton espied it and grew enthusiastic in her expressions of desire to have it. Enthusias- tic as only a woman who obeys the great law of necessity unhesitatingly and unscrupulously can. "A water lily! I haven't seen one since I lived at Richmond — that happy year before I was man-ied," she said, clasping her hands and lean- ing forward yearningly towards the lil}', which was floating on tlie surface of the water, at a few yards distance from a little bluff or headland on the border of the lake some way from them. " I should liave thought you must have seen many in the Crystal Palace and at tiie Botanical and Horticultural Gardens," Mr. Falconer said, bluntly. He had no intention of suffering him- self to be touched by her reminiscences. " That haii]iy year before her maniage," to which she alluded so tenderly, had been the year of her en- gagement to, and final jilting of, himself. He could not refrain from dashing the bloom oft" her prettv pathetic fiction, by a practical prosaic flict. ' ' Ah ! but it's hard to look upon the show flowers as belonging to the same family," she said, laughing; "this one that I see now I tell you is the only water-lil}' that has apjiealed to my heart since I used to have them gi-\en me to M'ear in my hair, the year before my marriage. " How well Mr. Falconer remembered that he had been the gatherer and the giver of the water- lilies that had been worn in Mabel Bruton 's hair in tliose days was not ])atent to the other two. " Why don't you go and get it for Mrs. Bniton, Robert," Dora said, half rc])roaclifully, and that "Robert" induced him to do with ajyparent zest, what in reality he had a dislike to doing, name- ly, leave Dora's side for the indulgence of an idle ])icce of gallantry towards Mabel. However, there was no'^i]i]ical to l)e made against a request to be ]iolite to a gue^t, especially against an ap- ])oal so made and worded, that had he not re- sponded to it, the guest, in common feeling, must have regarded herself as slighted. Accordingly he rose up and walked away to the bhift", from whence, by means of a long stii'k or ])()lo, a deft- ness in handling the latter, aiid tlie exJiihition of the most cultivated and finished slcigiit of liaiul in seizing the water-lily at the second that alone could make it his, he might hope to secure the floral prize for which Mrs. Bruton ]jined. He had hardly made the first futile little dab at the flower before Mrs. Bruton rose from her seat by Dora's side, and, with the words, — " I really must go and see how he will man- age," walked off to join him, leaving Bertie Car- lyon alone with Dora and the opportunity lie had wished and willed to have so strongly. It was his now, that opportunity, and harassed as he was by debts and duns, and delighting as lie real- ly did in Dora's delicate beauty, he was not going to neglect it. " So you go to town the day after to-morrow," he said, hurriedly. " I hate going," Dora muttered, " it's too bad to make it my duty to go up and see grandpapa just now ; I shall be ill the day after to-morrow, and unable to travel." " No," he said, rapidly ; "be Avell, be amiable, be yourself, in fact, and go ; I am sure your taste is too good to submit to being escorted in the way it was proposed you should be at luncheon. Fal- coner is too much a man of the world, in short, to have meant it, or at least is too much a man of the world not to see it in the foolish light other people will see it in when it's pointed out to him. Mr. Elliot lives in Russell Square." His whole meaning, and a goodly portion of his motives, in wishing her to go, and wishing Sir. Falconer to stay behind, flashed into Dora's mind at once. Not all his motives though. She ac- credited him with no more serious intentions than her own, and she only intended a warm, enliven- ing flirtation. But he meant marriage M'ith a well-endowed girl, as soon as ever he had woven a good strong intricate web of dubious circum- stances about her. "Grandpapa lives at — Russell Square," she said, simply, and he just repeated the number af- ter her, and then added carelessly, — ' ' I have business, publishing business on hand at present ; there is no saying when I may be obliged to go up." "I hope it won't be before we go," Dora almost whispered. " It will not be before, and it will not be when you go. Miss Jocelyn ; but it most assuredly will be veiy soon after ; your shopping will take up more than two or three days, won't it ?" " Yes," Dora thought it would. " Why must Madam's maid accompany you ?" he asked, discontentedly. ' ' Methold once again buried in the seclusion of Court Royal, will search and turn out eveiy corner of the mind that she has stored in London with facts, such as who calls at JMr. Elliot's house, and whom you meet acci- dentally in the streets ; recklessly as I am rush- ing upon certain destruction myself," he added, eagerly, "I do not want your conduct to be can- vassed. " "Arc you rushing upon certain destruction, Mr. Carlyon? I am so sorry for it." " Don't call me Mr. Carlyon when we are alone; you called Falconer 'Robert 'just now, and that was maddening enough to me, without your marking the difference so strongly between us by calling me Mr. Carlyon." "I called him Robert for the first time. I ■\\auted him to go and get that water-lily for Mrs. Bruton." ONLY HERSELF. " Blessings on Mrs. Bruton and the water-lily ; between them they liave given me the chance of saying what I wish to Heaven I had said to you before that hickless shooting luncheon ; why did you spar at and repulse me at first, Dora ? You knew that I loved you." He knew as well as she did that the girl was not in earnest in her blushings, and her trem- blings, and her shyness, and apparent liking for him. But he also knew that if any thing would make her so, it would be his suddenl}^ becoming impassioned. A sudden smTcnder on his part might move her to a similar manifestation, and then, then all M'ould be easy enough, and Oak- lands his o^\^l in time ! "Do you forget I am engaged ?" she said, grave- ly, knowing full well that he did not foi-get it, and feehng that his recollection of it added to the pi- quancy of the situation. " I wish I could forget it." " But, Bertie, you must not forget it ; for my sake you must remember it," Dora said, putting her beautiful jeweUed fingers lightly upon his, in order to impress him the more strongly with the impropriety of his behavior. "I remember it to my pain, my misery, my own condemnation " (he had made a hero use the same words in a somewhat similar situation in the middle of his third volume that morning ; he wondered curiously while he spoke whether Dora would recognize them when the book came out). "Is this your engagement-ring?" he said, mak- ing his hand tremble as he touched an opal gj'psy ring she wore. "No, no ! Mr. Falconer has not put his badge upon me, " she said, laughing lightly. But Bertie had no idea of suffering her to take the absurd view of it yet. There ^^ould be time enough for laughing over their common folly when they were married. "Will you wear a ring for friendship, — no, I won't be mean enough to call it friendship, but Avill you wear this for the sake of a man whose heart was lighter before he knew you than it can ever be again ?"' and as he spoke he took off a small gold band from his fourth finger where it had been nearly hidden by a large turquoise ring. "For friendship, then," Dora said, allowing him to slip it on her third finger. "No, for love," he said, and she had no time vouchsafed her wherein to dispute the suddenly made claim, for just then Mrs. Bruton and Mr. Falconer appeared, the former bearing in her hand tlie dripping trophy his skill had gained for her beauty. And Dora looked guilty. She was longing to get on her glove now. Tlie moves they had both made had been veiy ex- citing and pretty in her eyes while they were making them, but they had carried on the game rather fiuther, and into quite a difierent field to that which she had intended. She was frighten- ed at the progress Bertie Carlyon had made with the few pieces he had at command. A sort of dread came over her that she might be stale- mated at last — that they both might leave and de- spise her. She, only just engaged as she was to on e man, knew very well that she had been culpable to the last degree in letting another say words of love to her. And not only had he said words to her indefinitely, but he had definitely addressed them to her as "Dora," and had put his ring on her hand. It seemed to her that they were all looking at that ring, .that they knew where it came from, and why, and how it had been giv- en. Small, unobtmsive as it was, it seemed to her guilty conscience to blaze out prominently amongst the far brighter gems which bedecked her fingers. If she coidd only get her glove on, with- out seeming to be putting her glove on for a pur- pose ! But she dared not attempt this just yet, and meanwhile it appeared as if the eyes of aU were glued to that ring. She kept her hand in a stiff ungainly position, in order to conceal the ring, and then she remembered that her doing so would concentrate attention upon it more agonizingly than before. It was so small that, at any other time, it would have slipped away mider cover of the changeable opals, and never been remarked. If they had only staid away a few moments long- er she could have adjusted it so judiciously that it would never have been noticed. As it was, she made up her mind that she would wear it always half concealed, until the novelty of it was worn out, for the sake of the disinterested man ^^■ho could bring himself to confess his love for a wom- an he could never hope to maiTj'. Her heart began to beat at the prospect of tlie contraband excitement she would have m town if only she could disarm that vigilance committee, her grandmother and Aunt Grace. It would be dreadful, if INIr. Carlyon did take the trouble to make business in London for the mere pui-jTOse of seeing her, if he were balked and disappointed. Dora was quite keen on the subject of making him happy while she could. All such vanities as this would come to an end in the order of things when she was married, but meantime the idea of making a heart ache and soothing it al- ternately was pleasant and gratifnng to her ! These thoughts, and sundr}' misgi^•ings about the ring, ke]3t her silent and abstracted until ]\Ir. Fal- coner said that he feared that the time was draw- ing on for them to return to the house, as the architect would be there to meet them at four. And then they suddenly thought of their a\ow- ed purpose in coming down to the lake side at aU. " But how about the echo ?" Jlrs. Bruton ex- claimed. " Getting the water-lily put it out of my head," Mr. Falconer confessed. " Watching you get it put out of mine," jNIrs. Bruton said frankly ; " what put it out of yours, Miss Jocelyn, and yours, JMr. Carlyon, I'm at a loss to know ?" "At any rate we must hear it now ; it would be ignominious to go back without doing so ; who will wake it ? where must one go ?" Bertie Car- lyon asked. Again ilr. Falconer had to be the pilot. He steered them to a spot under the bluft', and then he himself climbed up the rough bank, and gave vent to a series of shouts and other unintelligible sounds which reverberated like thunder across the lake. When he came do\ni to join them, Ber- tie said it "was his turn now," and sprang up, followed by Dora's indiscreetly admiring gaze. Then the strains of a peculiar melody, thrilling, sweet, extraordinarv-, floated a^\•ay, and were caught up and repeated as if by magic. Even the honors of the echo were with Bertie Carlyon. 'i'iie architect was waiting for them ^^■hen they got back to the house, and in the atmosphere of 54 ONLY HERSELF. adventitious importance, which being consulted about tilings by Falconer, and deferred to by the architect, created about her, Dora forgot the un- lawful lover, and the feigned unhallowed love. A new conservatory was to be built out from the drawing-room, and a verandah was to be run along a portion of a wall, where a verandah had never been foreseen by the original builder, for the sake of supporting different kinds of rare climbers, which were to be introduced to DoUington from South America, and above all a light iron trellis- work stair-case was to be cnrried down from the French window of the boudoir to the terrace be- low. "For that room will be my favorite. I shall love it better than any of the others," Dora said, softly. And Falconer thought that the love would be given to the room that had been his mother's, and Bertie Carlyon that it would take its rise in the fact that there had he first given her to imder- stand that she was dear to him. So both were satisfied ; and in that they were so palpably, Dora was satisfied also. " See how it fits me," she took an opportunity of saying to the donor, showing him the ring. It was placed securely and in obscurity between two others. But the end was gained — she wore it ! CHAPTER XVI. It had all been ^^■ell arranged for Dora by the morning of the Elliots' exodus from Court Royal ; that is to say, it had all been arranged according to Dora's idea of what was well. Slie had taken a long walk with Mr. Falconer in the intermedi- ate time between going to DoUington and going to town ; and during that walk she had not so much pointed out as delicately indicated sundiy things. "Are not old people funnily sensitive, Robert ?" she said (she had become very acquiescent on the subject of calling her affianced lover by his Chris- tian name). "Are they? In what way has the sensitive- ness developed itself under your observation ?" he asked. And then Dora had told him that Mrs. Elliot had counted on having her grandchild to herself during the few days she would be in town. " And thougli she doesn't say much," Dora add- ed, "I know what she feels about your going. Of course, I shall be always looking out for you." " Dora, do you love me so mucli ?" " Wiiat didn't I risk to win you ?" the girl said, with some truth. "I know many people would l)lame me for having been so veiy, very, very truthful about you ; but then I am truthful, and I am not selfish, and I knew that by telling the truth liarm only could come to me, whereas if I had kept liack a l>it of it, hann miglit have come to others ; so I told the truth, and, dear, you made this telling good ff)r me." "What others, Dora?" he whispered; "was any other man in danger ? if so, poor fellow, I can aftbrd to pity him." "Can you ?" Dora thought ; " don't you be too sure of that." But slie only said, — " Would you tliink it vciy str.ange, very impar- donable, if any other man liad liked me, Robert ?" " Neither strange nor unpardonable. To prove to you that I don't think it either of these things, I will mention that I am very well disposed to- wards a man who evidently does like you very much indeed ; but I trust you, Dora, and I look leniently upon Bertie Carlyon." He laughed as he said this, and Dora gathered renewed strength and confidence from his non- suspicion. She felt emboldened to go to further lengths in her security. After all, she told her- self, she was only taking it out of the world in re- venge for the world having been such a sad, dull place to her for so many years. " Gather ye roses while ye may." The roses were before her now — the roses of love, and admiration, and success, and impunity. She would gather them, and if they faded too quickly, why, then she would have the pleasure of knowing that she had inhaled their fragrance while they lived. She was a female voluptuaiy, a sinless one as yet ; but slie had great capabilities of going astray from the safest paths. " I am glad you look leniently upon Bertie Carlyon," she said, soberly, "because he is so clever, and I like him." " All the same, I don't mean yon to be too in- timate with him," he said. " He's for the Lon- don part of our life, Dora ; he may assemble him- self together with others at your gatherings in town when you are Mrs. Falconer ; but I will not have him give himself the freedom of DoUington." " Oh, no, that would be very brd taste, and he would never do any thing to violate good taste, I am sure," Dora said, promptly. "I was afraid he would believe you to be in earnest when you talked about escorting grandmamma r.]), and he would look upon that as so exceeding!}- possessor- like, you know." " Dora, don't you want me in town with you ?" " I want you, but I think you had better not go," she said, raising her violet eyes to his face fearlessly. ' ' My candid darling, I appreciate your reasons ; but don't think it necessaiy to back up your own wishes by reference to Bertie Carbon's good taste. Of course, it will be better, witli such a change as you have before you, that you siiould have a little quiet time among the friends with w hom you have gi-own up to be what you are. " He was most entirely and thoroughly in love with Dora, in spite of tlie disturbing influence that Mabel Bruton still had the will and rfie pow- er to exercise over him. A sudden thought of Mabel Bruton came across Dora now. " Before I go to my old home for the last, and leave you for the first time as Dora Jocelyn, I want you to give me your confidence. What were Mrs. Bruton and you to each other long ago ?" "We were engaged," he said, bricHy. " And you broke it off!" " No I didn't ; she married another man — ^jilt- ed me, in common parlance." "And you have quite forgiven her? ' ' " Yes, since I have learnt to love you, and only since then. She blighted my life for years." "I wonder if you had met her before you met me, you would have gone back to her?" Dora asked, with a pang of Jealousy. " Heaven knows, I loved her dearly once," Mr. Falconer said, seriously ; " but that need not af- fect you, Dora. It is o;ily romantic school-girls, ONLY HERSELF. 65 whose knowledge of the world is gained from one another, and the 'Family Herald,' who believe in gaining a man's first, last, and only love." " I should never be silly enough to expect it," Dora said, j^hilosophically, "any more than you would be silly enough to expect me to think of you, and you only, from tliis time forth forever- more. Don't be too devoted to Mrs. Bruton while I am away, though, or I shall hear of it when I come home." " I go to Dollington the day you leave for Lon- don, since you won't have me in London with you. " "Do you?" Dora exclaimed, gayly, seeing all difticulties rolling away on every side; "and write to me every day — do. When does the win- ter season commence ? See how unfashionable I am." " You will be in town as a bride by that time." " I should like to stay until I am married with my grandfather and grandmother," she said, ear- nestly. " It is such a short time — only about six or seven weeks ; and they will have so little of me afterwards." " ^ly dear child, I'm delighted to see you so attached to them," he said, warmly ; "it speaks as well for my future little wife as every thing that tells the truth of her must speak ; but there will be nothing to prevent your seeing them as often as you like when you are married. With your consent, I should otter them Oaklands as a residence, for they have nothing to really tie them to town, as far as I can ascertain." " There woiUd be no occasion for that," Dora said, rather quelled. The everlasting presence of the i)ure-minded old people at O.iklands might interfere with her facilities for carrying on a safe, friendly flirtation with Bertie Carlyon, she feared. "If they have me now for a few weeks they will be delighted, and I shall seem quite like their own child again, with no one's rights to clash with theirs." So she urged and argued, and finally carried her point. And so it came to pass tliat she went back with her grandmother an(i Grace without Methold, and with permission from the parental authorities, to stay with the Elliots until the 18th or 19th of October. Then her father and Lady Caroline were to come and fetch her, and the preparations for her marriage were to be carried out without delay. The pretty, bright young girl had quite redeem- ed her character for gratitude in the eyes of them all during these last two or three days. She had seemed not only to be glad to be with her hith- erto more than slightly neglected grandmother and Aunt Grace in the present, but to be looking forward to being with them qmetly before her marriage. "We were quite mistaken in Dora," Lady Caroline said to her husband. "The prospect of greater happiness and an early marriage, in- stead of rendering her thoughtless, and selfish, and frivolous, seems to have enriched and im- proved her nature." Golden opinions, indeed, were won by Dora with apparently little effort. And still Bertie Car- lyon had imparted to her only the secret of that urgent business which woidd soon carrj- him to town. The day and the hour of their departure came upon them all too soon for Mrs. Elliot, who had enjoyed herself, and for Mr. Falconer, who was about to lose his love. Farewells were uttered, and Dora was oft" with her mother's people again, without regret, or discontent, or unwillingness, even. "A false, fair face," Mrs. Bruton thought, in- dignantly turning away from the last vision of Dora smiling and kissing her pretty hand to her lover. The widow had been false to him herself; but then there were extenuating circumstances, she pleaded, while defending herself to herself, in her case. Tiiere were extenuating circum- stances in her case, and there were none in Dora Jocelyn's. Dora Jocelyn was not being led into temptation by the love of filthy lucre. Ko rich man came between her and her love, tempting her with offers of jewels of gold and jewels of sil- ver. It was a shame for Dora to be harboring thoughts of treachery against one who was deserv- ing of something so superior even to Dora at her best. So the woman argued who had wronged him long ago, but who was naturally intolerant to the idea of any other woman wronging him in any degree, and specially intolerant to that fonn of wrong which might indicate an audacious, gen- uine preference for another man than the one whom Mabel Bruton honored by her esteem. There was not much of a blank caused by the departure of Dora and her relations. Other vis- itors arrived almost immediateh', people who have nothing to do with the stoiy, and who, there- fore, need not be given form and substance suffi- cient to ensure their introduction into these pages. Later in the day Mr. Falconer was to leave them : just late enough for him to get home in time to see something of his household before his house- hold retired for the night. But this arrangement left him several hours to spend at Couit Eoyal after Dora had gone away. And Dora was unwise, desperately unwise, in so going away, not being frauglit with integrity of puipose, as she desired to many him. She left one in possession of the power of making the next move who was never known to miss a point in such a game of skill. And that one was well in- clined to make a move antagonistic to her. Several hours of idleness on a hot September afternoon. The season was in Mabel Bniton's favor at starting, and the scene was well fitted to fall in as one of the collateral advantages of the season. They loitered away the time before luncheon after Dora had gone off with her grand- mother, and the men of tlie party, with the excep- tion of Mr. Falconer, had gone off with their guns; they loitere.i away this time in the home gardens, on the lawn, or in the conservatory, in full view of the whole household. But after luncheon Mrs. Bruton had a letter to write, she said, which would prevent her accompanying Lady Caroline in her drive, or Helen in her ride. (Has it struck any of my readers what a very unimportant part has been given to one of Mr. Jocelyn's daughters as yet ?) But when they had started in pursuance of their respective pastimes, Mrs. Bruton seemed to forget her letter, and came with a beautiful pleading air of having nothing to do, and not knowing how to do it, upon I\Ir. Falconer in the shady, secluded, seldom-sought Court Koyal li- brary. "I thought you were out," she said, fibbing glibly. 56 ONLY HERSELF. " I thoughtyou had important letters to write," he said, honestly. "The important letters of a woman who has neither heart-trouble nor business-trouble to keep her from finding monotony in the present soul- sickening, and memory of the past soul-sadden- ing, "she replied, smiling a sorrowful smile that was veiy pretty. " I often wish something unforeseen woidd happen, and that I might be deprived of what makes my existence so painfully smooth." "Poor Mrs. Bruton ! I shall feel much more for you then, though, when you are embarrassed by the want of the riches that now embarrass you." Then he took up a periodical, and said what a capital article there was in it on Sequestered Homes. " Dovecots " the article was called, and he commented for a few moments on the intrinsic value of the girls who were described as dwelling therein. " That is all theoretical," she said, with a sort of scornful earnestness that was very impressive. "I was reared in such a dovecot as is imagined there. Until I was twenty, no girl could have led a less artificial or more entirely unsophisticated existence than I did. The most reprehensible forms and features of modern crime and vice were sealed books to me. Sin and shame were but names : but now what am I the better for all that well-intended ignorance in which I was steeped ? I would not pursue the same plan with a daugh- ter, if I had one ; and if I had a son, Mr. Falcon- er, I would pray that he might many a mature siren, rather than a dove from such a dovecot as that about which you have been reading. How well those articles are written, though," she con- tinued, with an abrupt change of manner ; and then she mentioned and showed herself to be fa- miliarly acquainted with several of the series that had been going on in the periodical for some months. ' ' They tempt women to read something analytical," slie said carelessly. "I was quite sui^jrised to find that Miss Jocelyn did not know them yet." " Miss Jocehm has not an-ived at the age to prefer the analytical to the intuitive," he said. "I suppose not. She is very young and pret- ty ; it would be unfair to expect more of her than youth and beauty yet awhile ; young, and pretty, and fortunate." Mrs. Bruton, as she said this, grew meditative, and Mr. Falconer began to feel that he wished he had gone out shooting. " How, above all things, extraordinar}'^ it is that we should meet in this way," the widow went on. "There are about a dozen other countiy houses to which I might have gone this autumn ; but overruling fate drew me here to find you, whom I had leanit to look upon as lost to civilization, just returned, and just engaged. Now don't shrink from the subject," she went on, quickly; "I have constrained myself to name it, it will surely be a lighter task to constrain you to hear it." "I certainly have no wish to evade it," he said, coolly. "No, that is exactly what a man fancies he ought to feel and say. You liave no wish to evade it ; you have caged, or nearly caged, a dove from a dovecot which has never been roughly blown u]>on, and about Avhicii eagles have never hovered. Why did you not tell me you were engaged to her when we met at Dale End the other day ?" " I was not engaged to Miss Jocelyn then." "Oh, I beg your pardon. I forget in such matters to draw the safe and delicate distinction. You were not engaged to her then, consequent- ly you were free to call me ' Mabel,' and to be- tray an interest in me that caused me to betray myself." And then Mrs. Bruton hung her head and sobbed. " What is the good of this sort of recrimination now ?" he exclaimed, wonied out of all circum- spection by her tears. Then he got up, and said the room was sti- fling ; and she agreed with him so promptly, and asked him to take a turn down by the Avater-side with her, that he was bewildered into acquies- cence. Down by the water-side — by the water-side where he had first seen Dora — they walked to- gether. But Sir Galahad himself could not have taken alarm. She, Mrs. Bruton, was herself again, she declared, as soon as she got into the air ; that is to say, she was agreeable, worldly, amusing, and proper. She made pretty little al- lusions to Dora's beauty, and to the sensation Dora's beauty would cause when she was proper- ly introduced. And then she said what good it would do her (Mabel) to have such a friend as Dora, if Dora was all that Mr. Falconer believed her to be. "She would impart stability to me," she said. "Just now you hinted that she lacked it her- self," he remarked. "Fortunately she does not depend on me for a good character ; if she did, I could not give her one to you. I am only a woman, you know — a woman with a good memoiy for the goods the gods gave her once. " ' ' I have a good memoiy, too, for wi'ongs real and imaginary," he said. "Ah, I dare say you have ; it is man's lower nature, you know, to be easily offended, and un- forgiving." ' ' It would have been a useless quality of mer- cy for me to exercise forgiveness ; I should have gained nothing had I forgiven the real or imagi- nary wrong." , "That is your short-sighted view of the case. You don't know what you have lost or gained, as the case may be. I wonder what would become of some of us if we did know what would come of some of our ill-considered actions. Bertie Car- lyon says if I had known even, I should have done what I did do, and braved all the sorrow and ago- ny of remorse." " What did you do ?" "W^iy, marry, to be sure," she said, simply, " I know that it's very wrong to hint to you above all men that I wasn't entirely hajip}' in my evil- starred maiTiage ; but it's the truth, and, after all, no honest man can despise one for speaking the truth." ' ' Especially if it happens to be flattering to him- self," she might have added. But she did not add it, and her silence filled the next few moments like a speech, it was so very elotpient. ' ' When are you coming here again ?" she asked l)resently. " I am not likely to be here for some time. I think Dollington may fairly claim me ; poor, neg- lected Dollington !" "If } oil do not come while I am here, I will tell you what you will force me to feel, — that you ONLY HERSELF. 57 ■R-ish to shun me, consequently that you dislike or despise me." '' I do neither." "Then come where I am," she said, passion- ately. " Is life so long that it should be render- ed unnecessarily wretched by misconceptions and needless slights. I have not been so happy a wom- an, Mr. Falconer, that my friends need chasten my spirit further. Leave that to Providence ; and if the thing I ask you is of no importance to you, gratity me wth all the more ease to yourself. Surely I am solitaiy enough to satisfy your most rigorous sense of poetical justice." ' ' Mrs. Braton, it is out of my power to render your solitude less oppressive." "I know that — I know that in one sense ; but did ever woman Avho had once been given much, ask, plead for so little. It is only the mere friend- ship that you bestow upon others without consid- eration that I ask for. Since I can not be much to you, I am content, oh, how content, to belittle ; but let me be that little — don't repulse me." " I prize all friendship," he answered : and then he looked at his watch, and said it was time to go home to dinner. CHAPTER XVII. THE AGE OF INNOCENCE. Court Royal was hopelessly dull. That it was so Mrs. Braton avowed to herself on an average ten times within the hour. IMr. Falconer was gone, as in wisdom and discretion it was well he should go ; and Bertie Carlyon was gone, as in wisdom and discretion it was well he should not have gone. '* Don't let me feel that I am keeping you away from this place," had been j\Irs. Brnton's parting appeal to Mr. Falconer, and he, hurried on by the impulse of the moment, had been led into this error of responding favorably to that ap- peal. ''You shall find that you do not keep me away : why should you, indeed ?" Why should she, indeed ? Why should these Vivien women be eschewed by modem IMerliiis who are infirm of pui-pose ? He went away, feel- ing that to see her again would be bliss, and that not to see her again would be sorrow. Well, scarcely feeling the focts so strongly, perliaps, but still having it impressed upon him with suflicient strength that in spite of Dora and love and hon- or and good resolves, the woman he had once yearned to marry could never be to him more than another. Court Royal was hopelessly dull. Not one of the many excellently meant plans which Lady Caroline made to avert monotony from her guests answered the purpose with Mrs. Bruton. Slie was a woman who went do^\^l, and became intol- erably dull to herself, when she was cast solely upon the society of other women. And at this junctm-eshe was so situated, for the men who were staying at Court Royal were all keen sportsmen, and after being absent in body all day, were ab- sent in mind nearly all the evening, by reason of sleep and torpor intenening. A dozen times in the course of one hour she would tell herself tliat Court Royal was liopelessly dull ; a dozen times in the course of the next she woidd declare that the next day she could not and would not en- dure such dullness. " If Bertie Carlyon had only staid, things would be more endurable," she would say. But Bertie Carlyon was not there to catch her fancy in the rebound. On the third morning after the exodus of the Elliots and Dora from Court Royal, JNIr. Carlyon announced himself as desolated in spirit, and the slave of unpleasant circumstances at breakfast. When condoled with, and requested to give a more lucid statement of the case which caused this phase of feeling, he confessed that he was not altogether so unfortunate as his first plaints had led them to suppose. In fact, that he was rather in the position of one who suffers from a plethora of good things, for that the morning's post had brought him otfers from two publishers for the pm'chase of the copyright of the novel lie was then engaged upon. According to him each ]3ublisher had proposed the most gratifyingly liberal terms ; but (here was the cause of complaint he had against fortune) before he could come to a defi- nite arrangement with eitlier, it woidd be neces- sary tliat he should see them both. He pitied liimself profoundly, and grumbled at the good- luck profusely ; but he had no appeal ; he must go, and ga at once. " There is one thing to be remembered for our satisfaction," Lady Caroline said, politely; "when you have settled your business — and yours is a business that is above all pettifogging hindrances, isn't it? — we shall see you here again." " That is the worst of it — in one way I ought to consider it the best of it. Lady Caroline — I must stay and see my books through the press." "But it is not half written, is it?" some one asked, mal-adroitly. And then Bertie Carlyon gracefully evaded being catechised fmther by de- livering a brief and rapidly uttered synopsis of the various modes in which various authors of fiction worked. He enlarged on the merits of the ab- sence of plan, and was equally eloquent on the advantages of a carefully drawn out and complete frame-work being sketched before any of the de- tails are filled in. Again, he was \\arm on the subject of the superiority of the well-digested plan to the otfspring of enthusiasm and «hite-heat. As his audience knew little and cared less about the matter, his theories were received as the I'esult of so much hard practice, and when he finished and i-ose up, if he had averred that it was essen- tial for an author to take a journey to Jericho before he attempted to describe the growth of lilies of the valley in a London beauty's boudoir, he would have been micontradicted, and partially believed. Only Mrs. Braton felt sure that some other than the reason assigned actuated the handsome young "literaiy man wlio was so well and favor- ably known in foshionable circles" (according to one of the later notices of a fonner work), causing him to quit the fertile fields and pastures fair of a thoroughly good country house for the Sahara of London late in the autumn. " You ^rill renew the innocent associations of your childhood," she said to him ; " solitude and leafy seclusion is so good for people ; there is no one in town to walk in the streets ; they must be shady and verdant by this time. One day you will see a graceful form at a distance, and you will begin to beat your breast andcrj', ' 'Tis she !' at the same moment 'she' will advance upon you to the slow music of a ban-el-organ, set going 58 ONLY HERSELF. to illustrate tlie bairel-organist's agitated joy at sight of a fellow-raan ; and in the metroj^olitan wilderness Miss Jocelyn and you will discover one anotlier's inestimable worth." " It will be singular if I do see Miss Jocelyn," he said, with an unembarrassed air; " she is not likely to be buying the trousseau in any of the marts I attend, though." "It will be singular; quite a coincidence. But then singular things do occur in real life, you know. I will not prophesy for the benefit of the family mind, I promise you ; but if it comes to pass, may I know it ?" " If it comes to pass that we meet in the fash- ion you describe, to the dulcet strains of a grind- er, i will write and ask you to prophesy again concerning us." "Ingenuous youth," she said smiling; then, as he held his hand out to her in fiirewell, she added, "shall I wish all your business in town to arrange itself after your present desires ? — or shall I be ill-wishing another — an older friend than you — if I do ?" "You are more delightful when you prophesy th.an when you interrogate," he said, laughing. And soon after that he left Court Royal, and the reign of absolute dullness commenced for Mrs. Bniton. ^Meantime Dora had been A'ery perfectly fulfill- ing the mission on which she had come to Lon- don, namely, the gladdening of her grandfather's heart, and the getting together divers things, the need of which her recent engagement and ap- proaching marriage had made manifest. ' ' I wish Mr. Falconer had found time to come up with you, that I might have been satisfied what sort of a fellow we are going t6 give her to," Mr. El- liot said to his wife. But she had been uncon- sciously well-instructed by Dora. "His wishes would have brought him, but his sense oi what was becoming kept him away now in the first blush of it," the old lady said; "it was his con- sideration ; for the little time Dora will be here they all felt tliat we should like to have her to ourselves." Someliow or other Mrs. Elliot had got this idea of their all having deemed it advis- able that Mr. Falconer should not be up in town with Dora firmly into her head. How it had got there it would have been extremely difficult to say. Sometimes she thought that Lady Caroline must have said it to her, so deeply rooted was her be- lief in its being Lady Caroline's sentiment. At other times she had a vague impression that Dora must have told her. But Dora, on the first hint of this, disclaimed having any thing to do with the growtli of such a thought, and so earnestly, that Mrs. Elliot was routed from that position. "It must be that I felt it to be better that it should be as it is out of my own head," she de- cided. And after that decision she never strove to iiarticuiarize about it, but contented herself with declaring " that all felt it would be better — for the present." For tlirce days Dora was indefatigable in the making of jiurchases and in superintending the various auialgamations of delicate laces and linens into forms of more perfect beauty still, luuler the deft hands of clever modistes. Aimt Grace al- ways accompanied the girl on these sho])]jing ex- peditions in the moniing, ami about four in the afternoon Dora " enjoyod nothing so much as a quiet stroll in Kensington Gardens." ' ' She is quite altered — wonderfully improved and altered," Miss Elliot said to her mother; ' ' you know how she used to pine to parade about in Piccadilly and Regent Street ; but there is nothing of that craving for excitement left in her. A quiet time in the Kensington Gardens, or the Kensington Museum, she thoroughly en- joys." " Her happiness in her love has done her good, — elevated her character," the fond, credu- lous grandmother rejoined ; " I see her looking quite thoughtful very often ; how much rather I would see her as she is than flippant and excited about it." After all this commendation of tlie quiet that had come over her, Dora discomposed them on the morning of the fourth day of her sojourn with them by being veiy disagreeable and queer, as tliey denominated it among themselves, soon after breakfast. " I am not going shopping this morning. Aunt Grace," she said, abruptly ; " Mr. Falconer told me before I came away that I was to be sure and make a study of the ' Blind Beggar ' before I left town ; he's so fond of the pictm'e, that he ^^■ants a copy of it done by me." "I thought you said yesterday that you would go and take your first lesson in making point lace this moniing," Aunt Grace suggested. ' ' After all, it never looks better than the mere tape the foundation is; it doesn't repay one for the trouble of doing ; I don't think I shall learn it. Grandma, you know the history of the Blind Beggar, don't you ? it was left to the nation by Jane Clark (you know ? where Elise is now ! ), and it's locked up in a massive frame because of its exceeding value ; as for the beauty of it, I can't hope to make you understand that imtil I bring you home my sketch of it by-and-by." "I really don't see why I shouldn't go to Brompton too, to-day," ]\Irs. Elliot said, enter- prisingly; "if you're going to be working hard at your painting, poor child, you will want some one to see to taking you somewhere to luncheon ; besides, Mr. Falconer ■\Vouldu't like your going alone, would he ?" " I don't suppose he woidd,"Dora said, blush- ing scarlet ; " it's very kind of you, and perhaps it will be better." So they went off to the Brompton Boilers, ac- cording to Dora's programme, and Dora settled herself with an easel and a board before, not the "Blind Beggar," but " The Age of Innocence," when she got there. And while she was sketch- ing in the outline of one of the loveliest little creatures that the painter's art has ever caught and prisoned for ages on canvas, Bertie Carlyon came sauntering by. Mrs. Elliot was standing near and was great on the instant on the astonishing combination of cir- cumstances which should have brought them there that morning to meet a Court Roval ac- quaintance, — an acquaintance whom they all firmly believed to be at Court Royal at that pres- ent minute ; no, not at that present minute, but the minute before he came up. And how was Lady Caroline? and how had they parted with him ? and was it not strange that Dora should liave been going to learn how to make lace this moniing, but bad preferred coming here ; she was so fond of art I D(jra blushed again, a more scarlet blush than ever at this, and Bertie Carlyon ONLY HERSELF. 59 said, "It was strange, but not so strange as it •was pleasant." He was bent on a copying errand too. He was impressed with the beauty and purity of a little child in prayer — the infant Samuel, and was going to copy it when he had time. IMean- while he was coming here to look at it, to leani it, to study it, to make notes of minute parts, and almost imperceptible gradations of color. "I am sure it will be quite pleasant for you," IVIrs. Elliot said to Dora, ' ' after being so friend- ly at Court Royal ; to meet in this way is one of the strangest things I ever heard." There had been no regular assignation. The girl shall be exonerated from any such suspi- cion at once. Some people look more leniently upon a course of deception that is blameless in word, than they do upon the flagi'ant and open daring which creates verbal witnesses against it- self at every turn. The mute agi-eement between them had been all-sufficient. " Falconer wants you to copy the ' Blind Beg- gar,' " Bertie had said ; " the day after I get to town, I shall go there and find you hard at work ; that will give you three clear days for your shop- ping." This was the sole an-angement that had been made between them, but it had been sufficient. The fourth day found Dora with a "rapturous feeling for art," and he Avas there to encourage her in it. She never for one moment meant more than this ; to make him like her very much, and then to " leave him because she was engaged and he knew it." There was something exhilarating to the girl in this prospect. She rehearsed all the ])robabilities of the situation when his love should overmaster him, and he should plead in vain. It would be so nice to have one more genuine of- fer before she engaged for life with Mr. Falconer and absolute discretion. She meant to be care- ful and discreet now of course, not ^she told her- self; that there would be need for the suspi- cious and unamiable quality of " discretion "with Bertie Carlyon. He did like her so very much, and it was such a need of her nature to be liked and made much of when it could be done. Be- sides, why, Anth such beauty as hers, was she to shine on one to the exclusion of all others. It was very well for medium women of limited at- tractions to do this, but she would be as the moon : lavish, warm, and brilliant to all the brooks. If the brooks grew parched and diy, so much the worse for them, that was all I There came a day of reckoning, but she never foresaw it in these days of which I am writing. No shadow from its tempestuous stonny sky cast itself over the gay thoughtless path on which the girl danced to her downfall. She went along blithely, in her strong sense of security, lulled into this latter by the fatal confidence those who were so much better and higher than herself reposed in her. The tale of those days that ensued after that first morning's work at " The Age of Innocence " is a shameful one to write. The old people in Russell Square, Aunt Grace, her relatives at Court Royal, her lover at Dollington, heard and read the free, frank, ready explanations she gave relative to her manner of passing her time, and were satisfied, nay more, were blissfully uncon- scious that they had the faintest reason to be doubtful of her integrity. She had seen very lit- tle of the drama during her former residence in town, but now in these latter days, that she was spending with them, Mr. and Mrs. Elliot saw no guile in her earnest desire, feverishly carried cut, to see what was going on at everj' theatre in town. The dull season was on in all its force, still there was enough excitement and novelty on the boards for Dora. And Bertie Carlyon was so kind ; he always got her boxes and tickets, and generally contrived to be at the door to hand Mrs. Elliot or Grace in and out. "If he didn't know about her engagement, I should say he was falling in love with her him- self," Aunt Grace said to her mother one day ; but Mrs. Elliot scoffed at and repudiated the notion. " He's a veiT kind-hearted young man, and in- dependently of that, I can quite fancy that he wishes to stand well with the future mistress of Dollington ; that is Dora's own view of his atten- tions, and I must beg you will not put any other foolish notion into her head," the old lady said, loftily; " falling in love with her, indeed ! as if Dora wouldn't see through and discountenance any nonsense of the sort." Miss Elliot was almost shocked at the mistake she had made. Her mother saw the possibility in such a veiy reprehensible light. The days wore on and lengthened themselves into weeks, and still Dora made plausible excuses for remaining at her grandfather's, although re- peatedly nrged by both JNIr. Falconer and Helen to reconsider her determination to stay in town imtil the Jocelyns came to take her away just be- fore her marriage. "Come back and save me from the miseiy and the danger of an unoccupied existence," Mr. Falconer wrote. " I want your saving presence more and more eadi day : let me feel that you come to me willingly, before I have the right to bid you do so." In answer to this appeal Dora wrote submissiA-ely and s\\eetly, "Could he not understand how delicate her j)0- sition was, could he not understand that she shrank from interfering with the aiTangements others had made for her ; in a little time she would be free to show forth, without fear or re- proach, the love she had for him, and the pleasure it was to her to be with him.'" With Helen another tone was necessary. The younger sister wrote recalling Dora somewhat shaii)ly to "a sense of duty," as she (Helen) jjhrased it. "How can you be weak and vain enough to waste your time over silks and satins and laces that would be managed much better without your meddling, I can't tell ; moreover you are running stupid risks ; the best and most faithful of men in the world are but human, and my pretty friend j\Irs. Biiiton does all she can to make the time pass agreeably to Mr. Falconer. They are both of them immaculate in intention, I have no doubt, and his conduct is in-eproach- able. Still she is a pretty woman, and Dighy says that many men would contrast her assiduity with your neglect in a way that Mould not be fa- vorable to the latter." " Digby is very youi\g and foolish," Dora said calmly, as she read this. But still she did not pass over the passage in contemptuous silence in her reply to her sister. "Your sharp rebuke, and Digby "s suggestive fears, are both uncalled for," she wrote ; "I am paying Mr. Falconer the 60 ONLY HERSELF. compliment of believing that he is not a fickle fool. " Then she went on to tell Helen that ' ' The Age of Innocence " was progressing very ftist and fovorably, and that by incessant application to it she hoped to get it done in time to have it framed to present to him on their wedding-day. The contents of those two letters of recall, and the re- plies she had sent to them, she suffered herself in a moment of elation to discuss with Mr. Carlyon. If she was perfectly satisfied with the progress of ' ' The Age of Innocence " so was he satisfied with the progress he made day by day. That Dora was simply feigning, simply flirting, sim- ply fooling, he was thoroughly well aware. But on the other hand he knew that when she had feigned and flirted, and fooled a little more, she would be so in the toils that Falconer Avould not marry her, and then she would be glad to save herself from falling to the ground utterly by mar- rying him, Bertie Carlyon. As to her heart at the time, or her feelings after this marriage, he gave no manner of heed or consideration to them. lie would have a beautiful wife, who for her o^vql sake, for the sake of her daily jieace, would find it best to feign further — to feign that she was sat- isfied and happy. And in right of that wife he would have Oaklands and three hundred a j'ear, and a thoroughly good fomily connection, and these things might soften the heart of his own people, who regarded him as a ne'er-do-well, not because he was one simply, but because he wrote? degraded himself by turning to profitable account the brains that God had given him. Not one of these hopes of his was known to Doi-a, clever girl as Dora was, and shaip-sighted as she thought herself. It no more occurred to her, that he had the audacity to mean to supplant Mr. Falconer by foir means or foul, than it did that she herself was acting a dishonorable, sill}' part in encouraging him to flutter about her with pernicious frequency. She thought that she was one of the exceptionally gifted creatures who can I)irouette on the brink of a jjrecipice, or skate on thm ice, or execute a/ias de fascination amongst fiery brands, without coming to signal sorrow. She thought that sh^ could go as far as she pleased, and then stop short, and retrace her steps through the maze into which she had wandered, and emerge unscathed and blameless. His words were pleasant to listen to, all words of love are. His lamentations over the not having known her before, the superiority of Falconer's luck to his (Bertie's) own, and tlie inevitable generally, had just enough of the genuine ring of the metal about tiiem to evoke a spirit of spurious sym]:)athy in her. She did not realize that the coil of circum- stances was lieing rolled about her more and more intricately each day. In short, his end was con- cealed from her, and so she was unsuspicious of his means. " After all," she argued, when conscience pinch- ed her, as it did on one or two rare occasions ; "after all, to what did it amount, this intercourse that was so sweet and hannless?" He amused her with jiretty little fiincy pictures of his past life and exiKu-icnce in the morning as they stood near to each. other, daiil)ing canvas, and caricaturing Sir Josiiiui's delightful children in the galleiT at the South Kensington Museum. And in the evenings lie instructed her in the pri- vjife histories of some of tlie actors and actresses whose histrionic efforts they were watching to- gether. That was all or nearly all. There were one or two little notes that he pretended to prize very much which she had written to him at di- vers times. Little notes of explanation (harm- less things) as to why she had not been visible the morning before, or could not be visible the morning after. Notes in which to please him she had addressed him as "Dear Bertie," because it was such a pretty name, and he had implored her to write to him as his sister might write. Tnily, the fraternal relations between these young peo]jle would have been pleasing to Dora's be- trothed. CHAPTER XVIIL AN EXPLANATION, The month that paints the woods and fields of the richest, mddiest hues was upon them. And Mr. JoceljTi saw that it was time to take his fam- ily away from the contemplation of these joyous colors at Court Royal, and lodge them temporarily in town, until such time as Dora had become Mrs. Falconer. * The Jocelyns' town house, or rather the house they hired, was in the terrace opposite to the Marble Arch, and thither Dora was transferred about the middle of October, Mr, Falconer was in London, too, full of hope and occupation, and love ; full of faith, too, in Dora, and in her desire and power to make him happy. Siie had greeted them all gladly and warmly, and there had been no affectation in this greeting of hers. The days which Bertie Cai-lyon had made pleasant to her of late were past, and in her own mind she was not altogether sony that they were past ; for of late he had been getting more demonstrative towards, and more aggres- sive in his demands upon her, and "after all," as she told hei'self, " she had meant it but as a pastime," and in sober earnest had never given a thought to the possibility of the pastime ending seriously. But a day or two before the Jocelyns and Mr. Falconer came to town, Bertie had suavely said things that terrified Dora. ' ' Come up in a couple of days, do they ! " he said, and then he had given one of those shrill, long, att'ect- ed whistles, which often act as avant couriers to dubious or painful remarks. "It was quite time for them all to come, I think," Dora said, feeling sure that her remark, evincing, as it did, pleasure at the thought of their coming, would give a certain amount of pain to the one she addressed. It was always a matter of small.moment to Miss Jocelyn who was well-pleased or ill-pleased at any speech of hers when their good or ill pleasure would be power- less to afiect her in any way. She almost deem- ed that this would be the case with Bertie Car- lyon now. She had enjoyed the pastime of flirt- ing with him. But it was over now, and she be- gan to feel that sentimental references to it wotdd be likely to lie ill-received by the one who would soon have the sole right to her. So she said tliat she thought that it was quite time for them all to come u]), with a little cotiuettisli em- j)hasis on the " all " that sliowed the man she ad- dressed that his day was done; that is to say, if her will was to rule the case. "It is time for us to decide as to what we mean to do," he said, coolly. He determined to ONLY HERSELF. Gl take it for granted that she was one with him in this matter, and as she had been a partner in the pleasure, that she should have a full share of the unpleasantness that might follow. "When this conversation took place they were standing togeth- er before the "Infant Samuel," she having saun- tered away from her o^vn work in order to watch him at his. She was mixing colors on lier pallette as he spoke, for she had rushed into oils in order to prolong the pleasure she derived from "The Age of Innocence," and he saw her hand shake. He guessed rightly that it trembled as much at his tone, as at the words he used. ' ' I said it was time for us to decide as to what we mean to do," he repeated, very gently this time, but looking her fully and finnly in the tace. Neither Mrs. Elliot nor Aunt Grace were with Dora this day. The young art student had de- clared that their presence, the knowledge of their presence, and the possibility of their speaking, in- terfered with her quiet conception of that which she ^^■as about. She recovered herself from the agitation which had caused her hand to tremble, in an instant, and said, lightly, " As to what I do, the decision is taken out of my own hands, you know; in about a fortnight I assume new duties and responsibilities, and leave my old life behind me." It was an lm^^^se speech for her to have made. It showed such complete disregard for him, and his heart and his feeUngs (supposing him to have any), it showed such contemptuous forgetfulness of the familiar intercourse of the last few weeks, that, in humanity, he was justified in resenting it, though not in resenting it as he did. "Oh! you contemplate doing that, do you?" he said, looking at her iixedly as before, and she was a very pretty object to look at in her blue, much pulled and jDauiered muslin, and in her tiny white hat ; "you contemplate doing that, do you, Miss Jocelyn ; ha\'ing sened your purpose, I may go — out of your memory, out of your heart, out of your way ?" "Mr. Carlyon," she stammered, realizing now for the first time that placing with fire was a dangerous, as well as a pi'ofitless amusement. "Mr. Carlyon? why not Bertie, as before? You can't expect me to drop it all, and to have done with it, just because a man, whom you have regarded as nothing for weeks, is coming up to try and take you away from me. The farce must come to an end now, Dora : the tag may not be pleasant to speak (I wouldn't urge ' extenuating circumstances,' if I were you), but I must ask you to speak it out boldly now." "I don't understand you." She had gj-OAvn deadly pale, and it seemed to her that her future grandeur, happiness, safety, comforts, respecta- bility, all the things a woman loves and prizes, and all which Dora had counted upon in her mar- riage with Mr. Falconer, were dancing away like pale spectres from her. She did not understand him very well ; at last — "Shall I make it clearer, Dora?" he said, in the plaintive speaking tenor which he knew so well how to wield. "Shall I make it clearer? They say a man ought to speak out at such times, and I will take care that you are not shamed by my reticence. I mean, tiiat tliere must be an open end at once to your engagement to Falcon- ei", and that we had better brave all the parental wrath at once by declaring our intention of mar- rying without delay." " Break my engagement ! marry you !" If it had not been a public place, if her tongue had not clung to the roof of her mouth, if she had not been restrained by the dread of the doing so making things worse for her eventually, she would have flung herself at his feet, and entreated him to tell her that she was dreaming, or he was jok- ing. As it was, through the verj' inability to test it, the horrible fact that it was a reality, a trath, came home to her. ' ' But it is impossible that I can do either." Then she hazarded her verbal tower of strength, and told him that he "had known of her engagement all along." "I certainly knew that you had pledged your- self; but, Dora, reflect on all that has passed be- tween us since ; the constant intercourse, the scarcely veiled interest you have shown for me, the way in which altogether you have fed my hopes. I was fully justified, as I did not regard you as an unprincipled or unscrupulous woman, in belie^ing that you had repented yourself of the pledge to Falconer. What man could think othen\'ise, unless he had looked upon you as un- scnipidous, and a smaller creature altogether, than you have ever seemed to me." He said all this in a low tone of voice, but with a clearness and rapidity of utterance that nearly took away her breath, but tiiat still did not quite take away her power of judgment. She had winced at the word ' ' unscrupulous " when he used it the first time, but the second time she resented it with an indignant outraged glance. " How can you bring yourself to say such words to me, professing to love me ?" she said. "How can you bring yourself to say such things to me, professing, as you do, to love me ?" he retorted. ' ' Mr. Carlyon, I have not professed to love you," she flamed out fiercely now. "They have not been professions of love? Dora, in your anger you are condemning yourself most awfully. No man should have stood erect before me after declaring that what you have shown to me was not love — pure, true love." She knew now, it was so clearly revealed to her, that she was in the toils, and that she was being made to slay herself with shafts jjlucked from her o^\^^ wing. "If my own words condemn me I will not speak again," she said turning away. And pres- ently he saw her preparing to go home. Cour- teously he went up and profl'ered his senices. She was to go home in a cab, and he would see her safely into it. " Do let us part as friends ; you made me so horribly nen^ous just now," Dora said, humbled by her terror of "what ^Ir. Falconer would think if he had heard a whisper of any of this," into pleading, and being abject. "^Ye will part as friends, dearest, as the best friends," he said, soothingly. "I will take all the trouble that girls half delight in, and half dread — the trouble of saying that you have changed your mind — off" your hands." "But you must not do it," she cried, ashy pale now with heart-sickening fear. Even as she spoke a feeling of the falseness of many things, of most things, of all things, assailed her. Here was she now walking along through tlie student-dotted gallery, beautifully dressed, looking as if she were 62 ONLY HERSELF. simply earning on a snpei-ficial flirtation with some summer friend, while, in reality, her heart was torn with fear and anguish. She was dis- tracted by the dread of discovery. She was dis- mayed to find that she had burned herself so severely when she had only been playing with fire. " But you must not do it, you must not speak to my father, or to any one about this folly of mine'; yes, I'll say of 'mine,' and believe it to have been all mine, if you will only be good and generous, and tell me that you don't mean it." She spoke earnestly, though a trifle incoherent- ly. He recognized all her terror, and all her helplessness, and he wanted Oaklands, and he wished for her. Need it be said that he deter- mined to act upon her terror and her helplessness. Need it be said that Dora would find the tender mercies of Bertie Carlyon rather harder to en- dure than any cruelties she had ever conceived as possible from other men. " What do you think I don't mean ?" he asked, willfully affecting to misunderstand her, in order that he might gain time to think. The affair had culminated unexpectedly after all, although he had been prepared for the Jocelyns' and Mr. Falconer's arrival in town. Still the necessity for immediate action, if he meant to act at all, had been brought before him abruptly. And the more he could play the miserable fish who had been tempted to bite the bait he had dangled be- fore her, the more certain and sure he felt of weakening her, and so landing her at last. So now he asked, with an air of j-'erplexity, ' ' What do you think I don't mean, Dora ?" "Oh! don't call me 'Dora' any more, Mr. Carlyon," she implored, pathetically, "there must be an end of it." "You acknowledge that 'it' (by which I pre- sume you mean our lover-like intercourse) has existed ?" he said, gravely. "No, I don't — yes, I do — I really hardly know what I mean, or what I'm saying," she said, her voice shaking with piteous fear. "There is a cab — let me go home now — do ! We have been so wrong about each other." " You don't doubt my love !" he urged. "Yes I do, I doubt every thing, you above every thing," she said, with an expression of al- most loathing. "I feel hunted and driven, and capable of killing you or myself," she added, with sudden fuiy. " Love me I if you loved you would not treat me in this way." "Perhaps you think that I should rather give you up without a struggle ? No, Dora, you don't know what I have staked on getting you for my wife ; why should I risk all manner of small dis- agi'ceables for you, if I didn't love yon? You won nie lightly enough, but you shall not lose me easily." "I wish I had never heard of you," she said, witii a concentrated detestation in her look and tone that would have appalled him liad he really cared for her. As it was he simply laughed, pressed her iiand. and as he j)Ut her into the cab, whispered tliat he would see her fatiier without delay, and sliould call on her shortly. "You can't deny any thing that I may bring forward as an argument wliy it would be well you sholild many me instead of Falconer," he said, at parting, and then he suffered Dora to go oft" while lie himself wended his way to Vere Street, to hear when Jtlrs. Bruton was coming home. That same night unexpectedly Mr. Jocelyn and Helen came to Russell Square to take Dora away, Dora had passed a wretched time of it since her return from the Museum, in the morning, but at the sight of her father and Helen she brightened up again and felt more hopeful. The possibility of getting clear away from the web of difficul- ties which she had helped Mr. Carlyon to weave about her occurred to her vividly. His specious indications of all he meant to do, all he meant to reveal, did she prove contumacious to his desires, seemed less direful and oppressive things than they had seemed to her in the morning. The sudden reaction from despair — degraded despair — to hope made her exultant almost, and in her exultation she was very aft'ectionate. " I am rejoiced to see you," she said over and over again, as she stood with her arms round Helen's neck, and her head resting on Helen's shoulder. "As you are so rejoiced, I can't understand why you were not willing to come to us before we came to fetch you ; don't you wonder at it, too, papa?" ' ' There was the leaving us to be thought of, you know, "old Mr. Elliot said, good-tempered- ly. " Dora wishes to be with us all at the last of her as Miss Jocelyn, I fancy." "Don't say I was unwilling to go back to you," Dora said, shrinking now from any words that should seem to strengthen Bertie Carlyon's assertion that she had led him on, and been un- scrupulous. "I have been so busy, and so be- wildered, that I hardly know what I have wish- ed, and what I haA'en't wished, for the last month. I only know that now I wish I was married, and well through all the fuss there will be." "Falconer fortunately wishes the same thing," Mr. Jocelyn said, laughing ; "it rests with you to name the actual day ; but a fortnight's respite is about all you're to have, Dora. " j " If it were only an hour how rejoiced I should be," Dora thought: "he couldn't unmany me, and he would not be so mean as to make mis- chief between a man and wife; how I Avish I could get back my wretched letters." How heartily she wished many other impossi- ble things now. Amongst others, that she had not plotted and planned to get into these danger- ous waters which were about her now on every side. If only she had been discreet enough not to -write — that was the most evil tiling she had done. The pressures of her hand, and the whis- jiers in her ear, and the hot words she had per- mitted herself to listen to from Bertie, could not be used in evitlence against her. But the let- ters ! How should she get them back? Meantime, while these thoughts assailed and wore her out with their painful vehemence, Mi". Jocelyn was talking to the Elliots about the pro- priety of Dora returning with him that night. " Falconer is coming to be introduced to you to-morrow, " Mr. Jocelyn said, and Dora started as if she had been shot. She must see him soon then ; before she had been able to gain the as- surance from Bertie Carlyon that he meant to keep the peace towards her. " I have been anxious to see him ever since I heard what is to be," old Mr. Elliot said. "I shall be very glad to see him, and I shouldn't OXLY HERSELF. 63 have resented his coming as an intrasion if he had found his way here before tliis." " He never thought yon "would have done so, hut he has had plenty to do, you know," Mr. Joce- Ivn said. Mr. Jocelyn was ignorant of the ch]jloma- cy that had been employed in the cause of keep- ing ^Ir. Falconer calm and at rest in tlie indo- lence of unsuspicion at DoUington, while Dora had been disporting herself in town. " But we have seen something of a very nice young fellow, another friend of yours," old Mr. Elliot went on, "Mr. Carlyon has been to see us several times." "Indeed! has he?" Mr. Jocelyn asked, un- suspiciously, while Helen said, quickly, "How very strange; you forgot to tell me that, Dora." "I couldn't tell you every thing," Dora said, crossly; "come up to my room while I put on my bonnet, Helen," she added, hastily. It oc- curred to her tliat it would be better and safer for her now if she made a confidante of Helen, than if she left it to Helen to make discoveries. Dora knew that she sadly needed counsel, and her heart could not give her any that she dared follow. So she asked her sister up into her room, meaning to make confession, and to ask for guid- ance. But on the way up stairs Dora's heart failed her, and she felt that she could not be candid, at any rate that she could not be candid just yet. Perhaps if she told, it would transpire that she had been premature in the telling. Perhaps Ber- tie Carlyon would resign her letters and all hopes of her hand A\-ithout her publishing her folly to an- other human being. Perhaps, in her excitement of the morning, she had attributed a power and a danger they did not possess to his words and his intentions. So thinking, she resolved to hold her peace, and defer enacting the part of a penitent until circumstances forced it upon her. ' ' Why, Dora, what is tliis about Bertie Car- lyon having been here ?" Helen said, bounding into Dora's bed-room, and closing the door be- hind her quickly. " You heard grandpapa say all there is to say about it," Dora said, fidgeting about the room, and pretending to collect things together. " Surely not all there is to say about it ; nev- er mind your packing. I heard Aunt Grace say she would collect eveiy thing, and send after you, dear. I want you to tell me, when did you see him, and why haven't you told me about meeting him ?" " I saw him first in the painting gallery, ami I didn't know you cared enough about him to ■want to know where I met him, and wlien I met him," Dora said, pettishly, "I suppose I forgot to tell you." "I hope you did," Helen said, gravely. " Why do you emphasize your ' hope ' so ? I hate to hear words dashed in conversation ; nev- er mind Bertie Carlyon. Tell me how you like the idea of all white and no color at all for your dress at my wedding. I should like to have my bridemaids' dresses pure white, with bonnets made of one square inch of tulle, and white blush roses without any leaves — that is my idea at least ; tell me if you can improve upon it ?" ' ' No, i can not ; but then (do forgive me, Dora) what brought Mr. Carlyon here ?" Helen persisted. " Desire to see Aunt Grace, I suppose," Dora said, laughing scornfully to hide her confusion. "You quite seem to forget that he knew grandma and Aunt Grace at C^ourt Royal." "I wish he hadn't come here," Helen said, thoughtfully ; " Mrs. Bruton just touched on the possibility of his meeting you before INIr. Falco- ner one day, and it seemed to annoy him very much." "Well, don't annoy him more by saying any thing about it," Dora said. "Oh! you can't keep such things secret, it would be very' bad if you could, making mysteiies for nothing," Helen said, impatiently. Then it was time for them to go down, and when they got down they found that their father was ready to start, and in the confusion attendant on leave- taking, and the making appointments to meet again in a day or two, there was no further word said about Bertie Carlyon. ' ' You will find Falconer waiting for you, Dora, " her father said, laughingly, as they drove rapidly in the direction of the Jocelyns' house ; "he was going to call on Mrs. Biiiton after his club din- ner, and then he is coming on to tell Lady Caro- hne the latest telegrams." "What takes him to INIrs. Bruton's directly he comes up?" Dora asked, with ready jealousy that was half real, half feigned. " He told mamma this morning that j\Irs. But- ton had written to ask him to do so, and, as a gentleman, I don't see how he could refuse her request," Helen said, with prompt partisanship. "If he amuses himself by dancing attendance on Mrs. Bniton, he can't in reason blame me for having accepted Bertie Carlyon's attentions while I was waiting for him in such a dull home," Dora thought. Then she did hope very ardently that she might never be called upon to adopt that Ime of defense, for she had a foreboding that it would break down and prove fallacious, and a longing seized her to see Bertie again, that she might hear from his own lips that he would forget all that she wished him to forget. When he had once made that promise on the honor of a gentle- man, a7id rendered up her stupid efinsive letters, slie would be quite safe, and she would never for- sake the paths of discretion again. ]\[r. Falconer was not there waiting to meet tliem. The evening wore away pleasantly enough for all the others in spite of his absence. But Dora was tonnented by anxiety. Could he have heard any thing already ? After having taken such determined steps to gain the master of Dol- lington, was she to lose him from the effects of her own idle folly, and the malice of Bertie Carly- on ? She could hardly constrain herself to talk to Lady Caroline about the subject that Lady Caroline naturally thought must be ujjpermost in her mind, her approaching marriage, and her trousseau, and tlie way the ceremony was to be performed. Her heart beat whenever she heard wheels, and when they passed the house, as they did constantly, and died away in the distance, it sank down again to most dismal depths of despondency and dread. " I hope the satin you have chosen is a thick lus- trous one," Lady Caroline said, speaking of the wedding-dress; "not a thin stiff one, they are very terrible." "I don't think it matters much," Dora said, despairingly. 64 ONLY HEKSELF. " Not matter much ! My dear Dora, pray don't take the tone of being indifferent about your Avedding-dress ; all young girls who are go- ing to marry happily ought to care how they look and Mhat they wear on the occasion." "It is very lustrous and thick and all that it ought to be, " Dora said, in a depressed tone ; " I only said it didn't matter much what it was like, because a minute before I had been thinking sup- posing any thing should happen to prevent tlie marriage ; things do happen sometimes, you know," slie continued, appeaUng to them all with a wistful glance. " Mr. Falconer is the veiy soul of honor, — of the most sensitive honor, too," Lady Caroline said, reassuringly ; "you need have no fear about him if he lives. " Dora shuddered. The words that had been intended to reassure her depressed her still more. If he were indeed the soul of the most sensitive honor, how would he feel disposed towards her when Bertie Carlyon said that which he was meaning to say, namely, ' ' that Dora was an un- scrupulous woman if she had not meant the love she had feigned for him. " Oh those letters ! those letters ! she felt as if she should go mad if she did not succeed in getting those letters back. It was no use to go mad just yet though : this re- flection doubtless keeps many people sane. There were several eftbrts to be made, several appeals to be framed, several tricks to be tried (if un- principled Bertie Carlyon caused her to resort to trickery), before she could deteiinine whether she would give up the game, or light on grimly. Once more, this time on her way up to bed late that night, she almost resolved upon taking Helen into her confidence. What made her shrink from doing so, was Helen's uncompromis- ing habits of calling a spade a spade, and of stand- ing up for the right on all occasions. ' ' I am afraid she would be unsympathetic ; I won't tell her yet," was Dora's final decision as she put her head on the pillow, in the vain hope tiiat her youth and health would superinduce the sleep of forgetfidness. "After a good niglit's rest things always look brighter," she told herself. But, in spite of this telling, she could not hope that any thing would look brighter for her when she woke, unless Ber- tie Carlyon were a better man than she had ever believed him lo be. CHAPTER XIX. IN SUSPENSE AGAIN. WiiF.x Mr. Carh'on had parted with Dora down at the South Kensington JNIuseum in that unpleas- ant manner wliich has been descril)cd, he was not at all in a sanguine state of mind as to the proba- bility of his ultimate success in the matter wl)ich he had mooted to Dora. He felt now, as he had felt all along, that unless Dora were hurried at once into agreeing witli his view of the case, that she would shake free of the effects of lier folly (for it had been nothing worse), marry Mr. Falconer, and tlicn possibly treat him as a foolish young man who had loved her in vain. Slie had been more frightened at the first sii;ht of the scheme be had made than lie had anticii)ated seeing her, and he had deduced some satisfactory conclusions from the exibitions of her fear. It was evident that she could not tax her memory to tell him tru- ly the contents of her letters, for if she could have remembered them in their entirety she would have knowii how harmless they were. But while the words she had written were but vaguely remem- bered, and not only vaguely remembered, but en- dowed by her fears with all the warm meaning that had been in her mind when she wrote them, he might work to some extent on her feminine dislike to being detected in a double game. He had neglected both his official and literary work lately, for the purpose of furthering those designs on Dora which seemed to promise better and more permanent remimeration, and he had made himself out of town to the majority of his friends, so as to avoid inteiTuption from them. But now it seemed to him that a clevei", voluble lady friend might be of gi-eat service in spreading a report which was not exactly well authenticated yet. "And she doesn't love Dora so well that she will take upon herself the penance of silence on a subject that may be detrimental to Falconer's happiness with Miss Joceljii," he thought, with a laugh, as he stepped into a hansom and called out Mrs. Bruton's number in Vere Street to the driver. Mrs. Bruton was at home ; at home in a house that was so redolent of the fragrance of flowers, and the aroma of wealth, that Bertie wished more heartily than ever that old Bruton had not fetter- ed his widow with such very narrow-minded re- strictions. She would have suited him in every way ten times better than Dora Jocelyn would ever suit him. But it was idle to think of this now, knowing as he did the terms of the will that freed the widow from so many importuni- ties. She would have suited him better than Dora would suit him in every way. He was struck afresii with the beauty of her face and forni as she came into the room. She was not one of those pretty women who are prettiest when >ieen after long contemplation of plain women. She was pretty when looked at immediately after look- ing at beauty. Dora Jocelyn was youngei', brighter, perhaps fresher looking, but in thinking of her now she almost seemed garish to his taste. Her golden hair and her intensely blue eyes were more brilliant but less beautiful than the cloudy, warm, brown, wonderfidly massed backgrovmd of chignon, which threw out the tender grace of the fiice, and the soft beaming splendor of the eyes that were now before him. She looked up, apparently with a glad smile of welcome, and so the expression of her face vras in favorable con- trast to the last expression he had seen on Dora's. " Have you come to tell me how all your busi- ness has thriven ?" she said. " I am come to make a confession to you." "Oh! it lias come to that, has it? Yoii do not want me to prophesy any more for you ; first, how did you know I was in town ?" "Miss Jocelyn told me tliat her people were up, and I knew that you intended coming when they did, even if you had not come before." ' ' Mr, Falconer is with them, I suppose ?" she said. " Yes ; Mrs. Bniton, I am going to show you how thoroughly I rely on the ofler of friendship ONLY HERSELF. 65 you made me a short time since on a memorable occasion in my life ; I am going to ask for your sympathy and interest in opposition to the older friend to whom you would prefer giving them." ' ' Do you mean by the older friend, Mr. Fal- coner ?" He nodded assent, and she laughed and told him tliat jNIr. Falconer, though he claimed her interest, did not always command her sympa- thies. "I have the more fear that my position will be powerless to command them then," he said. Tlien he went on to tell her that he had lately been seeing more of Dora Jocelyn than was good for his future happiness if he was destined to lose her ; that he had won the girl's heart, and that now they were both of them in great distress of mind about the way the change in her sentiments might be received by her family. ' ' I was think- ing," he said, " that if Falconer had a hint as to the real state of the case he would release her without that sort of formal investigation into the atfair that a young girl, like Dora, would natm-al- ly shrink from." He looked keenly at Mrs. Bruton as he said this, and she kindled into a fine glow of something like generous appreciation, as she repKed, "I am sure if he had the most remote idea that Miss Jocelyn had played him false, he would re- linquish all claim to the honor of her hand." " Girls' hearts are not always entirely under their own control, " he said, feeling that he at least was called upon to say something in extenuation of Dora's fickleness. ' ' I anticipate being ill re- ceived by the Jocehiis after Falconer, but Dora will find that I brave that disagreeable readily enough. I shall not leave matters in this state of uncertainty long, but you are the first person I have spoken to about it." " I am veiy much obliged to you for the confi- dence," she said, smiling ; "the more so as I feel it is made without the slightest consideration of its being a beneficial one to you. Were you not hall' afraid that I might resent your having prof- fered vows to another woman so very soon ?' "No, for I understand your generous nature." "I have a veiy generous nature, but it does not impel me to be the bearer of these evil tidings to Mr. Falconer," she said ; " trust me, it ^nll be better for you to be veiy bold in this matter. Tell him openly what you have told me, and if I am not utterly mistaken in him, he will smooth your path with the family ; but if I hinted at Dora Jocelyn 's faithlessness he would despise and dis- beheve me. I know him well ! he never listens to idle words, he scorns half hints, he detests gos- sip. I might scandalize Dora Jocelyn with aU the force of scandal I have at command, and still he would not beheve me. There are few like him. Innuendo is powerless ^\ath him. But if he is told for a fact that one he has trusted is unde- serving of that trust, he will scorn and let her go as readily as you desire." "You are severe in your way of putting the case ; a girl may change her mind, without being unworthy," he said deprecatingly. "And a man may win another man's bride from him without being intrinsically unworthy ; ■still, for all that knowledge of what may be, I am sufficiently alive to what is, to think that your only chance of canying your point and retaining your reputation is to rely on i\Ir. Falconer's honor and generosity." Mrs. Bruton said this with a certain sort of good-tempered contempt that was galling to the man who was not accustomed to have it sho\vn for him so openly ; still, though the tone was galling, the substance of her words was worth paying some attention to. He knew as she spoke that his best chance of winning Dora (and Oaklands) was in Mr. Falconer's speedy and utter renunciation of her. He staid a long time %\ith Mrs. Bniton that day, for hers was a channing presence, and it was set off by charming surroundings. Late autumn as it was now, and chDl as the air was out of doors, a soft summer-like atmosphere reigned in her room. A wide French window opened upon a balcony, where roses and mignonnette and daph- nes, lavished their perfume and their radiant bloom as freely as if it had been June. There were other scented flowers too of rare kinds and tropical birth, blooming as freely and kindly here as they did in their native soil, and one half of the French window was open, and the perfume came wafting in in waves of sweetness ; and it was such perfume as is only attained unto in a house where all that is sweet is easily procured. Soft-hued curtains of silk covered with the filmi- est muslin swept before this open ^\^ndow. Half shrouded in tliis curtain a marble shaft supporting a copy, in the purest white marble, of Canova's Venus, stood well reflected fi-om a sheet of glass that rose from the mantel-piece to the ceiling. At the bottom of this glass, seeming to grow out of the mantel-piece, and to be kept in order solely by crossbars of gilt basket-work, was a wilder- ness of heliotropes, geraniums, verbenas, and crimson and white, thickly-studded ^\ith bloom roses. There were only two or three chairs in this room, and these were of the most luxurious make, and the most subdued wai'm brown color, a sort of embossed and stamped silk on which dresses never slipped, and to which they never clung. But to make up for this deficiency of chairs, there was a plenitude of lounges and sofas, and near to these were little loo-tables cov- ered with books and pamphlets, and newspapers and magazines, that were meant to be read, and on other little tables in equally accessible places, there were \mting materials, ink that would run, and pens that would write. And about the room on all sides, glass plainly framed reflected all these things, and between the glasses hung superb water-color drawings, and in middle of the room a pyramidical arrangement of basket-work cover- ed with flowering plants made eve'ln.sting sum- mer, and a perfume tbuntain trick- ' its waters musically amidst the topmost nest of bloom. Al- together it was a pleasant place to sit in, and Bertie Carlyon loathed old ^Ir. Bruton for hav- ing insured the sole enjoyment of it to his dis- consolate relict so securely. It was a pleasant place lo sit in, even though she kept on sa}-ing little pungent sentences that he neither quite liked, nor quite liked to resent. Especially was she inclined to be hard upon Dora, hard upon her in a sneering way for her want of taste in the preference she had shown. Itwaa not a flattering view to take of it as regarded Bertie Carlyon, and he had the additional mortification of knowing that Mrs. Bruton did not mean it to be flattering, and did not care for his fathoming her meaning. " I long to hear how Dora Jocelyn will vindi- 66 ONLY HERSELF. cate her change of opinion to her o^v^l people," she said to him at last. "Perhaps she will not vindicate it ; she may not feel called upon to make a defense about such a matter," he said, feehng rather nettled. "Ah ! then she is veiy clever ; cleverer than I ever thought her," Mrs. Bruton said, frankly, " it •will be so wise of her not to attempt to prove her- self justified in reason or in taste." "You evidently think very ill of me?" said Bertie Carlyon. "No I don't. Pray don't go and revenge yourself on me by caricaturing me in your next novel, because it would be misspent ferocity. I don't think ill of you, but I do think so liighly of Mr. Falconer that I can't help being puzzled by her." "At any rate, you will not throw your judg- ment into the balance against me with the Joce- lyns, will you ?" he said, rising up as he spoke, to go away. "No. I have said my say against it, to you ; to them I shall say the truth, that I think you worthy of Dora in eveiy way. At any rate, you break no faith ; at any rate, there is some tan- gible good to be gained by the step you take ; at any rate you do not turn fiom better to worse." " I will not think that you mean to insult me," he said, taking up his hat. And when he was gone she said to herself, heartily, ' ' There is such a comfort in being able to be candid, at the cost of an acquaintance or two sometimes, the penalty I shall ])ay for having said the truth to INIr. Car- lyon this afternoon is sucli a light one. Now for the other one. I have given up a friend, I must now gain a lover." Then she sat down and wrote a note to Mr. Falconer, asking him to come and see her on rather important business at any hour that pleased him that evening. In spite of her fifm belief in tiie truth of that which she had said to Mr. Cavlyon, namely, that Mr. Falconer would pay no heed to a breath of scandal, she did long to see how he woidd bear himself when the first hint of Dora's faithlessness reached him. She liad been feeling lately that she could sacrifice her wealth, and all the elegance and ease and se- curity her wealth enabled her to command, if only she could effect a separation between the one ruler of her heart and the woman he was going to mar- ry. Not that she seriously contemplated marrying him herself; she only told herself vaguely that she "could" make sacrifices, adding generally that she hoped she might never be called upon to make them. Now the possibility of being so call- ed upon had come before her, and she acted in haste and without discretion, and wrote off at once asking for an inteniew with Mr. Falconer. Iler note was handed to him after he had dined at his club, just as he was think-ing that by this time Dora must be at her father's house, waiting for him — waiting to see him with as much anxie- ty, lie hoped, as had been his to see her for so long. Nevertheless, he determined to give Mrs. Bruton the benefit of the doui)t as to Dora being there yet, and so obeyed the former lady's beliests without Jicsitation. She had decided on being very frank with him, because she knew that tricker\- would fail of its mark ; on being very iionest, because dislioiiestv he wotdd detect, and it would be sure to do her hann in ills estimation. But, for all tliat, slie was determined that her frankness and honesty shoidd deal some deadly blows to his attachment to Dora. " You think me absurdly impatient to see you, don't you?" she began, quickly, while she was shaking hands with him; "and you think such impatience tasteless, I ha\e no doubt. I owni that it would have been so on ordinaiy occasions, but this is an extraordinary one ; I wanted to see you before any one else saw you. Have you been to the Jocelyns yet? — they came up this after- noon." " I am on my way there now," he said, look- ing rather surprised at the tirade of lialf-a])ology and half-interrogation which had greeted him. " Have you heard about Dora?" She saw how her rival had wrapped herself about his heart, for he grew at once agitated and pale. "About Dora ! there is nothing to hear about her, is there ?" he said, hesitatingly. "Then you have not heard; for you affirm that there is nothing to hear, and question ■what it is in the same breath. Mr. Falconer, I woidd like to tell you kindly and considerately, but I can't ; I'm too glad about it. Give up thinking of her, she has left j'ou for Bertie Carlyon." She paused, and he did not speak. She went over and put her hand on his, and he would not take it. "Do you reject my sympathy and tender in- terest in you even now, Robert ?" she asked, bit- terly. " What I tell you is true — at least, I be- lieve it to be tnie. I heard it with pleasure, I own ; but I also heard it with belief The hope is not father to the thought alone." He took her hand now, led her to a seat, and returned to his own at some distance. Then he said, " I don't wish to sit in a committee of investi- gation on this subject with you or with any one else ; but I must ask you one question — have you heard it from the Jocelyns ?" " No ; but I have heard it from Mr. Carlyon," she said, boldly ; " and you will hear it from him too, soon. I do not think very highly of him — or of her either, for that matter ; but they have no intention of acting deceitfully in this business. What there is to tell will be told to you immedi- ately by him ; he is proud of his victory ; he will blazon it." There was an air of concentrated triumph, success, satisfaction, about Mrs. Braton, as she spoke of the imminent downfall of his hopes and belief in Dora that goaded him into retorting, ' ' You do sympathize so unfeignedly with dou- ble-dealing. " "Not witli that, " she said, eagerly ; ' ' but with the double-dealing that leaves you free — free from such an incubus as Dora Jocelyn would be to you when 'custom had staled,' her ; she is not suited to you ; she is cautious, calculating, beautiful, I own ; but her beauty even is of the order that time soon withers ; above all, she has proved her own absolute unwortliiness by being satisfied with the inferior when the superior was wilUng to be hers ; you can never condescend to be an active rival to Bertie Carlyon ?" It was difficult for him to say to what depths he miglit not condescend in time; it Avas diffi- cult enough even for him to think of them. He tried to stem the tide of discussion ; he attempt- ed vainly to prove iiow slight the faith was which ONLY HERSELF. G7 he put in this report by refraining from speaking about it. But this course availed him httle or nothing. ;Mrs. Bmton had the art of tiu-ning things round to a point that had been stra^-ed from, and she was in no mood to spare him the exercise of this one of her specialities now. It mav be argued that he had the alteniative before him of leaving Mrs. Bruton's presence, and so ridding himself of her verbally expressed view of the case. But this did not stiike him as being a plan worthy of adoption. In the first place, he was half-stunned by the tidings, and so was dis- inclined to move. In the second place, it is the feminine wounded deer more frequently than the masculine who seeks retirement and solitude Avherein to brood over the wrong and the injuiy that has been wrought. And in the third place, sorely smitten though he was, her undisguised joy in the possibility of once again being more to him than another was soothing to him. For he was human, and it is only human to feel pleasure in the fact that you are something to somebody, although the one to whom you would fain be every thing has fallen short of the bright expectation you may have formed. This beautiful woman, who had once been loved by and loving to him, had wronged and disappointed him, it is true ; but she had given him to under- stand that she had repented of her error, and now she was showing that she desired to make amends for it — if he woidd let her do it. If he would let her do it ! If he could let her do it, ratlier. But even as the thought occurred to him, he checked it, and rebuked himself for ha^^ng permitted it to pass through his mind. Doni, fickle, faithless, false to him as she was, or as she was reputed to be, could never be super- seded. Two wrongs should not be enacted. His being easily consoled for her loss would be a foiTn of fickleness and faithlessness which he would never go through to shame her. ilabel Bruton should not have this triumph over his second love — this triumph, that for her (Mabel) he had gone heavily in mourning for ten years, while for Uora he had lacked the stabihty to moum for even the same number of months. He thought of so many things, of so many contingencies and possibilities, as he sat moodily, seeming, to her observant eyes, to be steeped in a stupor of sorrow. ' ' After all, " she said at length, when all her efforts to lure him to talk of Dora as one who was utterly gone from him had failed — "After all, Mr. Carlyon may have exaggerated his success ; men are apt to do so when it is still doubtful, in order to reassure themselves — at least such men as Bertie Carlyon are apt to do so." '■ You think him a self-deceiving fool, in addi- tion to being a treacherous fellow ?" he said. " Xo ; I think he would bolster himself up with hope about any thing that he had set his heart upon while such bolstering up might serve him ; but I don"t think him a fool at all ; and as to his being treacherous, — well, in such matters one is bound in honor to one's own cause to be treach- erous to others sometimes. I hate all old adages, still I allow that there is both pleasant truth and wisdom in the adage which declares that all is fair in love and war. ' ■ Poor girl I if slie does leave me for him, she will fall luider a most deteriorating influence," he said, bitterly. " Her character is not so fine in any way as to be liable to contamination from one not vastly its inferior," she said, carelessly. " Don't look angrj' at me, Robert ; your lost goddess is not a ' per- fect woman, nobly planned,' and I will not mean- ly tiy to conciliate you, and ^^^n soft thoughts to myself from you by affecting to believe that she is." "I have no soft thoughts to give to any one," he said, roughly; "they are things of the past — if this that you tell me is true." * ' ' If it is true ! AVhy don't you, if you doubt me, go and test the truth by asking her father; he knows it by this time, most likely. For tiie sake of the pride I have always had in you, Rob- ert, don't wait to be cast off by them ; cast her off, since go she wilL" "You forget that the doing so wiU give me such pain as men don't go out of their way to seek, "he said. "I do not forget that, nor do I forget that you of all men are the one to bear unavoidable pain bravely, and rather to meet than to shirk it. This must be borne; why do you prolong the worst part of it — the suspense, by telling yom-self that I may have spoken untitdy either by accident or design ? Verify my statement. " But he coidd not do that yet, and so the even- ing passed. CHAPTER XX. BETWEEN TWO STOOLS. The moming broke and brought no rehef to Dora Jocehn. On the contrary it only added to her woe. There was no note of explanation of why he had not come from ]\Ir. Falconer, and there was a note of a guardedly threatening na- tiu-e from Bertie Carlyon. "Prepare to see me at twelve this morning," he wrote; "I shall come armed with the honest intention and heartfelt wish of winning you for my wife ; yoiu- father is a kind as well as a just man, and when he knows what has passed he will recognize my claim to you as a higher one than Mr. Falconer's." Dora tore the letter into tiny bits and threw them into the grate, stifling the fuiy that fiUed her heart at his phraseology as best she could. Then she re- membered that an inquisitive housemaid might piece her note together again, and so pierce and make public her secret. Her secret ! It was nine o'clock now, and at twelve it would cease to be a secret to any one, unless by fervent appeals she might hope to wrest Bertie Carlyon from his pui-pose. At any rate this much was in her favor : Mr. Carlyon would not speak to her father until he had spoken to her. So at least she gathered from the wording of his note, as well as she could re- member it. How she regretted now that she had yielded to impatient passion and torn that note up. Impatient passion of one sort or another was to be her bane apparently. She spent more than an hour in collecting the little bits of soiled paper and in placing them together to convince herself that she had this forlorn hope, this one chance, that he did mean to see her before he betrayed her folly to her fother. When this hour was spent there was still one scrap miss- ing. One scrap which rendered that hour's search useless. For on this scrap the ^\■ord was written which she wanted. AVithout it she could not te!l 68 ONLY HERSELF. whether he meant to see her first, or did not mean to- see her first. It was past ten o'clock now, and at twelve he was coming. The plan of the house, that each one should have breaktast when and where and how he or she liked, was a beneficent one to Dora for once, for she was unfit for social commimion with her fellows. All she could do was to walk about her room and wish that she had never met Bertie Carlyon at Court Royal, and that she had never been weak enough to tacitly admit of his following her to town, and that she had never gone near the South Kensing- ton Museum, or done many things that she had done. But wishing was vain, and time was fly- ing, and she was miserable. Helen came to see her by-and-by, happy, heal- thy Helen, just a little excited and glowing with health from an early tete-a-tete ride with Digby Burnington. "You ought to have been out with ns," she said, kissing Dora on the cheek. " Your face is quite feverish ; one woidd think you had been to a ball in bad air last night ; where is Mr. Fal- coner ?" " He is not here yet," Dora answered. " Not here yet, how funny. I hope he has not been garroted : when is he coming, though ?" ' ' Oh soon ! " Dora said, unconcernedly ; she did not dare to express the slightest anxiety, or impatience, or pleasure about his anticipated ad- •vent, for fear of what was to follow soon. The course which she might be compelled by circum- stances, and Mr. Carlyon to pursue, might be in- compatible with her recently expressed aftection for Mr. Falconer. So she assumed unconcern, and declared to herself that the assumption was one of the many deceits which other people obliged her to practise. In the course of giving out some morning gos- sip which she had heard during her ride Helen mentioned that they had seen Mrs. Bruton in the jiark " looking radiant." " I am sick of her radiance," Dora said, cross- ly ; "a woman upwards of thirty ' looking radi- ant' is an anomaly." " I shouldn't wonder if she continues to be that anomaly for many years to come," Helen said, carelessly; "she has nearly every thing to make her radiant ; beauty and money and all the variety that she wishes for ; but she has nev- er had love, I should fancy, so she has not quite even' thing." " How do you know that she has never had love ?" Dora asked. " I know that old Mr. Bruton was an upright, unlovable, unpleasant man, and her youth was passed with him. Dora, what is the matter ?" The clock (every clock in London it seemed to Dora) had struck eleven, and she had started and paled visibly. "Matter, oli nothing ! I was only wishing that I was safe with some ujiright man, I should not care for his being un]i]casaiit and unlovable." " So you will l)e safe soon with a man who is pleasant, and lovable, and upright, too ; you are — vou are — " "What?" " "Well ! a wonderfidly lucky girl to have won ^Ir. Falconer; how ])roud you can be of ii hus- band of whom all men s])eak liiglily ; dou't you appreciate your good fortune, Dora ? if you do not you are undeserving of it ; now, ha\ing de- livered myself of a moral essay that was uncalled for, I will go and take off my habit." ' ' Not yet, " Dora cried, eagerly ; "oh, Helen I I can't be left alone ; good fortune ; you don't know how hard fate is to me just now ; I have got myself into a scrape so innocently, and I am afraid that it will be the means of making every thing go ^vl•ong between Mr. Falconer and me." "Tell me what you have done," Helen said, returning to the end of the toilette-table. " Done ; I have not done any thing," Dora said, pettisldy; "if you begin by taking it for granted that I am in the wrong, you won't serve me very well." " I promise not to take any thing for granted, and to seiTC you to the best of my power," Helen said. She was guilty of feeling intensely curious on a subject the mere thought of which had made Dora quail. And, added to this curiosity, there was a strong cuiTent of real aftection for Dora which was impelling her onward now. "If you only would help me — if you only would promise to help me, I should have the courage to tell you every thing," Dora said, soft- ly, seeking to grasp an ally whether or not that ally could aid her. "Of course I will help yoti if I can ; if it's any thing I may help you in. Oh Dora, dear, don't puzzle and bemlder me in this way ; trust me fully." "Think of how I was brought up," Dora sob- bed. She was ready to sacrifice eveiy thing to her own safety and ultimate success. Willing to im- peril the Elliots' well-earaed reputation for raie kindness and discretion in her bringing up, will- ing to cast a stone at her dead mother and her living father if need were. Willing to do any thing in short that might win a lenient judgment to herself. Finding that Helen did not respond to that re- quest that she would think of how Dora had been brought u]), Dora went on, "You know from my babyhood I have felt that there was a sort of blight upon me; we saw no society, and I never had the chance of learning how other girls behaved to strangers ; my first in- troduction to society took place at Court Royal, and then my manner led some one into error. I thought a man was merely friendly with me, when he was loving me all the time, and he thought I meant to encourage his love when my manner meant mere civility." "You don't mean Mr. Falconer?" "No; I mean Bertie Carlyon." "And your scrape is that he knowing you to be engaged to Mr. Falconer has proposed to you ; of course }'0U refused him, and there is an end of it," Helen said, scornfidly, gathering up her habit and preparing to lea^e the room again. "No, no — not an end of it; do stay and hear it all," Dora said, feeling in her agony of fear for lierself that it would be a wiser policy to be truth- ful than to be false with Helen. " You see I had no one to guide me, no one to confide in after Lady Caroline sent me back to town with grand- mamma ; if I had only been allowed to stay on with you none of this would have happened." "Do tell me what has happened, Dora!" Helen said, moving about in an agony of impa- tience ; "all I can find out from what you say is ONLY HERSELF. 69 tliat Bertie Cavlyon has cast a glamour over you, and robbed you of the power of expressing your- self." "Oh, it's nearly twelve !" Dora exclaimed, ir- relevantly ; " and now I have no time to tell you properly. All I can say is, he has got some notes of mine, and he says I must break with Falconer and many him to save my character." As the elder sister said this the younger re- coiled suddenly. "Dora!" she said, aloud, "what are you say- ing ! what are you telling me ?" "Don't speak so loud," Dora pleaded. "I know it was foolish of me to write to him, but he begged me to do it, and grandma and Aunt Grace were never the ones to tell me I was doing wrong, or to hint at the consequences ; as for me, I nev- er hesitated to write because I meant no harm, you see." "Mrs. Elliot and Aunt Grace have behaved abominably, and papa shall tell them so," Helen said, warmly. " Oh ! I hope I shall not get them into mis- chief," Dora sobbed. She was quite ready and willing, in her unscrapulous, cowardly selfishness, to allow any amount of undeserved censure to rest upon the good, honest people who had such unlimited fiiith in her. But she was not ready to risk exposure and detection to all her dubious movements, by allowing her father to come to an open explanation with them. Rather than tliat, she would fight a single-handed combat with Ber- tie Carlyon and free herself from her mesh of dif- ficulties as best she might. . "I hope I shall not get them into mischief," she reiterated ; "rather tlian that, though I don't pretend to be very brave and self-sacrificing, I would give up altogether and marry Mr. Carlyon ; in fact, if you betray the confidence I have placed in you, Helen, there is no saying to what it may drive me, I am capable of any thing that may spare other people." "Do tell me how far you are in his power?" Helen said, blushing at the force of her own ques- tion, "dear, I will help you in your o^\^^ way if you won't let me helj) you in the way I would like best ; but you must tell me how I am to help you. " ' ' Oh ! he may be with papa now, " Dora moan- ed, natural and sincere for once in her self-abase- ment ; "he may be telling him things that I—" "Dora!" Helen said, almost fiercely, "is it 3'our love of sensation that makes you say things that make me on fire with anger ? What ' things ' can Bertie Carlyon say of you that our fiither may not hear; why do you dread this man? You have not given me all your confidence. You have done more than write ; you have pretended to love him — and you were letting Mr. Falconer love you." There was a wealth of condemnation in the lat- ter part of Helen's speech. It betrayed unmiti- gated scorn for the folly that could risk so much for so little ! It painted all the difference in de- cided colors, between that which she might have lost, and that which she might be compelled to take, to Dora. It made her feel the poorness of her folly, and the meanness of her sin. And so it made her loathe the recollection of that afiected devotion to art which had been a means to this horrible end. " I wish I had never gone near the Kensington Museum," she was saying, crossly, when a serv- ant came to tell her that " Mr. Carlyon was ^^ ait- ing to see her." And she had to accept the situation, and at- tend to the strongly-worded request, leaving Helen alone to marvel that such things were in anger, and sorrow, and disgust. It seemed to Dora as she went down to the in- terview that there was no alternative for her, and that every one else was so very much to blame. She raged in her heart against all those who had been more securely and conventionally guarded all their lives ; and yet in that same heart reigned a conviction that she would have rebelled against that same security and conventionality. The gypsy spirit was rampant in her by the time she reached the door of the room in which Bertie Carlyon was waiting to fight the duel with her. She was determined not to wait for any given signal, but to fire with deadly aim at any mo- ment if she could. She went into the room, designedly lifting the hand on which flashed her opal and diamond en- gagement-ring, to her forehead as she entered. And he saw the gesture, and understood its object ; and resolved that the ring should not flash there much longer. " My darling Dora!" He was at her side in a moment, clasping her in his aims, and pressing his lips to her brow in a way that nearly made her blame herself for what had gone before. ' ' My darling Dora ; how good of you to attend my summons so promptly." "You're crazy to come," she said, speaking sharply and rapidly ; ' ' how can you pretend any of this — this nonsense when you know as well as I do how things are ; if you really loved me, you would not distress me so ; tiying to compromise me here in my father's house ; I wish I hadn't come down." " Discretion should have come to your aid be- fore, dear," he retorted, carelessly. His debts were pressing very heavily upon him, and he had no time to fritter away in love-making. He need- ed money sorely ; this girl's evolutions, until the golden goal was gained, were simply perplexing. ' ' Mr. Falconer has not been to see you this morning, has he ? How his negligence must con- trast with my attention." All this time he had been holding her left hand ; now he suddenly raised it and inspected the ring. ' ' You should have taken this off", Dora, before you came to me," he said, reproachfully. "I shall never take it off," she said, trying to wrest her hand away and to speak firmly. "My dear girl, you don't imagine that I shall let another fellow's ring adorn the hand of my wife ; let me see you take it off and enclose it to Mr. Falconer at once. You shall have an equal- ly handsome one, I assure you, as a badge of your loving servitude to me ; come, you have given me greater proofs of confidence than this — take it off." " I have not," she said, wildly. "Not in these letters," he said, pulling a pack- et out of his pocket. "Ah! well, if my wishes misled me in the reading, I have need of a more impartial judgment ; some one else shall read them for me — your father, say." ' ' What a wretch I shall become if I marrj' him," Dora thought. The man she had been 70 ONLY HERSELr. flirting with so blithely seemed to her at that mo- ment to be capable of anj' amount of meanness, of any course of disreputable conduct ; and she had not the power to shake him off. He had mastered her through her own weaknesses, and because she woidd not be suspected of these, she must be contented to appear worse than she was in the eyes of all. " For the sake of my ovm happiness, which is at stake, I shall not lightly believe that the senti- ments you expressed so recently have changed, ' he said. " I thought you were flirting, I did indeed," she said, piteously. " Xo, Uora, no, no ; 1 ^-ill not consent to think so badly of you, even at your own request ; you never could have Ijehaved so to a man who you thought was only flirting with you." "What a horrible light you put things in," she wailed out ; ' ' what is it you want me to say ? what is it you want me to do ? do you want me to buy back my letters ?" He did not speak for several moments, but stood looking at her so fixedly that for once a pang of self-reproach assailed her, for that she should have thought so meanly of him. Then he said, " Yes, at one price." ' ' What is that price ?" "Your hand ; will 3'ou pay it ?" She made a gesture of repugnance, and he said, "Then I will lower my price ; come and fetch your letters ; come to that address to-night, and I will gire them to you ; but I will neither bring them, nor send them ; until to-night I will wait for you. If you do not come for your letters, then a trusty messenger, the post itself, shall carry them to your father, or to Mr. Falconer. I ^\'ill make up my mind which shall have the honor of penising them when the hour for send- ing them anives." Then he bowed to her cour- teously enough, and went away, leaving her with his card and address in her hand. She flew rather than ran up to Helen's room, and found Helen crying. " I have no time to ciy, Helen," Dora began ; " and you have no time to cry either if you real- ly mean to help me. Look here, if I go hei'e " (and she held out the card to Helen) " to-night I am to have my notes back, and all importunities are to cease ; I should be hajjpy now if I only knew why Mr. Falconer did not come near me. " Then the girls began debating about the plan, Dora seeing and advocating all its practicability, Helen taking the other side, and proving herself a most eloquent and unsuccessful counsel. " Mr. Falconer, ])apa, all of us would rather hoar of a hundred such letters as you can have written, than that you should go to that man's chambers," Helen said; but Dora shook her liead. She knew better than Helen did what had been written to P>ertie Carlyon in the wliir! of excitement wliich his pretended passion had ])Ut lier in. And, knowing this, she was not sanguine as to their comjiarativeiy innocuous nature. "I would rather get my notes back tlian any thing else," she said; "but I tell you what i have thought of, Helen ; it would sene me, in fact it would save me, and you wouhl run no risk — for he doesn't want to marry you, and so wf)iikl have no oliject in frightening you into mar- rying him — if you were to go and ask him for these absurd letters that have made all the mis- chief; my troubles would be at an end, and I should have to thank my dear, dear sister for my escape." "I can't say any thing until I considt Digby," Helen said, firmly. "This is what your rapturous offer of assist- ance comes to," Dora said, scornfully ; " the only thing you can do you won't do, ' until you consult Digby,' as if I should allow Digby to be consulted about my affiiirs ; no, I see I must go to nun for want of an unselfish friend." Then, as might have been expected, the two girls went over the whole matter again ; and once more, wrought upon by the pitiful picture Dora painted of her own desolate condition should cer- tain things come to pass, once more Helen was wrought upon to oft'er to help in any way in which she could help with honor. "I wouldn't move a finger to help you if you didn't care so much for I\Ir. Falconer — I tell you that frankly, Dora ; but I think you must he bet- ter than this business lets you seem to be, or he Avouldn't love you so well, and you wouldn't love him." Which was very false reasoning on Helen's part, and a veiy excellent argument to place ready made for use into Dora's hands. That j'oung lady, finding it the strongest one she could use, forthwith employed it with such success that Helen finally "promised to do all she could ;" in other words, all that Dora wished her to do, for the salvation of that evil-doer. "He will not be ungentlemanly enough to re- fuse to give my foolish letters to you," Dora said, hopefully ; and Avhen Helen urged, ' ' But if, as you say, there is nothing in them that you might not have wiitten to the most casual acquaintance, why are you so cowed by his threat of using them ?" — when Helen urged tins, she was met with the unanswerable argument, " But the hav- ing them back wiU make me so much more com- fortable, Helen ; and wliy should I be put out and made nervous when such a mere trifle will make me happy and at ease ?" This was not altogether an unhappy hour for Dora, fraught as she was with fear concerning the issue of the event which was perplexing her. Helen's assurance that "she would do all she could for her (Dora)" set her mind at ease to a considerable degree, and Dora was not of a na- ture to shrink from being an olyect of absorbing interest to those about her. Now, at present, she felt herself to be, through the exigencies of fate, an object of most absorbing interest to Helen. If all the household could have thrilled with anx- iety, and ached with suspense about her, without, at the same time, daring to blame or think ill of her, she would have liked it. She was so very much to herself, this girl, that it is rather a won- der that she should have expected so httle of the rest of the world, than that she should have ex- pected so much. Her intense selfishness was delicately nullified by her clear and comprehen- sive recognition of tliis fact, namely, that those who withheld had as much right on their side as siie M'ho expected. If any one had immolfited him or herself under her chariot wheels to save the fringed tail of her lap-dog, she would have accepted the danger run quite in the order of things. But so, also, would she have accepted it as quite in the ordor of things that any one ONLY HERSELF, 71 should stand aloof, and calmly behold her prop- erty perishing. Perhaps on the whole the wom- en who expect much, and calmly bear the blanks they draw, are not much more insatiable and dif- ficult to deal with, than the women who expect little, and wail melodiously when they don't get even that. Dora was satisfied now, satisfied with the sac- rifice Helen was making of her own feelings and tastes, which revolted against this seeking a man in his own fastness, and satisfied also with her ouTi prospects of benefiting by Helen's sacrifice. Accordingly, being satisfied on these points, she began to feel herself injured on others ; and the one on which she was sorest was this, that Mr. Falconer should not have been to see her yet. A slight qualm assailed her now and then as the thought, "could he have heard any thing?" struck her. But this thought sprung up from such a shght soil of fear, that it soon faded and perished. How should he have heard any thing, since only I\Ir. Carlyon (she discreetly called him " Mr." Carlyon to herself now, after writing to him about nothing as her "Dear Bertie"), and Helen and herself knew that there was any thing to be heard. It ought all to go straight, and it would go straight, she felt, as the day went on, and the portion of the park which she could com- mand from her bed-room window looked gayer and gayer each moment. People were coming back to town fast in these days, and Dora liked the promise of festivity which imagination and reason, too, held out to her. Only one little [jang assailed her, and that she felt to be such a puerile one as she looked in the glass. She did hope that Mr. Carlyon would not be captivated by Helen s exquisite grace and delicacy in performing that mission on which Dora had forced her to go. AVlien Dora first feared that catastrophe, it al- most seemed to her as if there was something improper in Helen's going at all. Still she want- ed her letters back so veiy much that she made up her mind to the worst that might come. Meanwhile, how was Helen comporting her- self This girl has been called delicate, refined, well-bred, well-instructed, well-principled. How can the possession of these qualities be reconciled with the fact that she was ready to go to a young man's lodgings to get back some unseemly letters at an unseemly hoiu". She knew that by doing so she w'ould be violating etiquette, convention- ality, propriety even. Still, she determined to go because Dora seemed to her in such danger. The end justified the means, although the means were repugnant to her taste. She had an ardent desire to communicate with Digby Burnington on tiie subject, but she could not do that because Digby Burnington had gone out of town for a couple of days, and Dora declared that destruction must come if Lady Caroline were told a word of it. CHAPTER XXI. DOR a'S triumph. Dora felt vciy nenous again as the moment for going down to lunclieon approached. " Helen," she said, going into her sister's room, " tiy my heart." This was not by any means meant as a fen'cnt appeal for Helen to test the endiuing or devotional powers of the organ mentioned, but was merely a request that Helen would place her hand on the side of Dora's silk bodice, and feel a fluttering beneath. ' ' It's beating quickly, " Helen said. "Beating quickly," Dora repeated, with a su- preme air; "but I suppose you don't know the symptoms ? My poor mother died of heart com- plaint from agitation, and I'm liable to tlie same thing. Well" (this she added briglitly), "it's to be hoped if any one wishes me to live that they A\on't agitate me much. Oh Helen, if you jjlay me false through any fear, don't fret too much about the consequences, dear ; just remember that I told you what they would be beforehand." , " I don't think that tiiat remembrance woidd help to console me," Helen said, sensibly; "but somehow or other I don't fancy that the decision will be left for me to make. How am I to get down to this place in Bayswater without papa ;and mamma knowing that I am gone ?" " I have thought of all that," Dora said. " If a cab were waiting for you, say ten yards ofi', wouldn't you have the courage to go out to it after dinner ? Oh Helen, do. Oh Helen, if I should lose Robert Falconer, what will become of me ? Oh, why was I left to grow up into whatever chance made me in this v,'ay, only to know what happiness might be, and then to lose it ? for my fatlier is your lather too ; but I must bitterly blame him, even to you." Passionate tears choked her utterance here. The girl had a great point to gain, so passionate tears flowed easily ; but Dora dried them quickly, reflecting that she still had to undergo the ordeal of the luncheon table. She went down with a good grace at last, be- cause she was obliged to go down. Put a brave face on it, because there would be no use in ciy- ing quarter just yet. She even managed to go smilingly into the room, and to look momentarily interested in the adornments of the same, which she had not seen by daylight yet. " I have had a note from Falconer, excusing himself from coming until this evening," her fa- ther snid ; and all Dora's fears were relieved by his manner of saying it. "The excuses ought to have come direct to you, I think," Mr. JocehTi iKlded, laughing; "but Falconer is an old-fash- ioned fellow in some respects, and pays honor where iionor is due " " Does he say why he has not been to see me yet, papa ?" Dora asked. She felt sure that he had not done so, other- wise it would have been no smiling explanation which her father would have given her. But she could not resist questioning concerning this crisis in her fate, as it might prove to be. " My dear girl, he says he has been unavoida- bly prevented coming," Mr. Jocelyn said, good- temperedly ; " and when a man tells you that, the best thing you can do is to eat your luncheon, and ask no more questions;" which Dora was veiT well contented to do. Mr. Falconer, meanwhile, had been pursuing what many people Avill probably call an utterly unnatural line of conduct. He had not quite be- lieved the news which JSIrs. Bruton hadgiven him, neither had he quite disbelieved it. His heart would not let him do the former, his judgment forbade his doing the latter. Many people will say that I know nothmg of men and their actions, 72 ONLY HERSELF. and the motives which sway them, when I siifFer this man to hover in the debatable ground of un- certainty, concerning this girl whom he loved, for four-and-twenty hours, when he might have found out without delay, by going to her and her father, whether what he had heard was true or false. I can only reply that I have known a man so hover, and so prefer rather the agony of uncertainty than the shock a possible certainty might be to him._ If every one acted alike under similar conditions, there would be an end of all individuahty. So, when I say that l\Ir. Falconer preferred spending the hours of the day after hearing Mrs. Bruton's tidings in feeding upon his silent heart in solitude in his room in the Alexandra Hotel, to going and facing Dora and the worst, I decline to be considered a violator of probability and na- ture. He had followed the former course, and he had followed it in cold blood, and not out of any fortuitous combination of circumstances. He was a good man, and a just man, and a man of ' temperate judgment ordinarily ; but just now he was in a cniel rage, and his cruel rage made him unjust and intemperate. Over and over again he resolved " to scorn and let her go " in silence, without ever making a sign which might give her a clue as to why he did so. He planned a journey to some far-oif land, it matters little where, telling himself that danger at the jaws of alligators and crocodiles would be as easily evaded as danger from the treacherous dealings of false-hearted women, the product of Western civilization. But even as he planned it, he knew that he would never carry it out, and he knew, too, in spite of his repeated asseverations to himself, that he had not done with Dora forever. So, in deciding on doing a thousand things, the hours of the day ran on, and he did nothing. Once, while standing at the window of his room, he saw an open carriage drive down from the Aps- ley House gate along the Knightsbridge Road, with Lady Caroline and Dora lounging back in it : and he guessed, and guessed correctly, that the girl was on her way to one of the many shops m Sloane Street which had the lionor of puney- mg to her possible wants. Then a moment after he told himself that this was an absurd solution of the reason why they were there. Dora woidd have no need to continue attending to her trous- seau when the need for the trousseau itself no longer existed , unless (hcrehefeltan unmitigatedly jeal- ous pang) she meant to substitute Mr. Carlyon for himself without decent delay. There was something due to her father still ; re- membering this, lie had \vi-itten and dispatched a brief note to Mr. Joceljni, telling him that he (Mr. Falconer) would call on him thiit evening, and ex- plain why he had not come before. He resolved to speak out openly then, and learn the worst, and bear the odium of having listened to idle gos- sip all too willingly, if there were nothing bad to learn. He resolved to do this now ; what his resolve might be by nightfoll can not be told yet. Dora had been bound on the interesting mission he had attributed to her when he saw her sweep- ing along in her stepmother's carriage along the Knightsbridge Itoad. She was feeling compara- tively serene and at ease again now that Helen had finally pledged herself to be the cat's paw used to snatch back the letters from that firebrand, Mr. Carlyon. If (jnce he gave them back, he would never persecute her by allusions to that foolish flirtation which for a few hours seemed to threaten to blur the fair idea she had formed of her future. And as for Helen's share of the danger in the business, Dora contemplated that with equanimi- ty. If any thing ever came to light about the ex- ploit, Dora was sure her ingenuity in explaining things away would stand Helen's friend. That was how she put it to herself, and as she put it so she felt magnanimous. Feeling thus serene, and satisfied, and magnan- imous, she proved a very agreeable companion to Lady Caroline during that afternoon drive. She defeiTed outwardly to her stepmother's judg- ment about all manner of things connected with embroider^', and laces, and pretty shoes. As she at the same time contrived to make it understood by the genii of the shops that the deference was not to affect the orders she had already given, or the wishes she still made manifest, the sacrifice on her part was not so very great after all. Then they went to Gunter's, and had ices brought to them, for though these were late October days, the weather was very warm. While they were waiting at Gunter's door, Mr. Carlyon passed, or was passing. In another moment he had recog- nized them, and turned back, arrested in his prog- ress by Lady Caroline's gracious smile and Dora's vivid blush. As fate, w^aj'ward fate, would have it, even as he stood leaning on the side of the carriage talk- ing to them, Mrs. Bruton's little brougham drove rapidly up to the door, and looking out to give some orders, she saw the Jocelyns and their com- panion. She was compelled to bow to them. Lady Caroline's high-bred imconsciousness of any thing being wrong compelled Mrs. Bruton to thus much civilit}' ; but the anger m her heart tinged her manner, and Dora blushed more vivid- ly still, feeling herself read off clearly by the wom- an whose contempt seemed a specially unjust thing to the self-defender. " Wliatever comes to me, she shall never mar- ly him," the widow thought. "I would rather see him dead than see him married to that girl, who can sit here nibbling ices with Bertie Car- lyon while he is probably breaking his heart about her. " Then she gave her orders hastily, threw a little conversational remark to Lady Caroline about calhng on her soon, and drove off to the Alexan- dra Hotel. It was past five o'clock now, and her hopes of finding him at his hotel were not veiy high. Still there was a chance, and she would not miss it. She sent up her card to him with a pencilled request that he would come down to her at once. When he came, she leaned forward, and said, eagerly, " Wliat have you done, what have you heard ? do tell me. Let me be the friend to you that a sister might be, if you had one. " ' ' I have done nothing, and I have heard noth- ing since I left you last evening, Mrs. Bruton," he said, wearily. "Why will you insist on bear- ing the burden of other people's sorrows ? Each to his own, is my motto in such cases." " You do not mean to tell me that you have been staying here supinely all day, while she is flaunting the fact of her baseness abroad ?" she said, warmly. Independently of the love she had for this man, she had a keen aversion to seeing him ill-used or lightly regarded by another woman. Her vanity ONLY HERSELF. was in arms about it, and something higher than her vanity, her honest respect for him, was wound- ed. So she spoke warmly as she felt, and ven- tured to revile him for his supine indifference to his o^vn interests and dignity. " Even now," she went on, " there is a small fiimily party at Gunter's eating ices — Lady Caro- line, and Dora, and Bertie Carlyon. I am indig- nant with them all, and I am indignant %\ith you for standing it so quietly. Oh, if you had been as long-sutfering with me in the old days when I smned far more lightly against you, how differ- ent our lives might have been." " We have both so thoroughly recovered from the effects of that old wrong, that it is no use raking it up to try and discover which of us com- mitted it against the other; all these things tuna out for the best, some way or other. Are you going into the park now ?" he added, with an air of determination not to say more about his pres- ent sorrow that she felt herself compelled to re- spect. "Ko, I am going home to dine early, so that I may get to the Adelphi in good time ; the play is the best panacea I know for painful thoughts. " "Are you ever atfficted with painful thoughts ; you don't look as if you were ?" he said, smiling. And his smile hurt her, and made her feel how little any joy or sorrow of hers was and ever could be to him. '• My thoughts were sad for some years," she said, softly, "until I taught myself to feel that I was a far more fortunate woman than I de- served to be. Of late they have grown sad again, because I have allowed myself to believe that I am a less fortunate woman than I desen-e to be. Will you come and see 'The Green Bushes?' I have a box to-night. " " Thank you. I have an appointment with the Jocelyns," he said, with a sliglit appearance of effort. And she bowed her head in acceptance of his excuses, and drove off without another word. The Jocelyns' dinner was not a lively one that night. They were a family party, and the two heads of the house felt slightly aggrieved at be- ing so, for each had given an invitation which had been refused. Mr. Jocelyn had sent a spe- cial messenger to the Alexandra Hotel hearing a missive in which Mr. Falconer was cordially bid- den to the family feast, and Mr. Falconer had sent back a refusal, and a reminder that he was coming in later. He felt that he could not sit do\vn and dine with Dora until he knew how things were between them. Lady Caroline, on the other hand, in the innocency of her heart, had asked Mr. Carlyon in a friendly way, and Mr. Carlyon had looked significantly at Dora, as he excused himself. " It seems to me that we are shunned as if we were a pestilence," Lady Caroline said, with a sort of good-humored pettishness, as they sat down to dinner, addressing the two girls ; " your father asked Mr. Falconer to come and enliven our dullness and he wouldn't, and I asked Mr. Carlyon and he eoiddn't — Helen ! what is the matter ?" Helen had almost gasped as her mother men- tioned Mr. Carlyon. It seemed to the girl that she was being choked in an atmosphere of mys- tery and crime, and yet, when she tried to ana- lyze the matter, she could not get hold of any thing tangibly MTong. Dora had been silly, that was the extent of Dora's error, so Helen firmly believed. And now Dora wanted to avoid eat- ing the frait of the seed she had planted. This was the whole and the Avorst of the case, when Helen tried to analyze it. But when she simply suffered herself to feel on the subject, she shrank from the murkiness of it, and hoped her footsteps might not Jead her into danger in the moral dark- ness which she felt closing around her. ' "At half past eight a cab will be waiting for you ten yards from the door," Dora had said to her sister; "go armed ^vith the reflection that you are hel])ing me, saving me, doing for me Avhat no other creature could," Dora said, prettily. And poor young Helen avIio was the very soid of frankness, and truthfulness, and fair and open dealing, did most feiwently hope that the armor would be suflSciently impeiwious to save her from any chance dart of misapprehension. The family dinner was over by a quarter past eight, and then the three ladies went uji to the drawing-room. It was a double drawing-room, and the piano and harp were in the front room, while Lady Caroline's own chair was in the back. In this chair she immediately ensconced herself, asking the girls at the same time "to play her something soothing until the gentlemen joined them. Then Dora will be engrossed," she said, smiling. "I have three songs that I want you to hear, mamma," Dora said. " English, my dear?" " Yes, English, but not of the order that you and I, and every one else of taste, detest." "I wanted Helen and you to play me a stirring duet. " " I don't know any thing in instrumental mu- sic half so stirring as these songs ; I don't mean that there is nothing, but I mean that I can't play it ; but these songs will alternately soothe and stir you. And that is what you have asked for ; do listen to this ' Airly Beacon.' " And she sang the following words : ''Airly Beacon ! Airly Beacon, Oh! the pleasant sights to see, Shires and towns from Airly Beacon, \Vlii!e my love climbed up to mo. "Airly Beacon! Airly Beacon, Oh! tlie happy hours we lay Deep in fern on Airly Beacon, Courting through the summer's day. ''Airly Beacon! Airly Beacon, Oh! the weary h^unt for me, All alone on Airly Beacon. With his baby on my knee." She sang the last verse vfith a passionate plaint- iveness that gave it all its meaning, and when she had struck the last chord she waited in silence for a remark from. Lady Caroline ; while she was waiting Helen walked out of the room, wondering how Dora could sing, how Dora could speak, how Dora could look so happy and so free from care. Presently tlie remark came from the depths of Lady Caroline's own chair — ' ' My dear Dora, you might well say that it was no orcUnary English song. It's a three vol- ume romance in twelve lines : who has had the power to so delicately paint a long and mournful story in so few words ?" " The words are Charles ffingsley's — the music is Elizabeth Philp's." "I should like some more of both of them," 74 ONLY HERSELF. Ladv Caroline said, languidly. The family din- ner had made her sleepy. Tlien Dora sung her how ' ■ The merry brown hares came leaping, '" and just as she was in the midst of the "poacher's widow's " denunciation, ilr. Falconer was shown into the room. He was, and he looked, utterly surprised at finding himself in Dora's presence, for he had re- solved not to see her until he had seen her father. However, his resolve had been rendered useless now by the obtuseness of the seiwaut, who had received his name from the porter. Taking it for granted that ]\Ir. Falconer wished to see Miss Jocelyn without dela}-, whatever he might say to the contrary, that gentleman was ushered at once into the room Avhere she was smging, — a point in Dora's favor. She determined to ignore any and eveiy thing that might have been heard by him to her detri- ment. She felt so safe now that Helen was fair- ly off on the mission, that she could have laughed at her fears and doubts of yesterday. So she ceas- ed singing at once, and rose to meet him, holding her face up with a splendid sunny smile upon it, and making a little pretense of not giving him her hand because he "had not been near her be- fore." She saw that something was amiss with him, but she knew that that something could nev- er stand out against her winning flatteries, when these latter were given fair jjlay. x\.nd she was in the mood to give them fair play to-night, be- cause she was in such high spuits at being quit of Mr. Carlyon. "Lady Caroline is in there," she said, pointing to the back drawing-room, when he began — " I have not been to you before, Dora, be- cause I have been imfit to see you or any one else, in consequence of a report which has reached me. '' But Lady Caroline was nearly steeped in slum- ber when he went through the folding-doors ; was ' ' far too sleepy to wish him to stay with her a moment," she said, kindly. Accordingly he went back to Dora and Iiis explanation. " Perfect frankness between us is desirable, will be desirable on all occasions, if we are to pass through life together, '' he said. How entire- ly he had forgotten his intention of giving her up now that he saw her again. "I am always perfectly frank with you; I be- lieve I was a little too frank with you at first, when I let you see how much I loved you, " she said, smiling. " Dora I my darling !" he began, passionately, " you will never be able to realize what a \\Tetch- ed day I have passed; I heard last night that you had engaged yourself to Mr. Carlyon." "Oh!" Dora said, bending her pretty face down, and sliaking her head at him, " how can ])eojjle say such things ; how angry he would be if he heard it, wouldn't he, when he knows very well that there is no chance of it ?" " But he has said it himself" "Then he's dangerous," Dora said, opening her blue eyes widely. " A man veiy rarely makes an assertion of the sort without there being s(jine sort of foundation for it ; have you allowed him to see nuich of you ? if you have, that open manner of yours, that too trusting kindness, wliich you must learn not to show indiscriminately, may have misled him." " But you ought not to have been misled, Rob- ert," Dora said, plamtively. " VTho has been ill- natured enough to repeat his stupidity to you ?" Even now she could not resist contemplating and dwelling upon Bertie Carlyon's admh-ation for her imder the name of his "stupidity." ' ' Have you been seeing him often ; you never mentioned him to me ?" he persisted. "Yes. I have seen him often, I suppose, though I never counted the times ; but tell me, who is yoiu" infonnant ? Some woman, I feel sure, some nasty spiteful woman who wants you herself. " Her aiTOw went quite near enough to the mark to make him wince. He never would consent to look upon i\Irs. Brnton as a nasty spiteful wom- an, but in honor and honesty he could not deny to himself that she did want him. So he put aside Dora's question, and said, " One hears every thing in London, you know ; but where have you seen him?" " At the South Kensington INIuseum," she said, briefly, for she felt her position to be infinitely stronger than it had been when he entered the room. He was assuming a tone of command over her, and this was gratifying and reassuring, she had so dreaded renunciation at his hands. "What was he doing there, Dora; was he there ^rith you ?" he asked, sternly. " He was, and he was not," she said, careless- ly, "he was painting in the galleiy at the same time that I was. Oh I you have not seen my ' Age of Innocence, ' you have not thought it woi'th while to come and look at the poor little effort I made to please you." "Do be more discreet, and keep such fellows in check," he sighed. And Dora promised that she would do so. CHAPTER XXir. HELENS TRIUMPH. While Dora was singing "Airly Beacon" with all the power and pathos she had at com- mand, and the command she had over power and pathos was very great, Helen ^^ent out of the room, and away on the first stage of her mission. The daughter of the house knew well, now that she had been given time to think about it, that she could never leave her father's door Mithout being seen, and without her reasons for leaving it being commented upon by the sen'ants. The undertaking assumed gigantic proportions in her eyes as she made her way up to her o^vn room, and there dressed herself in a moniing bonnet and cloak. It occm'red to her as just possible that the porter might imagine her to l;e on a mis- sion of sociability to some neighboring house. Then again she remembered that the maimer of her going would not be at all according to the habits of the neighboring houses, and she could not hope that the watchful domestic who kept guard over the egress and ingress of all who came and went, woidd so deceive himself But she had pledged herself to the task, pledged herself to that elder sister, who never foiled to remind her how cnielly fate and their father had ordered matters for her and her mother. And Dora seem- ed so desperate, and after all there was nothing intrinsically disreputable about the undertaking. And — she had no time to hesitate and see the worst side of things if she was going at all. ONLY HERSELF. She ran do'nii stairs into the hall, and it was all verj- quiet. 'Mv. Falconer had just been ush- ered up into the dra\\-ing-room, and the servant on guard had gone into an inner vestibule for a moment or two to secure unto himself the even- ing paper. This moment or two was sufficient. Helen slipped back the bolt and walked bravelv tln-ough the doorway, closing the door behind lier. It was all done speedily and quietly, but the thought strack her with hoiTor, liow was she to get in again ? To return, would be as bad now as an hour hence. She walked rapidly along to a cab, the driver of which was evidently waiting and watch- ing for some one. He asked her if she was from "up there," pointing to the house she had left with his whip, and she nodded assent in an agony of ten-or, and got into the cab, giving Mr. Car- lyon's address at a teiTace m Westbourae Grove as she did so. In about ten minutes the cab, which had seem- ed to Helen to crawl, pulled up at the door of a balconied house with a tiny garden in front of it. Looking out at it nervously, she caught sight of 3Ir. Carlyon just retreating from the balcony, caught sight of him by the aid of a gas-lamp .near, for darkness had come on swiftly. Dubi- ous as she felt the whole course of proceeding to be, it did not occur to her to take any small mean precautions now. She sent up her name bravely to him. "Tell Mr. Carlyon, iliss Jocelra is here, and ask him to come down and speak to me." The answer was brought immediately. "Mr. Carlyon begged that Miss JocehTi would walk in." She sprang out and ran into the little plaster- cast and shell and wax-flower adorned drawing- room, in which he was standing ready to receive her, and she disregarded his expression of impa- tient surprise when he saw her instead of Dora. His disappointment, his emotions, his feelings, were, one and all, matters of not the slightest consideration to her. She could only feel and think how ill it was for Dora to have trusted this man one inch. "My sister could not come, you must have been crazy or malicious to ask her to do it," she said, unadvisedly. "I have come instead of her, to ask you to give me back all her letters, and to promise me, for her, on your honor as a gentle- man, that you wiU not frighten and peii:ilex her any more." She spoke ver\- earnestly, veiy ap- pealingly, but he noticed that she made no move- ment to take his proffered hand. "I can refuse nothing to so charming an en- voy," he said, smoothly. "Your sister did not tell me that you were going to give her the bene- fit of your sound judgment and your courageous heart. " "With every word he spoke the conviction of the danger she was in from him impressed itself more and more strongly upon lier. But she did not weakly collapse under tlie conviction, and so render null and void all that she had ah-eady done. "AU the good she might have already done," she called it, poor girl. "Mr. Carlyon," she said veiy calmly, "don't sneer at the judgment that lias made me come here and put myself in a bad light before you, for ray sister's sake : you have been cruel to her, I | think, as far as things have gone ; now, having ! punished us both enough, give me what I came for, and let me go." "Was it such a punishment to come and see me,'' he asked, half smiling. And the coarseness of the insinuation made the girl wince. "It was : lam cruelly punished, cruelly, cniel- ly. How can you keep me here waiting in this way ? when I have asked you for an ice at an evening party, you were prompt enough, because — because I had not put myself in your poM'er; and now you stand there, laughing at me, for ha\'ing thought of my sister before myself" "What a violent little lady it is," he said, in- solently, unlocking a desk as he spoke and taking out a packet of letters. "Here they are," he continued, handing them to her; "well-mean- ing httle effusions, containing nothing worse than wishes to see me at such and such a time." "Thank you," Helen said, breathing a sigh of rehef; "and you will never M'orry Dora any more ? I must have that promise." "Worry her any more about what? You ask a gi-eat deal, ]Miss Jocelyn. I may feel com- pelled by my sense of social duty to myself in days to come to worn.' Mrs. Falconer to get me an invitation to some exclusive set." "But you will give me your promise not to endanger her happiness by pressing the claim you made on her the other day to marry you," she said, boldly. " I will never ask her to marry me again," he said, soberly. " That claim is set at rest by your generosity; I have no longer the desire to do so : any idle feeling of admiration I may have had for your sister, is now merged in a deep and ar- dent one for you." ' ' Thank you for your promise about my sis- ter," she said, coldly. Then she bowed to him and turned to leave the room. He followed her hurriedly. "Miss Jocelyn," he said, "I shall not soon forget yom- condescension in coming." "It was no condescension,'' she said haughti- ly, for she was beginning to hate and fear the man who had always seemed so blithe a butter- fly. " I came for what I wanted — I would have gone to a plague house or a prison for it just as readily as I came here. " "You are not complimentary," he said, smil- ing again, "I must find some means of waking a kinder interest ; I shall call on you to-morrow in the hope of hearing that you got home safely and undetected." Helen answered him never a word, but as the cab drove oft' she flung herself back in a corner of the cab and began to tiy as she had never tried before, to foresee what might happen, and to brace herself for what must happen. " Get home undetected :" she could never hope to do that. And if she were met and questioned, how could she still guard Dora's secret, and Dora's fame. Then that threat of Bertie Car- lyon's to call on her — it sounded like a threat though he had worded it courteously enough. She felt the blood tingling down to her finger- ends with indignation as she recalled the situa- tion, and his insolently expressed admiration for her. To what woifld it all tend ? Had she in- deed put herself in Dora's place and turned the tide of punishment for Dora's folly upon herself completely ? Home again. She let the cab take her stiiiight 76 ONLY HERSELF. up to the door, and suffered herself to be admit- ted in the ordinary way now. She could de- scend to no more subterfuges, she could take no more precautions. Glancing at the clock which stood on the mantel-piece of her own room, as she entered, she saw that she liad not been absent from the house more than forty minutes. What was Dora doing now? she wondered. Slowly, and languidly, having first secured Dora's letters, she went down to the drawing-room to see. Dora was singing, animatedly, and Mr. Fal- coner was sitting by her, enraptured with her style, her taste, her manner, her execution, her song, with every tiling she did, in fiict. Dora had time to direct one glance at Helen, and Helen managed to make some sign indicative of suc- cess. That was all Dora needed. She felt in- tuitively that she was safe. At the same mo- ment she felt that Helen was unhappy. But then, as she argued at once, "if one Avorried one's self about other people's unhappiness one might always be in distress." "Don't you see Mr. Falconer?" Dora said, cheerfully. "We have been talking about the bridesmaids' presents ; what do you like best, a locket or a bracelet ?" It was evidently all smooth and fair between tliat happy coujile. When Helen had given her opinion as to the relative merits of a locket or bracelet, Dora went on with an audacity that was simply staggering — "How ill-natured fine London people seem to be ; I have lived so quietly, and have had to do with such unsophisticated people, that I don't know what to make of it ; only fancy, Helen, some one has been kind enough to get up a re- j)ort of my being engaged to Mr. Carlyon ; look at that little woman of the world, Robert, she does not even express surprise at the iniquity. " "I don't think I am much surprised at any thing any more," Helen said, wearily, " I am be- ginning to distrust every thing and every body, even myself" She spoke so miserably, that Dora felt a pang of mingled doubt and despair for an instant. "Was it due to failure, this sudden, vmac- countable depression ?" WHiile Dora had thought Helen out of heart merely on her own account she was serenely indifferent to the cause. But directly it struck her that the cause might have some connection with herself, she became impa- tient to fathom it. " Helen," she said, quickly, "I have a large book full of instrumental music up stairs ; before Lady Caroline went to sleep she asked us to play a duet : come up with me and see if you know any thing iu it. It's too heavy to bring for no purpose." They did not speak to each other till they had gained Helen's room. Then Dora asked sharp- ly- "Well! well! tell me?" "Here are your letters, and Mr. Carlyon will never trouble you again," Helen said, sadly. " Oh be joyful !" Dora said, clasping her pack- et of hardly rescued notes fimily, and dancing about. "But your efforts luiving been crowned with success, why do you look so glum ? I do almost wonder th.at he gave me i\\) so readily, be- cause he must have been very fond of me ; mustn't he ?" "He would give up any one, or any thing, to serve himself; just as he would profess to love any one, and seek to gain any thing, to serve himself, at any cost to others," Helen said, bitter- ly- " Oh ! I don't think so badly of him as that, Dora said, giving a liasty look at the arrange- ment of her hair in the glass. Now that Dora was safely out of harm's way from him herself, she could look leniently upon him, and take a tolerant view of all that he had done. Helen's view of the matter seemed a very harsh one to her, now that she felt all need for herself (Dora) to be harsh was over. "I don't think so badly of him as that," she repeated, turning round to get a back view of her dress. " Let me see, what did we come up for? — the music-book ? Oh, yes ; Me had better go down, or Mr. Falconer will be wondering at our staying so long." All this time she had never once thought of recognizing the great effort Helen had made on her behalf by so much as one word of thanks. The deed was done, and the object was attained, and the end gained. This was enough for Dora ; she gave no heed to her young sister's pale face ; the face that was pale with such a wealth of self- reproach and dread — although she had done noth- ing that called for self-reproach from the purest ■ \voman — nothing that entitled her to feel dread of the most rigorously judging man. Still, she did feel these things, and the fact of her feeling them was manifested strongly. Only Dora could have been blind to the manifestation so long. Even Dora could not be blind to it much longer, ' ' Why, Helen, you look like a ghost ! " she said, as she rose up from lier knees, after extricating a big book from its place at the bottom of a large travelling trunk. "Here are my duets, do brighten up and come and play them." "I couldn't touch a note to-night," Helen said. " Oh, nonsense," Dora said, flitting out of the room before her. ' ' I am longing to hear all about your little adventure ; how you got there, and how he looked, and what he said." "Don't speak of it in that way," Helen inter- rupted; "he looked and said every thing that was most loathsome to me. " "Did he? How disappointed he must have been not to see me, for he is usually so courte- ous," Dora said, quietly. ' ' You didn't find liim very courteous yester- day," Helen said. "No; then his love made him seem cruel; and to-night his disappointment about me proba- ly made him brusque. Boor dear little Helen ! did she think she was going to ftiscinate him away from all thoughts of me in a moment." "Fascinate him away from you!" Helen said, with a shudder. "Dora, he is a bad man, and he will make my heart ache for what I have done for you to-night ; don't you make the conse- quences harder to bear by affecting to think tliat I had any other motive in risking them than a desire to see you happy." "Don't prose like an old maid," Dora said. She was feeling recklessly gay under the influence of this sudden reaction from intense fear of having lost Falconer, and intense dread of being ulti- mately shamed by exposure by Carlyon. ' ' Don't prose like an old maid ; ii. s a bad habit to get into, and may cause Digby Burnington to leave ONLY HERSELF. you to be one." Then Dora ran down to the pi- ano, and her lover, and the ^\•ell-hghted room, looking flushed, brilliant, excited, and happy. And Helen followed her, slowly, Dora's last words ringing like a knell in her heart. (She played a duet ^^-ith Dora, because Dora made her do it, and because she was as ready to do one thing as another ; and at ten o'clock she pleaded a headache, or fatigue, or something of tlie sort, and got herself away to her o^\n room, tlie door of which she locked, for more of Dora that night would have been insupportable to her. And do«n in the drawing-room Dora was mak- ing things seem bright, and sunny, and ])leasant, to her lover, and her fother, and Lady Caroline ; singing to them and earning them their tea, and obliterating from Robert Falconer's mind all that he had heard to her detriment from I\Irs. Bruton, until she herself, rashly, as it seemed at first, mentioned that lady's name. ' ' When did you see Mrs. Bruton last, Robert ?" she asked. " I saw her last night ?" he said, briefly. " Before you thought it wortli while to come to me," she said, with suddenly expressed indigna- tion. " It was she, then, who invented all that malice against me ! Robert, I ought to hear the wliole of the story you ha^e to tell me about her and yourself. I ought to hear it now ! — I shall hear it now, if you love me. " He did love her, and so she did hear it then. It was told briefly and succinctly, the whole story of his love's young dream and its sorrowful end- ing. ' ' I thought ^^•hen she married that I could never love another woman, and for ten years I never was tempted to do so ; but then I came home and saw you, my darUng, and loved you as I never loved hei\" With this assurance he wound np, and she could not tempt him ro further speech on the subject that night. But she felt that it was a powerful reserve force, and that she might possi- bly use it to his subjugation at some future day. " Shall you wish me to ^isit or not to visit Mrs. Bruton when we are married, Robert ?" she asked. She almost felt that a little of the bloom would be brushed off this peach, which she liad, as it were, snatched from Mrs. Bruton's keeping, if she were not permitted to display it before that lady's eyes. "Your own wishes shall guide you; circum- stances M'ill enable us to come to a decision by the time it is needfid for a decision to be come to," he said. " But have you no wish about it ? — no present wish that may help me to form one ?" she asked, coaxingly. " 1 shall leaA'e such matters to your discretion. " " Supposing I have none!" she suggested, and there was so much probability in the suggestion that it was almost frank of her to make it. " I won't suppose any thing fraught with such unpleasant consequences to both of us," he said, laughing ; and then Lady Caroline came fonvard, looking "good-night" so unmistakably that he was obliged to take his leave, and Dora was re- lieved. Her nerves had been stretched to their utmost tension tiiis day. She had been obliged to consider how she might avert, and appease, and generally make things appear other than they v>cre about so many things, and to so many peo- ple. After saying good-night to her father and Lady Caroline, she dragged herself wearily uj) stairs, and, almost against her will, found herself at Helen's door. It was locked, and there came no response to her knock and whispered entreaty for admission from the inmate of the chamber, whose integrity it ])resen'ed. She crept back to her ossm room with tlie conviction (at last) strongly upon her, that Helen had risked more than an angry chid- ing from her father in doing and daring what she had done and dared for her (Dora) to-night. " She shall have no occasion to do as much for me again, dear, good-natured little thing ! " Dora said, encouragingly, to herself, as she gained her ovm room ; '' but just this once I did want helji so badly." Then she rang for their maid, and calmly had herself undressed, and heard ^\•hile that operation was going on tliat Lord and Lady Lynton had come up to town that day. " IMatli- ews, ni}' lady's own maid, called in to see us this evening. " " I don't think Lady Caroline knows that they are up, " Dora said, carelessly ; and the maid an- swered that ' ' IMathews said it hadn't been their intention to come up until the wedding, but they had altered their minds for some reason. " Dora's heart beat last with pleasm-e. She disliked the Lyntons ; but lords and ladies had not been every- day occurrences with her, and now they had come up to her wedding. How glad she was that noth- ing had happened to put that wedding oflf. She made many a vow tliat night that her con- duct for all future time should be blameless, free from the faintest semblance of flirting, above the most cnielly rigorous suspicion. Her heart felt quite hght and happy as she compared this night ^\■itll the last. She nevei- would be so foohsli again — never. Tlien she wondered how Bertie Carlyon would look the next time he saw her. Her new-born sense of safety robbed her of that caution which she had exercised towards herself lately even. She called him ' ' Bertie " once more, and rather liked the sound of liis name. How silly she had been to think that Bertie would hurt her or her prospects in any way. It had all been a joke on his part, of course. But how seriously Helen seemed to take the joke. " She might just as weU have staid np to speak to me about it," Dora thought, pettishly, and then she turned her mind away to the contemplation of her trous- seau. M^d her tour, and tiie many other new hon- ors and pleasures and delights that would be hers when she married. And love would be hers, too ; warm love, such as she never could have given to or received from Bertie Carlyon nnder any circumstances. Dora went on making her good resolutions far into dreamland. She would be so much more grate- ful and attentive to her grandparents than she had ever been before. She would do Helen so many kindnesses " such as a married woman can show a girl," she said, rather pompously, to her- self. Slie would even be friendly with tliat Jlrs. Bruton, who had tried to stab her in the back. Friendly, not in an intimate way, but in a way that should show the widow that she (Dora) was not afraid of her. And she would be ^eiy kind (as a manned Avoman might be with honor) to Bertie Carlyon. She had "no fire in her room in these October days, and so, when she went to destroy her letters the following day, the task was a more difficult ONLY HERSELF. one than she had anticipated finding it. She had looked forward to a holocaust, but as she could not accomplish that, she rid herself of them very neatly. She tore them into small bits, and used them for the stuffing of a tiny cushion of ticking work which she had made with her skillful needle. Then, as the sight of it would always have remind- ed her unpleasantly of what it contained, she gave it as "one of her parting gifts " to Helen. " Kob- ert will otter you something of far more value when he takes me away," she said to her sister; '' but I really have been interested in doing that, and so I give it to you." And Helen accepted it, as she did most other things about this time, ver}' quietly. It was arranged in the course of the next day that Dora shoidd be married to Mr. Falconer in the first week in Xo\ ember. It was now late in October, so she had not much time eitsher to strengthen or to imperil her position with him. Another pleasing circumstance of the next day, too, was that Mr. Carlyon did not call on Helen, as he had declared he shoidd do. Still, a dark cloud hung over the girl, and only Dora could imagine a cause for it. "Not so great cause, either, because you had a triumph, you know," she said, consolingly. CHAPTER XXIII. THE DAY BEFORE THE WEDDING. Mr. Carlyon had come to the conclusion that Helen woidd be far better worth marrying than Dora. Better worth marr}ing in every way. His insight into Dora's character had shown him that she was not above trickery and deception, and though he was not above these things him- self, he would exceedingly object to them in a wife. Further, he knew on good authority that Helen's fortune would be considerable. Her mother's portion was settled upon her, and this in itself was double the worth of the Oaklands property, which was to go to Dora. Additional- ly, an old and distant relative had left her a hand- some legacy, and her father would probably give her the same as he had given Dora. Altogether Helen was an heiress ! Undoubtedly Helen was better worth winning than Dora. In the heat of the moment, in his anger against Dora for not having come on her errand herself, he had suffered himself to say things to Helen of which he repented himself as soon as he was left alone. Helen was worth winning ; she was far too good and tnie, he intuitively felt, to be fright- ened or coerced into any important step. Be- sides, a better feeling was growing up in him since he had witnessed her act of brave unselfish- ness. He felt sorry that she should have risked com[)romisiug herself by coming ; and still he knew in his own heart that he would turn her coming to his pui-jwiscs if he were able to do so. He would try to sejiarate her from that boy lover of hers, wlwi had clung, with wliat Mr. Bertie Carlyon denominated " siuh selfish tenac- ity," to the hold he had got over her in youth. He would (just Digby fiom his jilace in her affec- tions, and win her to himself. Ay ! in spite of that ))assa2e of arms with Dora which Helen had so heroically intervened to bring to an end. His recent failures rendered him waiy. He knew now that he had been too abrupt with Dora. Had he played her at the end of his line just a little longer, instead of attempting to land her Avith a jerk, she might have been his. He shrug- ged his shoulders at this reflection, and told him- self that he was veiy glad he had attempted to land her with a jerk. For had she been his, Hel- en never could have been, and so things were far better as they were. She was worth winning, and the handsome, clever young man, whose i)eauty and cleverness had never done him any good in hfe up to this time, had unlimited Taith in his own winning powers. He detennined to show her the rare considerate courtesy of utterly ignoring her share in the transaction. She would soon forget the intemperate half-insolent tone he had adopted while she was with him helpless and alone that night. He would never force his presence upon lier, and yet his presence should penade her path through London society, until she was compel- led to acknowledge that his success in it was a very superior thing to Digby's. Acting on this resolution, he did not call at Mr. Jocelpi's house on Mr. Jocehni's temfied daugh- ter the following day, as he had declared he would do. And so after a little time Helen's heart grew lighter, and she heard tliat a card had been sent to Mr. Carlyon inviting him to Dora's wedding with scarcely a pang. As for Dora, since the stuffing of her little cushion, she had put the matter quite behind her in the blithest way possible. When Helen pitied her for being subjected to the humihation of Bertie Carlyon's presence on her wedding-daj^, Dora replied, quite truthfully, that she most prob- ably should not give him a thought. " Happily for me I have a power of forgetting," she said, with a modest air of not taking too much credit to herself for the possession of the trait, which showed that she thought it an infinitely commendable one. "As for you," she went on, " don't you be a goose, Helen ; don't let him think that you're making a mountain of a mole-hill ; why should I feel more at seeing him at my wed- ding, than — " she had been going to say "than Robert Falconer will at sight of Mrs. Bruton." But she checked herself in time. She had no intention of contributing that incident in Mr. Falconer's biography to the family compilation. Her vanity would be hurt by their having a defi- nite object on which to fix those fonner affections of his of wliich they were but dimh' cognizant now. While tlie afl'air was shrouded in the vapor of mystery to them it was not disagreeable to her. But a living tangible riv.al, or rather a living tan- gibility, that coukl be ticketed as the one who had jilted lier (Dora's) husband long before he CA-er cared for Dora, was not to be thought of Slie checked herself in time, and left her sentence un- finished. "Than what?" Helen asked. "Oil! than any body else who meets an old love, or a would-iiaAc-becn old love, or a might- have-been old love ; if pco]ile made themselves wretched and felt humiliated about all affiiirs of the heart, one woidd be afraid to fall in love, or to flirt, or to do any thing. Don't take the trouble to look severe, Helen ; all such folly is over with mo. I have had a sharp lesson." Then some- thing like a sjjurk of gratitude animated her, and ONLY HERSELF. 79 she added, "and thanks to you it has not harmed me. Jlrs. Braton had an invitation to the wedding, too. As one of the intimate friends of the Joceh^n family she had felt sure all along that this burden would be laid ujjon her, but she was not at all sure as to how she should bear it. Decidedly to herself she asserted that she would not go and see that ' ' base girl, who had escaped punishment so for, triumph." .Still, though she said this, she ordered her dress for the occasion, and took an interest in it, too ! It was a matter of sharj) regret to ]\Irs. Bra- ton that Dora should have escaped unscathed. It was a mystery to her, and she hated myste- ries. She caught Bertie Carlyon one day in the park and appealed to him to elucidate it. " I wish you wouldn't caiTy your love of fic- tion and of inventing plot and counterplot, inci- dent and emotions, into real life," she said, to him, M-ith sparkling eyes ; "that fine love-story you told me the other day, with yourself for a hero and Dora Jocelyn for a heroine, was a little too bad." "Yes; was it not?" he said, laughing, and she was staggered, and utterly unable to make up her mind as to what it behooved her to do. She had never expected him to deny the truth of that which he himself had stated. She had never ex- pected him to meet her remarks lightly. She had expected evasion, and confusion, and instead of these she met \dth a nonchalant acknowledg- ment that she had been weakly credulous. "Did you take into consideration what mis- chief might be made ? I repeated what you told me to the one most interested, IMr. Falconer." "That is exactly what you assured me you would not do ; I was not to imagine you so in- firm of purpose ; and what did he say and do ?" " He said ver}^ little, and I suppose he has done even less, for they are to be married next week, and I am invited to the wedding." "So am I," Bertie Carl von said. "Are you going ? surely not !" " Indeed I am ; Mhy not, Mrs. Bruton?" " Then it was all untrue," she said, in a mor- tified tone. She had clung so fondly, in spite of his easy denial, to the hope that Dora had really proved herself as false and unworthy, as she (^Irs. Bru- ton) firmly believed her to be. She had clung so fondly to this hope that she could not help feeling mortified M-hen he asked her why he should not go to the wedding. He had been simply test- ing her powers of credulity and ill-nature in fab- ricating that stoiy which he had told her. Had there been a shadow of truth in it he could nev- er have calmly contemplated presenting himself at Dora's wedding. Mrs. Bruton had no other opportunity of satis- fying herself as to the trath or falsehood of that which she had been so ready to believe. In an- other conversation with ]Mr. Carlyon that gentle- man laughed at her so for having been " taken in by his acting." that she was glad to drop the sub- ject. As for Mr. Falconer, he gave her no chance of questioning him further. Since that evening, when she had so recklessly made herself the me- dium of ill-tidings to him, he had never called on her. And the day of his marriage M"as drawing on apace, and sorrowfully she felt that she had lost him even as a friend. Something impelled her to try and make amends for the unconscious injustice of which she now believed herself to have been guilty, by send- ing Dora a splendid maniage gift. It was wor- thy of her o^^•n wealth, and of Dora's beauty, a suite of emeralds, throatlet and tiara, brooch and bracelet. He would not let Dora take the gift and himself still scorn the giver, she argued. And she was right. Dora did not tell him that she had received them until it was too late to re- turn them ; did not tell him until every act of hers reflected upon him, and so would have a double significance. Accordingly, as they wei'e kept, and even acknowledged in a little note of thanks from Dora, Mrs. Bruton argued from false premises, and deduced that her peace-ofiering was accepted. Dora's good resolutions stood her in wonder- ful stead at this epoch. She clung to them stout- ly ; made her grandfather and grandmother, and Aunt Grace, very happy by going to see them daily, and was Aery kind to Helen. And Helen seemed to need much kindness just now, for she began to droop in health and in spirits too, and Digby Burnington was awaj'. A sudden and im- expected A'acancy occurred in the staft' of the great diplomatist who was then at Berlin. As this great diplomatist M'as a friend of Lord Lyn- ton's, the latter had no difficulty in getting the appointment for his second son. This was all right and well. AVhat was strange and peiijlex- ing about it was that Digby had gone oft' with- out beat of drum, so to say — without bidding Helen good-bye verbally. As for the good-bye contained in his note, it was so cold and con- strained, so unnatural, and altogether imlike Dig- by, that the girl's warm heart was chilled. Moreover the old people. Lord and Lady L}ti- ton, themselves were not quite as they should have been in their manner to their son's affianced bride now. Even unsuspicious Lady Caroline noticed it, and said to her husband that she be- lieved ' ' Louisa was tiying to separate those poor children. " "Louisa won't do that, nor will a thousand like her do it, if they are staunch to each other," Mr. Joceh-n said, cheerily ; " they don't come of the blood to give each other up lightly." " There is something amiss, I aro sure, "Lady Caroline said; "Helen knows how heartily I love her, yet she does not tell me any thing ; and I respect my child too much to try and force her confidence. " "Leave it to time and their oaati good sense, my dear,"i\Ir. Jocel^Ti said, and Lady Caroline consented to follow his advice, and shook her head and heaved a sigh even as she consented. Not even to Dora did Helen condescend to complain. But for all that self-restraint the girl suffered severely. In her own mind she felt con- vinced that some rumor of that indiscretion of which she had been guilty for Dora's sake had got abroad, and she was regarded in some way or other as unworthy. She felt her heart throb proudly at the thought, knowing how thorough- ly she could vindicate herself if only she were a few degi'ees less noble than she was. As it was, being herself, she felt her lips were sealed, Dora's honor and safet}', and Dora's married happiness, would be imperilled if she (Helen) brought things into the light. The most painfid part of this affair was that 80 ONLY HERSELF. the girl ivas not supported under the sacrifice she was making, by the reflection that she was mak- ing it for a good cause or a worthy. To Helen's mind there •\\as something infinitely degrading and contemptible in it all. If Dora had been false to her plighted troth for love of some one else, Helen -would have arraigned her sister at the bar of Avomanly feeling, and probably have pronounced her guiltless. But Dora had been lalse to Mr. Falconer out of love of fun and flirt- ation, and then she had sought to mend matters by being false to JNIr. Carlyon through fear. There was nothing of the heroine in any one part of the business, and Helen was fully alive to this fact, and still was tongue-tied, honor-bound, not to tiy and light herself to the ^\Tonging of the wrong-doer. Lloreover she had no certain groimds to go upon even if she had made up her mind to speak out and let Dora look to herself. The Lyntons were cool and superior to her now, in a way that is eminently grating and hard to bear, especially when those who compel one to bear it are near relatives. They were cool and superior, and Digby was away. She would not excuse herself before she was accused, and they never so much as hinted at any accusation against her. They only talked of Digby as one in M'hora all the Joce- lyns must have a family interest, and seemed tac- itly to deny that Helen had a special one in him any longer. Gradually but still speedily, there was estrange- ment bet\\een the two houses, even before Dora's Vr-edding-day. It has been stated before that the two sisters-in-law did not like one another, and so the chasm between them was easily made, and easily widened. "They had no time to see each other," they told each other and their respective husbands ; and though Lady Caroline's heart burned within her at the growth of slights that might affect the happiness and the love of her child, she was too proud a woman to complain of them, or to seek to get them explained. Her brother had been less her brother since his mar- riage, as is very often the case even with affection- ate men. During later years the fratenial feel- ing had very nearly died out between them, so she had no feehng of security in addressing him on the subject. However, she did address him once ; soon after she had spoken to her own hus- band with such small result. " How odd it was of Digby to go off without coming to see Helen," she said to Lord Lynton on one of the rare occasions of her seeing him alone. "■WHiy odd, to go without seeing Helen partic- ularly ?" he asked. "Surely the liict of their engagement is suffi- cient exjjlanation of the phrase," she said, in a tone of haughty surprise. " Their .engagement ! oh, to be sure ! they were ba>)y lovers or something of that sort ; I saw one of my baby lovers the other day, Caroline ; she's a ^frs. Bcrringer now, a wealthy widow, with a daugliter who is to be presented this year; we had a laugh o\er our old folly, and I intro- duced her to my wife ; by the way, Louisa is go- ing to present Fainiy Bcrringer ; she's the heiress of the day." " Is slie?" Lady Caroline said, coldly. " Yes ; fifty thousand a year: her father had mines iu "Wales, and died a Ci'cesus; the girl's very pretty, too." "They will want a title for her, I suppose?' Lady Caroline said, carelessly. "They don't care for a title ; if he has good blood and talent, a yoimger son might win her, I fimcy." And then it occurred to Lady Caroline that Helen was to be put aside for this young heiress. But how could Digby be so base as to veer round without a word, without the shadow of a cause, in this way ? After this new figure, this Miss Bcrringer, had been sketched into the picture. Lady C'aroline never again broached the subject, either to her brother or her sister-in-law. To her husband she did say, "Digby is being bought with a price; his mother has found an heiress for him, and that is why Digby is sent oft' to Berlin in this huny." Then she told him what her brother had said, and he was very angry. "I see that it will drop now," Lady Caroline said, sorrowfully, and he replied, "Let it drop, the sooner the better; my girl has too high a heart to wish to thrust herself upon them ; but he's a mean young hound, that nephew ofyoiu's, to di-aw off" in the way he has." ]Mr. Jocelyn was not an unjust nor an ungen- erous man, but in this earliest hour of his wrath he coidd not help remembering the fact, and re- minding Lady Caroline of it, that the relation- ship to Digby was on her side, not his. It was a perfectly unconscious blow. It would never have been dealt at all had not Digby and Digby's peo- ple done something to make it an unpleasant one. It was delivered now in self-defense, it almost seemed, for Mr. Jocelyn had always encouraged the idea of the alliance warmly ; now that the al- liance was endangered, it was not tmnatural, and Lady Caroline could not consider it unnatural that he should remind her that Digby came from her side of the house, not his. There was a great bustle of preparation going on, for Mr. Jocelyn had decreed that his eldest daughter (to whose mother such joyous vanities had been denied) should be manied with all the pomp and gloiy it was his to command. Dora had veiy little time to think of any thing save her trousseau and her lover. Still, self-absorbed as she was, she could not help being conscious that a great cloud had come over Helen. That there was something amiss between Helen and Digby Dora felt sure. But Digby was such a young and unimportant fact in Dora's eyes, that, to use her o^\Ti expression, "his absence or his pres- ence was all one to her, and Helen would have reason to bless Berlin if it freed her from the en- tanglement." She did not venture to say thus much to Helen, but she said it boldly both to her fotlier and Lady Caroline, and seeing as they did only their own side of the grievance, they could not quaiTcl with her remark. But on the day before the wedding, when near- ly eveiy thing was settled, and when at least there was nothing more for Dora to do in the way of providing herself witli eveiy necessaiy and lux- ur}' she might possibly want, she found time to touch upon the tender topic to Helen. "I hate impertinence and prying, and all things of that sort," Dora said, abruptly; she was standing at the time facing the window, with her back to the room in \\liicli Helen was sitting ; " but I should like to feel that you had as much confidence in me as I had in you only the other day, dear." "I have every confidence in you, taking the ONLY HERSELF. 81 othei" day as a wliolv^some warning," Helen said. "I hate moralizing and preaching at peojjle quite as much as you do impertinence and jn-ying ; still I do venture to say that I hope you will never play with fire again." "Well we won't talk any more about that," Dora said, confusedly ; ' ' it's not too pleasant to hare one's follies set in array before one a few hours before one is married. What I was tliitik- ing of was your case, Helen ; I think the Lyntons are behaving very badly to you, and I^wonder that you condescend to mope about it." " I have condescended lower than that," Hel- en said, sadly. " Have j^ou ?" Dora said, almost sneeringly in her careless forgetfulness of all Helen had risked for her; "I am sorry for yon then— or rather sorry for your want of spirit ; why, Helen, Digby Burnington has as good as thrown you over by going off in that way without coming, or writing, or any thing." "He has written," Helen said, with a despe- rate attempt at dignity. "Has he? Yes; I know he lias written, but it was not the sort of letter you or any other girl ought to have had from a lover on the eve of liis going away ; I saw how cut itp you were when you were reading that letter, and I felt sure then that there was something wrong. I didn't im- agine, though, that it would go on for days and days like this, without coming to a climax. ' "Like what ?" Helen asked. "Like the way Lady Lynton behaves to you," Dora said, quickly ; " iiorrid, red-faced old wom- an, I hate her, and I am glad to be able to say it without hurting your feelings, for of course you can't care how much she is abused after the way she treats you ; she tried to put me down in ev- ery way she could the first evening she saw me at Court Royal ; but I carried too many guns for her, as grandpa says, and gave her rather more than volley for volley ; it was such a little insignificant attempt to put me down, it was so paltry and con- temptible." Tlie beautiful Dora turned a face of wrath back towards her sister as she spoke, and Helen said, " If it was only that, I wonder you v.orry your- self and me about it now." "Does it worry you? really, Helen, I wish you had more spirit ; fancy caring about a man's mother — " " I don't care for Aunt Louisa a bit, and I never did," Helen said, hastily, hoping to avert what was coming. "You don't care for her as Aunt Louisa, I fii-mly believe, but you do care for her as Digby Buniington's mother, and it puzzles me how you can do that after he has thrown you off. I know I am speaking plainly." "Rather too jilainly," Helen said; "more plainly than I will let you speak again." "How absurd you are to take offense, Hel- en," Dora said, with a sudden air of de])re- [ cation and apology ; "haven't I a right to feel ! interested in you, and proud and jealous for you ; do you forget that we are sisters ?" " Did I forget it," Helen said, feeling very sad and desolate, " when I went on your errand, [ Dora ? If Digby has left me, it is for that ; do you wonder that I don't wish to speak of it to ' Oh ! nonsense. Dora luged, reassuringlv ; G j "Digby didn't see you, and Bertie would never tell ; you're worrying yourself with idle fears if you think any thing has been found out about ' "that, dear ; but all the same, if you could bring I yourself to look upon Digby Burnington as gone, [ you would be much happier ; if I were in your case, indeed, I shoidd just write and dismiss Jam." i "I dare say you would," Helen said, coldly; j ' ' but you seem to forget that I love Digby. " I "Well, and if I were in your case I suppose I should love him, too, or it wouldn't be your case ; I but my proper pride would preserve me from fret- ting for a man who could treat me like a glove, to be drawn on or oft" at pleasure ; besides, liave , you heard about this Miss Berringer ?" j "I have heard mamma say that Aunt Louisa is going to present lier," Helen said, unable to restrain that look of hojjing to hear more, wliich is sufficient encouragement to the scandal- monger. " Well, I have seen her this last day or two in the park with Aunt Louisa," Dora said, almost ! mockingly; "the Lpitons and their horses and carriages, and men-servants and maid-servants, are all very much at the seiwice of the plump plebeian who has fifty thousand a year, and won't mind marrying a younger son (the Lyntons' hope) provided he has blood and brains ; don't you see it all, Helen? you're not to be left because you made a little good-natured effort on my account, but because this fabulously wealthy miner's daugh- ter has come to the fore ; Lady Lynton will have made a match of it before the year is out." "Digby is the least mercenary dear old boy that ever lived," Helen said ; "if he has left off loving me, it will be because he has found some fault in me, or tliinks some harm of me that he never found or thought before. Kow, let me ask you, Dora, do you mean to confide in Mr. Fal- coner, and tell him how silly you were and how sorry you are for it before you many ?" ' ' No, I don't, " Dora said, stoutly ; ' ' neither be- fore I marry nor after I marry ; you don't know how much I have told him either," she added,, suddenly. "Were you at all honest and candid with him that horrid, horrid night ?" Helen said, eagerly. "Yes, I was to a certain degree," Dora said, reflectively. She wished to put a stop to further interrogation in the future fi-om Helen, and she was deciding in her mind now how much she should tell and how much leave untold. She was not long in coming to this decision. Helen had barely time to notice the natural confused hesita- tion which the contem]3lation of such a subject might well cause before Dora went on. "I told him all about thinking Bertie would follow me to town without being quite sure, and about our painting together at the South Kensing- ton all the mornings of the gallery days ; those were the worst things I had to tell, and I told them." "Did you say any thing about the letters?'' "Oh ! the letters were so very miimportant," Dora said. " Tlieu why did you make sucli a point of get- ting them back, Dora?" Helen asked; "you're deceiving either yourself or me now. I hope it may not be yourself." "Let us talk of sometliing pleasantcr on the eve of my wedding-day,'' Dora said, turning round and going up to her sister; "I wiU be such a 82 ONLY HERSELF. discreet and wise matron. You shall find that I"U quite blot out these ugh' memories ; I don't like even to think of deception and you in the same minute ; I told you every thing once, Helen, don't make me go over the ground again." CHAPTER XXIV. MARRIED — AND MARRED. "Be the day weary, or be the day long, At length it cometh to even-song," the old Catholic song says ; and Helen reminded herself of the veracious wisdom of tlie consoling refrain more than once during Dora's wedding- day — reminded herself of its wisdom, and com- forted herself with the consideration that all this glitter, and all this half-hilarious, half-regretful buzz and noise woidd go down with the sun, and that then she should be free to put her head down upon her pillow and bemoan herself secretly. For the wedding-day had arrived, and Dora was accomplishing her destiny, glorious in gorgeous apparel, and with a triumjjhant heart. The tale of the bride's and bridesmaids' dresses, and the names of the guests, was to be told in the ' ' Court JouiTial ;" and the bridal tour was to be to Paris, because the girl had never known any thing of that gay capital; and Mr. Carlyon was all in his manner that she could desire. Altogetlier Dora was very ha))]n' and well pleased, and liappiness agreed witli her as it does with most people, caus- ing her to glow into greater beauty than she had ever worn before. Lord and Lady Lynton graced her nuptials. The latter graced them with a redder face than usual ; in fact, a face so red, that it suggested cerise trimmings to the silver-gray satin she wore. Lady Lynton had disliked coming ; but she had been constrained into doing so by her lord, who strongly counselled the avoidance of all marked slights after that last conversation with his sister. JNIrs. Bruton was not at the wedding. The dress which she had ordered for the occasion came home in all its j)ristine jiurity in time, and was even put on ; but at that stage ilrs. JJruton's heart failed her. She knew now that she could not go and seem unconcerned, and as she would not go and seem concerned, there was nothing for it but to stay away. Helen was not the oilly one with whom this story has to deal who found that wedding-day intolerably long and weariscjme. So a brief note was sent to Lady Caroline, excusing an absence that was not noticed, Dora said. "Was it not noticed? One man would have deemed that the presence of .Mrs. Jjrutou among the bridal guests denoted a want of delicacy of feeling which he would have been sony t<\ accuse lier of. In the future, it might be that Mrs. Bni- ton and his wife should meet and greet each oth- er as they met and greeted many another one of their ac(|uaiiitance ; but just at present he would rather not sec either of them subjected to that necessity for feigning which would have been laid uj'on them both had Mabel been there, and which he could but deem so deteriorating to any woman. The breakfast need not he described, neither need the start be commented upon. It is enough to say that the liridal pair were otf in time to catch the afternoon train to Dover. 'J'hcn signs of dispersion set in, and Lady Lynton's carriage was announced, and then Helen went up boldly to Digby's mother. ' ' Have you had any news from Digby ?" she asked aloud, quite simply. "I have not heard from him since he left." "Oh, yes; he's delighted with Berlin," Lady Lynton answered, drawing the white lace and satin lappets of her bonnet close under her fat, red chin. "I'm telling Helen," Lady Lynton added, turning round upon Lady Caroline, ' ' that her cousin is quite dehghted with Berlin. When we shall see him back I am sure I don't know." Then Lad}' Lynton spoke a A^arm adieu to her sister-in-law and niece, and presently Helen found herself standing nearh' alone, with only Bertie Carlyon near her. "I did not know Buniington was gone to Ber- lin," he said. "Yes, as one of the attaches, about ten days ago," she answered, scarcely letting her eyes rest upon him as she did so. "Shall you be long in town. Miss Jocehni ?" he inquired, without the omission of the look which ought to have accompanied his ^\'ords. " Until the Christmas week," she replied ; "we stay here until then, I am sorry to say. " "Why sorry ?" "Because I would rather be peaceful!}- at Court Royal." " You will be dull there though, in these win- ter months. You will miss your sister. Mrs. Falconer will not be back at DoUington until Christmas, either, she has just told me." "Has she been talking to you?" Helen asked in imdisguised wonderment. "I had the pleasure of two minutes' conversa- tion with her when we came home after the in- teresting ceremony," he said, laughing. "In the course of it she told me one or two important items of gossip, amongst others, that the Lyntons have undertaken to bring out ]\Tiss Berringer." "Did she?" Helen said, coldly. "Yes; and another item is that you have a grand ball here when she returns. Can you give me an idea of tJie date ?" "The tenth of December," she said. "You will have a card, of course." " Thank you for the assurance. Miss Jocelyn ; but just at that season, if at no other, a dancing man is in recpiest, aiul I wish to avoid embarrass- ing myself with other affairs of the kind. I am disa|)p()inted at not seeing my friend, Mrs. Bru- ton," he continued, looking round. "She was ill or something this morning, and could not come. Is she such a friend of yours?" "I coimt her one of the truest I have," he said, Marndy. " I think her tolerably true, as people go," Helen said, wearily. ' ' She is truer than most people, as people go, indeed she is. I have tested lier about many peoi)le ; for instance, it does me good to hear her s])cak of you." " Does she laugh at me vciy cleverly?" Helen said, half smiling. "She speaks of you as I love to hear those I respect spoken of," he said, in a low voice, and Helen, though she blushed scarlet, could hut feel grateful to him for saying that, and saying it in the way he did, after her escapade of the other niKlit. ONLY HERSELF. 83 It was remarked upon in the crowd of guests, this little tete-a-tete between Bertie Carlyon and the daughter of the house. It has been told at an early stage of this histoiy that it was a habit of Bertie Carlyon 's to devote himself rather to the married than the unmarried in society. His flirtation with Dora had been carried on outside the pale altogether, and no one was the wiser for it. But now his deference to and preference for Helen was noted and commented upon. Mr. Carlyon's star was spoken of as being in the as- cendant, for the last " Saturday " had given a favorable notice of his new novel, and now Helen Jocelyn was fiivorably inclining her ear to him. Lady Lynton had staid long enough to see this pair under consideration in conversation to- gether. She had promised to take Miss Berrin- ger to a private concert that night ; but after her return from the wedding she still found time to write a long letter to her son Digby. The first portion of her letter was filled with her own fam- ily news. The latter portion ran as follows : — "I am just home from Dora Jocelyn's mar- riage feast. The bride, and bridegroom, and bridesmaids, and breakfast, were all beautiful, of course. The friendship, or flirtation, or what- ever it is, between Mr. Carlyon and your cousin Helen was freely discussed. I heard one or two remarks to the effect that it was too fierce to last. I should not venture to say so of my own judg- ment, though, for he is veiy handsome, and she is (piite alive to the fiict. I would have remon- strated with Helen on so unadvised a preference, but you know as well as I can tell you how bent she is on having her own way in all things, great and small. Titiens and Santley, and a host of others to-night at your uncle Lanesworth's (the Earl of Lanesworth was a brother-in-law of Lady Lyn- ton's). I should not go, but I do not like to dis- appoint Miss Beninger, whose dissipation, until .she has been presented, is only in the musical line. We are obliged to keep our jewel very much hidden at present, until she may legitim.ately blaze out upon the world. As you may imagine, we have hard work to do so, for the most exaggerated reports of her beauty and wealth, great as both are, are current. She is one of the sweetest amateur artists I ever saw, and just now she is employed in cojiying that ])ortrait of you which hangs in my boudoir. Pray bring me some of that iron jewelry when you come back ; there is sometiiing very striking in it when worn with white velvet. Do not forget this, as it is an im- portant commission, and believe me, my dear boy, your affectionate mother, '• Louisa Lynton." All the world, that is to say, more than five hundred of Lady Lanesworth's friends then in London, were at her concert that night. The Jocelyns were there, and Bertie Carlyon, who had sonrehow or other managed to arrive simul- taneously, came in with them. As ill-disposed fiite would have it, Lady Lynton had already ar- rived, charged with the care of the young heiress, to whom Lady Lynton immediately pointed out her "niece Helen Jocelyn, and her inamorato." " But I thought," Miss Berringer said, hesitat- ingly, "at least, I had fancied I had heard that Miss Jocelyn and your son, Mr. Digby Burning- ton, were engaged." Lady Lynton looked round the room, took a cursory glance at her left-hand neighbor, evinced, in short, total indifierence to the remark, and then replied, "Boor children, they used to call themselves engaged when they were babies nearly. They have learnt since then, I fancy, that all engage- ments must be built up on some more secure foun- dation than coushily affection." "I am glad of that," Miss Berringer said, warmly ; and Lady Lynton smiled graciously and approvingly upon her. ' • I mean I am glad, because I do hate cousins marrying," said Miss Berringer. "I think it's so silly, you know, when there are so many other people to marry, to go and take some one who is like a brother or sister. Miss Jocelyn is very pretty, isn't she? but not so pretty as the one who was married to-day." "Dora is a beauty," Lady Lj'uton said (she felt quite generously towards Dora, now that Dora was so well married), ' ' and Helen is sunply pret- ty. She is rather pale than fiiir, the sort of com- plexion that betokens ill-health." The little Welsh heiress was as rosy as the morning, with shocks of bright yellow hair, and the lightest blue eyes that were compatible with any color at all. Even her little, fat, babyish shoidders, and arms, and hands were rosy. But Lady Lynton resolved that her young friend should be a beauty as well as an heiress, and the first step to be taken was to im]^ress the girl with the idea of her own good looks. She looked across the room to where Helen was sitting listening with uninterested eyes to one of the vocal flights Titiens was indulging her hearers in. Helen was wearing white this night, white cloudy tulle, looped and puffed after the fashion of the day, with white crepe roses and pearls. Her foir face looked pinched and thin. Her blue eyes, as they turned from the concert boards and rested upon Lady Lynton's party, looked lustreless. " She is absolutely plain to-night," Lady Lyn- ton said, angrily. It was a sort of mute reproach to her, this pallor of the girl's, and Lady Lynton detested reproaches, mute or otherwise. " Yes, she is not half as pretty as I expected to see her," Miss Berringer said, sitting up, and lookfng rosily alive to every thing about; "per- haps she is i)ut out at her sister being married be- fore her, after it has been reported for so long that she was engaged." " I go out of my own fomily to hear news of it, " Lady Lynton said, warily ; ' ' whom did you hear she was engaged to, my dear, and whom did you hear it from ?" "I heard it from INIrs. Bruton," Miss Berringer said, ])romi)tly, " she told mamma and me long ago — oil, back at the end of last summer, that Helen Jocelyn. was engaged to your son, Mr. Dig- by. " Fanny Beri-inger took a sly pleasure in say- ing this to her obsequious patroness, if such a phrase may be allowed. The young lady was not nearly so ready to fall a golden victim to im- pecunious Digby as his mother imagined. Miss Berringer had met the eldest son of the house. Lord \Valdron, and her pale blue eye was on the title and the coronet, wliich her fifty thousand pounds a year would gild afresh. So nowshe said, with something like unction, that she had heard 84 ONLY l-IEKSELF. from Mrs. Bmton long ago, that Digby and Miss Jocelvn -were engaged. " That Mrs. Briiton is a woman that one must not have too much of," LadyL}Titon said, with a I peculiar tone. ' ' She is very pretty and very rich, j hut riches and beauty will never carry her where she wishes to go." This Lady Lynton said ad- visedly, meaning it as a timely hint to Fanny not to be led into the error of believing that her fifty thousand a year, and her pink roses, would carry her into those upper spheres of which Lady Lyn- ton was so kindly giving her glimpses. " Who is the daiiy-maid beauty that Lady L\ti- ton has got with her to-night ?" Air. Carlyon ask- ! ed of a man who was standing near to him. The man was also standing near enough to Helen to make him chary of what he said about her aunt's , companion. i " It is a Miss Bemnger," he said, briefly. " The Welsh mining man's daughter?" Bertie asked. "Yes," the other nodded, and then Bertie Car- lyon found an opportunity of otfering his arm to ilelen, for a pause was declared to be essential to the v,ell-being both of performers and performed to, and they were going to adjouni to aiiother room to have champagne cup and ices. " I heard you speaking about that young lady with my aimt ; it is Miss Beninger, is it not ?" Ilelen asked. She was watching Miss Berringer's ])rogress along the room as she spoke, a progress that was guarded and watched and protected by Lady Lynton most assiduously, to the discom- fiture of a flying squadron 'of young men -who were hovering about her. The heiress, now that she could be seen standing up, was discovered to be a short, stout girl, ^\'ith a large rosy fair face, and an utter want both of grace and dignity in her bearing. She was very richly dressed al- though she was not presented yet, and so by the world was supposed not to be out. But a glance at the set figure, and the assured manner (it was assured and self-possessed, though not good) was sufficient to dispossess any one of the notion that it was extreme youth which had kept her in the rank and file of society so far. "Yes," he said, "that is Miss Berringer, as I have just heard ; the little heiress has not the snare of beauty in addition to her wealth, has she ?" " I don't know," Helen said, shaking her head, "she is good-looking enough, but I know a thou- sand faces that please me more." "You liave been spoilt by the contemplation of extraordinary beauty in your sister, Mrs. Fal- coner," he said, quietly. Helen started, aiid blushed a little as she re]jlied, ' ' I don't know how that may be, but I do know that I iiardly like to speak about my sister to you." (Remember how little Ilelen knew.) "Yet I must speak once, and then have done with it," he said; "your sister's want of knowl- edge of my nature led her to foi-m a mistaken estimate of my conduct. In cold blood I was incapable of doing any thing that could cause her anxiety or annoyance. You will believe this, will you not — assin-e me that you do, and let this painful subject drop forever ?" " Willingly," she said, eagerly. "Or rather, let it be no longer painful," he went on, "that will l)e the most sensible way to treat it." Then in an apparently undisguised way he asked, "Can you take any interest in a very unimportant literarj- triumph, or are social triumphs too potent just now "?" "Whose is it?" she asked, languidly. " Only mine," he said, flushing a little. " Will you accept a copy of the book that has won it, Miss Jocelyn ?" " Of course I will ; you are the only author I know, so I may never have the chance of ac- cepting another presentation-copy." Wliile she was saying this the evolutions of the throng round the buffet brought Lady Lynton and Miss Berringer close to her. ' ' I thought you would have been too tired to come to-night, Helen," Lady Lynton said. "I had a strong attraction in Titiens," she had been about to add, but Lady Lynton inter- rupted her with a smiling "Oh! I see," and Helen grew crimson and emltarrassed at the im- putation. Not but what it did look like it, she felt obliged to confess, for Bertie Carlyon, by either accident or design, had been by her side all the evening. Lord Waldron, the eldest son of the Earl of Lynton, came in late that night. He had been away in Scotland (grouse-shooting and deer-stalk- ing) and in other places, for so long a time that none of the changes in the family policy were known. He was a good-looking man, only a couple of years older than Digby, and very much like him. The likeness led Helen to smile upon him cordially as he came across to her while she was standing at the buftet near his mother. "You here, Waldron!" his mother said, with more sui-prise than pleasure at sight of him. ' ' I told Lady Lanesworth that it was hopeless to ex- pect to see you, as you would only reach town to- night." ' ' I came up by the night train, and reached town at twelve this morning," he took his hand away from his mother, and delivered it up to Helen. " Well, Helen, what made you let Digby go alone to endanger the British policy in Berlin ? You always had to look after him, and always will have to do it." " Shall we go back?" Lady Lynton said, tartly. "Waldi'on, give your arm to Miss Berringer." The excellent mother had no particular desire to make Miss Berringer and her eldest son too well acquainted. But she was ready to risk what might come of their crossing the room together now, rather than leave Waldron and Helen free to ask and to give each other any infonnation that might lead to an explanation about Digby. In this latter design, the one of keeping her son and his cousin apart, the unsophisticated heiress aided her to the best of her (the heiress's) ability, which was not great. " When I knew you last year I did not think I should ever have been so intimate with Lady Lynton," Fanny Berringer said ; "did you ?" "No, I can't say that I did," he replied, and if he had spoken the truth, he might have added, that he had never even thought about her, much less her possible intimacy with his mother. Alore- over, he was not inclined to drift into a conver- sational labyrinth about thoughts with Miss Ber- ringer ; he wanted to go across to his pretty cous- in, Helen, the one who was to be his brother's wife. Lady Lynton marked the want and check- ed it. "Waldron," she said, abruptly, "the heat of ONLY HERSELF. 85 these rooms is insupportable ; I shall go directly there is a jKiuse. You must hold yourself in readi- ness to see us out." " I'm just going to speak to Aunt Caroline and Helen,"' he said ; " going to tell them that, as one of the fomily, I feel all the disgust I ought to feel at not having been asked to the wedding to-day. I hear the bride was wonderful. " " Siie is, wlien you compare her with Hel- en," Lady Lynton said, disparagingly ; "but af- ter all, wheii you talk of ' beauty ' you expect something more than a piquant little tace and manner. " "Is that all Dora has? Report says to the contrary." "She has not much more, and Helen lias not even that," Lady Lpiton said, fonning herself vig- orously. "Dear Helen," Lord Waldron said, "Digby and I used to fight about her when we were boys, Miss Berringer; but he — " " I can not bear this heat a moment longer," Lady Lynton said, rising up with much fuss. Then as she passed down the room on her son's arm, she whispered to him, "You must come home with us, Waldron, for I have spoilt that poor child's pleasure this evening, and I want her to be well amused. I want her for Digby," she wliispered, as Miss Berringer's attention was mo- mentarily diverted from what was passing. " Want her for Digby ! " he ejaculated ; " No, I can't go home with you, mother; Miss Bei- ringer must endure the preliminaries of the step you're arranging that she shall take ; I want to speak to Helen." "Helen has disgraced herself," then Lady Lynton said, warmly, "don't you go and inter- fere, and raise her hopes of getting I)igby again ; I have had trouble enough with him ; but Helen has to thank the relationship for my sparing her as I have done." Then Miss Berringer came up in a little gush of gladness that they were going so soon, because she was sure dear Lady Lynton was tired. And Lord Waldron was, in some %\ay or other, very much against his will, wafted into the caniage with them and tak- en home. That night, on their return home after the con- cert. Lady Caroline said to her daughter, just as the latter was about to say " good-night — " ' ' ]My dear Helen, does it strike you as strange that Digby should have gone away as he has gone, and that you should hear so little of him ?" "No, mamma," Helen said, calmly, ajid the c;rlmness was no effort ; it did not strike her as strange that evil sliould have come to her, when she had done what must seem so evil a thing if only it were known. ' ' Well, I own that I am not quite comfortable about it," Lady Caroline said, dejectedly, and as if hopeless of gaining any clue to that mysteiw which now perplexed her. "And I own I am quite unhappy about it — but it doesn't strike me as strange," Helen said, passionately. Tlien she was free to go to bed, the realization of the refrain — " Be the day weary, or be the day long, At length it cometh to even-song," had come. CHAPTER XXV. PLASS AND COUNTER-PLANS. In spite of those numerous unkind resolutions INIrs. Bruton had made to prevent ^Ir. Falconer's marriage with Dora, the widow was not a mean nor a malicious wonuin. She had failed in win- ning the man she loved herself, and she was obliged to confess that Dora had won him fairly ; so it seemed at least. From this day forth Mrs. Bruton was detennined to do nothing, to look nothing, and to hear nothing that might be de- trimental to the peace of either of them. She had found herself unable to attend their wedding by reason of the inopportune welling-up of some old memories. These memories made her sad with an intensity of sadness that made it impossible for lier to banish the traces of it from her face. So, as she had too keen a regard for appearances even to disregard them in iier own person, sire would not take the tear-blurred face to the marriage festival. She was very glad indeed, now that Dora was his wife, that Dora had accepted her gift of emer- alds prettily. She was glad that slie had made the gift so handsome, so worthy of his wife. Above all, she was glad that he had permitted Dora to take them. This ai'gued that lie must have forgiven her (Mrs. Bruton) that ill-judged burst which had been a combination of warning, slighted affection, pique, malice, and all unchari- tableness to which she had given way the last time he had called upon her. She sought Helen Jocelni's society a good deal at this juncture, and Helen did not turn away from the seeking, although she did not respond to it. Indeed Helen did not respond to any well- meant intrusions on the sad dullness in which she was steeped just now. Her father and mother noticed her growing gloom, noticed the non-ar- rival of all letters from Berlin, noticed the gath- ering of some sort of cloud about their darling ; but she never replied to their surmises in any other way than by a smile and fenently uttered wish that they were back at Court Royal again. However, though the girl did not seek or even gladly meet, she did not avoid Mrs. Bruton. Rather she suffered Jlrs. Bruton's presence witli a degi-ee of patient apathy that led Mrs. Bruton into the error of imagining that Helen was the better for incessant invasion, for being "forced out of herself," as the widow phrased it, and for "having her thoughts diverted from that truant, Digby Burnington." Mrs. Bruton would not have spoken in that sliam censuring way of Dig- by had she had the least idea that Digby was a truant indeed. But in spite of the placid interest with which Helen received all the attentions of the bright lady who was banishing some haunting memories from her o\m heart by paying them earnestly, the girl was gi-ateful. And so when their return to Court Royal came to be spoken about, Helen ask- ed her mother " if Mrs. Bruton could not be ask- ed to come too ?" But before this request was made and granted, more than a month of mid-winter London season had to be got through, and Bertie Carlyon had many opportunities of putting himself in good and becoming lights before Helen Jocelyn. Un- consciously Mrs. Bruton aided and abetted him. It ne\er occurred to her that the voung man who 86 ONLY HERSELF. for so long had borne the character of one who was never detrimental to girls, should have sud- denly altered his tactics. So as Bertie was pleas- ant "and popular, and successful in his literaiy career just now (to which latter fact the two for- mer ones are to be attributed), Mrs. Bniton made flattering use of him, in a way that v.oiM have been puzzling to some people had they known of two or three little incidents which have been nar- rated in this story. At least it would have been puzzling to people who habitually overlook and disregard the fact that in the whirl and Morry of the world, one has but little time to remember the past peccadilloes of acquaintances who seem to have forgotten them themselves. We may remember the fault or the failing, the misfortune, or the ill-conduct of the one who goes about heaping ashes upon his own head, and remorsefidly ming that he ever did wliat has been done. But who amongst us can charge his or her memory with the gay grievance wrought by a curled darling who does not seem to suffer for his sins? Mrs. Bruton was only like a thousand of her class in ignoring all that had gone before, and that she had not quite liked. In some way or other he had certainly told her a story about himself and set her on tlie track of v.'orking mischief to Dora Jocelyn. But no mis- chief had come of it, and Dora was Mrs. Falcon- er, and Bertie himself seemed to have forgotten all about it. Could she do less than follow his example? It was not strange that Mrs. Braton should suffer him since she was Mrs. Bruton. But it was strange that Helen should endure him so pa- tiently as she did during these months. When I say "endure him patiently," I do not mean that he ever forced himself upon her, but he was always crossing lier path. Knowing what she did about his game of chess with Dora, it may be thought that Dora's sister ought to have scouted and scorn- ed him. But Helen could not do this, for she was rapidly coming to feel that slie had sacrificed herself for the least worthy one in that affair ; and that Dora and Dora's vanity were by no means to be relied upon. Besides, he was always so gentle and deferen- tial to her, that the girl could not help liking him to the degree of wishing that she had never known him in any other phase. She disliked remember- ing any thing that looked against him, and so ap- preciated that generosity of his to the fidlest, which made him always act, and look, and speak as if she had never gone against him as a foe, and demanded Dora's letters. He Avas surprised him- Seh at the progress he made, little knovnng that the iialf-enforced, half-accidental intimacy went for nothing, and would melt away like the imsub- stantia! thing it was, at the first hint from Digby Bumington that he wished it to do so. For a long time it seemed, though, as if Digby were not going to offer a hint about that or any thing else to Helen. But just before they were leaving London for Court lioyal, one came, a most unmistakable one. It was the long-expect- ed letter from Berlin, and in it was enclosed the ring Helen had given him when they had re- pledged themselves to one another with all the solemn fenor and trusting faith of their respect- ive twenty and seventeen years. When Helen saw that ring, she had little need to read the words which accompanied it. " For both their sakes," he said; "he had come to the conclusion that this must be the end of it. Indeed, he had no choice in the matter. He hoped siie would be happy with the one whom she had chosen, and whom he, Digby, woidd tiy to believe to be wor- thy of her." That was all ; Helen regarded this allusion to another as a mere mean subterfuge, utterly unworthy of what Digby was. As to his statement that " he had no choice in the matter," she believed that to be true. " He is ordered by his mother to many that Miss Berringer," she said, to herself. And then, as she remembered how, all her life, tliis thought of being Digby 's wife had been entwineil with her veiy being, she broke down and wept bitterly. If he had no appeal against the decision he himself had come to, there could certainly none be made from the Jocelyn side. Her fatiier and motlier settled this between themselves, and re- solved to oppose Helen if Helen were foolish enough to wish it. But Helen did not put their determination to the test. She went to her father, slijjping her little brilliant ring off as she neared him, and simply asked him to "enclose that to Digby." ' ' Without a word ?" Mr. Jocelyn asked. " Of course not, papa ; that would be most un- courteous, and he deserves courtesy at our hands now as much as ever. Tell him that I am glad he has written at last. It is better than that waiting ; and say I hope that he will be happy and successful, and every thing that I used to wish him to be." JMr. Jocelyn promised, but his note to Digby was hardly worded in the way Helen suggest- ed. Mr. Jocelyn's view of Digby's conduct was that it was a piece of motiveless, boyish, disgrace- ful, ungentlemanly heartlessness. Helen thought there were extenuating circumstances attending it. But until she saw Dora, and had obtained Dora's peiTnission to vindicate herself, she dared not make any attempt to set herself right with Digby, or to set Digby right with her father. The Lyntons heard of their son's defalcation, and heard it with equanimity. "She was never the wife for Digby, " Lady Lynton said, folding the letter which Lady Caroline "had deemed it in- cumbent to write ;" to use her o-\\'n phraseology, "you can not be aware of Digby's falseness and baseness, " Lady Caroline wrote, feeling well as- sured the whole time tiiat his mother was not only aware of it, but had prompted it. " To me it is inexplicable that after having won such a heart as Helen's, he should cast it aside. Do not mislead yourselves by imagining that we would see it renewed ; we shall use whatever influence we ma}^ have with oin* child to induce her to re- gard him as utterly lost to her. I trust she is re- served for a \\orthier destiny : but I grieve that her first lesson in unworthiuess should be given her by my brother's son." " That is all twaddle," Lady Lynton said, em- phatically. " If I were in your place, " she con- tinued to her husband, "I should not go near my sister just yet. Caroline is one of those calm ^\'omen who can say very nasty things, and a breach is above all things to be avoided; what would Fanny Bemnger think of that ?" "Have you any reason to suppose that Miss Berringer will favor yoiu- plan about Digby ?" Lord Lynton asked. ' ' Yes, eveiy reason ; she betrayed the great- ONLY HERSELF. 87 est pleasure at my invitation for her to spend Christmas with us, and when you consider liow Fanny Berringer is courted that counts for some- thing ; besides, I am not weak enougli to believe that the ati'ection she seems to feel for me is in- spired by me at all. Oh, no ! the mother of such sons as mine is sure to be well-loved by other women," and Lady Lynton laughed merrily at her own keen-sightedness and candor, and at her power of seeing through any seeming tributes to herself " Now that Digby has written this let- ter, the first thing is to get him home." his moth- er went on ; "a week or two at tlie Prioiy with Fanny Berringer will be good for him." " And whom do you mean for Waldron ?" Lord Lynton asked. " Waldron must have something very differ- ent," Lady Lynton said, proudly; " he will not want so much money, but he must have bii"th, and beauty, and breeding with his wife. Wal- dron must many as well as his father did," she continued, with a serene air of self-satisfied belief in her own possession of the qualifications she had pronounced essential in Waldron's wife. Lord Lynton did not make any reply to this, but he thought ' ' if these are your views, my lady, you had better keep Waldron away from the Priory while Miss Berringer is there." Mrs. Biuton heard of Digby Bumington's ex- traordinary conduct too, heard it from Helen her- self on the very day that Helen asked her well- meaning friend to go down to Court Royal for Ciiristmas. " AVhat shall we plan in the way of home amusements, Helen ?" Mrs. Bruton said, when she liad accepted the invitation. '• We are to have a ball," Helen said, indiifer- ently. ' ' Oh ! a ball ; that is veiy good, but it won't give us half enough to think about ; we want something that will carry us on through the win- ter days : let us take down a lot of costumes, and get up charades ; is J\Ir. Digby Burnington a a good hand at charades ?" '■ He will not be with us at Christmas," Hel- en said, blushing faintly. "Will he not, poor fellow; do his diplomatic duties tie him down so very tightly ? Well, we must supply his absence as best we can for the charades ; what young men has youi- papa in- vited ?" "I should like to tell you myself," Helen said, disregarding oMrs. Bniton's question, and think- ing only of Digby; "I should like to tell you myself, because then when you hear it from some one else, you won"t exclaim at me for not liaving told you. Digby won't be at Court Royal at Christmas, because our engagement is broken off." She did not cry, or quiver, or seem agitated as she said it. But though she spoke very calmly, she looked sadly miserable. "My poor child," Mrs. Bniton said, heartily, and the hasty tears came into her soft dark eyes, "I haven't forgotten what I felt when tlie en- gagement my heart was in was broken off, and I feel for you ; we all have to go through the ])aiu, Helen, for some cause or other ; the cause in my case was my own vanity and love of money ; what has wrecked you ?" "I don't know," Helen said; "I can only think, and I must not say what I think. He has ■\mtten to break it off, and — so yon see he can not be at Court Royal," she continued, jumping up, and going over to hide her face in the masses of bloom that rose up in the middle of Mrs. Bru- ton's drawing-room. The girl was unable to put a quiet face upon it any longer, but she evidently desired that her distiu-bed face should ])ass unno- ticed, and ]Mrs. Bruton interpreted that desire, and respected it. Presently Helen spoke. "What Mere you saying about the charades ?" "You gallant little thing," Mrs. Bruton thought. Then she said aloud, " I was asking what young men you would have who would be usefid about them ; I know of no one better for the puipose than Bertie Car- lyon." " He is not asked ; he was with us in Septem- ber," Helen said. "My dear, when the success of charades is at stake, one is willing to forget September. I know of no one half so good for the pui-pose as Bertie Carlyon. He can write them, and act them, and organize them ; better still, he has the knack of making other people act. " "My cousin, Lord AYaldron, is very fond of them, I know," Helen said. "When we were all children, Waldron and Digby and I, we used to get them up for the delectation of the family." " I am afraid you won't have Lord Waldron this Christmas," Mrs. Bruton said, shaking her head. "^\^ly not?" Helen asked, quickly. "He would not stay away on account of Digby, if you mean that.'' " No, I don't mean to attribute any such Siam- ese-twin sentiment to him," Mrs. Bniton said, laughing; "but I was at the Berringers' yester- day, and Mrs. Berringer, I fancy, already sees a coronet on her daughter's brow ; she told me with such unction that Fanny was going down to spend Christmas at the Prioiy with Lady Lynton, and she added, with such unconscious hopeful- ness, that Lord Waldron would be there, too. " "I hope Waldron won't marry that girl," Helen said, with energy ; " she looks like an overgrown wax doll ; moreover, I am veiy sure that she woidd not meet Aimt Louisa's views for Waldron." " Then why does she ask Miss Bemnger down to spend Christmas ^dth them ?" INIrs. Bniton asked. "Nonsense, Helen; the girl has fifty thousand a year. Your aunt. Lady Lynton, will be very glad to welcome her as a daughter- in-law. " "Welcome her as a daughter-in-law, but not as a wife for Waldron," Helen muttered, word- ing the fear for the first time — the fear that had been in her mind unacknowleged yet potent, ever since that night of the concert at Lady Lanes- worth's. iMrs. Bniton, not being very keenly in- terested about all that might concern Digby, in spite of her full sympathy with Helen, failed to catch the full meaning of Helen's speech. " Lord Waldron will be in danger, then, I wai-n you," she said, gayly ; " Fanny Berringer will have so many things on her side — place, and time, and determination." ' ' What will that avail her — the detennination to win — if he has the determination not to be won ?" Helen said, carelessly. " But as far as I know, he has no such deter- 88 ONLY HERSELF. mination ; lie is going into the fray in the purest innocence ; she, on the other hand, has counted eveiy point in her favor, and taken counsel with her mother as to how each point may be best turned to advantage. You will have her for your cousin, Helen, in spite of your aunt; jnst mark my words ; but we have wandered from our point sadly ; whom do you think of in the place of Bertie Carlyon for the charades ?" " I haven't been thinking about them," Helen said, wearily. " But, my dear child — excuse me — that is just exactly what you must do, or our proposition will collapse. What are you to do with a houseful of people in the winter, if you don't provide them with the materials for love-making and acting ? I am not insatiable as regards excitement and amusement at all, I consider ; but even I do pro- test against being carried down to Court Eoyal to spend my time in talking and meditation." " Papa and mamma are sure to have hosts when the time comes to meel the Falconers ; you know, they will be home then." " So they will," Mrs. Bruton said, with a slight air of constraint ci-eeping over her ; " but why not find out who the 'hosts' are to be ? Don't get into the habit of being indifferent, Helen," she continued, with an effort; "it grows on one so very fast — so very, very fast ; and after all, every thing is not over for you because your first fairy palace is shivered ; we all get over faithlessness and folly in time." " Have you had to get over it ?" Helen asked. " Yes — my own — no one else's ; but it's as liard to get over the eft'ects of one's own as it is to get over the effects of another's ; the remorse is the worst part of it," the usually bright-heart- ed, light-mannered widow added, earnestly. "That is what I feel," Helen said, in a low tone. "You!" Mrs. Bruton said, in a sort of amaze- ment ; ' ' what can you have to be remorseful about, Helen, poor child ? If 3'ou have been in- dulging in any girlish flirtation during your lov- er's absence, and he has grown jealous and thrown you off', it is for him to feel remorse f ONLY HERSELF. 89 ory since his marriage, and my father always did before him," Lady Caroline said, in some sur- prise. "That is the very reason I am tired of it ; but it is settled that we go. You will have a house- fid, as usual, I hear." "Yes,"' Lady Caroline said; and then she named a few of the guests who were going to Court Royal. "We shall only have our own family," Lady Lynton said, carelessly; but she gave a half- glance towards Helen as she spoke, and rose up at once to go away. Helen's mother caught the glance and returned it with interest as she said, coldly, " You will be a veiy happy party, I hope." "I hope so," Lady Lynton said, hastily. Tlien (she had reserved her largest gun to tire last) she added, "My only fear is that it will be dull for Fanny Berringer," " I can only hope that she may have all the amusement you desire for her," Lady Caroline said, more coldly still. Then Lady Lynton went her way, assuring herself that she had been cpute open and frank with her husband's relatives, and had given tliem an unmistakable hint of what might be expected to happen. CHAPTER XXVL THE BERRINGEKS. Mrs. Berringer, the widow of the man who had made flibulous sums (and kept them, too) by mining transactions in Wales, as it was margin- ally stated by friends of the deceased when his aft'airs were spoken about before them, lived, ac- cording to her state, in Palace Gardens. Hers was a blazing house. The word blazing is the only one that occurs to the would-be describer of it. It blazed in much glass and fresh paint all the year round. During the summer and au- tumn the plot of ground in front of it blazed with such a display of scarlet geraniums and bright blue lobelias as is not to be found in the whole of the rest of that exalted territory. When winter set in, potted hollies and ferocious foliage, that could stand cold blasts provided it was housed at night, were ranged along the little teiTace and the small drive. And the conservatory was always alive with color. Now, be it understood, that the chronicler of this portion of Mrs. Berringer's cai-eer is by no means deriding that lady's love of brightness and warmth and color. On the contrary, the obscure person who indites these pages holds it to be an error worthy of much contempt and castigation, that the love of pallor, and thinness, and poor- ness of hue should be encouraged. Mrs. Berrin- ger erred not so much in color as in grouping. Her garden, her house, her consenatory, were like a blow in the eye, because she overlooked the necessity for a groundwork, or a background. Otherwise her collection of color was a praise- wortliy thing; nevertheless the stay-at-home English eye is so accustomed to half tones and pallor, that Mrs. Berringer's reds and blues, and intense yellows, and shining greens, gave it a shock occasionally. Her house was huge, covering a good area of groiuid, and towering into the air aspiringly. It was huge and gorgeous ; not altogether in bad taste, and yet very far from being in good taste. It was like Mrs. Beri-iiiger herself. You could not find fault with her for being an exceedingly well-developed, highly-colored woman of fifty, ad- dicted to the wearing of the most vivid ])roducts of the Lyons looms, and a fortune in diamonds around and about her fieiy double chin. She was a wealthy, self-important, overbearing wom- an. But then her wealth caused her self-impor- tance and her overbearing manner to be considered as only so much self-possession and good-hearted frankness. It is astonishing how strongly every one who had, could, or might benefit by the rich woman's money, dwelt on lier good-heartedness. She was not charitable, she was not generous, she was not given to the considering of any one's feelings but her own, still it was agreed on all sides that she was so good-hearted. She said rude things to people who were not in a position to resent them. She would rudely and closely catechise a govern- ess or a companion. She would treat any one who was poor as something infinitely beneath her. She would make insolent inquiries of peo- ple about subjects that were painful to them. She had quarrelled with and turned her back upon every relation she had in the world who might possibly ajjpeal to her for aid out of her abundance. And withal she was commonly call- ed a kind-hearted woman. This space in the story has been awarded her merely that it might l)e understood under what sort of an influence Fanny Berringer had grown up. There was a good deal of excitement in the huge, blazing house in Palace Gardens about this time. Fanny Berringer was going down to spend the family-feeling engendering Christmastide at the Priory, with " the Earl and Countess." Mrs. Berringer always spoke of Lord and Lady Lyn- ton in this way. She "gave them their due," she would observe, "a paltiy baron sounded as good as an earl, if the earl was only called ' Lord. Until the last year or two Mrs. Berringer had never attained that height of felicity which the being on speaking terms with a paltry baron had once afforded her. But now that she felt there was a prospect of her daughter being engulfed in the peerage, she was good enough to look down on "any thing below an earl." She was equijjping her daughter royally for the campaign at the Priory. Miss Berrhiger was to go in such state as should keep the fact of her heiress-ship well before people. Her own man and two maids, one French, the other Eng- lish, were to accompany her. Slie had a new suite of diamonds. " They can be set to match the rest of the fam- ily jewels as soon as he has married you," her mother said. "The rest of the family jewels won't be mine until his mother dies," Fanny said, and then Mrs. Berringer laughed coarsely, and said, "You won't have to wait long. There's apo- plexy in that woman's red face and short neck, as sure as my name is Ameliar Berringer." Mrs. Berringer was not above introducing a superfluous "r" at the end of a word, any more than she was above uttering virulent ill-nature, in spite of her "good-heartedness," against hei' professedly dearest friend. 90 ONLY HERSELF. "Miss Bemnger and snite for the Prioiy, shire, the seat of the Earl and Countess of LvHton," Helen read in the departure column of one of the fasliionable papers, and she remember- ed Mrs. Bruton's suggestion as to ^vhat was Miss Berringer's aim, and her o\^n fears which pointed in another direction. And in spite of every thing that had passed she felt feverishly anxious to get down to Court Royal, and get up communi- cation with the Priory, and watch the com-se of events. The Falconers were just home. They had staid a couple of days in town on their way tln-ough, for Dora to see her friends and to make some more of the inevitable purchases that were essential to her well-being whenever she saw a shop. I\Irs. Falconer was a great success among her mother's relatives at this time. She went to them in the guise of an amiable goddess of plen- ty, and gladdened their hearts by her demonstra- tions of good-feeling. Her manner to her hus- band met witli the cordial approval of all. He was evidently master, but as evidently she was no slave : or if she was a slave, it was the slav- eiy of love, not of fear. In every one's estima- tion she was securely at anchor now, and Mr. Jocelyn rejoiced over her security and happiness, and heaved a sigh, telling himself that now at last the shade of her mother might rest in peace. She was more beautiful than ever, for a certain stability of manner had set in, young matron as she was, which was prettier and more becoming than the girlish vivacity of only the other day. Helen was quick to discern another change, too. Dora from association, and precept too, probably, had developed some higher attributes than any she had seemed to possess before. She was ab- solutely confiding and open with her husband. She made no plans which she did not first sub- mit to him for approval. Seeing this happy state of things, Helen's heart rose. Surely since Dora was on these terms with her husband, she would have the courage to confess to him that one act of girlish folly the punishment for which had fall- en so heavily on her sister Helen. Surely she woi\ld do it. So proud, and happy, and loving, and trusted a wife would risk a moment's anger from him for the sake of carrying a clear con- science before him forever after. So Helen ar- gued in her o\\n honorable, brave, suffering heart. So she finnly believed in her bright, clear, unde- filed mind. But though she firmly hoped and be- lieved this, she would not ask Dora to do it yet, — not during their brief re-union in town. She would wait until they were all down in their countiy quarters — and then ! the mists would clear away, and Digby, unblamingand unblamed, would be Iiers again. Mr. and ^Slrs. Falconer got down to Dollington two or three days before the Jocelyns started for Court Royal. Helen found a good deal to do just as she was about to leave town, and so de- layed their dejjarture a little. With the return of hope her interest in current events revived. She invested large sums in the purchase of fiincy dresses and stage jeweliy. Mr. Carlyon had al- ready set about the conqwsition of two charades, and one drawing-room piece. Helen had sounded Dora on the subject of Ber- tie Carlyon being at Court Royal, and she found _that Mrs. Falconer had not the most remote ob- jection to the plan. "Not have him on my account!" Mrs. Fal- coner said, repeating her sister's words; " tliat would be great nonsense ; his manner is quite perfect to me, and I have no right to resent what was quite as much my fault as his." "If you don't mind it, and if Mr. Falconer does not mind it — ," Helen began, hesitatingly, but Dora interrupted her with a heightened color. "We neither of us mind it in the least, I as- sure you ; do let the subject drop." Accordingly Helen let the subject drop, and there was no more said about it to mar the har- mony of that short meeting. Dora was quite like a visitant from some high- er, brighter sphere at Dollington. The bright- colored, blooming, blue-eyed young bride brought or seemed to bring a flood of sunshine into tlie house when she arrived there, although it was midwinter. She expressed delight A\ith every thing in the house, and illustrated interest in some prize cattle in the farm-yard, in which JNIr. Falconer's baihff had invested his master's money and his own time and attention during Mr. Falconer's absence. The little boudoir into which Bertie Carlyon had led her a long time ago, she speedily transformed into a fitting haunt of beauty, herself and all the other prettiest things in the house being collected there within one day of her arrival. Mr. Falconer gloated over his own acumen, and man-elled at his ovm discrim- ination, in having selected and won this girl. She made herself so happy in the home he coidd give her. She so openly plumed lierself in the sun of what she thought success and bliss. She put every thing in such a pretty light. And she was so young and confiding, and so superior to all the girlish follies of deceit and frivolity against which he had been standing on guard so long ! Dora in her own house, Dora gravely arrang- ing her visiting-book, Dora organizing a scheme of broad assistance and relief in aid of the village that lay outside Dollington gates, was an edifying and charming spectacle. She tried to do so much at once that she could but fail, !ier husband said, and yet her heart was so unaft'ectedly in the ef- fort, it seemed that he could but admire it. Even the old housekeeper, who had staid on at Dol- lington by arrangement during the stranger's re- gitne, found the young mistress, who was brought to rule over her, "a pleasant young lady, easy enough to get on with." Indeed, Dora found herself accejjted as a delightful, tliough slightly incomprehensible fact, and she rather liked the temis of the acceptance. For them to think her delightful was one thing. For them to thorough- ly comprehend her was another. The slightly mystical is always had in the higher esteem, she knew. Up to the present time I\Ir. Falconer saw no reason to repent of the choice he had made, or that had been made for him, in haste. True he had not had much leisure as yet — a man can hard- ly employ the shining hours of the honeymoon in looking out for Haws in the conduct and character of the fair creature he has but just won. He was very much in love with his wife, and lie had ever}' reason to believe that she was as perfect, as above suspicion, as admirable in every way, as he wish- ed her to be. Since her marriage Dora had had no need to descend to a single small means to ob- tain an end small or great. Consetjuently her practice improved, and with the improvement in ONLY HERSELF. 91 her present practice slie came to feel thatliei' past liad not always been what it would liave been well for it to be. However she assoiled her conscience on this score very easily, telling herself tliat if she liad been under such an inilnence as Mr. Falcon- er's all her life she would have l)een safe when temptation assailed her. In fact it maybe feath- ered tliat she was imbued with a very good res|)ect for iu-r husband. For she was not oidy willing that he should inliueiice her, but she was also wil- ling that other people shoidd see that he did so. Her allegiance was paitl proudly in tiie open. Mr. Falconer, seeing that it was so, deemed that he had been a wise man in tlio choice of a wife, and fell into the not uncommon error of taking it for granted that iicr life jirevious to lier marriage with iiim had been a sort of quiescent dream from which lie awakened her. There setrmed to be no chance of that which she had once dreaded, dullness, at Dollington. Be- fore she had been three days in the county ru- mors reached her from divers obscure but well informed sources that she was to be made gay with all the gayety the neighborhood had at com- miind. IShe was requested to be one of the Lady Patronesses of the Comity Town Assemblies, the best form of gathering for Tcrpsichorean purposes that was known in tlie county. She was invited to christen a man-of-war that was shortly to be launched from the nearest naval jjort. She was entreated to lay the foundation-stone of a new <'iiurch that was to be built on the borders of the Dollington estate. In short she was made to feel herself a jjcrson of importance, and the feeling agreed with her. liOrd Lynton's place, the Priory, was ten miles nearer to Dollington than it was to Court Royal, therefore it is not suri)rising that Lady Lynton should have called on the i)ride long before she (Latly livnton) found time to call on her sister-in- law, lonely Caroline, Jocelyn. Mrs. Falconer stood rather well with Ijady Lynton now. The girl had married well, and married before Helen, and Hel- en was peculiarly the object of her ladyshijj's aver- sion, because she had been i)eculiarly the object of Digby's affection, and might stancl in the way of the famous fortune his mother believed herself to have secureil for iiim in the jierson of Miss Herringer. C'onse((uently any one who seemed to have outshone or outdone Helen, won kind thoughts from Helen's aunt. The heiress was brought over to Dollington and was j)leased to exjjress the sort of ])atroni/.ing ai)probation of it, which one feels justilied in expressing at sight of a model cottage or ])iggery. " Y'ou nuist not feel oiVended, dear Mrs. Fal- coner," Lady Lynton whispered, for the girl's manner was a rank otfense to her noble hostess sometimes ; she only bore it because she had an object to gain. " You nmst not feel offended with her remarks ; she is so accustomed to a plu- rality of residences that she forgets we are not all blessed with sucli luxuries." Tills was just after Miss Berringer had stated in ail innocent kind of way, that, " She siiijposed many ])eople did manage to live always in such i)laces as these ; didn't it seem funny to Mrs. Falconer'? could she (Mrs. Falcon- er), for instance, exist without a town house and a box in the highlands !'' DiU'a was not oll't'iided at this; with all her faults siie was a gentlewoman, and the boasting of snobs never disturbed her. But she was of- fended presently wjien Lady Lynton, taking ad- vantage of MissBerringer's interest being tenqjo- rarily engaged in sometliiiig else, hinted tliat her son Digby was fascinated by the blonde charms before them. "Foolish boy as I always thought him, I did give him creilit for better taste ; fancy leaving llelcii for that creature," Dora said afterwards indignantly to her husband. " You have no reason to sup])ose that Miss Berringer is the cause of liis having left Helen," he said. " I have good cause and every reason to sup- pose it; he staid away from Helen on the jjjea of oflicial duty until he broke it off — but official duty is not to keep him away from the I'riory now that IVIiss Berringer is there ; besides, his mother implies it." "That is one cause of my doubting; Lady Lynton hopes to make this intangiliility tangible, by s])eaking as if it were so ; depend ujion it, she speaks without authority from her son," Mr. Fal- coner said, "women are given unconsciously to exaggeration, 1 believe." He laughed as he said it, but Dora blushed. There was sufficient truth in his half-serious, half-joking accusation, to nuike her wince. Not that she had been addict- ed to wincing at the prickings of conscience in days gone by ; her character may be inonounced inconsistent and unnatural on this score by psy- ciiological critics, but a new era liad set in. Dora was beginning to understand that there are some natures of so high an order that tliey shrink as much from the subterfuge as from the conse- (piences of it. She had a wholesome dread, lov- ing and loved wife as she was, of her husiiand ever hearing that she had been flighty in conduct and thought, although no evil had resulted from her flighty thoughtlessness. Lady Lynton and Miss Berringer were given two or three days of themselves and strangers be- fore either of the sons of the house arrived. During those two or three days Lady Lynton had ample time to discover that Miss Berringer sufl'ered from a thinness of mind, a fragility of imderstaiiding, that made her a most diflicult sub- ject to treat. The girl, with fifty thoiisaiid a year, evidently tliouglit tliat she had fifty thou- sand good and suflicient reasons for being capri- cious, stupid (unsymiiathctic, Lady liynton called it), and exacting. The I'riory with Lady Lynton and some unattractive and ineligible strangers, was a very different jilace to the I'riory her fancj' had pictured, witli two yoinig men in the foreground, both anxious to marry her, one of whom slie meant to marry. Neither of these had a]i]>eared as yet. Lord Waldroii was absent from his ancestral halls for his own ]>leasure still, and Digby Burnington (that newly made servant of the (.Queen's) was de- tained by duty. Under these circumstances it was very hard for Miss Berringer to make the best of things at the Priory. She had been knl to ex]iect sonu'thiiig so very diU'erent. Her toilettes, — the ])iirest pleasures she had in life, — were thrown away here, where were only Lord and J.,ady Lyn- ton and friends of the same date as Lord and Lady Lynton, to look at them. She could not dress with satisfaction in this antique atmosphere. Lord Lynton looked ujion her pdiiio-s as pre- jiosterous, and u])oii her (irei'ian bend as a bur- lesque, blie gave Lady Lynton a liard time of 92 ONLY HERSELF. it. altogether, to keep her in good temper before those terrible three days were at an end. But Lady Lynton was a devoted mother, and she passed over the purgatorial period bravely. She wanted this girl and her fifty thousand a year for her second son. Digby. Uigby was the "darling of her motherly heart, and it had always pained her that there should be such a ghastly difference between his fortunes and those of his eldest brother. She had hopes now, well found- ed hopes, of his taking a good diplomatic stand, and of his supporting the same with a fortune. She would not relincpiish these hopes lightly, be- cause an unimportant agent in the atfair gave herself airs. Nevertheless, in spite of that forbearance which was tlie offspring of a heartfelt desire, which Lady Lynton exercised towards Miss Berringer, ^liss Berringer was a bore. The old, solemn, long established, grand routine, which was ob- served at the Prioiy, was fatiguing to the girl, and the girl had not the good-breeding to re- frain from showing that it was so. It seemed to her that there was so much more respectability in the country than in the town life of the family into whose midst siie was absorbed. Not that tiiere had been any violation of this respectability in the former spheres in which she had known Lady Lynton. But it was a fact that here down in the country, Lady Lynton was more careful about certain observances than her young friend had supposed her to be. All the new people and all the wrong people in that neighborhood were of the low or broad jjarty. Accordingly (when at the Priory) Lady Lynton was extremel}' high, and extremely rigorous in obsening all the right observances. And this rectitude of demeanor (perhaps because it was not genuine and did not emanate from an honest source) was exceeding- ly tedious to Miss Berringer. She could have borne it had she been well sujiported, say by Lord "Waldron and Digby Buniington, but she could not bear it alone. So she grew dissatisfied and wearing in manner, and the consequence was that Lady Lynton was most heartily tired of her before the three days were over. Lady Lynton was not a model ])arent, nor a model hostess, nor is she held up in these pages as a pleasant woman, but though she was none of these things she was a gentlewoman, and she had at her command the resources of a gentle- woman. She did not take an interest in politics for wide and cosmopolitan reasons. Still she took an interest in them because she had family connections whose fortunes were influenced bv them — and Lady Lynton was a Avoman who cared xev}- nuicli for her family. She was not a profi- cient herself in any one of the fine arts. Still, from constantly seeing and hearing the best works of the first painters and musicians, she had ac- quired a certain facility of judgment which stood her in stead of original taste. The literary merits of a book might be beyond her, nevertheless she read every thing that came out, and read it with so much understanding that she was able to ex- press an opinion about it afterwards. And Miss Berringer did none of these things ; and cared for none of these things ; and was altogether a burden. But she had fifty thousand a year ! and Digby, Lady Lynton's favorite son, had nothing; or juit enough to keep him in delicute-hued kid gloves. His mother had always thought, and tried to teach him to think, that his prefix of Honorable was a marketable thing. If his father had only been a grade higher, if the Earl of Lyn- ton had but been ISIarquis of Lynton, then Digby would have been Lord Digby, and his mother would have looked for a fitter mate for him. As it was she must dispense with birth and breeding. The girl had blonde hair, and blue eyes, and fifty thousand a year. So Lady L^'nton endured for three long days the tedium of an active-minded young woman with nothing to do in the house, and prayed the more fen-ently, perhaps by reason of all she did endure, for the arrival of her son. Her son came at the end of three days, but it was not the one she had prayed for — it was Lord Waldron. CHAPTER XXVIL MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. The Jocelyns were back at Court Royal, amongst all the old humble family friends and servants, whose good memoiy for many things made it most eminently unsatisfactoiy for Helen to meet them. There was their doctor and sohc- itor from the adjacent country town, two respect- able elderly gentlemen, who had been gray-head- ed, and in the habit of giving good advice to Mr. Jocelyn, Avhen Helen was christened. These bore down upon Helen with all the horrible force of old family friends. One asked her "when he was to draw up the marriage settlement;" and the other inquired '" when he was to prescribe change of scene and name," fonns of facetia; in which they had indulged ever since she could re- member any thing. The old housekeeper took an opportunity of going up into Miss Helen's room to see if every thing was right, to ask after " JMr. Digby." Altogether the first day or two at Court Royal was as hard and heavy to en- dure as any thing that had come within Helen's former experience. She had made up her mind, at least she had al- most made up her mind, to the losing him ; but she had not made up her mind to tlie hearing about it and the descanting about it yet. If only people would have let her alone to endure the sore smarting unquestioned and unpitied. But well-meaning friends never will do this. They will talk over and argue about a difiicidty of the sort ; they will place their blame and their pity at the wrong moment on the wrong jjeople ; they will ask why and wherefore, and, above all, they will presuppose so much. Now no one thought of blaming Helen. The presuppositions in this case were the fruit of their thoughts and speculations about the Lynton family solely ; but it was worse ten thousand times than being blamed one's self, to hear, as Helen did from the aforesaid well-intentioned ones, that "every one must feel that the Lyntons had behaved in a most reprehensible, to say the least of it, way." "I don't want eveiy one, or any one, to have a feeUng about it," Helen said, in simple honesty. "No one understands the case. No one has a right to express an opinion about it ; at least, not to express an opinion to us." The young lady carried herself very haughtily towards all possible sympathizers in these days, gentle as her demeanor was on ordinary occa- ONLY HERSELF. 93 sions. It -wa-s as odious to her that Digby should be blamed as that she herself should be pitied. Indeed, it was altogether otiensive to her that any thing should be said by any one on the subject. She had not lived long enough to submit with a good grace to the common lot, which is, that those least concerned shall discuss us and our doings with the wildest and most virulent in- terest. The sisters had met. Helen had not liked at first to moot the point that was so very much in her mind. Dora seemed so veiy happy that it was almost barbarity to mar that happiness by the introduction of a single unpleasant back- thought. Nevertheless, Dora's nonchalance about it was a staggering thing for Helen to reflect upon. "It was almost unfeeling, " the younger sister allowed herself to think. Dora was very cool about most things, but the coolness with which she approached the subject of the Lyntons was almost chilling to her warm-hearted sister. " Is there a decent dressmaker in this region," she began, to Helen's amazement. Helen had thought that Dora had taken care of herself in that respect, and that the barrenness of the land in regard to the paucity of dressmakers would not have affected her. " There is one who has made for us for years, a Mrs. Dawkins ; but you can't want her yet, Dora." "Yes I do," Dora said, discontentedly. "I want her to arrange, of course, not to make. Lady Lynton has a gi-and dinner next week, and I want to wear something prettier than that hor- rid Miss Berringer can achieve." " Oh, you dine there," Helen said, coldly. " Yes, we dine there. The party is in my hon- or almost; at least," she continued, with a little satiiical laugh, " I believe I divide the honors with Miss Berringer, the girl they have got down to supplant you, you know." " I am quite unconscious of any such unwor- thy I'ivaliy,'' Helen said. " So you may be, dear ; but Miss Berringer is not. Robert won't believe that it is Digby, though ; he seems to think that IMiss Berringer will try a higher flight, and bring down Lord Waldron." "That is what I think," Helen said, half hope- fully; then she added despairingly, "but Aunt Louisa would never encourage that. She wants money for Digby, and will be satisfied with that alone, dear as Digby is to her ; but for Waldron she wants more. Oh, that money '." she wound up bitterly. "My dear Helen," Mrs. Falconer said, philo- sophically (it was impossible for Dora to bear any one else's troubles other than philosophical- ly), " my dear Helen, I can't, I really can't sym- pathize with your regret at having lost him ; he must want money, and not care for any thing else, just as much as his mother does. If he were superior to the mercenary weakness, he wouldn't have left you." "That is not the cause," Helen said, with bit- ter impatience. Then she could not restrain her- self any longer. They were alone, and Dora was looking so well assured, so prosperous, so happy. She was waiting with her sister while her hus- band was walking round the Court Royal home faiTn-yards with ^Ir. Jocelyn. " "Waiting for her husband,' and wheu he came Helen knew that there would be a glad greeting between the hap- py, well-satisfied pair, though they had been sep- arated such a brief time. They were so much to each other, that poor Helen could not help con- trasting their, with her own, position. If ever a human being felt forlom, Helen Jocehni did, as she pondered on their case and her own, and re- flected that to compass their happiness she had sacrificed the cousin lover who ought to have known her too well to believe any thing bad about her. But as it was, he had believed ; and Dora was the cause of her (Helen) being mis- judged, and Dora was indifferent about it. She coidd not restiain herself any longer. She ask- ed, abruptly, but most piteously, " Dora, if 1 meet Digby, may I clear myself with him ? may I tell him that it was not on my own business that I went to Bertie Carlyon's lodging that night ?" "Not for worlds," Dora said, decidedly, "it would be absurd waste of time on your part to betray me,'' she added eagerly, " for how is Dig- by to know that you went at all ! you would cut my throat, I see that plainly, for the sake of get- ting up a scene with Digby ; what would my hus- band think ? you don't take that into considera- tion at all. You surely can't be mean enough to contemplate undoing the good you did ; it would be more than undoing it ; I should be in ten times as bad a place as I was before you went : Helen, I really thought better of you ; why did you go at all, if you meant to hang the going over my head all my life — keeping me in such ter- ror ?" Dora was friglitened, and her fright made her speak very passionately and vehemently. Helen felt almost appalled at the torrent of words, and the burst of feeling, and the avalanche of reproach that descended upon her." " I thought as you were mamed, and so hap- py, that you would not be afraid to let I\Ir. Fal- coner know it all, as he knew- so much ; you said you would release me from the pronuse to keep silence about it, when you were once married. " "Did I?" Dora said, with consummate non- chalance. " I must have been bewildered, indeed, then ; besides, I didn't know then wliat a married woman dared to do, and what she dared not do ; a husband's love is soon loosened, and his faith soon shaken in a wife ;" she added solemnly, " only the most abominable selfishness could in- duce you to urge me to risk so much, that you might gain so little." " Dora," Helen said, starting up, and quivering with anger, "don't make so light of my loss — don't, or you'll madden me. I am in your po^^■- er, for I won't break my word, even to you, who have so cruelly broken yours to me ; but never dare to estimate what I have lost ; you can't do it ; you'i-e incapable of it ; but I will keep your secret still, that is all you care to hear." Mrs. Falconer was reclining easily on tlie end of Helen's sofa during this conversation. She was veiy becomingly dressed, in a black velvet dress and jacket alike richly trimmed with grebe. A cheval glass was opposite to her, and she regarded herself with much satisfaction, as she answer- ed, "That is like my o\^-n dear tinselfish sister, Helen." Then she stretched out her foot beyond the hem of her robe, and contemplated the delicate shape of her boot and the huge steel buclde that 94 ONLY HEKSELF. glittered upon it, •with marked appreciation, as she added, in quite an altered tone, " What nonsense some people talk and write about London boots being equal to Paris ones. AVe can get nothing like these in London — I meant to have brought you a pair or two of them, but somehow I forgot it. When do you have your first charade party ?" " On the twenty-ninth," Helen said, briefly. ' ' Wh^t is it to be, a romantic one, or a bur- lesque?" " A burlesqtte." " Oh ! I'm sorry for that, because I wanted to take part in it, and I don't like burlesque, pretty modem dresses and elegance are thrown away in it. When does Mrs. Bruton come ?" "To-morrow." "What makes you have that woman here again so soon, Helen ?" " That woman, as j'ou call her, is one of my kindest, truest, most sympathetic friends, " Helen said, warmly. ' ' Oh ! is she ; I should not make too many confiding calls upon her sympathies if I were in your place ; she is just the sort of person to pub- lish your woes in every drawing-room she enters, if she thought she could raise a laugh by doing it ; she said a great deal against me to my hus- band before we married — I have found that out ; and I mean to make her sufi'er for it ; don't look indignant and worried, I shall not poison her or really injure her, but I will make her smart." Beautiful Mrs. Falconer rose up as she said this, and proposed that they should "go down and meet Papa and Robert." And Helen went down coldly and courteously by the side of the lovely creature who could absorb such a wealth of sacrifice and semce without a qualm. The married daughter was quite a family suc- cess. Lady Caroline delighted in her openh', and spoke with loving warmth of the evident improve- ment in Dora's character. " She is devoted to her husband," Lady Car- oline said to Mr. Jocelyn, "and that devotion seems to me to have eradicated the only blemish I could ever detect in Dora, a slight touch of self- islmess that threatened at one time to mar what is now so perfect ; she has been speaking so sen- sibly and feelingly about Helen and Digby." " Has she?" Mr. Jocelj-n asked. It was no new thing to him, but it was always a pleasant thing to him, to hear his wife praising the daugh- ter who was his and not hers. "Yes," Lady Caroline said meditatively, "she was saying wliat a jjity it was that they should meet until Helen can guard and conceal her feel- ings better, poor child. Lady Lynton has been to call on Dora, and Miss Berringer was with her, quite on the expectant daughter-in-law footing, Dora seems to think. I really hardly know what to do about asking them here ; after what Dora said, I feel it will be most painful to Helen," and Lady Caroline shook her head, and an anxious look stole over her gentle face as she sat and med- itated on what was best to he. done. "Consult Helen about it," Mr. Jocelyn said. "You needn't be afraid that she will show a sin- gle feeling that is incompatible with her dignity, it she elects to risk the encounter ; >ve are not asked to the dinner they have on the twenty-sev- enth, what do you make of that ?" " That they are ashamed of themselves, as Avell they may be, " Lady Caroline said, warmly ; "how do you know they have a dinner, though ?" " Dora told me ; the Falconers are going." " Dora never told me that. I almost wonder she did not, when we were talking so much about them," Lady Caroline said, quickly. Late that day there came a note from Lady Lynton, a note of explanation. It had occurred to her ladyship that a family feud would be in bad taste. It had also occurred to her that a large stately dinner would be a good opportunity for Helen and Digby to meet. No evil could come of it, if things turned out as they might be expect- ed to turn out. Lady Lynton designed that Ber- tie Carlyon should take Helen in to dinner. She would couple them together as a matter of course, and their being thus coujjled together would be quite enough to keep Digby aloof from his dan- gerous cousin. Accordingly she indited notes of invitation to Mrs. Bruton and ]\Ir. Carlyon, and wrote an affectionate letter to Lady Caroline, ex- plaining that the reason the invitations had not been sent to them sooner, was, that they (the Lyn- tons) had been anxious to secure some nice peo- ple, before they asked the Jocelyns to put them- selves to the inconvenience of coming such a ter- rible distance. Lady Caroline handed the letter to her daughter, with the words, — " This is a matter for youy decision, dear." "AVe will go, of course, mamma," the girl said, as soon as she had read it. "You may be pained, my darling child," the mother said, with a slight quaver in her voice. "I may be pained — I must be pained when- ever I meet them ; the sooner the better, " Helen said. "Digby's conduct is incomprehensible," Lady Caroline said. Helen was silent, Digby's conduct was not in- comprehensible to her. "Then we go," Lady Caroline said, after a pause. ' ' Yes, mamma, we go if it rests with me ; don't you fear for me, dear, kind mother," the girl continued, going up and putting her arms round her mother's neck. "Helen, I wanted you to be happy. I wanted yott to be very hajipy, so much," Lady Caroline said, with tears in her eyes. " My bright, happj-- natured darling, you did deserve such a different fate; how I shall rejoice when this cloud passes from you, when you can learn to look upon Digby as a cousin and nothing more." "I may soon have to do that," Helen said, soberly ; " if Miss Berringer is to many Digby, I shall know it on the twenty-seventh ; and when once I know that, j'ou shall never have to com- plain of me again about him. " "I never have had cause to complain of you yet ; but, Helen, is that the only thing that will make you indifferent to him ? No — I won't ask you yet, you are such a child still, it would not be fair." "I know what you mean," Helen said; "j'ou mean you hope I shall get to love some one else, but I shall never do that, mamma ; we have grown up to love each other, you see, and I shall never forget Digby until I forget all my past life and hopes." "Digby's conduct is incomprehensible!" Lady Caroline said. ONLY HERSELF. 95 CHAPTER XXVIIL FRIENDLY S Y 31 P A T H T. DiGBY BuRNiSGTOx disappointed his mother. Instead of coming straight to the Priory, he staid a day or two in London, and Lady Lynton began to feel that all her efforts in his behalf were in vain. He was — she could but think — throwing away a golden oi^portunity, an opportunity that might never be given him agaui. Slie had pur- posely avoided having any one in the house who might interfere with hu suit to Miss Berringer, and now it seemed as if all her precautions were thro\\Ti away, for sohtude was preying on Miss Berringer's "temper, and Digby woidd not come to enliven it. But Miss Berringer's temper improved visibly when, about midday on the twenty-third (a day and a h:\lf before he was expected) Lord Waldron came in. He received a very glad greeting from Miss Berringer, but it can not be said that he re- ceived a ghid greeting from his mother. She was annoyed with him for coming, and her an- noyance helped to bring about the very evil she dreaded, for it rendered her less agreeable to her eldest son than was her wont, and so threw him perforce upon Miss Berrmger for companion- ship. It was moderately fine when Lord Waldron reached the Priory, and as it liad been cold and foggy all the moming, this change in the atmos- ]>liere gave Miss Berringer a fair chance of fur- tliering her own ends. " You none of you look very seasonably hilarious," Lord Waldron had remarked when he tirst joined them ; and as soon as luncheon was over Miss Berringer ingeniously reverted to that remark. " You were just now saying that we don't look veiy seasonably hilarious : how should we do so? For my part, I am tailing for want of outside air and walking exercise." ' ' You might have had plenty of both, my dear," Lady Lynton said, rather testily. '' Oh, dear Lady Lynton, I know that ; but I shoidd have had them alone, and I don't much care for walking alone. I think I shall be tempt- ed to do it this afternoon, though, she contin- ued, going to the windows," and indicating very neatly that her desire to go out was almost u're- sistible. " You must pnt up with my company in default of better," Lord Waldron said, good-naturedly. "Your father was saying he wanted you this afternoon, " Lady Lynton said, disregarding truth, and the fact that she had not seen her husband since their son's unexpected arrival, in her anxi- ety to keep that son out of iliss BeiTinger's clutches. "I shall be at my father's service when Jliss Berringer releases me from escort duty," he said, blithely. And then jMiss Berringer went to pre- pare for her walk, and Lord Waldron took up the paper. " Waldron," his mother commenced, as soon as the door was closed behind the guest, "do be careful. " " So I will be in general, but what of in par- ticular now ?" he asked. " Why," Lady Lynton began, then she hesita- ted. Words of warning, to her certain knowl- edge, often did more harm than good. On the one hand, there was danger in letting him go un- cautioned into the fray ; on the other hand, there was the greater danger of putting things into his head, and rousing that spirit of perversity wliich is inherent in man's breast. " 'Why,' — what, mother?" he asked, cheer- fuUy. "Do remember what is due to yourself," she said, throwing prudence to the winds for a mo- ment or two. "There is nothing so bad, in my opinion, as a meaningless flirtation between a girl he would never dream of marrying and a young man of your position. Digby 's case is so very dift'erent, that I feel — " What Lady Lynton felt her son could not gather, for Miss Berringer, knowing well that it would not do to have herself discussed too freely between the mother and son just yet, came sweep- ing back upon them, and carried Lord Waldron off in triumph for a Malk. He had been guilty of no thought concerning Miss Berringer, excepting the harmless one of a good-natm-ed regret that she should have been deprived of that walking exercise which she seem- ed to think so essential to her well-being. He had no admiration for her. He had no hking for her even, beyond the harmless genersd liking that he had for all inditlerent people whom he did not dislike. As far as he was concerned, he was not in the slightest danger from the prospei'ous plebeian who was destined by his mother to put the fortunes of her favorite son Digby on a fairer footing — as far as he was concerned. But, then, in the case of a girl like Miss Berringer, a young man of Lord Waldron's order is not concerned to any very great degree. She is apt to so manage matters that he is led to believe that he has mismanaged them, and so is bound to rectify them. Miss Bemnger was not a pretty girl, ac- cording to the higher ideals of beauty on wliich Lord Waldron fancied he had formed his judg- ment. But she was pleasant to the eye on a day of this sort, Avhen there was little or no color in the landscape. Her complexion was bright, and her hair was light — there was more yellow in it than browni. And her dress was a bright violet velvet, looped np over an equally bright satin petticoat that glimmered in what sun there was. Her hair looked all the brigliter yellow, too, by reason of the brightness of the little violet velvet hat she wore on her head. There -was a degree of brilliancy about her, as she tripped along the dull-colored road, that made him turn to look at lier with pleasure every now and then. Slie al- most looked pretty through that softening cloud of tulle which was arrayed over her face. Nevertheless, in spite of these adventitious per- sonal adornments, she labored under a difficulty that threatened, for a short time, to be insur- mountable. She was absolutely without any knowledge whatever of one of his tastes, or fa- vorite pursuits, or habits. Until the last two or three j-ears she had not soai'ed into the spliere in which Lord Waldron, and such as Lord Waldron, dwelt. She had no data to go upon. He might be clever, or he might be frivolous, and given to young men's extravagances and follies, or he miglit have a mania for travelling, or for politics. She was utterly at a loss how to begin upon him. At length a happy thought struck her. She wotdd ask him what he had been doing latel}-, and, if it was any thing tangible, she would sym- pathize about it. 96 ONLY HERSELF. " Doing ?" he eaiJ, in answer to her question ; "oh, Httle enough — envying my brother, Digby, I think." " What for ?" she asked. "Because he has the chance given liim of showing whether or not he has any brains." "He thinks he is ambitious," she said to her- self. Then she said aloud, with an air of convic- tion that did her credit, considering she had not given a moment's thought to the subject five minutes before : "But you have no need to have a chance given you, I'm sure ; you will make it for your- self. I have alv/ays heard so much about it, that I have taken your talent for granted." It was very coarse flattery. It would have failed in its mark with an older, or a more un- truthful man. But he was young— and he was honest. He was not given to the utterance of false conversational coin himself; accordingly, he overlooked the coarseness of it in considera- tion of the kindliness it seemed to evince. " Why, who have yon heard about me from ?" he asked. " It must have been from some more partial friend tlian I knew I possessed, if he or she endowed me with talents." "I have heard of you from many people," Miss Berringer replied. Slie had no wish to create a special feeling of gratitude in Lord Waldron's breast towards any one in particular, so she refrained from names; "but," she con- tinued huiTiedly, " it has interested me so much ; I want to hear your views about so many things." As slie was not clear herself as to the name or object of a single thing on which she desired in- formation, she came to a pause here, and looked up at him as to a superior being. "I don't think I have any vieAvs about any thing," he said, laughing, in spite of his inborn courtesy, at the position of sage coiftisellor into which she had suddenly elected to raise him. "I'm a fellow without views; Digby is the lucky boy who is given the chance of forming some." " I know nothing of your brother, Digby," she said. "Don't you? He's the best fellow tliat ever breathed ; at least, I thought he was until lately; now I'm beginning to feel that he isn't quite such a brick as I thouglit him. If he Avas, he wouldn't have gone wrong with Helen Jocelyn." "Do you like Miss Jocehni? " I'm awfully fond of her. Talk about liking her!" Lord Waldron said, rousing himself a lit- tle; " I want to get at the bottom of that busi- ness," he continued. "Have you heard any thing from my mother?" "Only that she is very glad that it is broken off," Miss Berringer said, carelessly. "I can't see why, myself, as they were so fond of each other. Why should she be glad ? Do you know ?" Miss Berringer contemplated a bold coup ; still she hesitated. If only she could get up a private understanding between Lord Waldron and herself she would have made a great stejj forward. And on what better grounds could she get up tliis])rivatc understaiuling than about his brother Digby, and his brother Digby 's unfortunate love affair. She would really serve Digby if she were able to do so, since to do so would be to please Lord Waldron. Therefore she looked earnest and interested, and asked Lord Waldron if he knew why his mother sbould be glad of the ter- mination of this engagement between Digby and Helen Jocelyn. "I don't know ; but I suspect," he said, grave- ly — it was coming to him to feel that this girl might be a useful coadjutor in setting things straight for Digby and Helen. That things should be crooked was an incomprehensible thing to him — knowing both Digby and Helen well as he did. But that they should remain crooked was an abyss of woe into which he did not like to look. Therefore he determined to avail himself of the good-natured senices of this girl, who must be, he thought, altogether devoid of motives. There- fore he said : " I don't know, but I suspect ;" then he looked at Miss Beri'inger, and debated as to whether he should "trust her not at all, or all in all." She could have no motive but the best and most peace and happiness loving one, in questioning about the cause which had parted Helen and his broth- er ; and Helen was such a dear, jolly little thing ; he would risk something to get at a way of put- ting things straight for her. So his debate end- ed in his electing to trust Miss Berringer, and win her to aid him. " My mother likes Helen as a pretty, dear, lit- tle niece," he began ; "but she is ambitious for her son, you know. Miss Berringer. 'Digby ought to have done better' has been mamma's ciy ever since the children betrothed themselves. Kow she seems to feel more than ever that Digby ought to have done better." "In what way?" Miss Berringer asked, sym- pathetically. " Oh I what a pity it is — isn't it ? that he shouldn't marry some one dear Lady Lynton coidd quite approve of ?" "My mother quite approves of Helen," he blurted" out impatiently; "only Helen hasn't a fortune, at least not a large foitune. Do you un- derstand now. Miss Ben-inger. " " No ; I partly understand, but not quite, I am afraid," she said, with a little puzzled air. " Then I will tell you. Since my mother has known you, she has taken it into her head that you mightn't have — " he hesitated ; really he hardly knew how to put it ; but he was not suffer- ed to" hesitate long. Miss Berringer knew that if proper pressure were put on, he would say the veiy thing she was longing to say herself. That thing once said, would be a good basis for an "understanding" between Lord AValdron and herself; and when once she had established that, the rest woidd be easy. "That I might not what?" she said, softly. " I really have no right to say it,'" he said, get- ting embarrassed ; ' ' but I suppose I had better say it now." ""If you don't, I shall think it was something very dreadful — something that would show me that Lady Lynton thinks less well of me than I have deluded myself into believing that she thinks." The wary, sly questioner was almost ])utting him on his honor to relieve her mind of this doubt which she did not feel. " Well," he said ; "I think my mother hoped that if it had not been for Helen, you might have looked kindly upon Digby." Miss Berringer shook her head. "I shoidd always look kindly upon your broth- er Digby, especially after what you have said to- ONLY HERSELF. 97 day ; but not in the way that you mean. We must try to bring them together again, now that we shall be all down here for some time," she continued, animatedly; "we may do a great deal if we help each other, Lord Waldron. I am only a mouse, but didn't a mouse help a lion once?" "You're a lion-hearted Uttle mouse," he said, warmly ; feeling that he was called upon to say something, though what there was remarkably courageous in the course Miss Berringer had chalked out for him and herself, it would have been hard for him to say. "I didn't suppose, you know," he continued, "that you had any idea of this — " "I should hope not," she interrupted; "the mere thought of having unintentionally come be- tween people who love one another is a very painful one to me ; it would be more painful still for me if I thought that you thought so badly of me." They had walked a long way from the Priory by the time Miss Bemnger said this. They had walked fast, the pace being ordained by Miss Berringer. That astute young lady judged that the greater the distance she put between herself and Lady Lynton while engaged on this exploit, the better chance she (Fanny) would have of cel- ebrating a success. So while outward bound she regulated the pace, and she had the satisfaction of feeling now, that let them turn where they would, they must of necessity be some time long- er together. ' ' I have never thought badly of you, " he said ; he might have added with tioith that he had nev- er thought any thing at all about her. "You were not supposed to know exactly the relation in which my brother and Miss Jocel^Ti stood to each other ; no one could have thought badly of you, even if you had superseded her." "That I shall never do," she said. " Then T)igby will miss a very charming wife, and I shall gain a very charming friend," he al- lowed himself to say, gallantly. "As if your brother Digby would ever have thought of me after that lovely Miss Joceljn!" she tried to say coquettishly. "As if any man could resist thinking of you — I mean if he was not pre-engaged," he said ; "besides, "he added, his youthful veracity com- ing to his aid, and helping Mm out of that dilem- ma by changing the subject; " besides, Helen isn't the lovely ]\Iiss Jocelyn; that designation applies to Mrs. Falconer. " "I wonder you didn't fall in love with Mrs. Falconer when she was Miss Jocel}ii ;" Miss Ber- ringer was determined to make him talk about himself. " I never saw her when she was Miss Jocelyn. If I had seen her I should have fallen in love with her ; most fellows would, wouldn't they ?" he said. "Then I am glad you did not see her; for I am sure she doesn't like me, and if you had fallen in love with her, she would have set you against me. " Miss Berringer was not sure of any thing of the sort ; but she was anxious to associate Lord Waldron with herself in every way. "Oh ! no she wouldn't;" he did not feel suf- ficiently interested in her to utter any thing be- yond a feeble disclaimer. Moreover, he was get- ting tired, and was wondering whether it would 7 ever occur to her to cry halt, and turn homeward. They had walked out of the grounds, and away on the high road, and the afternoon was getting chilly, and he knew that his mother woidd be get- ting hot at their prolonged absence. " Are you not tired. Miss Berringer?" he said; and she said, "Yes," rather faintly ; "I always walk too far when I get an agreeable companion," she said, and it was borne in upon him that she was expecting him to offer her his arm. " You ought to ride," he said, deferring the evil moment of making that offer as long as he could ; " are you fond of riding?" Now Miss Berringer was not " fond " of riding. Truth to tell, she was horribly afraid of most horses, and unhappy upon all. Still she liked dis- porting herself in perfect equestrian costume on the back of a handsome horse in the Row in the summer, and she felt that it might be efficacious to saunter about through these winter lanes on horseback with Lord Waldron. Accordingly she said, "Yes, she liked riding," rather rapturously. And then went on to regret that she had not brought down one of her own pet horses. "I have three of my own, and they are such pets," she said, thinking it not altogether imwise to re- mind him that she had the means of indulging in any luxuiy that seemed pleasing to her. ' ' My father surely has a mount in the stables here that will suit you. I will see to that to-mor- row. Miss Berringer, if you will like to ride." "I shall like it above eveiy thing ; and we can go and see that sweet-looking Miss Jocel}Ti, can't we ?" she asked, eagerly ; " and you may be able to find out fi-ora her if you can do any good in that matter between your brother and her ; and you'll let me help, if I can." " She isn't pretty," Lord Waldron thought to himself; " but she's a good-natured httle thing." Then he took Miss Berringer back into the Prioiy gi'ounds through a small door in the boundary wall, and when he thought himself well away from the probability of meeting a human being he offered her his arm. And she took it, and did not attempt to walk fast now, but just sauntered on slowly, making good use of the support he gave. When they re- turned to the house. Lady Ljniton was ill-tem- peredly sitting down to five o'clock tea. "We have had such a delightful walk, dear Lady Lynton," Fanny said, going blithely into the presence of her aggrieved hostess ; "I had no idea the neighborhood was so pretty." "Where did you go to see any beauty?" Lady Lynton asked, rather grumpily, of her son. "Along that lane that leads to Dollington," he said. "Humph! the ugliest lane in the locality," Lady Lynton said; "you mustn't go in search of the picturesque with Waldron, my dear," she continued, making a great effort to recover her amiabihty towards her guest. "Digby is the only one who takes after me in having any real taste for the beautiful." ' ' I will go and see what my father wants of me now, " Lord Waldron said, carelessly ; and as he went away out of the room he heard Miss Berringer say, ' ' I am really longing to see more of your son Digby, " and he did not know what to make of her. That night was the pleasantest Miss Berringer had yet passed at the Biioiy. It fell to Lord 98 ONLY HERSELF. Waldron's lot to take her down to dinner, and she made good use of her time. She continued and strengthened the little confidence that she had already established. "I am afraid what you suspect is the case," she whispered. "I am to be set up as a rival to that dear, sweet Miss JoceljTi ; I won't be, you know, that ; but you must help and advise me." It did not occur to him until he was alone that night that it was a queer thing for a girl to ask advice from one strange man as to how she was to deport herself to another. ' ' She really wishes to act nicely, I suppose," he told himself at last. Then his mother's words rang in his ears again : " There is nothing so bad, in my opinion, as a meaningless flirtation between a girl he ^vould never dream of marrying and a young man of your position ! " Was he drifting into a ' ' mean- ingless flirtation ?" CHAPTER XXIX. MOTHER AND SON. Late on Christmas Eve Digby Bumington arrived at the Priory. He had been miserable about the termination of his engagement to Helen, and very sore about the necessity for it ; for he had loved her for years. Still, love to a young man just entering on a career is not so all-im- portant a thing as it is to a young girl whose love is her career, and he had got over the outward signs of his suff"ering by the time he came to the Priory. Nevertheless, when he found himself once again out of the political and in the family vortex, he could not help remembering Helen, and remem- ing much in connection with her. It must not be taken for granted that, because the statement has been made that he did not keep brooding over his grief, that he was by any means callously for- getful or imworthy of her. "The Jocelyns are dowm, aren't they ?" he said, to his brother, in the coui-se of an after-dinner chat with him. " Yes, they're down. I have only seen them once, though," Lord Waldron said. •'When did you see them? Wlio did you see ?" Digby asked, eagerly. ' ' I rode over there yesterday with Miss Ber- ringer, and we saw Aunt Caroline and Helen." " How does Helen look ?" " Oh ! much the same as she used to look, only older," Lord Waldron replied. " Was there any tiling said about me?" Digby asked. " Helen asked after you." " And Aunt Caroline?" "Aunt Caroline didn't mention you ; indeed, she was very cool to me altogether; I didn't know what to make of it. Helen was as she al- ways was." ' ' They blame me, I suppose ?" Digby said. "Really, Digby, I don't—" Lord Waldron said, shifting his position a little; — "if they do, I shouldn]^ be veiy much astonished at them. What does it mean ?" " I'll tell you — though it isn't a pleasant thing to tell," Digby said. "A week or two before Dora was married, old Matthews happened to be at the JoceljTis to see some of the sei-vants ; and while she was there the porter said Miss Helen had gone out by herself. Blatthews didn't think any thing of that ; but later in the evening, just as she was going away up the area steps, Helen came home in a cab. Matthews took that cab home, and spoke to the man about his late fare, and he told her there was ' some lark up with one of the young ladies from the house she came out of — that he had driven Miss Jocelpi to a house in Westbounie Grove, and she had sent up Miss JocelvTi's compliments to Mr. Carlyon, and would he come and iji^eak to her ?' Mr. Carlyon did not come out, but she went in. Now I ask you, Waldron, do you blame me any more ?" "I don't believe it," Lord Waldron said. " My dear fellow, I didn't like believing it when my mother told me first ; but I was obliged to believe it, especially when I heard, as I soon did, that Carlyon was her shadow. I dare say he will be dovra with them soon." "He is there already," Lord Waldron said; "but I don't believe it a bit the more for that," and, somehow or other, Digby felt comforted at hearing this expression of faith in his late afii- anced. " How are you getting on Avith Miss Berrin- ger ?" Digby asked, abruptly. " She's not a bad sort of girl," his brother an- swered, slowly; "but my mother has overrated her merits, I think. " "Why ? did she intend the heiress for you?" Digby asked. "No; but for you," Lord Waldron said; " and she won't quite do after Helen, you know." ' ' There's an end to Helen, as far as I am con- cerned," Digby said, firmly; "not that I shall forward my mother's views about Miss Berringer a bit more for that." ' ' You're uncommonly foolish to let an old wom- an's story (which if investigated would most prob- ably turn out a complete mare's nest) affect Hel- en." "It's easy to say that, Waldron; but if you had loved and tnisted a girl as long as I have Helen, to find out that she has deceived you in a shady way would affect her considerably. Helen had a perfect right to withdraw her afiections from me," the young fellow continued, with a gulp, "but she had no right to tr}' and make a fool of me after she had taken up with Carlyon." "They all dine here on the twenty- seventh," Lord Waldron said, briefly, and then they turned to another topic. Meantime, in the drawing-room. Miss Berrin- ger had placed herself in a little confiding attitude on a little footstool at Lady Lynton's feet, in or- der to lead that astute peei-ess to believe that she (Fanny) did not wish to shun conversation with her hostess. But Lady Lynton was in an irasci- ble mood, and so deemed it wiser to feign sleep- iness. She did not wish to offend the heiress by showing displeasure to her, and, on the other hand, she was too thoroughly displeased at the turn affairs had taken, to affect to feel amiably towards her guest. Consequently, she leaned back in her chair with her elbow on the arm of it, and her hand over her eyes, until Fanny directly ad- dressed her with, ' ' Now that I have seen your son Digby, I am so interested about that report. Lady Lynton. " " What report ?" Lady Lynton asked, testily. " Why, of his engagement, and the sudden breaking of it, with Miss Jocelyn." ONLY HERSELF. 99 " I have told you before," Lady Lynton said, emphatically, ''that it was a childish affair, that was never worth mentioning. Don't cousins nearly always pretend to be ' engaged ' to each other, while they are too young to know what it means ?'' "Then you think your son Digby too young to marry yet ?" "Indeed I don't," Lady Lynton said, rising up, and casting sleepiness to the winds; "I meant that he was too young, and she was too, when the folly was first started, to know their own minds. Why, she is coming here to dinner on the twenty-seventh : of course, if there had been any thing in it, she wouldn't do that." ' ' You'll excuse my asking about it, won't you ?" Fanny said, deprecatingly ; and Lady Lynton, who hoped that the asking denoted a dawning in- terest in her son, graciously gave the assurance the heiress pleaded for. And then went on to show a little more interest in Digby ; and allto- gether Lady Lynton thought that things were far from being as crooked as she had feared. Still Lady LjTiton could not be blind to the fact by-and-by that it was to her eldest son, to the future Earl of Lynton, that Miss Bemnger was, in plain English, unmistakably making up. There are ways and ways of doing this, and IMiss Bei'- ringer's was not the way the class from which the future countess should be drawn would fa- vor. Lady LjTiton found it hard to suppress a word or two of indignation to her eldest son. But he seemed so happily unconscious of doing any thing that could reasonably call it forth, that Lady Lynton made the requisite effort, and did suppress it. There were a dozen other people in tlie room, but Lady Lynton saw only that pan-. If she could have heard them also, her maternal anxiety might have been assuaged. But Miss Berringer contrived to keep out of earshot. No matter ■\\'ith what ingenuity Lady Lpiton changed her position, Fanny with equal and even greater ingenuit}' changed hers a moment after, in a way that defied the listening powers of the suspicious parent. Yet they were talking the merest com- monplaces ; Lord Waldvon had not the faintest notion that the young lady desired him to talk any thing else. They were talking the merest commonplaces, and for all the apparent progress she made she might just as well have released him and assuaged his mothers alanns. But tlie heir- ess knew that continual dropping wears away the hardest stone, and she was beginning to feel sure that if only time and opportunity were given her she would successfully combat his indifference. It was something gained that he volunteered the information that " Digby had been speaking about Miss Jocelyn, and that he. Lord Waldron, felt convinced that it was nothing but an absurd blunder that might be set straight. " " I will tiy to win Helen's confidence when she comes here to dinner," IMiss Berringer said, wannly ; and the warmth seemed so good-na- tured that Lord Waldron did not at the time re- member how futile it was for any body to contem- plate winning any one else's confidence at a state dinner-party. " I should like to see you in my dressing-room, Digby, in half anhoui-," his motiier said to him, as he was going up stairs that niglit. " Ver)' well," Digby replied; but he did not think it ' ' A'eiy well, " or well at all, that he should be summoned so soon for counsel or reproof — most probably for both. However, at the time appointed he knocked at her door, and when he was admitted the vision of his mother in a thick red flannel gown met his eyes. It was not a pretty vision. It has been told before that Lady Lynton was not a good-looking woman in the most carefid and correct of Parisian costumes. But it has not been told what an es- sentially ill-looking woman she was when in a careless costume, such as that in which Digby now beheld her. Her lace head-gear was off, too, and her thin gray hair, unadorned by mechlin and precious stones, hung down in straight sparse locks on either side of her fat red face. But the room looked comfortable, and Digby resigned himself to his fate gracefidly enough, ^vhen he saw that a big arm-chair had been placed for him opposite to a fine fire. He was fond of his mother ; it must not be supposed that his quick eye detected the blemishes in her appearance through any want of love for her. On the contraiy, his regard for her sharpened his dislike to seeing her look at so ver}- gi'eat a disadvantage. ' ' Why have you loitered so, Digby ?" were her fii'st words to him, when he had seated himself. " You said in half an horn-, exactly half an hoiu" ago," he said, holding up his watch to convince her. " I don't mean now ; I mean on your way home. I told you I had particular reasons for A\dshing you to get home as soon as possible, yet you act- ually wasted three days in London." ' ' I didn't waste them. I had some clothes buQt — those Berlin fellows can make nothing but bags and blouses — and went to the rehearsals of two of the best pantomimes I ever saw." "What a boy you are still," she said, angrily, ' ' frittering away a golden opportunity on pan- tomimes and nonsense ! Really, Digby, you are too trying — much too tiying ; it was not veiy courteous to me, putting filial duty out of the question altogether, when I told you that I want- ed you to take some of the trouble of entertaining off my hands." "You had Waldron," he said. "And I would veiy much rather not have had Waldron, I can tell you that. If you don't take care, Digby, your brother will snatch a prize I had destined for you out of your gi"asp," and Lady Lynton, as slie said this, shook her head and looked significant. " I\Iy dear mother, you deal in riddles. What is the prize ? Tell me ; and if it's worth winning, 111 enter the lists against Waldron. " " Don't be ridiculous," she said, coldly, refus- ing to respond to his smile. "Miss Berringer, one of the most amiable girls I have ever seen, with fifty thousand a year now, and I don't know how mucli more at her mother's death, is the prize I mean." "She may not object to regilding the coronet ; but she will never look at a penniless younger son ; besides, that's out of the question." " "\^^lat is out of the question ?" "My maiTj-ing Miss Berringer; let Waldron have her, as you all want her so much." '• I don't want her for Waldron," Lady L\Titon said, nearly crj'ing -^vitli vexation, "he M'ill have enough ; you will have nothmg. Why should it be out of the question tliat you marrv' Miss Ber- ringer more than Miss any body else ?" 100 ONLY HERSELF. " Any body else is out of the question, too," he said, briefly. "Digby, this is false sentimentality, and sickly nonsense. I won't pretend to misunderstand you. Because that absurdity with your cousin Helen has come to nothing, you think it will be becom- ing to obsen-e an unappreciated and unrecognized fidelity to her, I suppose, for the best years of your life ?" He made no answer, but just tapped his foot on the floor. "Don't make that noise, it jars my nerves, and I have quite enough to try them. Your la- ther has given me an unpleasant commission. I have to tell you that he must decrease your al- lowance. " "All right, mother." "It is not all right, Digby; and I will not have you answer me with such contemptuous in- diff'erence. It is very far from being all right ; you do not live on what you have now. My dear boy," she suddenly added, relapsing into the melting mood, "do be guided by reason, not by feehng. Helen you can never many ; why not tiy to win a wife who would bring you eveiy thing a man can desire ? she has youth, and amiability, and money ; a maniage with her would set my mind at rest about you." "]Mother,"he said, abruptly, "we will talk about Miss Berringer another time ; I'll believe her to be all that's delightful (though she doesn't look it), as you say she is ; but I want you to tell me more about Helen: did you ever speak to to lier about it?" "Indeed, no," Lady LjTiton said, haughtily • ' both your Aunt Caroline and Helen were so exceedingly cool to me when I did go to them that I did not venture to question Helen ; besides it would have been useless — she might have told nie a stoiy." ' ' She would never tell that, " Digby inten-upted. ' ' But she never could have given me a satis- factoiy reason for her going alone secretly to a j'^oung man's house at night. I am shocked when- ever I think of it ; I wonder you can bring your- self to hanker after her still." "I do hanker after her — I shall always hanker after her," he said. "Old Matthews is short- sighted, she made some mistake ; Waldron says the same, and he says if he were me he would have it out with Helen." ' ' There was no mistake about it, and I shall think you ]iitiful if you let yourself be deluded into believing that there was one," Lady LjTiton said, warmly; "but go your own way, both Waldron and you seem bent upon trying me to the utmost." "What has Waldron done?" Digby asked, carelessly. Parental admonition, if wisely and temperately offered, is rarely disregarded ; but parental wrath poured out for nothing, is sure to harden the heart of the offender on whose head it falls. "Is his sin as heavy as mine?" he con- tinued. "Will he fall in love in the wrong place, or won't lie fall in love in the right place? — which is it, mamma ?" " I would rather not say another word about it to-night," Lady Lynton said, aggrievedly. "I am sure if I were only a negligent, careless, thoughtless mother, my life would be a much hajipier one than it is. It is disheartening to be always planning something good for you boys, and to have you thwarting me, and standing in your own light time after time." Lady Lynton dropped a few tears at this juncture — tears of genuine love, and wrath, and disappointed pride. But they were ill-timed tears, consequently Digby disregarded them. "If you don't want to say any thing more to me, mother, I think 1 will go and have a cigar with Waldron, "he said, carelessly, rising up as he spoke. Then Lady Lynton begged him to sit down again, as she had much more to say to him. "I hope it isn't about Miss Berringer, " he said, resigning himself, and throwing himself back in his chair. " No — it is about your cousin Helen. I have told you she dines here on the twenty-seventh ?" " Yes," he said, his attention arrested at once. "Well, I promise you that I will take an op- portunity of speaking to her — of trying to gain her confidence and an explanation. I will tell you honestly what she says, and then you will be free to act as you please. Believe me, Digby, this will be a far more delicate way of proceeding than if you go and question her about her noc- turnal adventure — as you didn't do it before you broke oft" your engagement. Shall it be so ?" "Yes, mother," he said, hesitatingly. "As you say," he added, bitterly, "I have forfeited the right to question her." "But I as her aunt can never lose that right while M'e are at all on terms," Lady Lynton said, falhng back eagerly upon the relationship now that it might be useful to her. "I shall try to win her to confide in me," she went on, quite wanning herself up to the imdertaking by her own words, "and then we shall see; it will be ten times better, however it turns out, than that jou should be precipitate, and either wound her, or lower yourself. In the mean time, you need not neglect Miss Beninger." " I am not going to try to be on with a ncAV love, mother, whether I am oft" with the old or not. " " Such an opportunity may never occur again," Lady Lynton pleaded ; ' ' here she is not surround- ed as she is in town ; she is well-disposed to- wards you — " " She knows so much of me," he interrupted, laughing. " Digl)y, I tell you she is predisposed towards you. It will be your own fault — entii'ely your o\n\ fault, if you do not win her." "My dear mother, as you are such a warm fiiend of hers, I wonder you want to foist her upon a fellow who would never care a fraction for her." Then again Lady Lynton declared that she would rather not say another word on the subject ; and this time Digby did succeed in getting himself out of the room. " My mother is awfully afraid that you are go- ing to defraud me of Miss Berringer," Digby said to his brother, when they found themselves alone. And then the two young men laughed. But Lord Waldron said, "There's no fear of that; not but what Miss Berringer is an uncommonly nice girl,' but I have no vocation that way just yet." And then they fell to the discussion of other things, and Lord Waldron forgot his fair friend, and Digby forgot his lost love. Meanwhile, Miss Beninger, in her own room, had been arming herself for the morrow, first by ONLY HERSELF. 101 having her yellow locks violently crimped, and then by foiling the minute she got into bed into one of those capital restoratives, a dreamless slumber — in which, alas ! slow-minded people, or people who use their minds to bad purposes, alone can in- dulge. Her progress in the matter on which she liad come dowTi might be imperceptible to otliers, but it was very perceptible to her. Lord Wal- dron was unconscious as yet that she had the slightest sway, and yet she knew very well that she had the power to win him on now until he would not know how to go back. " He is a vain, ambitious boy," she said to herself. It was not love that made her resolve to pan- der to his vanity, and to flatter his ambition by seeming to believe in it. There was pleasui'e, though, in the thoughts of a countess's coronet. She had a vast army of vulgar friends, this great heiress, and she could not help feeling what a delicious thing it would be to dazzle and awe them by a display of rank and position corresponding to her wealth. There was pleasure, too, in the thought of outwitting Lady Lynton — Lady Lyn- ton, who, though she was for from being a female Solon, was immeasurably superior mentally to Fanny Berringer. It was very patent, though, to the infei'ior mind that her hostess did not want her eldest son to be sacrificed on tlie shrine of jVIammon, although she could calmly contemplate offering up her favorite son thereon. In this case her family pride overbalanced her maternal affection. Miss Berringer fathomed all this, but slept a dreamless, undisturbed sleep, and rose the next morning feeling tolerably sure that sheshould be Lady Lpiton. The next morning was Christmas-morning, and as the large party assembled in the iiouse were not to be supplemented by any guests from the neighborhood, the gathering partook of the nature of a family party to a degree that was very con- ducive to Miss Berringer's well-being. She went out into the grounds picking holly berries to make herself a wreath to wear at dinner, and, somehow or other, she managed to get Lord Waldron to go M'ith her. Berries for such a purpose had to be gathered with care and deliberation ; the gather- ing took a long time. When the pair went back, it was evident that Lady Lynton was disposed to regard every thing and every body more in anger than in sorrow. CHAPTER XXX. HUSBAND AND -WIFE. Mr. and Mrs. Falconer were adjusting their angles to each other admirably. Indeed it seem- ed as if Dora had no angles to adjust to any one or any thing, she was so sweetly smooth and so gayly good-humored. Her husband was almost startled and very agreeably surprised at many un- expected developments of her character. He had been fascinated by Uora, he had admired her, he had been annoyed to find himself getting in love with her ; but he had not known how foscinating, or how athnirable, or how lovable she was until he married her. Indeed, under his auspices (or shall it be said, under tiie aus]jices of altered cir- cumstances and a definite fate), Dora grew in all the good qualities that men find to be most essen- tial in their wives. She knew when to give way. Better still, she knew when to be firm. She was no slave wife, fearful of hazarding a contraiy opinion or wish to tlie one expressed by her hus- band. All things were made so easy and pleas- ant in her well-ordered home that the cloven foot of her exacting selfishness was never lured into peeping out. Her theories were all excel- lent, and as to her practice ! well, the practice of a bride of a good degree who is implicitly be- lieved has small temptation to be other than excellent too. After that visit to Court Royal, when Dora had definitely refused Helen's request to let Hel- en clear herself of that of which the girl felt in- tuitively she was accused, there had been no inter- course between the two houses until Christmas day, when the bride and bridegroom dined at Court Royal. Mrs. Bruton was there and Bertie Carlyon, and Dora's thoughts while dressing for the dinner Iiad been very much bent upon these two. Not bent upon them painfully at all. Beauti- fid Mrs. Falconer only wanted to outshine the one, and impress the other with her deepened beauty. Her sole feeling in meeting Bertie Carlyon again, was a fear that he might fancy she had ever loved him, and had sacrificed her heart to her ambition in marrying Mr. Falconer. And this was not the case. All the love in her nature that she did not lavish upon iierself she gave to her husband. On the whole, she anticipated much more ex- citement of a certain kind in meeting Mrs. Bruton than she did in meeting Bertie Carlyon. Now that she had ascertained that her husband had, once, a long time ago, loved and been loved by the widow, all Dora's soul was in arms to " shine her down, " to subdue lier, to pale her beauty. It was like arming for the fray this night as she stood be- fore her toilette-glass, and saw herself being grad- ually adorned into greater grace and loveliness than was iier portion without the lustrous satin and the glittering jewelry. " If it was summer I should make you wear natural flowers instead of those emeralds," Sir. Falconer said. "And I would wear them," Dora said, duti- fully, "though tiiey would fade during that aw- fully long drive, you know, and I should look di- lapidated long before dinner woidd be over." ' ' I didn't know you were such a rich Uttle wom- an in jewelry," he said, looking at the emerald suite critically. "Dora, these are splendid. Wliy did I never see them ?" " They reached me in the confusion before my wedding — the day before ; I foi'got to show them then, and I have ke]3t them as a surjirise till I could wear them ; Mrs. Bruton sent them to me ; was it not kind ?" "More than kind," he said, warmly; "it's like you, darling, to pay her the compliment of wearing them for the first time when she can see them." " Yes," Dora said, slowly ; she was remember- ing as she said it that she had never once thought of the delicate compliment the wearing of the em- eralds would be to Mrs. Bruton. She had only thought of how their brilliancy would aid her in outshining Mrs. Bruton. "But I don't see why you should think her ' more than kind ' for giving them to me ; unless — " She paused, she did not cjuite like yet to remind her husband unpleasantly of any thing. Least of all that he had loved another woman before her. But he pressed her, and she had never refused him 102 ONLY HEKSELF. an answer, or given him a false one since she had been his wife. " Unless what, Dora?" he asked. " Unless you think that she bears your former relation with her too keenly in mind ; othenvise there is nothing in her giving any thing to me." "I would much rather that you did not speak of my former relations with Mrs. Bmton," he said, gently ; " to me that is as if it had never been ; I coiUd wish it to be the same to you." "I wonder if it's the same to her," Dora said, turning round and putting her anns round his ' neck, and her chin against his breast ; "it can't be— you dear, kind, dear, old fellow, she must re- j gret you ; how glad I am that nothing broke our engagement ; broken engagements are funny things, are they not ?" "That reminds me of Digby Buraington and Helen," he said ; " Avhat is it with them, do you know, Dora ?" " Changeableness on his part, I believe," Dora said, briefly. "Has she ever hinted at a possible cause to you?" "No, never," Dora said unblushingly. Her natural mendacity came to her relief as soon as ever she felt herself in a dubious or dangerous po- sition. To maintain her integrity unMer adverse circumstances was quite beyond Mrs. Falconer. So now she said, "No, never," and looked most winningly lovely, as she turned away to gather up her gloves and fan, saying she " heard the car- riage coming round." Two 01 three times during their drive Mr. Fal- coner reverted to the topic, and speculated as to the possible causes of estrangement between Dig- by and Helen. And two or three times Dora adroitly tumed it aside. Still, though she could stem the current of his words, she could not stem the current of his thoughts, and she felt that these were strongly set towards the subject. " Those young people seemed so truly, and ar- dently, and sensibly attached to each other. I can't imagine how they got wrong," he said, as they neared Court Royal. And Dora said with a yawn, " Oh, dear, it's not worth thinking about. Hel- en will soon get over it, and for my part I think she is well rid of an unstable boy ; people say that there is something between Bertie Carlyon and her now, you know." "I didn't know it, and I am most sincerely sorrj' to hear it. Don't take up that fashion of calling him ' Bertie ' Cai-lyon, dear ; he's a man I don't wish to be intimate with, or to see you in- timate with." " I assure you I don't wont to be intimate with him," Dora said, honestly enougli. " I think very badly of him," Mr. Falconer pursued, vigorously. ' ' I think him unscmpulous and unprincipled." ' ' Unscmpulous and unprincipled. " The words made her wince. What if he should ever prove himself these tilings about her. " He's not worth talking about," Mrs. Falcon- er said. "I don't know that he is," her husband re- joined ; but for all that ready acquiescence, she could see that he went on thinking about him. It was very for from being an unpleasant party that night at Court Royal, in spite of one or two adverse circumstances. To l)e particularly jorial and overflowing with merriment at Christmas time is a power that flees from the great majori- ty after childhood is passed. As a rule the sea- sonable festivities are a trifle forced. We re- member and we forebode. More especially do we do this when an intention of extra joyousness has been announced. Time was, Time is, are the words that ring like a melancholy refrain to eveiy thing. Or if those very words do not re- sound, their sad meaning is impressed upon one in some other and more homely, and therefore more heartfelt ones. But this was an effortless gatheiing. Great things had not been prophesied concerning it. All that Helen had suffered herself to hope in the interest of their guests was that " things would not fall flat." The girl was in a state composed of revolt and remorse. She told herself that she must have been dreaming, insensible, mad, when she acceded to Mrs. Bruton's request that Mr. Carlyon shoidd be asked to Court Royal. See- ing him constant!}' in the whirl of London life, when he had only been one of them in crowds from which her thoughts and her heart were far away, seeing him thus she had grown accustomed to him. She had smarted and stung under the consciousness that he was an actor in that little drama in which she had been forced to play a part. But now that she saw him here domesti- cated in her father's house, in daily, nay liom-ly intercourse with herself, and liable to meet her sister, the young wife, her indifference fled, and she bitterly reproached herself for her supine ac- quiescence. She did not like the man — she distrusted him. It da\vned upon her from the hour of his arrival on this visit to Court Royal that he was too suave to be quite safe. He still adopted that air of en- tire forgetfiilness of all that had occun-ed. He nev- er reverted by word or glance, by allusion or in- nuendo, to that painful time when she (Helen) had gone to him as suppliant for her sister. And this very resei-ve on the point brought home to her pure heart Avhat he, and others like him, would think of the outside look of what she had done. Besides this, there was the stinging consciousness that Dora had flirted with this man while she was engaged to another, had corresponded with him, and now, that she was exonerated from all share in the punishment, was willing to meet him witli happ3' indiff'erence. Helen did not, because she dared not, betray any of these feelings to those about her. But she infused into her man- ner to Mr. Carlyon a something that was not coldness, but that yet was far more repellent to him tlian mere coldness would have been. It was the womanly dignity of a woman wlio felt that she might have to use it as a weapon of defense against him. And still, the more it repelled him in her presence, the more the memoiy of it at- tracted him in her absence : and he longed to, and dared not, give her the verbal assurance that she should never have cause to regret her good- ness to her sister through any act or word of his. But he dared not do it. She was at a distance from him now in her pure superiority, and if he ventured to assure her that her ))ure superiority should remain unquestioned, how slie woidd rise and scorn him for daring to suggest that it could ever be questioned ! How, until he had assured her of this, could he ever dare to addi-ess her ? She woidd not let him win upon her with the ONLY HERSELF. 103 subtle, soft fascination that had won upon so many. Without an effort she kept aloof from him. And he knew that she did so, although with her perfect courtesy as a daughter of the house towards him, he could find no fault. In truth the girl was veiy unliappy. More un- happy in having lost her self-respect in having aidecl in deceiving Mr. Falconer, and helped the deceiver Dora, than in having lost her lover. But it must not be imagined that this last was but a shght grief to the young, loving girl. She had lost him, and she loved him, and she felt that he must think less well of her than she could bear to have him think. And all this she must com- pel herself to endure for Dora's sake. For Dora, who, in her selfish happiness, refused to believe that any strain was made upon endurance in so doing. But, fortunately for others, it was always veiy much a habit of this girl to attend to the present duty rather than to the now unalterable past, or tlie barely possible future. So now, feeling tliat it was her part as daughter of the house to make all things in it seem as bright as possible, she bent all her energies in the direction of making them so — and she had an able coadjutor in Mrs. Bruton. She could not repress the expression, half- amazed, half-scornful, which flitted over her fiice when thebeautifid Mrs. Falconer came in, decked in Mrs. Bruton's gift, and ready to hold out the hand of friendship to Mr. Carlyon. " She is ca- pable of any thing," the girl thought, and she breatlied a fervent prayer that Dora might never have a daughter. " ' Once beguiled, and ever- more beguiling.' The line appUes ^^'ith some- what feai'ful force to Dora," she said to herself as her fascinating sister turned from the congrat- idations of the others to her, and said, " You have been with them all your life, Hel- en dear, but think what a family party, with papa and mamma, must be to me;" and somehow oa- other the remark made Helen remember all that Dora fully intended her to remember, namely, how she (Dora) had been for many years an out- cast from her father's house, while Helen had been enjoying all the safety and security of it. Then, as there was no possibility of the rash ex- pression of the wish being gratified, Dora went on, "We only want grandpapa and grandmam- ma and Aunt Grace here to make me cpiite hap- py, and the party quite complete." " You can have them down by New Year's day," Lady Caroline suggested. "That, unfortunately, we can't," Dora said, looking back over her shoulder as she took her father's ami when dinner was announced; "we are engaged already." Then they went in to din- ner, and she found herself opposite to Mr. Car- lyon. "Have you finished your copy of the Infiint Samuel?" she felt herself m-ged on by some imp of defiance to say. " Yes ; is your Age of Innocence come to an end ?" he replied, promptly, and then Dora wish- ed that she had held her tongue, for a cloud came over her husband's face either at the words, or at the tone in which they were uttered. Late that evening, in absolute forgetfulness of there being any reason why she should not do so, IMrs. Falconer asked her sister, and Mrs. Bruton, and Mr. Carlyon, in each other's presence, to come over the following day to luncheon at Dol- lington. "I don't think we can," Helen said hesita- tingly ; " we want to get up our parts for the first charade." " Oh, they are very easy," Mrs. Bruton said, " they need not keep us at home ; besides we must have air and exercise." Mrs. Bruton had a feverish desire to see how Dora deported herself as mistress of the house of which she (]Mrs. Bruton) might have been mis- tress once long ago. She had no anticipation of pleasure in going there. No anticipations of pleasure, that is, of a definite and decided kind. But she did anticipate experiencing a certain sort of negative pleasure — of the pleasure that is born of regret and resignation when both these things have become habits. She wanted to see whether or not her half hope, half fear, that Dora made Mr. Falconer completely happy, was real- ized. She wanted to verify the reports she had heard of Mrs. Falconer's young matronly grace and dignity — to see it for herself, and to acknowl- edge it and to accept it. So, somewhat eagerly, she pressed the point, that they should go to luncheon at Dollington on the following day. And Dora smiled graciously at her for doing so, accepting it as a just tribute to the grace of hospitality with which she, Dora, had urged it. Then, between those three, Dora, Mrs. Bruton, and Mr. Carlyon, it came to be set- tled that they should all go, and Helen found her- self once more pledged to the performance of an act against which her heart, and her taste, and her judgment, were alike in revolt. Her heart, be- cause it was heavy, and there was no relieving power for it in Dora's presence ; her taste, be- cause this man, who had threatened her sister, should never have been welcomed by that sister again ; her judgment, because it told her that what her heart and taste alike condemned was wanting in some attribute of good. Neverthe- less she was to go. A few minutes before the Falconers' departure Helen found herself close to her brother-in-law, and became conscious of his bestowing upon her a fixed regard which savored strongly both of pity and inquiiy. " Well, Kobert," she said, smiling, "you and I have not had an ojjportunity of saying a quiet word to each other since we have been near con- nections." ' ' And I have a good many quiet words to say to you, Helen, when you can hear them," he said ; " and I hope you will answer them," he added, suddenly. ' ' I shall always be glad to hear them, provid- ed they are pleasant," she said, merrily, for she did not wish to encourage serious questionings from any one. " They are wholesome." "So are bitters," she replied, quickly, "but I don't care to take them." " Then you don't want to be healed ?" "I am sound already, thank you," she said, looking up at him gratefully. '■' So many sick people think ; when you come to us to-morrow I have a fiivorite recipe of mine to try on you, though, if you are sound already, — well, if you are not it may help you to become so." " What is your recipe, Robert ?" she asked. 104 ONLY HERSELF. "A little plain, honest speaking," he said: and when he said it, Helen knew that she would be compelled to bear questioning from him con- cerning the broken troth of Digby and herself. Dora had seen her husband speaking rather confidentially to her sister, and her curiosity was aroused by the circumstance. She was not a woman who could remain patiently in doubt or suspense about any thing that might concern her- self, consequently she commenced questioning him as soon as they were alone — at least as soon as she could do so advisedly. "AVas Helen confiding any thing to you that I may hear, Robert?" she asked. "She was not confiding any thing at all; I wish she could be induced to confide in me. " "About what?" Uora asked, sharply. "About this business of Burnington and her- self; Helen is not an ordinary girl who has a love affair of importance on perpetually ; she is griev- ing — can't you see it ?" ' ' It would be great folly to take notice of every fit of depression that comes over a girl," Dora said ; ' ' it's natural for them to think that with the fading away of their first love-dream, eveiy interest they have in the world has faded — for a time." "I would be the last person in the world to encourage that false and maudlin view, as jou evidently consider it, but that is not Helen's case ; she, as I have said, is not one to give herself and take herself away lightly, and Digby Burnington appreciated her. Consequently, I think there has been foul play between them. " Dora's color heightened, but it was dark, save for a solitary moonbeam thas shot its rays into tlie carriage, and he could not see her. He only heard that her Aoice trembled as she answered, " Whom do you suspect ?" He thought that the tremble was caused by natural indignation at the idea of any one inter- fering to mar her sister's fate. "We won't use such an ugly word as 'sus- pect,' " he said ; "but we will see whether Helen can't be helped by her sager sister and brother to a right understanding with Digby. " " Do you mean yourself by the ' brother ?' " she asked. "Yes ; I am her brother." "In law only, and I am not her real sister even ; the same mother's blood does not flow in our veins ; Robert, you must not go interesting yourself about her too much." Dora spoke quite passionately. She was so very much afraid of a confidential intimacy being arrived at between her husband and her sister, that it struck dismay to her heart. If Helen ever betrayed her (Dora) to Mr. Falconer, where would their future peace be ? It was all nothing, of coTu-se, but Mr. Fal- coner would think so loAvly of her for not having dared to trust him with that nothing. "My dear Dora, you don't mean that?" he said, half jestingly. "Yes, I do mean that. I mean that I can't bear to think that you may ever get Helen to trust you where she has not tnisted me. She has not trusted me in this case — why should you solicit, or she give, her confidence ?" " I was hoping that she might be won to give it to both of us," he said, quietly. "Then let me ask her, dearest," she said, put- ting her arms round his neck, and her Iiead on his shoulder; " you know I have always disliked the idea of brothers and sisters-in-law being on very free and intimate terms ; I dislike it more than ever now : such terms often make mischief for the wife." " Dora, what are you sayingorthinkingabout?" he said, in a tone that denoted that he was consid- erably shocked. ' ' I mean just this — that a sister often thinks she is bound to point out defects in the wife just because the wife happens to be her sister ; all women like to be considered impartial, and they think it a great effort of impartiality when they can censure and blame their own : that is the worst I meant, Robert, and I hope it is quite bad enough to wani you off" the dangerous ground of tiying to establish friendly relations with my sis- ter. " " Helen would be utterly incapable of giving me wrong impressions — and it is only wrong im- pressions that could paint you as less worthy than you are," he argued. " Oh, that is all very well in theoiy," Dora said, impatiently ; "but Helen wouldn't be incapable of doing any thing that other women are capable of. I am tired of her grievance about Digby Burnington, and as you think so highly of her, I wonder you want to tiy and get back a man who has palpably tired of her. " The wonder of it is that men -will bear a series of these and similar illogical remarks. But they do out of pity sometimes for the weaker vessel from whom they are poured. But Mr. Falconer had not arrived at the distressing stage of pitying his wife's foibles as yet. He was blind to them, and when she insisted on flashing them before him he gave them another name. CHAPTER XXXI. changed! When the party from Court Royal reached Dollington the following day, the first person Helen saw on entering her sister's drawing-room was Lady Lynton. As the terms on which they had parted in town had not been remarkably cor- dial, and as the circumstances which had conduced to that lack of cordiality had been painful in the extreme to Helen, she did not greet the vision with any ebullition of joy from her tongue, or ex- pression of gladness on her face. She shook hands with her august relative, and tumed to Dora, who was standing at some little distance pretending to re-arrange some flowers, and said, ' ' You see, Dora, we have taken you by storm, as you invited us to do." "And we have taken her by storm, too," Lady Lynton said, suavely ; "Miss Berringer was bent on coming here this morning, and as it does not do for young ladies to be riding and driving about alone with young men, I was obliged to come too." " They are all out in the consen-atory, if j'ou hke to join them," Dora said. " And who are ' they ?' " Mrs. Bruton asked. " Miss Berringer and my son, and Mr. Falco- ner," Lady Lynton said, briskly; and Helen sat down, saying, "lam too cold for the conservatoiy, I will stay here." Wlien Lady Lynton mentioned ONLY HERSELF. 105 " my son," Helen never gave one thought to Lord Waldron. It could only be Digby. And so, she was to see him ! Tmth to tell. Lady Lynton had had a hard morning's work. When Miss Berringer had first signified her intention of going over to DoUington that morning, Lady Lynton had, so to say, fea- thered and befriended the plan. In the order of things she meant that Digby should accompany the heiress. But Digby rebelled at this plan when his mother mooted it to him. " I'm not going," he said, definitely ; and then Lady Lynton had made v.-ailing allusions to the decrease of his allowance. " I can't help that; besides, I don't see that riding out with her will help me ; if my fiither must cut me down, he must cut me down ; I might ride with Miss Berringer from this till the crack of doom, but that wouldn't alter the law of necessity.'' All this Digby had said with an air that said plainly that he would not attempt to lure Miss Berringer to supply the deficiency. '' If you don't go with her, Waldron will," his mother said, fretfully. "Then she will be much better pleased." A shai-]> pang assailed Lady Lynton as her son uttered this truism. Miss Berringer would be much better pleased, of that there could be no reasonable doubt. But Lady Lynton was not in- clined to let her young friend have things quite according to her good pleasure yet. The difficul- ties of steering between all their thoughts and actions (every one of which her bark, fraught with intentions, was liable to split upon) were becoming insurmountable. In her heart of hearts she knew that Miss Berringer would be much better pleased with the arrangement that consigned the eldest son to her clutches. But it would not do to let her younger son suppose that she believed it. " That is stuff and nonsense, and you only say it in your egregious vanity to extract a compli- ment," she said; "at any rate I suppose you will not refuse to accompany me ?" " Of course not, if you ask me to go, mother," he said, and thus it came to pass that he was over here at DoUington as the escort of his moth- er and Miss Berringer. Dora, who was ckeadfully afraid of a collision for two or three reasons, had been quite candid witli Lady L^Titon. " Helen and Mrs. Bruton and Mr. Carlyon are coming here to luncheon," she had said, and Lady Lynton, who knew that a meeting between Helen and Digby was inevita- ble, was glad that she was here to superintend it. Accordingly she answered calmly, ' ' Are they, my dear ? I always find it better to let such things take their course : sooner or later she must hear his name coupled with Miss Berring3r's." This Lady Ljmton said with an assumed complacency that satisfied Dora on one point. Digby Bumington and Miss Berringer must have an-ived at an understanding, for his mother to speak in that assumed way, she thought ; therefore she would have no further need to be in tribulation concerning the steps Helen might take to regain him. Lady Lynton was getting to be on exceeding- ly friendly terms with Mrs. Falconer. Xow that Dora could in no wise interfere with Helen's claims, or rather now that Helen's claims were a matter of no moment whatever to her aunt, that lady took to feeling convinced that Mrs. Falconer would be an extremely agreeable neighbor for her on her en- forced visits to the Priory. Jlrs. Falconer had a vast capabilit}' of enjoyment about her. It was evident that society and societ\''s claims would meet with a full recognition from lier. It was also evident to the astute Lady L\-nton, wlio dab- bled to some extent in her neighbors" affairs, that the wife of the owmer of DoUington would move in a circumscribed space for some years to come. Mr. Falconer was the sort of a man who, how- ever generous or charitable or hospitable he may be, lives well within his income, and his income was not large. Therefore, Lady Lynton argued, that bright young wife of his would often be dull. Therefore it woidd naturally come to pass that she woidd be very glad to accept all the good things that came in her way from the Priory, and in return be willing to devote herself to the jjai'tial entertainment of the Priory's guests. These thoughts being in her mind. Lady Lynton took the tone of being much at home in a nice way in Mrs. Falconer's house. " Don't treat me as a stranger," she said to Dora on this occasion ; "leave me here by this nice fire with this nice book, and attend to your young people ; I shall be quite happy." Tiie "nice book " to which her ladyship made complimentary reference, was one of those grandly told stories of feminine self- abnegation which only George Eliot can tell. Lady Lynton liked stories of self-abnegation ; she "sympathized with them," she said. But though she liked stories of self-abnegation, and though this stoiy was new at the time of which I write, Lady LjTiton was indifferent to its nobly subtle charm as soon as she found herself alone. A good many anxieties were pressing upon her, poor woman. Her favorite son's for- tunes seemed to her to be in awful jeopardy at this juncture, and she did not know how to help him, unless he would consent to be helped in the way she had pointed out as clearly and forcibly as she could. It was no idle threat, that of his fa- ther's, to withdraw a portion of the allowance he had hitherto made to Digby. He felt himself compelled to utter it — not in the way of a threat, but as a sad truth against wliich there was no appeal. Lord Lynton was not in actual difficulties, but he was straitened, and he would be straitened for some years to come, in the means from which allowances must flow. A law suit had gone against him, and the costs were heavj-, and he did not come of a saving race, and ^Vliss .Berringer could make all things so easy for Digby, "an' only he willed it." Lady Lynton revolved all these things in her mind this day when she was (at her own earnest entreaty) left alone. Eventually every tiling must come right for Lord Waldron, but for his younger brother, if they went wTong now, 'how wrong they might go in time to come, when he had nothing more staunch to back him tlian brotherly good- feeling and generosity. Not that she underrated brotherly good feeling and gene- rosity, but she knew (none better) that a peer with responsibilities and younger sons of his own is apt to turn a deaf ear to the wailing of a young- er brother's creditors. Jloreover it would be but natural for Waldron to feel in time, as she felt now, that Digby had privileges and opportunities which he disregarded. He was thro^\^l in the most auspicious way constantly into the society 106 ONLY HERSELF. of the richest girl of the year. It was his own fault if he did not make himself essential to her. Lady Lynton gave a gasp of dissatisfaction pres- ently, as she suffered the conviction to come home to her that he would not do this ; and in the mean time "the horrid girl," as she called Miss Berringer when she suffered herself to take this view of her possible conduct, might make herself essential to Lord Waldron. " Come out into the conservatory," Dora said to her guests from Court Royal, as soon as she had received that order of release which Lady Lynton had given her. Helen rose to obey that summons at once, although she knew that a meet- ing with Digby was imminent now, and knew also that it must be e.xquisitely painful. "I wish we hadn't come," Mrs. Bruton whis- pered to her, as they passed along to the con- servatory. " So do I," Helen said, in a low voice ; " so I should at any time, you know." "Stop a minute, Helen," Mrs. Falconer said, taking her sister's arm ; "Mrs. Bruton will ex- cuse me for a minute, I am sure, and go on with Mr. Carlyon without me ; that is the way. I have something to show my sister, and will fol- low you directly." "Oh! certainly," Mrs. Bruton and Mr. Car- lyon both said ; and then Helen felt herself de- serted by them, and drawn into a private converse with Dora. " I have a secret to tell you," Mrs. Falconer began. "No more secrets, Dora," said Helen, giving an unmistakable shudder ; "the ones I hold al- ready are too heavy for me." "This doesn't concern me," Dora said, cool- ly ; " it doesn't, really. Lady Lynton has just told me of Digby's engagement to Miss Ber- ringer." "Has she?" Helen said, quietly. ' ' Yes ; how funnily you take it ; I thought you would feel as I do, that he is not worth wasting another thought upon." " I would rather not talk about what I feel," Helen said ; ' ' did Lady Lynton tell you this as a secret ? If she did, why do you tell me ?" " She didn't tell me in so many words ; she imagined it ; she said it would be just as well you should meet them to-day, as you soon must see their names coupled together. " " Did Aunt Louisa say that ?" Helen asked. " She did, indeed ; if she hadn't said so much I should have averted a meeting between you ; no — " "There is really nothing to avert," Helen said ; " come on, Dora, the minute you asked them to give you is up, " and then Miss Jocelyn walked on to the conservatory. Tlie two parties had met and joined by the time the hostess and her sister went into the fragrant many-colored place. Digby and Miss Berrin- ger were talking to ISIrs. Bniton and Bertie Car- lyon, and Mrs. Bruton (for Helen's sake) was considerately preparing Digby for the meet- ing. ' ' Your cousin Helen is coming to look for us presently with Mrs. Falconer," she was saying, when the pair just mentioned came in. Helen came on with an unwavenng face and an unfal- tering stei>. He was engaged to some one else, and the right to waver and to talter about him had passed from her. She came up and stretched out her hand in cordial greeting to him. "Digby, I am so glad to see you again," she said, in the cheeriest voice she could command ; and then, before he could answer her, she was tiu^ning to be introduced to Miss Berringer. He could not doubt the worst any longer. There had not been the most transient shadow of emotion upon her face. She was engaged to Mr. Carlyon, and her passion for him (Digby) was past. He felt sure of it, and feehng sm-e of it, he responded very coldly to her salutation, and then turned to speak to Miss Beninger at once. "That is well over," Dora said to herself; " they will neither of them risk a snub from the other by asking an explanation." But though Helen would have suffered very terrible things in the way of mental torture before she asked for an explanation from her cousin, she was resolved not to seem estranged from him in the lightest seeming. Let what would come, it could not be good that they two should stand aloof from each other, she told herself. So she pres- ently began to question him with hearty interest as to his sojourn in Berlin. ' ' I heard a great deal about you from Waldron," she said, simplj-, wishing by the absence of all embarrassment in her own manner to free him from the constraint under which he was laboring. ' ' Lord Waldron does take such an interest in his brother, doesn't he ?" Miss Berringer struck in. " I wish that Lord Waldron couldn't bear to be separated from his brother," Dora said, politely ; ' ' in that case he would have come over here to- (Jay." " He is coming over by-and-by," Digby said ; and as he said it a faint blush passed over Miss Berringer's face, and that faint blush revealed Helen's feelings. " She will marry Digby, and I'm sure she hkes his brother better," the poor girl thought, with a jealousy for Digby's dignity and honor tliat Mas altogether incompatible with the received notions of a jilted girl's state of mind. They loitered about under the glass, Dora keep- ing them all well under her guardian eye, until the summons to luncheon was brought to them ; and then they filed in much in the order that Lady Lynton would have chosen for them — that is to say, Helen was far away from Digby, and Miss Berringer was close to him. And presently Mr. Falconer joined them. The talk turned on new books, and new editions of popular books, and some one mentioned that " The Silver Cord " was out in a cheap form. " There is a suspected wife in it, who it turns out in the end has been sacrificing herself for her sister all along," Mr. Carlyon said, in answer to Lady Lynton's inquiry as to what it was all about. "And there's a suspected wife in 'Sooner or Later,' his last book," Mr. Falconer put in ; "ev- idently the author has a wholesome horror of a woman who is under a cloud." "Even if she's under a cloud undeservedly?" Mrs. Bruton asked. "Yes," Bertie Carlyon said; "the thing is, you know, that a woman never is under a cloud undeservedly ; it always turns out that she has done something to desei"ve odium sooiaer or la- ter." ONLY HERSELF. 107 " It doesn't turn out to be so in ' Sooner or Later,' at any rate," Dora said, with a strange pang. ' ' I don't know. I beg j'our pardon, but I don't quite agree with you ; she had been imnecessari- ly mysterious and reticent, and whenever a wom- an is these things she deserres to be punished," ]Mr. Carlyon said. "It is so difficult to draw the line betiveen what is necessary and what is not," Mrs. Bruton said, by way of saying something to cany on the argument, which was beginning to assume the form of a lecture, Dora thought. Thinking this, pretty Mrs. Falconer had no desire to hear it car- ried on. "I disHke all those stories that turn on indi- vidual acts that are either compulsoiy or brought about by a chain of circumstances that no woman is strong enough to break through, and then make them into a principle of wrong, and punish the pei-petrators of them accordingly," slie said, with a degree of spirit that astonished both Mr. Car- lyon and Helen. "What do you say, Helen ?" she continued, fearing that her sister's marked si- lence on the subject might cause comment. "I am scarcely sure what point you are dis- cussing, " Helen said ; ' ' something was said about self-abnegation, and then about imneces- sary reser\'e ; the first I think noble, the second I think folly." To his mother's hoiTor, Digby exclaimed, "So do I, Helen," in a tone of cordial sympathy that augured ill for her scheme should it win coire- sponding warmth from Helen. But Lady Lyn- ton had one or two allies on whom she had not counted in fighting the battle of final separation between Helen and Digby. In the first place, there was an element of delicate dignity in Helen's nature that forbade all thought on her part of ever attempting to restore the old relation between herself and Digby. As a cousin, she could love him still ; as an old playfellow, and a friend, she woidd continue to be warmly interest- ed in him. But she knew that one of them must lose his or her self-respect before ever she could become his A\-ife now. He had too lightly beheved her guilty, she knew not of what, for her ever again to rely on his faith in her. Tiie sec- ond ally whom Lady Lraton did not recognize yet was Mrs. Falconer ; she had an object in pre- venting the re-riveting of the chains which had bound the cousins together, and Mhen Dora had an object she had the trick of gaining it. True to his promise. Lord Waldron rode up to Dollington shortly after luncheon, and his moth- er no sooner caught sight of her eldest son than she aveiTed her intention of having her carriage ordered and starting for home. But JMiss Ber- ringer proved contumacious. Slie could not think of gohig until she had seen the lake view which Mrs. Falconer had promised before lunch- eon to show her. "Dear Lady Lpiton, you said nothing about going home early then," she said, aloud ; and Lady Lynton's fieiy flice deep- ened in hue as she felt herself worsted. The combination of Miss Berringer and Lord Wal- dron was a veiy e^■i\ thing, but she would keep that evil thing in sight. A seen danger can be more effectually met and treated than a hidden one. Accordingly, Lady Lynton declared that she too would walk do%vn and look at the lake -view. "And Waldron must give me his ai-rn," she said. To which Lord Waldron assented blithely. However, when they started, Digby who had his own reasons for not desiring to bea waif and stray about the party, counteracted this precau- tionaiy measure of his mother's by offering her the support of his arm most dutifully. And so Lady Lynton took walking exercise, which she detested, to no end, for the party was large, and after the manner of large pedestrian parties, it straggled and separated itself, and the particles of it which re-united contained exactly the proper- ties which were most dangerous when combined. Whose faidt it was, or whose tact it was. Lady Lynton coidd not fiithom, but certain it is that aiiss Berringer and Lord Waldron fell behind and seemed to be absorbed in each other's con- versation. The heiress ^ho was bent on becoming a peeress possessed a powerful leverage wherewith to bend Lord Waldron in the right direction, in the in- terest she assumed in his brother and Helen. She had telegraphed to him quickly, and rather cleverly, that she had something to say, as soon as he came, and he gallantly gave her the oppor- tunity of saying it as soon as he was able to do so. "I have been quite agitated and excited this morning," she began, as soon as she had execu- ted that movement which brought her into the rear of observation; "I did wish so much that you were here." "Could I have calmed your agitation in any way ?" he asked, laughing. "Don't laugh, please — it's much too serious; I wiU tell you all. Soon after we came. Lady Lynton sent your brother into the conservatory with me, and kept Sirs. Falconer with herself" (she smiled and bridled her head a little in a way that gave him to understand that she quite saw through his mother's machinations), "and when we had thoroughly bored ourselves with looking at the flowers and trying vainly to interest each other, yom- cousin and the others came in. I, who had no right to feel such an interest in your brother, felt my head whirl, and as for your broth- er and Helen, I expected to see them drop eveiy moment, it was so unexpected, you know. I did wish for you so." ' ' But I could have done no good, as they didn't drop," he said, checking a smile. "Ah I but you might have done some good — with such an opportunity you would have been sure to say tiie right thing and make them all right with each otlier. We must work together, Lord Waldron ; I can do nothing alone. " "I think more hann than good comes from interference, very often,'' he said, gra^■ely. "From idle interference, yes; but "from the interference that is dictated by heartfelt interest, no. " "Eeally, my brother or my cousin must pos- sess some love philtre to have won your heartfelt interest in such a short space of time." He could not help feeling, though he thouglit her very good- natured, that there Avas something veiy like ex- aggeration in the sentiments she expressed. "I don't know that it has been created by your brother or your cousin, personally," she said, in a low voice, turning her head away from him as she spoke. Then presently she looked round with a sham ner\ous laugh, and added, "\^Tiy 108 ONLY HERSELF. won't you believe that it is love for your moth- er which makes me want to seiTe Digby and Helen?" "Because love for my mother would induce you to act in a very different way," he replied ; and as he was speaking Miss Berringer gave him a glance which told him veiy clearly which mem- ber of the Lynton family had won her interest for the rest. ' She was a tolerable adept in her low art. No sooner had she given the glance than she feigned to repent of it. But still she did not urge their steps onward to join the others. Meanwhile, much against her will, Helen had found herself veiy much left to the company of Bertie Carlyon. For a long time he kept silence, and she was grateful for this, for memoiy was busy within her, painting vividly that bright late summer day when she had come to Dollington with the others to see it for the first time as Dora's future home. They had all walked down to see the lake view then, it may be remembered, and Digby and herself had sauntered away from the others to a spot where they could command the water-lilies, and improve the hours by discuss- ing their plans for that future which they had vowed to pass together. It was pitiful that it should all have gathered away utterly, even as the lilies had done. Pitiful that she should be here, and Digby here again so soon, with eveiy hope they had then liad in common rooted up and de- stroyed. But her companion broke the silence at last, and Helen compelled herself to listen with the flawless courtesy which she always extended to him, and which he would have so willingly ex- changed for a less courteous and more familiar bearing. He was very much in love with the girl for herself now, independent of that regard for her fortune which had first made him think of her. If he could only have blotted out of his life that passage in it which connected him with Dora in Helen's mind, he would have had higher hopes of success in the suit which he was resolved not to defer any longer. As it was, his hopes were not high. The man was humble for the first time in his life. She was as far above him as a star, he felt ; but he loved her with the best love he had ever given any one — with the best love it was in him to give. There was that in her, he felt, which would act on his mental and moral constitution, as fresh air and wholesome sun'ound- ings do on tlie enfeeliled in body. That she was too good for him he was as ready to acknowledge in his new-born diffidence as any one else could have been. Too good for him, and yet now he could never be contented with any one less good. He, too, had, during their silent walk, been remem- bering the last time they came here. Helen had been little in his thoughts that day. He had been striving then to lay the foundation of that idle flirtation with Dora of which now he repented himself to the full as bitterly as Dora could do, for it had led him to act in a way that must seem mean and unmanly and dishonorable in Helen's eyes. But though she had been little in his thoughts that day, he could well remember how she had looked ; how bright and young and sweet- ly hap])y she had seemed walking on by lier young lover's side. Her face had lost its bloom of youth now - the roundness of the cheek — that round- ness that never comes back — had gone. His heart smote liim, and he spoke. CHAPTER XXXII. MK. falconer's views. There are two moments in eveiy thinking creature's life which make an epoch. The one is when the vast importance of one's self as a mem- ber of the ever-marching-on army of humanity — an atom in a scheme so colossal as the scheme of the universe — a spring in a machineiy so deli- cately complicated as the machinery of existence — is home in upon one. The other is when some sudden revelation, or shock, or flash of clear- sightedness shows the individual how utterly un- important he or she is to every one save him or herself. The emotion of isolation, of nothing- ness, of forlornness, engendered by this last sensa- tion is worth pondering upon, painful as the pon- dering may prove in the majority of cases. "A great fact to be always borne in mind is that no one is missed, " an amiably c}Tiical friend of mine said to me once when I deplored a loss that was to befall our society, a vacuum that was to be made. And this is trae in a measure of the inhab- itants of any great mart of intellect, business, and pleasure, such as London, or any other gi-eat city of the earth. There is no time to regret any thing or any one, save the one or the thing that might have tended to our individual gloiy, or pros- perity, or happiness. No one is missed for him- self As a moving spring he is bemoaned, per- haps, if any around are blessed with remarkably tenacious memories, until another moving spring is found. But the scroll on which is emblazoned the names of those who, for themselves, are loved and lamented long, is not a lengthy one. A flash of this feeling, that he was actually merely a worthless item, that if he dropped off no one could be expected in reason or even in the wildest hopefulness to offer up more than a pass- ing " poor fellow !" to his memoiy, went through Mr. Carlyon as he walked by Helen's side. He knew that he had done nothing to merit the boon of this woman's love, and yet how he coveted it ! He knew (sad truth) that he had done nothing to deseiwe any one's love. His utter unimportance came home to him with cruel force, and he even began to question why he should expect that a mere isolated particle should be happy in the sphere in which for a brief space it had a small place. "Men have gone mad Avith thinking of such things," he said at last with a gasping sigh. " Of what things?" Helen asked in a suiijrised tone. "Are you addicted to thinking aloud, I\Ir. Carlyon ? I thought that was only done on the boards — even by actors." "I haven't been addicted to it," he said in some confusion, "but perhaps my thoughts to- day are a little more genuine and a little truer than they have ever been before, and so they would assert themselves. You will let me tell you what they were — I was thinking I Mas of rather less account than the beasts of the field — they tuni into food for man at any rate." He spoke eagerly, and Helen disliked the tone and the substance of his speech. She mistook its import too. She thought that he was going to tiy and dazzle and bewilder her with some lurid metaphysical flashes. "I am soriy you feel yourself to be so utterly degraded," she said, coldly. "It was more a sense of desolation than of ONLY HERSELF. 109 degi-adation that oppressed me just then," he said, too much absorbed by the feeling that had come to him freshly, and that, having once come, would recur to him constantly, to feel offended ^\'ith her. ' ' It must be a wretched thing to be able to say, ' I care for nobody, no not I, and no- body cares for me,' but I speak from bitter ex- perience when I say, that it is more ^vretched still to know one's self uncared for by every one, and to dearly care for the one. Don't you agree with me ?" "I have always been so well cared for that my heart would melt to the greatest miscreant who found himself in the phght your fancy has painted," she said, tenderly. "That is to say, you could extend pity and forgiveness to the splendid miscreant of one vir- tue and a thousand crimes, but you coidd not be- stow either upon the poor commonplace sinner who has never gone very Avrong, but who has never, on the other hand, gone right, because the way has not been shown him ?'' "I could bestow much more upon juch an one," she said, without giving a thought to the probable tennination of this style of conversation. " Then bestow them upon me, Aliss Jocelyn." ' ' Were you painting from the life ?" she said, laughing. " Bestow them upon me — if you can, "he went on without taking any notice of her remark ; "bestow so much at least upon me. I came out determined to ask you to give me more, but more I shall never have from you." " What ' more ?' " she asked, wonderingly. ' ' I meant to tell you how I loved you, and to S.sk if you coidd give me your love in return. Don't try to freeze up the natural warmth of your heart against me, ftliss Jocelyn ; your love I know I am unworthy of, but you must accept mine ; "I give it to you as the offering of a sin- ner on the shrine of his saint. " " I -vdsh I had not come here," she said. "That would have made no manner of differ- ence," he said, moodily. "Sooner or later I should have told you how I loved you ; perhaps, if we had not come here to-day and taken this same walk that I saw you take not many months ago in the brightest bloom of your happiness, I might have pleaded for your love in return. I dare not plead for it now — I hardly dare to ask can it ever be given to me ?" "It never can, Mr. Carlyon — it can never be given to you nor to any other man ; it has been given, you know that as well as I do, and there is an end of it. " " If you had never known what you do know of me, could you have loved me ?" he went on, forgetting that he had said that he dared not plead for her love. "No, I coidd not," she said, firmly. "Miss JoceljTi, guided by you I coidd be a better man." "Be a better man, then," she said, "but don't ask me to make you so ; love is out of the question between us, warm friendship even is out of tlie question ; I would rather any thing should have happened to me than that you should have given me your love. " " You scorn it so utterly ; yet that is good and true, though I am not," he said. "I suffer as much in having been the object of it as you can in having given it ; it is contraiy to nature almost," she added, "that the word should have been mentioned between us." " INIiss Jocelyn!" he cried out, "an angel could say no more cruel words to a demon." " I am as far from being the one as you are from being the other; I am only stiuig and wounded that you should have thought so badly of me as to — " "Love you," he inteiTupted, "that is the ex- tent of my presumption ; it won't defile you. Miss Jocelyn." ' ' I didn't mean that — I didn't mean it in the way you have taken it, Mr. Carlyon," Helen said, looking up at him with a sweet honesty that Dig- by Bumington, glancing towards her at the mo- ment, mistook for a more tender feeling. " Let me tell you, if I can, what I did mean ; you say you remember seeing me here only a few months ago — do you remember how I was chciunstauced then, and long after then ?" "Yes," he said, he remembered it. "Well, I loved my cousin Digby dearly; I don't mind sapng it now, any more than I should have minded saying it then, if I had been called upon to speak about it ; he does not care for my love," she added, in a slower, lower tone, "you have heard that, also, or you would not have spoken as you did speak just now ; but his not caring does not alter what has been, you know ; I have given away all I had, and it pains me to be asked for what has been already bestowed. " "Wasted," he said. "No, not wasted ; it is my terrible misfortune that it should not seem good to him any longer ; but it seems to me that he is the only person who ever could have had it ; it is no use to talk about it any more. I have said only so much because I wanted to explain to you what I meant just now when I said that I was stung that you should have thought so meanly of me. How could you have thought that I could give it again ?" She said it so reproachfully, that in self-defense he felt almost compelled to tall back upon a com- monplace explanation. " Other women do," he said. ' ' Do they ! not a second time as I have done once. The first has not been genuine ; now, please, we will not say any more about it." ' ' You allow me no appeal ?" he asked, fer- vently. ' ' Oh, Mr. Carlyon ! do believe me — ^j'ou don't beUeve in many things, I know, but do believe that every word I have spoken has been wrung from my heart because I woidd do away with the possibility of your appealing to me again." "There goes out the best hope I have ever had in my life," he said, bitterly. "To win possession of an empty heart, don't call that a good hope." Then they found themselves close to the oth- ers, who were waiting for them to look at the lake view, and Helen had an opportunity of es- caping from him. Down by the lake Lady LjTiton shook off the escort of her youngest son, and made one more ineffectual effort to secure that of her eldest one. But in his bhthe unconsciousness he baffled her as eft'ectually as if his conduct had been dictated by malice prepense. It was in vain that she ap- pealed to him. He answered the letter of her appeal and wandered off to speak to some one else. So, seeing her aunt alone, Helen went and 110 ONLY HERSELF. stood by her for the sake of getting away from the possible importunities of Bertie Carlyon. She wronged him there. At the very moment that she was executing her movement of avoid- ance, he was vowing to himself that never would he addi'ess her again — save as an acquaintance. He had been in earnest for once in his life, and the one who had developed that earnestness in him had treated it as unworthy of herself He was bitterly wounded, not bitterly disappointed, for he had never allowed himself to hope for oth- er than a refusal from Helen. But he was bit- terly wounded, and in liis pain it came to him to feel that he could be very cruel. The good that might have grown in him had been checked, and it was exti-emely problematical whether or not it would ever sprout again. Feeling at the moment remarkably Dl-disposed towards Miss Berringer, who was thwarting her, made Lady Lynton feel better disposed than usual towards Helen. Helen, at all events, al- ways looked gently bora, and gently nmtured, and it was borne in upon Lady Lynton rather forcibly that Miss Berringer did not look either of these things. Accordingly, she greeted Hel- en rather warmly. "My dear," she said, "I have seen nothing, absolutely nothing of you and your mamma since we have been down here." "No," Helen said, "we don't meet often, do we, Aunt Louisa ?" Then she determined to go on and say something that should show Lady Lynton that although late events had separated her from them, she still maintained the blood in- terest. Digby could never be more than a cousin to her now, but he should always be all a cousin. ' ' Dora tells me that Digby and Miss Berrin- ger are almost, if not quite, engaged," she said, unflinchingly looking her aunt full in the face as she spoke. " I hope it will make him very hap- py." "Dora said more than she had any business to say," Lady Lynton said, tartly, as tartl}', that is to say, as she could speak in the low tone in which she was obliged to speak, lest she should be overheard. "I told her that you would prob- ably soon hear their names coupled together; I didn't say that you would positively." ' ' Then they are not engaged ?" Helen said, and be it understood that she did not say it with any hope, if it were so that it was not true, that he might be; won back to her. Such win- ning back could never be contemplated by her. She had said veiy truly that it was all over for her. "No, they are not engaged," Lady Lynton said, hesitatingly ; she began to feel soiTy that she had said so much. It occurred to her as be- ing well within the bounds of possibility that Hel- en might take a mean advantage of her confes- sion, and charm Digby out of the slight liking he had already for tlie golden bait his mother want- ed him to swallow. "No, they are not en- gaged," Lady Lynton conceded, hesitatingly ; "but they are veiy much attached to each oth- er," she added, rtore confidently. "Are they ?" Helen said, with a pang of some- thing like jealousy. She did not believe the as- sertion, and still it pained her. " Very much attached to each other," Lady LjTiton said, with decision ; " and as we are on the subject I may as well tell you that it is a match that we shall all cordially approve of; money was an absolute necessity in a wife for Digby ; and she has plenty of money." Then it occurred to Lady Lynton that she would say a word or two more, and give Helen the comfort of knowing that Digby had not been quite a free agent in the aflair of the separation. "Your mother has been spared some of my trials," she said, pathetically; "she has only one son, and so does not know what it is to be always beg- ging, and often in vain, for something like a proper maintenance for a younger one. Poor Digby's aOowance is to be cut dowTi now — I am ' sure it is quite time for him to do something good for himself" " I hope he will do something good for himself in eveiy way," Helen said ; " I shall always feel a greater interest in him than in any body else, you know." The assertion was so unexpected that it took Lady Lynton by surprise. "But, my dear," she whispered, "what will Mr. Carlyon say to your feeling a greater inter- est in any one but himself ? I won't pretend — " " Mr. Carlyon has no right and never will have the right to think, or feel, or say any thing at all about me or my conduct, " Helen interrupt- ed. " I thought that there was a private under- standing between you, even if you were not en- gaged," Lady Lynton said. The pair under con- sideration had stroUed away from the others by this time. "If ]\Ir. Carlyon were the only marriageable man in the Morld I should not marry him, Aunt Louisa; I shall never many now," Helen was sajnng, when the sound of a step made her look round to see Digby close to them. She saw that he had heard her last words, and she was soiTy for it. He might give a wrong reading to them. He might think that they were uttered for him to hear. " I have been telling Helen that I was ashamed of not having seen more of Aunt Caro- line and herself since we have been here," Lady Lynton said, trying to speak gayly. ' ' We must rectify that omission now." Lady Lynton was embaiTassed. In this little drama which she had partially an-anged the situations were being disre- garded, and the principal members of the com- pany woidd act up to the wrong people. ' ' "Wliere is Miss Ben'inger ?" she asked, looking at Digb3% "Gone back to the house with Waldron," Digby said unconcernedly ; ' ' she was tired, and Mrs. Button, who seems to know the place well, told them of a short cut." "What a disagreeable, pushing, interfering woman that is," Lady L}iiton said, petulantly, and then they rejoined the others, and all \\'alked home together. Wlien Helen had time to think coolly, the full unpleasantness of this situation which Mr. Car- l}'on had brought about came home to her. There was he domiciled as a guest in her father's house, and while he remained it was her bounden duty to be courteous and agreeable to him. Sup- posing (she was not a vain girl, but she could not help entertaining the supposition) that he mis- took the courtesy and agreeability for something warmer, and proposed to her again. The mere idea of his doing so was odious to her ; she felt assm'ed that no other man in the world would ONLY HERSELF. Ill have so grossly disregarded her feelings as to ask her to contemplate marrying any man after Dig- by. "Whatever he does, if he does degrade himself by marrying Miss Berringer, it will make no difference to me," she said to herself; "two wrongs will not make a right." The society of the man who had " thought so badly of her " as to believe &he could commit the wrong was so pain- ful to her that she hailed with delight Mr. Falco- ner's offer of di-i-sdng her back to Court Royal. "If you go, Robert dear, you will make dinner late, " Dora said, suavely. She was shaking at the prospect that was opened before her of a con- fidence between her husband and her sister. She would do any thing, say any thing to avert it — do any thing, save openly thwart him. "Don't wait for me, Dora. I want to see your father, and .1 dare say they will give me some dinner at Court Royal," he said. And just then his dog-cart was announced, and Helen hurried away without attending to any of the dif- ficulties that Dora raised. "So rude of Helen," Dora said, "to leave Mrs. Bruton alone in that way." "Mr. Carlyon is with Mrs. Bmton." "That makes it all the worse. How does Helen know that Mrs. Bruton will like having the compaHy of a young man thrust upon her in that way ? Lady Caroline will be excessively displeased. " Mrs. Falconer stood at the door ut- tering this dark prophecy after Helen and Mr. Falconer were seated in the dog-cart. The for- mer laughed — "I will brave mamma's wrath, Dora," she said, and tlien they drove off, and Dora turned back flushed and scowling into the house. " I do beheve missus is jealous of master," one of the servants said to another. But it was a worse fear th.an jealousy that as- sailed Dora. Supposing that it should all come out? She knew her husband well enough by this time to feel sure that, though he might have \ forgiven the idle flirtation with Bertie Carlyon, he would never forgive her for the cowardice which had made her compromise her sister. "Well, Helen," Robert Falconer said, as soon as they were fiiirly off, "this has not been a hap- py day for you." "No, it hasn't," she said, candidly; "I see that Digby thinks poorly of me, and though I pray that I may never wish for his love again, I do yearn for his good opinion." "And you are conscience- free ?" he said, looking at her keenly, so keenly that her cheeks glowed under his gaze. "Quite. I have done nothing -wrong," she said firmly. "I don't understand it, and I can't get near the truth," he said, shaking his head meditative- ly ; "when people are quite clear, in their o\\ti minds, that they have done nothing to deseiwe the ill-opinion of others, they are not apt to sus- pect that the ill-opinion exists ; what makes you think that Digby has withdrawn his good o])in- ion from you, Helen ?" " I feel sure of it." "I expected something stronger than the usual womanly 'I know it, because I know it,' answers from you. Why do you feel sure of it?" " I can't tell you, Robert." " Be precise ; you can not, or you will not ?" "I will not, then," she said, feeling terribly tempted to tell him why she felt sure of it in spite of her promise to Dora. " Then you have a secret, and you are not con- science-free as you told me you were," he said, gravely. "You are beginning to think badly of me," she said, bending her face down to avoid his searching gaze. He looked veiy stem, very capable of be- ing severe to a sinner. She could not in mercy turn that harshness and severity from herself to her sister. " I am disappointed in you, I frankly acknowl- edge ; you are either creating a dubious mystery about nothing, or there is a mystery about some- thing dubious ; I detest mysteries — I lose my re- spect for the woman who makes them and needs them ; if I ever have a daughter I would remote her from the influence of the nearest relative who did not scorn and hate them as I do myself." " Oh, Robert ! don't say such things," she said, appealingly. She was terrified. He might think badly as he would of her now, but he must never know that Dora had made mysteries and deceived. "You take away my breath with your words," she said ; " they sound so pitiless." " I should be pitiless in such a case ; I have a contempt for the smallness that can take pleasure in battling honest inquiry." Then there was silence between them for two or three miles, and Helen framed a prayer for the preservation of the secret and Dora. ' ' I tell you fairly, " he broke silence at last, "that I shall try to find out what you wish to conceal ; if, as I half believe, it is a piece of folly, of girlish love of secrecy, you will thank me some day or other ; if it is any thing I should disajj- prove of in my wife, my wife shall not be subject- ed to the association." Her heai't was pure, but her strength was far from being as the strength of ten when she heard this. "What will become of Dora?" was her one thought; "if he does as he says he will, what will become of Dora?" In her fear for her sister she felt almost abject. She would implore Bertie Carlyon (painful as it was to re;ert to the subject) to give her some most binding assurance that he would never betray them. Slie would write to Dora entreating her to open her heart to her husband, and not to wait to have her secret wrested from some one else. Intuitively she felt that if Dora could be brought to confess, her hus- band would forgive her errors of judgment, but that if Dora were found out, he would be impla- cable. They had a most miserable drive, and Robert Falconer would not stay to dinner, and poor Helen was in no mood to answer the numer- ous inquiries her mother made as to Lady Lynton and Miss Berringer. Mrs. Bruton and Bertie Carlyon had to rehearse the charade without Helen that evening, for Helen got herself away to her own room early, and there indited an ar- dent appeal to Dora to be open and honest for her own sake. CHAPTER XXXIII. A THORN AMONG THE KOSES. Dora waited in a feverish state of suppressed impatience until her husband came home that even- ing. She had obeyed his injunctions, and had not waited dinner for him, but she sent the dinner 112 ONLY HERSELF. away untasted ; and experienced (for the second time in her life) the emotions of a profound sus- pense. Her husband stood before her in a new light altogether since she had been married to him. He was altogether a far firmer and more decided character than her easy victoiy over him had led her to suppose. She felt her lips trembling, and her cheeks paling as she thought of how he would inevitably regard her if her meanness with respect to Helen and Carlyon should ever become patent to him. Over and over again she repeated the same formula to herself as she sat alone, and struggled to seem the same light-hearted lady they believed her to be before the sei-vants. It was a short one ; " If I had only told him at first it might have been all right." The veiy words she used to herself proved unconsciously that her in- stincts were teaching her that she would be in awfid danger if he should come to know of that meanness now. It was winter, and there was no external cheer- fulness now that the shades of night had follen. With a shuddering sense of her own cowardice she kept well within the glare of the lights. Whenever she strayed, in her impatience, beyond their rays a chill fell upon her, and her sense of possible desolation deepened. He Avas so essential to her happiness now. She loved him so well and so ti-uly, although she had descended to trickery and subterfuge to gain him, and to cowardice and lying to keep him ; she loved him so well now that if she lost his love and respect and confidence, she "hoped she might die," she broke out, utterly subdued by the wretched prospect she had con- jured up. Then she thought of Helen, and of that element of stanchness in Helen, which was as a tower of defense to Dora now. And grad ual- ly she came round to a more complacent view of the case, telling herself that as "Robert would hear nothing from Helen she was childish to tor- ment herself so." But for all this self-assurance she passed a miserable hour in the room to which she felt as if she would have no right if its master ever came to think badly of her. Presently she heard the dog-cart dashing up to the door, and every atom of color faded out of her face. He had heard all. He had come back in haste to taunt her with her trickery, to revile her for her cowardice ; to tell her that he cast her out of his heart. Every trace of color faded from her face, and eveiy bit of strength from her limbs, as she sat down pallid and shak- ing, to await him and the worst. The revulsion of feeling was almost too much for her when he came in, a little chilled, but looking hearty and happy, blithe and pleased to see her. " My o-\vii dear little gliost," he said, coming up and looking at her with surprise as she strove and struggled and failed to recover herself; " Dora, didn't you like my going ?" " It's not that," she said, feeling that it was all so much better than she desen'ed, than she ex- pected, that she dared not try to realize it yet ; "but you seemed to be coming home in such a huriy — you said you would dine there ; is any thing tlie matter with any of them?" "Nothing that I know of," he said, going to the bell and ringing it, and calmly waiting until a sen"ant had come and received his order for " dinner to be sent in again," before he said any thing more ; " but the fact is, I am disappointed in Helen, " he said, after a meditative pause. And then he went on to tell her what had passed be- tween Helen and himself. ' ' And she would not hint at any thing ?" Dora asked. "No; she was as close as wax; and I hate any thing like secrecy and mystery — it always savors of treacheiy to me; I told her so, and she didn't like that. I also told her that if I ever found out that there was any just cause for her reticence, I should cut oft" all communication between her and you." " Did you ?" she could only just gasp it out. "Yes; I did; oh! dinner. I am very glad after my cold drive ; will you come and sit in the room with me', dear ? the edge of my appetite will be taken oft' if you're not there." " I can't," she said, hoarsely. " You are not well, Dora, my o\ati," he ex- claimed, for her tone caused him to look at her face, and that was ghastly ; "what is it ?" "I don't know," she said, in a monotonous tone ; "I believe I am ill — I know I am ill ; oh Robert ! Robert !" and then she rose up and crept into his arms, and asked him, ' ' was she a good wife ? was she a disappointing wife ? did he love her as much as he thought he would when he married her first ? could he do without her now?" " My poor dear girl," he said, "you're not going to develop mysteries, are you ? my sensi- tive Dora — no ; I thought not, they are the most distasteful things ; you don't feel ill really, dear." " Not ill, only — only — " she stopped, sob- bing. " You are annoyed with me about Helen ?" he asked. She could not answer, she could only sob. "Look here, Dora," he said, gravely 5 "it's no use ; I shouldn't encourage folly in you who are dear to me as my life ; so you may be very sure that I shall not encourage it in Helen." Then Dora made an eftbrt and composed herself, because she dared not let herself show what she was feeling, and they went into the dining-room, and she sat buried in the depths of an arm-chair, while she watched him make a very good dinner. There was peace for her for a time again at any rate. Helen had given him no hint, no clue. Why should he gain one ? how could he gain one from any one but Helen ? No one else held the key to the unlocking of the sad puzzle but Mr. Carlyon, and Mr. Carlyon she had to fear no doubt. Mrs. Falconer, it may be stated, was one of the order who have greater reliance on the worst of men than on the best of women. The mistaken notion is more engrafted in the feminine breast than one likes to believe without evidence. But unfortunately the evidence is not wanting, and the women who so doubt and distrust, as a ]"ule, have given themselves cause to do both. However, Mrs. Falconer fancied that if evil was to overtake her, it would do so at the hands of her own sex. Therefore she sang psalms of praise and thanksgiving, for she had been deliv- ered from the tongue of Helen, and told herself almost exuberantly, that if only Helen would marry and get away and have new interests, she (Dora) would be freed for the I'emainder of her life from all dread of a mal apropos revolution. Mr. Falconer said very little more to his wife that night about her sister. He had done his part, he conceived, in oft'ering to help Helen if she would confide in him, and in telling her what ONLY HERSELF. 113 he should do if she would not confide in him. Having done this there was little more for him to do. There was a shadiness about the matter at present, and his respect for the woman he had made his ^\'ife was such, that he did not like dis- cussing shady matters before her. ' ' We shall see Helen again to-moiTow at the Priory," he said to Dora, when they were once again settled before the blazing wood fire in the drawing-room. "I shall see then how she be- haves to Cai-lyon, and if I think she is in danger of mariying him, I shall tell your father that Carlyon will not be a creditable son-in-law." "\Vliy shoidd you interfere?" Dora said, with a qualm, ' ' it woiddn't concern you so much after all if Helen did marry him." "Mr. Carlyon's wife could never be received as a sister in my house," he said. " But, perhaps," she said, desperately, " Helen would prefer being received at other places as his Avife to being received here as my sister ; I don't wish to annoy you," she said, timidly, for she saw him fro^\^ling. "Dora, my dear child, you don't understand this, I think," he said, gently. "I greatly fear that Helen has acted in a treacherous way towards Digby for the sake and under the influence of Jlr. Carlyon ; if it turns out that she had done so, I shall have veiy few scniples in interfering as you call it ; I shall interfere and give out my opinion of the man, and do all I can to save her from the consequences of her o\\'n folly." "I do heartily wish to-morrow^ was over," Dora said, with a sigh ; " harm always comes of dabbling in other people's affairs." Then she blushed a little, for she coidd not help remember- ing wJiat harm had come to Helen, through hav- ing dabbled in her (Dora's) affairs. Helen's letter, that earnest appeal which out of the sympathetic misery of her own heart she indited to Dora, was not a veiy lengthy one ; in a few terse sentences she pointed out the danger that Dora would be in should that be wrung from her which ought to have been rendered. " In itself it was such ahttle thing to tell," she wi-ote, ' ' but he will not think it little if you let it grow. As for my share in it, pass that over as lightly as you can, but leave nothing untold about yourself : if you had heard him speak as I did this afternoon as we came home, you woidd understand that it is for your safety I counsel you so strongly to put yourself out of every body's pow- er by telling him yourself."' " This letter Helen did not commit to the post- bag. A vague fear that it might be less sure of reaching the mark at which it was aimed foolishly assailed her, and so she chose the more remark- able, because unusual, means of a special messen- ger. Slie made a wreath and bouquet of choice flowers from their ovra greenhouse and sent them to her sister, putting the note into the messenger's hands as if it were an afterthought, just as he was about to start. ' ' Really, Helen, " Mrs. Bruton said, laughing, " if that note were not to your sister and you were not ' you,' I should think it contained trea- son from the innocent way you handed it to your Mercuiy ; I employed a bucoUc Mercuiy once," she added, with a little shudder, " and he lost my note or gave it to a puppy, or something of tlie sort ; at any rate the note never reached its goal, and I am veiy glad of it." " I hope my note -will reach its goal," Helen said, " though it is only to my sister ; it is rather important that it should not fall into the mouth of a puppy." "Talking of puppies — why is Mr. Carlyon go- ing away ! " " I didn't know that he was going," Helen said in some smprise. • ' Oh ! but he is — a fatal blow to our charades ; he told me just now that he had business in town, and that he must tear himself away from the charms of Court Royal. 1 thought we were safe with him, and I feel disgusted ; are not you ?" "No," Helen said. "Then, if you are not disgusted, you are glad ; there is no middle course. Helen, has he^has he—" " Has he what ?" Helen asked. "Made a mistake, and fidlen in love with you ?" " He has made a mistake, but he has not faUen in love with me," Helen said. In her bitterness she could not bring herself to believe that there A\as any motive power of good in this man. " I am almost glad, and yet I don"t know," Mrs. Brufon said, contem]3latively ; "to fall in love with you Avould be about the greatest mis- take he could make, and stiU it is one that might woik for his good, Helen, shall 1 tell you some- thing ?" "Yes," Helen said. " Bertie Carlyon wanted to many me once." "I am not surprised to hear it; at any rate he showed good taste ; I could fancy him want- ing to many some one under circumstances from which good taste -would flee howling. " "That is all veiy well," Mrs. Bruton said, "but this much you shall hear in his justification — he wanted to many me very much at a tjme my money would have been of great senice to him if he could have had it, but he never pretend- ed to be in love with me ; you ought to know that, for when the man spoke to me first he had temptations to feign to any extent ; do you think better of him ?" "No, I don't," Helen said stoutly. "Noth- ing ever will make me think well of him ; he's what Scott said of a crowd : ' Fantastic, fickle, fierce, .and vain.' " ' ' Never mind ; granted that he is all these things, still, our charades would have gone off nil the better for his aid ; however, he is going, and they will fiiU through," and Mrs. Bruton looked very discontented. She really loved acting — almost as much as she loved Helen. It was her aff'ection for these two that had brought her dowi\ to the vicinity of Dollington. And now she was to be defrauded of one of them. "Charm Waldron into volunteering his serv- ices to-night, " Helen said, laughing ; ' ' you would find him an apt pupil; now, with Mr. Carlyon, one has not the pleasure of teaching any thing, he would have known better and would Jia^e or- dered us about ; now we shall be able to order Waldron about. " " It's disgusting," Mrs. Braton said, complain- ingly. ' ' Bertie Carlyon has written us such a charming little drawing-room piece, that I'd re- ward him by marrying him if it would do him any good, but it wouldn't do him any good, you see." 114 ONLY HERSELF. "Why not?" Helen asked. "Having brought the question on myself, I am bound to answer it, " Mrs. Bruton said. ' ' I should lose my money if I married, and there is no man left to marry who is worthy of such a sacrifice." " Could you have made it for any one ?" Helen asked; "you may imagine the being you could make it for, but I don't believe that he exists." " He does exist. I had a dream, Helen, a lit- tle time ago ; it began, in fact, while I was stay- ing at the Dale-end Farm. In Praed's words I might address the one I dreamt of — ' And thou wert married wlien I woke. And all the rest was marred.' " "My brother-in-law can certainly inspire the two sentiments, love and fear, " Helen said. ' ' Hon- estly, I am afraid of him ; he can be very severe. I do so ardently hope that Dora will never fall imder his severity." "I hope she won't do any thing to deserv'e his severity," was the warmest wish Mrs. Bruton coidd bring herself to offer up about Dora. The lovely widow was feeling disappointed, and disappointment does tend to sour the temper, how- ever trivial the cause may be about which it is felt. " If I were only in my own house I could do as I liked, and press Bertie Carlyon not to go until we have had our private theatricals; but being in another person's house one is fettered at every tui-n. Staying with friends is one of the greatest mistakes' of civilization ; ' there's no place like home,' or a hotel, for doing as one likes." While she was indulging in this soliloquy, Mrs. Bmton knit her brows and looked unmistakably cross. When she had finished it she recovered herself, and said aloud, " I don't mean to be unsympathetic about your wholesome dread for Dora of Mr. Falconer's wrath, my dear Helen ; but I am naturally so much bet- ter inclined towards him than I am towards her, that if she fell under it, I should probably think she desen-ed it ; now you never coidd deserve it. " "Yet I have fallen under it already," Helen said, remembering the drive home and the con- versation of the night before. " Impossible ! How ?" " I can't tell you how. He thinks me danger- ous, deceitful, and rather unworthy of the honor of the relationship with Dora," Helen said, with a touch of sarcasm in her tone. The allusion to his tenderness for Dora stung Mrs. Bruton. " That is utter nonsense," she said, scomfidly ; " if he gets infatuated I shall lose my respect for him." "You would surely not wish him to be any thing but infatuated about his wife?" Helen asked. " Yes, I would ; he -ought to keep his judg- ment clear, because it is just possible that if she had the chance she would hoodwink him," Mrs. Braton said, carelessly. That same day, the day of Lady Lj-nton's din- ner-party, tlie Falconers were sitting at luncheon when the flowers and note from Helen were brought in. Mrs. Falconer unpacked the former with jeal- ous care, and then held up the bouquet to her hus- band. ' ' Are they not lovely ?" she said, admiringly. " Yes ; and arranged with the most exquisite taste," he replied. " Here, hold them for me, Robert, while I see what she says," and Dora handed the flowers to her husband while she broke open the note. "No bad news, is there ?" he asked ; for Dora had not read more than a couple of lines before her face grew flushed, and herbearing constrained. It is a horrible thing to read a letter that appeals violently either to your interests, or your fears, or your sympathies, before an earnest obsen'er. Dora dared not move her eyes lower down the page than the end of the second line. She kneiv that her husband was watching her. She knew also that he would expect her, when she had read it herself, to hand him the note, as she had al- ways been in the habit of doing with communi- cations from her ovm famih'. How should she break this rule ? How could she do it Avithout awkwardness and without exciting suspicion? Asking herself these questions, she did the most suspicious thing she could have done, nameh', paused, and by being emban-assed, exaggerated the difficulties of the situation. " Helen complains to you of M-hat I said to her last night, I suppose ?" Mr. Falconer said, pres- ently ; "I see she does, from your face ; I need not ask." Here was a deliverance from a most unexpect- ed quarter. Dora saw a way out of her danger at once, and seeing it, she took that way unhesi- tatingly. "You won't ask to see what she does say — poor Helen!" Mrs. Falconer said, rapidly nin- ning her eye over the contents of the note, and then tearing it in two pieces. She had been pan- ic-stricken at first ; but with the sense of the possi- bility of safety to herself her courage revived. As to Helen's prayer that she (Dora) wovdd appeal to her husband's generosity and love of tmth, she simply determined to disregard it. "I wish you had shown me her note, dear," he said ; "I don't like to think that any thing is written to my wife that she would not wish me to read." " Do belicAe that your wife would not conde- scend to read any thing that was at all derogatory to you. Helen's letter was very complimentary to you — much more so than it was to me." "Let me see it, torn as it is," he said, laugh- ing, and putting his hand out to take it from her. ' ' I am glad to find that she has a forgiving spirit ; I confess I scolded her last night. " "No, no, no," Mrs. Falconer said, withhold- ing it ; " isn't it enough for me to tell you that she praises you and bears no malice. The rest is about the flowers ; she has arranged them for me to wear to-night." "In return for the conciliatoiy spirit she has shown, I wiU try to work for her weal, whether she will or not, with Digby, " Mr. Falconer said, cordially. ' ' Oh Robert ! do not ; I have such a horror of interference of any sort ; and if you go inter- fering with Helen some of the Court Royal peo- ple may think themselves justified in interfering with me. I wish you would let Helen and Digby alone; he has thro^^Ti her off; she is much too proud even to let him take her up again." Dora spoke Avith a degree of vexed earnestness that was most unusual with her. An nn])leasant thought crossed her husband's mind. Could it be possible that liis wife shared Helen's secret — shrouded Helen's mysteiy — concealed Helen's ONLY HERSELF. 115 fault ? He could not think so badly of her ; he -would not think so poorly of liis own judgment, for had he not judged her to be discreet — "dis- creet as she was fair " — until that episode of tlie reported engagement with Mr. Carlyon had shaken his faith in her for a few liours, only to be re-es- tablished more finnly afterwards ? ' ' I will do nothing that can wrong the pride of the proudest woman," he said ; " as to that, I should be as soiiy to see Helen lightly regained as I have been to see her lightly lost ; but she tells me herself that Digby has withdrawn his good opinion of her, and if I can help her to re- gain that I most certaiidy will ; the renewal of an engagement is one thing, and the loss of an hon- est man's respect is another thing." "What dress shall I wear with these flowei'S ?" Dora asked, hastily, hoping to turn the topic. "Let me see, red predominates in both wreath and bouquet ; what color shall I wear, Robert ?" ' ' Wliy not white ?" "With red flowers! no, that would be too striking; I want a half-tone, a neutral tint. I have a cream-colored dress that is as soothing to look at as the ' Lotos Eaters ' is to listen to ; shall I wear that ?" ' ' Mrs. Bruton's emeralds would look better with your cream-color than Helen's roses," he said. " Then I will wear French gray. I wish you would decide for me ; I always want to please you most in my dress, so at first you must guide my taste." " I believe you want to please me most in eveiy thing," he said, fondly, forgetting the note — that thorn among the roses. "Indeed, I do," she said. "And yet you refused me a trifle just now," he said, remembering the note. And Dora re- solved that she would most severely rebuke Helen for having written it. CHAPTER XXXIV. ATTE5IPTED EXPLANATIONS. A NARRATION of all the events which distin- guished Lady Lynton's gathering of the clans, or grand state family dinner-party. Mould be unin- structive. Moreover, the space in which to detail them can not be afltbrded. Much remains to be told in the remaining half volume Ijefore the word finished may be fairly m-itten. A maximum of incident in a minimum of space is as difficult to deal with as a minimum of incident in a max- imum of space. Indeed, in the latter case, the writer has the remedy in his or her own hands. We can always curtail, and so win the gratitude of the pubhc. It is when we expand without suf- ficient cause that we are awful. But, though all can not, some of the events of the gathering must be narrated. The exigencies of the story demand it. The mere assembhng of themselves together and eating of their dinner is unworthy of record. It was only after the lat- ter had been safely and steadily surmounted that the situations of some began to grow dramatic. Mrs. Falconer, in cream-colored silk and glow- ing roses, cai'ried out the colors in her face. The beautiful soft hue that lived upon her brow and chin deepened into liurning spots on her cheeks. She was agitated, nen'ous, unhappy, and, as she was only mortal, her complexion betrayed her. All that dreary time of sohtude, while the ladies were recnuting themselves in silence and sadness for the remainder of the evening's campaign, Dora sat apart from the others, and worried her brains as to whether her husband was talking to Digby or not. She had not been able to get one private word with Helen yet. She was longing to pour out some of her wealth of rebuking and wTath upon her younger sister's head, but the younger sister and herself had not been able to exchange more than the most casual greeting. Kow, just as the gentlemen were coming in, Helen came within ear-shot. Mrs. Falconer seized the opportunity and spoke. "Were you mad, to write that note?" ' ' Not mad, but sane at last. Have you taken my advice ?" " I shoidd think not," Mrs. Falconer said, hur- riedly ; ' ' but the receipt of it brought such a storm about my ears as I would not care to bring about any young wife's. It was veiy thoughtless of you, Helen." " Mr. Falconer did not see my note ?" Helen asked, in a contrite panic. " No, he did not, as fortune would have it. I can say he did not ; but if you had known the trouble that note would bring upon me ; I am in the habit of showing every thing to my husband, of confiding in him comjaletely, and I had to re- fuse to let him see youi- injudicious note ; there was a position to be placed in ! " " Oh Dora ! " Helen said, feeling very remorse- ful, and not clearly seeing what she had to feel remorseful about. ' ' I am soiry it complicated your affairs ; but if it did make you tell him of your own free will what he Mill find out for himself in time, I am sure you would have cause to be thankfid to me. " " No, I shoiddn't," Dora said, testily ; " I hate being coerced, and if I acted as your note bids me act, it would be coercion. Here they come." A detachment of gentlemen came into the room as she spoke, and Mr. Falconer Avas one of them, and Mr. Falconer looked black. " There has been something unpleasant, I am sure of it," Dora said, with a sickening sensation passing over her. " Get away from me Helen, do, he must not see us together. Mine is a mis- erable birthright, indeed ; my younger sister is born to be my bane." She spoke very bitterly ; she contrived to impress upon Helen that all her (Dora's) own and her mother's wrongs were well- ing up in her mind as she spoke ! She so evi- dently dreaded the idea of her sister staying near her, that her sister did not dare to stay. As in a dream darkly, Helen saw her brother-in-law go up near to his wife. Something passed between them, something that startled Dora palpably. There was a move presently, and some of them were going into the billiard-room. In the bustle Helen tried to gain speech of her sister, and her sister shunned her! "And I have given more than my life for you," Helen thought. The colloquy between husband and wife had been veiy brief, but to the M'ife it had been as the crack of doom. " I have had my talk with Digby," he said. "Have you?" she replied. "Yes, and I find he is acting under a misaj")- prehension : his mother and her maid have hatch- IIG ONLY HERSELF. ed lip a story about Helen going to Carlyon's rooms alone one night. I told him that a deli- cate-minded girl like 'Helen conld not do it ; at any rate, I am resolved to find out the truth. Ai-e you coming to see us play ?" "No, I will sit still," Dora said, suppressing a gasp that would have betrayed some of her an- guish. Then for a minute or two she was allow- ed to sit still, alone and uninternipted ; and while siie was sitting thus she was striving to realize what would become of her when he had found out the truth. How he would despise her for having sacrificed Helen, and yet, in spite of her full knowledge of the point that would rouse his ire the most deeply, she would have sacrificed Helen over and over again to save herself. Her rage rose against her husband for his uncalled-for interference in her sister's affixirs, for she misled herself into thinking it this for a few moments. Then her whole spirit fell as she dimly contem- ])lated what he would think of her when it trans- ])ired that they were her affixirs, and not Helen's, for which Helen had suffered. Miss Berringer's suit seemed to be prospering. Lord Waldron was now very attentive to her, with an air of consciousness of being so, that caused his mother metaphorically to bite the dust. There was no doubt about it that Miss BeiTinger's intentions were strictly honorable. She certainly meant matrimony towards the eldest son of the house. Lady Lynton had conceived almost a hatred for her young friend, now that her young friend prefen-ed playing her own game to playing Lady Lynton's. " I wish she was gone," Lady Lynton said, in a moment of angry confidence, to Lady Caroline Jocelpi. "I thought you were charmed with her!" Lady Caroline said, somewhat unkindly. " I am too old to be ' charmed ' with any one for very long," Lady Lynton said. " When is she going ?" "When, indeed; I ask myself that question daily, hourly, I may say, and still I can give my- self no satisfactoiy answer. She will stay here until she has accomplished her purpose, I verily believe, unless the house is burnt down." " What is her pm-pose ?" Lady Caroline said ; " I thought that it was yours, too — I fancied Digby was to marry her." " She won't have him," Lady Lynton said, with a twinge of something like compunction ; "but Waldron is and always has been more ame- nable to the advances of an audacious woman than Digby. I shall never know a moment's peace until Wakkon is safely married, and, if he mar- ries her, I shall never know a moment's peace afterwards ; she will be unbearable. Undoubtedly Miss Berringer's suit seemed to be prospering. The mother was in arms against her — never an inauspicious sign — and the son was, as his mother had said, showing himself to be very amenable to Miss Berringer's advances. These were made now rather in a daring way. She had established (with some difficulty) a little series of private jokes with him, and even if these were rather void of point in themselves, they ^'ere invaluable to her, being private. She flat- tered what he fancied were his proclivities, too, and she was adroit in making him believe that all tliat interested him interested her on its own merits. In short, she made herself very pleasing to him, and he had come to think that the Priory would have been a duU place without her this year. While his mother was making her moan to Lady Caroline on this very evening. Lord Waldron was teaching Miss Berringer to hold the cue. The hand with which she held it was white and small — not specially well-shaped, per- haps, but then weU-shaped hands are a rarity even among the governing classes. Miss Ber- ringer's hand was white and small, and it was covered with brilliant rings. Her rich draperies shone lustrously as she moved .about the table, draperies of "violet velvet, with the lamp-hght floating o'er,"' and he could not help remembering that a few days before he had stated violet to be one of his fiivorite colors. Lord Waldron's danger was far greater than he imagined as yet ; but it was by no means as imminent as his mother's fears painted it. Miss Berringer was in the thick of the battle, still she had not won it. "I have had my talk with Digby, and I have foinid out that he is acting under a misapprehen- sion." These words of her husband rang in Dora's ears like the knell of doom long after he had ut- tered them. In her teiTor she made a rash reso- lution. She would confide in Digby, set Helen rig.ht in his estimation again, and then beg him to screen her from her husband's just contempt and indignation. It was a peculiarity of hers that she could make any number of confidants, and yet maintain reseiwe with the only one who had a right to her confidence. WHien she had come to this resolution she got up and went into the billiard-room, and presently smilingly signed to Digby to come and speak to hei". "Can you spare me five minutes?" she asked as he approached. ' ' Five hundred, if you like, " he said. "No, I would not ask to be so burdensome; in five all can be said that I have to say ; but I would rather not say it here." Then she led the way into a little boudoir, through the open door of which they could still watch the movements of those who were play- ing, and be comparatively free from observation themselves. "Now, Mrs. Falconer, what is it?" he said, as she seated herself. "I wish you would call me Dora," she said; "my sister is your cousin, at any rate, and that ought to bring us nearer to each other." "But I have never been in the habit of speak- ing of you as 'Dora' since I heard of your mar- riage ; your husband might object to the famil- iarity, might he not ?" " No, Digby." Then she paused in some con- fusion, uncertain how to preface her request. ' ' It is about my sister that I want to speak to you," she said at last, in a low tone, and he preserved an ominous silence. ' ' I am going to trust you, to put myself in your power, for the sake of clearing Helen in your eyes," she went on hurriedly. "It was on my business that she went to ^Ir. Carlyon's rooms that evenirtg. He had been veiy ill-natured to me, and he had something of mine, a trifle, that he would not give up xmless I fetched it ; I made Helen my representative ; — y She said it all so earnestly, with such firm dis- tinctness of utterance, that he knew it would be idle to attempt to alter or shake her resolve. The fiat was a hard one to listen to and to bow to, but he had no alternative ! She had forced him to listen to it, and she would force him to bow to it. He knew that she was speaking in fullest sin- cerity when she said, ' ' but I have gone from you now." " You have indeed, — gone from me altogeth- er ! " he said, miserably, ' ' gone from me as I never went from you, Helen — entirely! entire- ly !" "As you never went from me, indeed," she said, slowly, "in no intemperate haste, in no blind anger, in no insulting suspicion ; I have gone from you because we have thought such things of each other as would always lie cold and heavy between our hearts, even if we did mar- " What are they?" he internipted. "You thought me false and shameless, and I think you were weaker than I should even like to feel my husband might be. Now, Digby, I have said out my say — more words on the subject will partake of the nature of vain repetitions, so I wiU neither hear them, nor speak them." She rose up suddenly as she said this, and passed out of the room, and as she did so Digby realized that she was gone from him forever. Two or three months passed. The season was nearly over, and the majority of people were pant- ing as eagerly to get away to the countiy as they had panted to get out of it in May. The Joce- lyns had gone down to Court Eoyal again, and DoUington was occupied by a member of the Fal- coner family — an important little member, too, who has made his appearance on these boards for the first time — none other than Dora's infant son, the Httle heir of DoUington. " He was not an acquisition in such a small house as the one she inhabited," Dora told in- quiring friends, when she recovered from the ef- 9 fects of his entrance into the world, "besides, Dollington is veiy healthy." Accordingly she had dispatched the child and its nurse to Dol- lington, remaining in London, though, as has been said, the majority of people were panting to get away into the countrj-. As a rule, Dora was not given to the perpetration of solecisms in fashion, but now she listened calmly to other people's plans for the autumn in various country places, and declai-ed, when she was questioned as to her own, that " she had seen so little society since she had been up, that in the season or out of the season London was all the same to her." ' ' Having, as you confess, no attraction in Lon- don, and having, as we know, what most mothers would consider a great one at Dollington, let me implore you to go to your own home," Lady Caroline said to her step-daughter. " Ah ! you don't understand me yet," Dora replied. "I can't bear to go and play the part of mother, when I am denied that of wife ; Mr. Falconer must pay the penalty of being harsh and unforgiving ; if I am spoken about as neglecting the few duties he has left me, I can't help it." "My dear child! don't get spoken about," Lady Caroline said ; ' ' don't hazard a suggestion as to the possibility of being spoken about ; think of your husband and your child — be patient to the one and pitiful to the other; be merciful to yourself." "My husband was not pitifid to me," Dora said. " But his anger against you will pass, if you do nothing to provoke it further. Dora, for Hel- en's sake, Helen, who lias suffered through you too, be careful of j'ourself. " "I am sick of being told how every one 'has suffered through me, ' " Dora said, passionately ; " why wasn't I left in the shade that I was rear- ed in ? Since I came among you I seem to have done nothing but injure and annoy you. Helen's suffering, after all, only amounts to this, that she has lost a booby of a boy Avho didn't know how to value her." "Why should you remain here when we are all gone ?" Lady Caroline said, glad to turn aside again from the Helen and Digby topic. "Why shouldn't I stay here?" Dora question- ed, calmly ; "here at least I seem to be independ- ent of all those who shrink from and tremble for me. If I went back to my grandfather's they would tiy to treat me there like the unemancipa- ted girl I was when I lived with them ; if I went to Dollington, eveiy clod on the estate would be tormenting his muddled brain to discover ' why I was there without master.' No, I am better here in the only home I have known that has kno\\Ti only me." " You wiU be dull and lonely." " Possibly so," Dora said, shrugging her shoul- ders with a sort of miserable carelessness. ' 'Aunt Grace will come and see me sometimes, I have no doubt — and try to enliven me as you have done by reminding me of the existence of my husband and my child." And when she said that, Mrs. Falconer did break down and cry a little, subdu- ing her hearer utterly unto her by the process. "She is not what you say, Arthur ; she is not quite heartless," Lady Caroline said to her hus- band in his daughter's defense after that conver- sation ; "she is wretched and helmless, and — oh ! my dear, if you coidd but subdue your pride, and 130 ONLY HERSELF. wi-ite as her father might to her husband ; he is embittering her out of all judgment." So it came to pass that the absent husband was ■written to by the self-accusing father, and by-and- by Mr. Falconer's answer came. Before its con- tents are made public, however, Mrs. Falconer's career in the inteiim must be sketched. One of the sharpest pangs that Dora Falconer had ever felt was the pang with which she awoke to the discovery of the liict that Bertie Carlyon, the man for whom she had imperilled herself, had gone over from the adoration of herself to the adoration of her sister. It had stung her to the very core of her vanity when he made manifest that to gain Helen's love was more to him than to keep Dora's fg-vor. Again and again Helen seemed to supersede her. Helen had the better birthright, the better breeding and bringing up, the better principles — every thing but the better beauty. In that Dora was unassailable, but what would it avail her if Helen was to win love from her. Dora had asked herself this question bitter- ly, even while she was wishing to obliterate all recollection of Bertie Carlyon from her mind and memoi-y. She would willmgly have condemned him to oblivion and extinction ; but she could not bear the idea of resigning him to Helen. These had been her feehngs even while she was living with her husband, and loving him at her best. Now that her husband had, as she herself phrased it, "deserted her," the desire to regain the fickle fancy, which she did not value in reality, over- mastered her. Eagerly, with an eagerness that from so lovely a woman could not fail to be flattering to a man, she had renewed intercourse with Mr. Carlyon on far too slight grounds. The story of the pretty woman who was a martyr to her husband's love of science and solitary travelling was getting bruit- ed abroad, and though Dora's name was very roughly handled by many, still there were many who glorified her with the fliint blame that is to the full as popularity-engendering as faint praise is condemnatory. Bertie Carlyon heard of her at first without sufficient interest to make him men- tion the fact of having once known her. This in- difference was maintained at first only, be it re- marked. Veiy soon he came to count it openly as one of his best social triumphs, and Dora most unwisely took pleasure in his doing so. " I suppose I may not call upon you now," he said to her, rather sorrowfully one day in the park, and she asked him, with a well-aftected air of won- dennent, " Why not now?" "I saw your sister last night, and heard from her that you intended to condemn the world to the most complete loss of you while your husband is away." "That is your way of putting it, not Helen's," she said, quickly. " Miss Jocelyn imjilied exactly the same thing in slightly different words." "And Miss Jocelyn's word is gospel to you still," she said, sneeringly; "what a pity it is that she can't be got to see the beauty and con- stancy of your conduct as compared with that of the boy who, after having known her all his life, judged that he might drop her and pick her up again just as he pleased." " She has jjroved that lie can not do that with impunity^ rumor says that she refused to have any thing more to do with him, only the other day. " "Rumor is always right, we know," Dora said, with a laugh; "she is in error, though, about my intending to take vows of seclusion and silence during Mr. Falconer's absence." Then she gave him her address, and drove off with- out expressing any further desire to see him than the giving of the address implied. "Soon he found his way to the little house at the end of Kensington Gore, and he had a pretty welcome there — a far prettier welcome than the woman he had worried before her marriage had a right to give him afterwards. But "it's no use going on quarrelling with the few nice agree- able people one does know, is it ?" Dora pathet- ically said to herself Bertie Carlyon, by reason of his facility of expression, and the success that facility of expression brought to him, bid fair to be the brightest element in her life. The handsome, clever, blithe young novelist was on the top of the ladder now, and, strange to say, he did not kick away the lower rounds by aid of which he had mounted. He was on the top of the ladder, and he Avas very much in two or three worlds that might have been in different hemispheres, so widely were they apart in all points of sympathy. He was in that fashionable, 'easy-going, titled, wealthy world, which largely afli'ects the society of the best and least Bohemian literary and artistic men. He was one of the workers still, and therefore he was at home in the ranks of the grave, earnest, plodding official men, who think of nothing so much as the possible superannuation or death of the clerk who is just senior to them. And lastly, he had never flung free of the gay devil-may-care gang of aspirants for the honors that are to be gained in the col- umns of the daily papers, and the pages of the shilling magazines. A man of fashion and of the world that knows nothing of letters until they are printed and published, he was still a Bohemian of the Bohemians, in fact, and it was in this lat- ter character that lie was now most interesting to Dora Falconer. There were men whom he knew in this latter class who, by way of easing their hand-to-hand struggle with penury, had married and got to them- selves sons and daughters to be fed and clothed. Some of them had married pretty young actress- es — one of them especially had — and these two, Freeman, of the daily " Exaggerator," and his wife, were only too glad to accept Dora as a gay, glancing, pleasant fact, who would be delightful in London during the summer, and invaluable at Boulogne during the autumn. It was nothing to them where her husband was, or why lie was away. "It was impossible to fuss about the skeletons that were in the closets of your acquaintances ; they were very much indebted to Mr. Carlyon," Mr. Freeman said. Grandes dames might elevate their brows at Dora, and ignore the idea of ask- ing her to their select gatherings, but pretty Mrs. Freeman, who was much more amusing than any grande dame that had ever fallen under Dora's observation, had not a scruple in her. So in a few days they were friends, and the pretty ex- actress was driving Avith Mrs. Falconer in her pony-carriage, and dining with Dora, in company with Mr. Freeman and Bertie Carlyon, at Dora's house. And all this time Mr. Falconer was away. ONLY HERSELF. 131 and the little heir was reigning alone at DoUing- ton. " She must liave lost her senses," Mrs. Bruton said, when she heard of these doings, and the pos- sibility of a divorce rose up before her. CHAPTER XXXLX. Mrs. Falconer must have lost her senses! This was Mabel Bruton's comment when she heard of Dora's second-rate gayeties, and Bohe- mian friendships. There was nothing against the Freemans, husband or wife, in morality. They were simply unknown, unrecognized, non- existent by and to tlie set that ought to have been Dora's by right of her fiither and her husband. Yet here was she now submerged, as it were, in their social life, living the same gayly and being contented with it, although her husband was away fi'om her in wrath, and her child was learning to do without her at DoUington. It must be acknowledged that Dora was veiy hapjjy in spite of these drawbacks. The thun- derbolt had descended, the worst (so she be- lieved) had befallen her, and she was scathless. The time had been when she had sickened and grown heart-sore at the thought of her husband's wrath and disappointment. But he had been wi-athful to her, and disappointed in her, and she had borne it, and lived through it, and I'ecovered from it. Over and over again she assured herself that if she had nothing more to hope from him, so also she had nothing more to fear. He had done with her, and in the freshness of that feeling she had smarted as under a sharp cut or a bad blow. But the smarting was over now, and in her re- lief at there still being so much that was taiigibly good left to her she breathed more freely than she had done for months. There were those of her own order who looked askance at her. Let them do so. The life she was hving was not cut and dried to suit their taste, perhaps, but she was a little queen in the new circle, and the art of reigning came easy to her. It was only sometimes when she keenly remembered all tiiat he had cost her, that she started a little, and looked other than very kind- ly at Bertie Carlyon. The old life, the past life, the better life, was often brought before her. Be it understood that she was not left alone to perish. Tlie Elhots souglit her and grieved about her openly, be- seeching her with all the eloquence of their un- selfish love for her, to seek a reconciliation with her husband, while still he might grant it. To leave this treacherous surface on which she was walking witli such apparent impunity. To sub- mit to any thing — a life of absolute solitariness and neglect at DoUington with her child, rather than to the dubious regard which the world be- stowed upon her now. She listened to all they said, with the same pretty disarming petulance with which she met Lady Caroline on similar occasions. She listen- ed to all they said, and when they had said it, she went on precisely as though they had never spoken. She never grew angry, or violent in disclaimer or self-defense, she never put on in- jured airs, she never sulked with them, or huffed with them. She just went on as if they had nev- er spoken, and any one who has to deal with one of these calmly indifferent, always passive people, will sympathize with the hopelessness that over- came the Elhots. Somehow or other, without any evil design, but out of a most pernicious carelessness, Bertie Carlyon drifted into the old habit — or into some- thing closely resembling the old habit — of inti- macy with her. He had wrenched himself away from the hope of ever gaining Helen, and with that wrench he had broken his good resolutions concerning a nobler aim and a better life. Mrs. Falconer's beauty, and Mrs. Falconer's accessi- bility, and Mrs. Falconer's slight memoiy for tiie price she had paid for his flatteries before, were irresistible to him, and the mere fact of her be- ing another man's wife, never caused him to conceal how irresistible they were. So through the dull season in London they passed away their time principally together, Mrs. Freeman enacting the part of a lax propriety for their benefit, until one day another thunderbolt fell upon Dora, and she began to realize that there was still both something more to hope for, and a good deal to fear about for her in the world. There came a letter for her from DoUington one morning as she sat at breakfast. A letter from lier Imsband, a letter in which (out of the great love he had bonie for her, out of the great love he had for their child) he prayed for permis- sion to make atonement to, and seek reconciliation with her. Their old illusions, at least the illu- sions with which he had started in his married career, could never be restored — he said that plainly. But at the same time he suggested that they might build up on a broader, stronger basis a fair edifice of domestic happiness, if only each could sacrifice a little to the other. Her heart beat as it had never beaten before as she sat reading his letter. He did not tell lier how he had come back, or why he had come back, or ^vhere he had been. All he told lier relative to himself was that lie had come back, and that he had come back repentant of his siiare of the miserable business which had separated them. The concession would have been enough for any loving woman — more than enough for any woman wlio felt herself to have been in error in any degree. Yet, notwithstanding this suffer- ing, Dora read and hesitated, and doulited her- self and him, and the advisability of openly avow- ing that it was peace between them. Truth to tell, she shrank from his investigation of the life she had been leading for the last few months. Not that she had done aught that was actually amiss ; but she had done so much that was veiy indiscreet. Moreover she dreaded a re- turn to a life which would, after her late fetterless career, seem to be infinitely hampered and close- ly bounded. In days gone by, when she was first hurled (in spite of his precautions) from her high estate, as his honored wife — the trusted mistress of DoUington — she would have sacrificed many a purely personal gratification to have retained, under any restrictions, that which he had forced her to forfeit. But now! now she told herself it was altogether different. He had compelled her to live her life without him, and she had found that life vastly pleasant. She looked round at the little bijou home she had made for 132 ONLY HERSELF. lierself in the small house at the end of Kensing- ton Gore, and declared with some vehemence that she could not leave it for a prison in the country, with a jailer who suspected her. As was her wont, she opened her heart to the wi-ong person. Her grandfather coming to see her that same day met -with a hurried, emban-ass- ed welcome, which showed him that he was a su- pei-fluity in the house of the child he succored and nurtured. So the old man took himself away, and made room for that gayer guest, Bertie Car- lyon. "Mrs. Freeman has organized a gathering of the few who are left to us at Richmond on Wed- nesday," he began ; "she wanted to be the heav- iest of hea\y swells for once and have it at the 'Castle,' but I checked her aspirations and suggested that the ' Star and Garter ' was alto- gether pleasanter; so she has consented to go there." "Very good of her," Dora said, sarcastically, remembering that according to the usual order of things she (Mrs. Falconer herself) was left to pay the cost of the delightful little gatherings which Mrs. Freeman organized with such consummate skill. ' ' She says you know all about it, and are pledged to join," Bertie Carlyon said, somewhat anxiously. There was a tone of revolt against the existing order of things which struck disagreea- bly upon his ear. "Then she reckons without her host — or her guest rather," Dora said, tartly; "before Wed- nesday I may be back in the shades of DoUington in a state of shiver for fear Mrs. Freeman's name may ever unadvisedly be mentioned ; my husband has recalled me — at last." " And you intend obeying the tardy summons ?" Mr. Carlyon asked. He was bent on her being of their party on Wednesday — after Wednesdaj^ as he meant to go to the Smss Alps, he did not much care what became of her. Dora hesitated. "Of course I mean to go," she said, presently ; "I have no alternative, you know : Mr. Falconer having exhausted his rov- ing commission means to withdraw my ticket- of-leave. " " Well, the Richmond business ■will be a blank without you ; derive all the comfort you can from the consideration of that fact. I wish I hadn't agreed to go." "Mrs. Freeman Avill devote herself to you mnre assiduously than ever," Dora said, rising up, and wandering with apparent carelessness and a keen eye for effect in amongst some of her rare banked-up flowers. In spite of that bond of luiion which existed between Mrs. Freeman and herself, she was rather jealous of the avowed Bo- hemian who was respectable by right of her hus- band. ' ' How many women have tried to console me for tlie loss of one, and failed," he said, and Dora, glancing at him quickly, saw that he looked sad, and foncied that she was the "one woman" v.'hose loss had rendered him inconsolable. It did not occur to her that he could be thinking of Helen, so she wrested his remark to suit her own wishes, and determined that, let what would come of it, she would enjoy that Wednesday with him at Richmond. "I hope among other things that Mrs. Free- man has ordained that we go early enough to have a stroll in the park," she said. "You will go, then ?" " Yes, I shall stay for it," Dora said, coloring a little. " Perhaps Falconer will come up and join you," Mr. Carlyon said, mischievously. " Perhaps he will — if I ask him," Dora said, calmly, and soon after Bertie Carlyon went away to report to Mrs. Freeman that Mrs. Falconer was acquiescent, and when he was gone Mrs. Falconer sat down to write to her husband. Until she began her letter she had not been conscious that there Avould be a diflSculty about writing to him at all. But now the difficulty was hea\-y upon her. To word that letter with warm, prompt obedience to his request that they should be reunited and expiate their past errors towards each other by a lifelong course of reasonable con- cessions for the future, was incongruous, was al- together incompatible with the fact which she would be compelled to state, namely, that she did not intend to go to him at DoUington until after Wednesday. The truth would not look well. A direct lie might be found out ; moreover Dora preferred eschewing falsehood when she could do so with impunity in the present. But the tnith, the truth that she was keeping away from him in order to go to Richmond with people from whom she knew he would have commanded his wife to stand aloof, was altogether impracticable. She tried how it would look : wrote down the simple statement of what she M^as going to do on a sheet of note-paper, and then tore it up hastily, ' ' because it looked so bad. " In the act itself she saw nothing objectionable, but when it came to be written down in black and white she shrank from the sight of it. But procrastination would avail her nothing. The letter must be written and dispatched by that day's post. She could not tell the truth, and she wished to avoid telling an untruth. But she reflected pres- ently with a sigh of relief that she could steer a middle course, and imply something that would exonerate her in his eyes. Her grandfather's visit had been looked upon as a tedious thing at the time, but she blessed him for ha%ang made it now. He had mentioned that Grace was ill with a feverish cold, and the men- tion was invaluable to Dora (so Dora foncied) at this juncture. The writing of her letter was ren- dered a comparatively easy task. He would like her all the better if he thought that she was un- selfishly sacrificing herself for the sake of nurs- ing Aunt Grace. So she indited an epistle full of warm regret at not being free to go to him at once. She painted strongly and cleverly the sudden birth of love for her child which his letter had caused. She told him how she liad been in a dazed and joyless hard dream ever since he had left her, and how now she was awake and conscious that he had done all for the best. She told him how hateful DoUington had been to her in his absence, and how dear it would be to her again when she could share it again. Entirely and without reservation she forgave, even as she hoped he Avould forgive, the past : ' ' That past of mutual mistakes which it has been found necessary for us to live through in order that we might come at last to the perfect appreciation of each other which we shall now have, " as she phrased it prettily enough. So far ONLY HERSELF. 133 the writing of the letter had been easy enough — she had but had to rhapsodize. Now the time for explanation had come, and her pen worked less freely. " I should travel down at once, this very day, agitated as I am by the unexpected turn events have taken," was what she wrote at last ; "but poor Aunt Grace is very ill, and I won't leave till after the crisis, which will most probably be on Wednesday night. Expect me on Thursday, and believe me, in the interim, your own loving, hap- py wife, Dora." She read this passage over several times with in- tense satisfaction. It seemed flawless, faultless to her. She had avoided a downright story. She had said nothing dangerously definite or untrue. Her grandfather, in speaking of Grace's feverish cold, had said that it would probably cidminate on Wednesday — colds generally did in those days, and Grace's had only come on that (Monday) morning. Dora was very well satisfied with the adroit way in which she had turned this expres- sion to account. She felt as if she might go to Richmond now uTifettered by any fear. The days rolled on swiftly. Wednesday dawn- ed, and the hour for starting came. It was late, ruddy, rich October weather, and Dora had devised a marvellous costimie that harmonized most perfectly with the opal-hued atmosphere. "This is the last breath of perfect freedom I shall draw for sometime," she said to Mr. Carlyon as they walked down through the many-terraced gar- den nearly to the river bank; "I go down to Dollington to-mon"ow. " " Do you mean to say that Falconer is going to cage his bird very closely ?" he said, carelessly. " No ; not that at all," she said, blushing, and remembering too late that now she was going to lead a new life, and that it was not well to make confidences concerning it to Mr. Carlyon ; "but think of all I shall have to do — so many of our duties have been neglected during our long ab- sence, that we shall have some work to set them going again." " Very good of Falconer to let you stay for a Richmond dinner when he has not seen you for so long. " Now that his season of pleasure with Dora was about to come to an end, he could not help teasing her maliciously, and carelessly ex- hibiting his real indifference to her. " I had business, I shoidd not have staid for pleasure alone," she said. " Then it was not done out of regard for me ?" he asked, with a quick return to his old tender manner. She was not often stirred out of the light selfish calm in which she was steeped concerning him amongst others, but just now she was in a critical temper, for critical times were coming. He ex- pected so much, and he gave so little, she could not help feeling as she looked at him, and saw that, in spite of his assumed tenderness, he was in i-eality indiff'erent to her. " I have done too many things out of regard for you already," she said, bitterly, and in her bit- terness she was so very, very beautiful, that for the gratification of the moment he felt himself impelled to say, " For every sacrifice you have made for me, I would make a thousand — if you would let me." " And repent of each one a thousand times." "No, I am a pagan in such matters ; repent- ance does not enter into my creed ; I have felt myself to have been a big fool several times in the course of my life — but I think I only bewailed the effects. I never bemoaned the causes of my folly ; but we have grown too sober — we have lapsed into too great seriousness for the place and the hour, and as we are going to part so soon we ought to strive to leave a livelier impression on one another." " My going home does not mean that we are to part. I shall gladly welcome you at Dollington." ' ' When I come back from the Wengem I will remind you of your kind offer of hospitality, and claim it." " When you come home ! — but you are not go- ing yet," she said, eagerly. ' ' Indeed I am ; this is my last English holi- day— 'It may be for years, or it may be forever;' think of me sometimes in the midst of your do- mestic bliss, Mrs. Falconer." "My domestic bliss I — as if you believed I should enjoy that at Dollington," she said warm- ly. "I have unfitted myself for it, you know that — no one knows it better, not even I myself feel it more strongly ; you have helped me to un- fit myself for that which yoa now sneeringly rec- ommend me to go back and enjoy. I am not like Helen." ' ' For which Helen's friends can not be too thankful," he thought, but he only said aloud, ' ' Violent emotions, combined with unaccustomed exercise, have given me an appetite — I hope they have made you the same sort of reparation. Shall we go back before the fair Mrs. Freeman has time to conceive a hearty dislike to us both for neg- lecting her so ?" "The fiiir Mrs. Freeman !" Dora repeated, pet- tishly. She could not bear that he should even in joke concede to the woman so far less beauti- ful than herself, the right to be capricious and ex- acting. "The fair Mrs. Freeman ought to be very much obliged to me for countenancing her at all." "I don't exactly see that," he said, shaking his head ; ' ' she has done nothing to forfeit any woman's countenance, or to make her sink under a weight of obUgation for being accorded the same. " "Are you going to wear her colors, to sail un- der her banner ?" Dora asked, passionately ; slie did so desire that he should keep up his show of devotion, his light laughing allegiance to her to the last. ' ' I assure you the married woman does not live under whose banner I would sail, or whose colors I would wear, Mrs. Falconer, " he said, gravely. She forgot prudence and caution and discretion when they would have most availed, as was her terrible custom. She forgot the dignity which presently she would be anxious enough to re-as- sume in his eyes — the dignity of a married wom- an, namely. She forgot every thing save this — I that she must have seemed to offer herself to him I very cheaply, and that he had repelled her. She ] had run the lisk of offending her husband past all I possibility of his forgiving her, by misleading him as to her real intent, and Bertie Carlyon had made the risk an idle one, and the misleading statement a hollow mockery, by ignoring that she 1^ had done it for him. She forgot prudence, and 134 ONLY HERSELF, caution, and discretion, and being only herself, what wonder that she did so ? "You have always been my bane," she said, with an earnestness of anger that she despised herself for betraying. "You have always been my bane — and such a good man would have been my shield and buckler." "I have been but the shadow of your own whims and desires — have they been your banes ? Don't let us talk romances ; it is enough for me that I have to write them, it would be painful in- deed to have to hve one of them ; let us be prac- tical, go in and eat our dinner now, and go to our respective duties to-morrow — you to Dolling- ton to resume domesticity, I abroad to gain fresh material to write about. Here comes Mrs. Free- man ; don't let lier suspect we either of us have cause of dissatisfaction with one another, or the world. " "It was for this — for this heartless dismissal from his interests and his life, that I have risked so much ! " Dora thought. To-day was nearly over, and it had been pro- lific in proofs of how little she was to him. To- morrow was still to come, and in it she must learn whether she was much or little to her hus- band. Fraught with this reflection, she went in to the dinner she could not enjoy, and to the companionship she was beginning to loathe — this one thought being still uppermost, that to-day was nearly over, and to-morrow was still to come. CHAPTER XL. NEMESIS. Mr. Falconer had found the time lag un- til tlie receipt of his wife's answer to that appeal of his, which he now felt should have been made long ago. It would be absurd to say that the ])resence, or rather, the vicinity to him, of his infant son distracted his mind from the severe anxiety which oppressed it. Infant sons and daughters are delightful in the abstract always, and, when they are awake, they have a wholesome power of monopolizing attention. But, happily for those around them, they are rarely awake, and a man must be possessed of a wealth of the concentrative faculty, who can find in a sleeping baby balm for a big sorrow. And it was a big sorrow to this man that his wife and himself, between them, should have en- dangered that fair-looking bark in which they had set sail on the sea of life together. Now that ab- sence had cooled his wrath against the one who had tried trickery and deceit successfully upon him for so long, he remembered that the one in question was his wife, and that patience was part of the portion she had a right to expect from him. It had been a vast relief to him, when he came back repentant of his share of the business, to hear from the Jocelyns that all so far was well with Dora. They acknowledged that they • thought her headstrong in remaining away from the home and the duties that were still hers, but there was only comfort to him in their blaming her so heavily for this wrong-headedness — it seem- ihI to assure him that they had nothing else to blame her for. lie did not tell them when he wrote or what he wrote to her, But they intuitively felt, from a certain sort of badly suppressed impatience and anxiety in his manner, that he had written. And when he received her answer he took it at once to Court Royal. " Dora is detained in town for a day or two by her aunt's illness," he said; "after that she is coming back to me." Simply as he told them the fact, so simply in a few words they rejoiced at it. "I always felt sure it would be well with you again," Lady Caro- line said, heartily, feeling perfectly conscious all the while that she had never felt sure of any thing of the kind. "And I am so glad,"' Helen said, smiling at him brightly, so brightly that he could but remem- ber how the brightness of that smile had once been dimmed through the Dora at whose welfare Helen was now rejoicing. ' ' Yours was such a quick courtship that you had no time for lovers' quarrels before marriage — I hope you have got through them all the first year after it, " Mr. Jocelyn said. "We shall never have another quarrel, we never can have another quarrel," Mr. Falconer said; "when a man has suffered as I have suf- fered he will not idly risk a repetition of it." Helen looked at him uneasily, then drew a long breath of relief. There was an expression of such tenderness and love in his face as she had never seen even in the days of his first love for Dora. "If he had looked stem I should have thought that he had left his sentence unfinished, and that he meant that he never \\ ould have an- other quarrel to make it up," she thought ; " but perhaps he does mean that having tried her so he never will permit himself to have an angry thought about her again." ' ' Do you mean to go and fetch Dora, Robert ?" she asked, suddenly. "Do you think she woidd rather meet me in London than in our owii home ?" he asked. ' ' I think she would rather meet you as soon as possible, and I know she hates travelling alone, " Helen said. " I would study her feelings above every thing, but she gives no hint of a desire that I should go up." "Then don't think of what I said, Helen ex- claimed, hastily ; regretting at once that she had put such an idea in his head. But tlie idea had been put in his head, and now he seemed obsti- nately bent upon acting on it. " It was veiy thoughtless of me not to remem- ber her dislike to travelling alone," he said; "I certainly shall not allow her to do it. " And Hel- en knew when he said it, that it would be useless to say a word against the plan. "My horse would like me to walk part of the way through the ])ark, Helen," Robert Falconer said to Helen significantly, when he was about to start. "And I should like to walk with you," she said, promptly ; although she felt sure that he would speak on the one topic that was painful to her. Her prescience ])roved true. The echoes of his adieus to Lady Caroline and Mr. Jocelyn had hardly died away before he said to the girl at liis side, • " Dora and I having agreed to bury our dead, I trust that Digby and you will follow our exam- ple. " ONLY HERSELF. 135 ' ' You mean it kindly, llobert, and I tlianlc you for your kindness." •' I have good reason to know that his love for you is as strong as ever," he said, earnestly. '"And I have sad reason to know that it never was as strong as mine was for him," she said, gravely; "Digby and I have said out all the words I ever want to hear on this subject, Rob- ert. " "Yet you don't care for any one else?" " Xo ;" I don't care for any one else, and I be- lieve that I am one of the women who can go on to the end not caring for any one else ; it's no such sad fate, Robert ; I shall be spared a mighty amount of wretchedness and disappoint- ment. I do believe that there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream ; but I also believe that as I have been wakened from that dream I never can enjoy it again. Don't pity me. I am veiy happy, I don't feel the need of that sort of tie." " Xot now ; but when other ties fail you, when you are old, then you will regret yom- self-sutfi- ciency, for I can call such determined abnegation of all womanly duties and pleasm-es by no less harsh a term." "If we both live until I am old we shall see Avhich of us Avas right, Robeit," she said, laugli- ing ; ' ' you who seem to me to put too much trust in the name and the conventional attributes of love; or I who can't lay it down and take it up because the laying dowTi and taking up might be good for me — pleasant for me." "We shall see long before you are old," he said, blithely. He could not help being blithe, because he was going to Dora. He went oft" by an express train on Wednesday, the morning of the day that was to witness the culmination of Miss ElUot's feverish attack. He made his way to the house in Russell Square with a degree of ardor that suqirised himself even. Xever in the days of his first hot love for and unlimited faith in her had he been so anxious to see Dora, and to have all well between them. He felt so glad and grateful that she should have been presened from the commission of any feminine folly or outrage on conjiigiil good taste during that trial to which he in his presumption had sub- jected her. And all would be well between them now — of that he had no doubt. Nevertheless, in spite of his lack of doubt, his heart beat thickly and quickly as he knocked at her grandfather's door. "Mrs. Elliot was at home — would he please to walk in?" He did please to walk in, and presently there came to him in the drawing-room that had been so decorously dull a place for Dora's bright youth to have passed in — there came to him in this room Mrs. EUiot and Aunt Grace — the latter betraying in her flushed, swollen cheeks and nose unmistakable traces of influenza. His heart ceased to beat quickly, a sudden qualm as- sailed him that almost checked its pulsation. While they were welcoming him with a sort of timorous eagerness that showed him how awful and how important he was in their eyes,, he asked, " Where is Dora? I expected to meet her here." " She will most likely be here directly, then," old Mrs. Elliot said, promptly. "Did she not tell you? Has she not been here nursing her aunt ?" he asked ; and even as he asked it his heart foreboded that he had tracked her into another lair of deception. "Oh, yes," Aunt Grace said, eagerly, hoping to screen her pet from the efl'ects of some folly of which she felt vaguely fearful Dora might have been guilty. ' ' Oh, yes : she has been here. " "When ?" He spoke so stenfly that many of their hopes of seeing a reunion between these two died out. " Why, only the other day," Aunt Grace said, with a sort of desperation that was born half of defiance and half of deprecation. ' ' She came in only the other day — just as I was taken poor- ly, if you remember, mamma — and she would in- sist on going to Covent Garden to get me some gi'apes. Dora is so considerate." " But surely there is some mistake," he per- sisted ; " my wife wrote to me — I got her letter only this morning — telling me that you were too ill to be left ; giving your danger as a reason for not coming to Dolhngton at once. What am I to think ?" He asked it with an agonized air, with a flushed, indignant face, with a burst of such anger in his tone as they could not wonder at. They could not tell him, poor creatures, what he was to think ; they had difiiculty enough in not thinking the worst themselves — the worst in their belief being that she was again willfully deceiving her hus- band. All they could sa}- was that ' ' probably she would come in directly." But more than an hour passed, and she did not come in, and then Mr. Falconer betook himself with all the speed he could to the address she had given him in Kensington Gore. Signs of Dora's presence were eveiywhere visi- ble — in the little vestibule through which he pass- ed, in the drawing-room to which that vestibide led him. He could have sworn that he had come to her and to no other woman's house as soon as he entered it. It was a little temple of beauty and luxuiy, not by any means the sort of place in which a woman with a strong sense of desola- tion upon her would have dwelt, but just the place, he felt, with a pang, for Dora. It was a little temple of beauty and luxury — of carefully sustained and deliberately ordered beauty and luxury. Much time and much mon- ey must have been spent in bringing about such perfection of ornamentation and aiTangement. " Siie has had the heart to sack Woodgate's and Wardour Street while I have been away, incapa- ble of doing any thing save think about her," he said to himself, as he sat down in a chait placed at one of the best points for observation, and strove to while away the time that would elapse before she came home, in taking in the spirit of the room. He might well say that she had sacked Wood- gate's and Wardour Street, but she had done so with no vulgarly rapacious hand. She had sim- ply taken of their best, and out of their best she had made this. It was her drawing-room, but it was no atiI- gar abomination of blue or amber satin, or of red velvet and gilding. Mrs. Falconer had employed the hours (they had not been shining hours to her, though, judging from all this, a spectator might have been forgiven for fancying that they had been so) — Mrs. Falconer had employed tiie hours of her husband's absence in creating some- 136 ONLY HERSELF. thing very different to the ordinary Philistine ar- rangements of marqueterie and onnolu, of gay damasks, and glass, and gilding. The largest room in the little house to which I refer, is not a lofty neither is it a large room. To the uneducated eye, which only sees size in glare, Dora had decreased its proportions by having its walls and floor stained very dark, relieved with mouldings of a rather richer color than that of the Egyptian earth out of which water-bottles are made. There were two or three gorgeously col- ored, exquisitely harmonized Persian nigs lying about, and near to these there were soft seduc- tive chairs framed in curiously, beautifully carved woods, and covered with some Oriental fabric that was soft, and lustreless, and creaseless. Near to one of these, that was half chair half lounge, a long low black teak- wood table stood, out of the frame of whicli leaves, and flowers, and hobgoblins crept, and writhed, and twined. And on this table, plates and dishes of Sevres and Dresden, and cups of Capo di Monti were piled with an artisti- cally lavish hand, that arranged them with a look of plenty, and still with a clear outline. He glanced along the room from the table, and saw other little groups, of antique writing mate- rials, of flowers growing out of delicately colored monstrously formed Chinese vases. Such flow- ers ! rich masses of geraniums and mignonnette, clustered in a perfumed tangle, looping over the sides and grotesque handles of their temporary homes. Dark roses, pale camellias, glowing-hued flowers, whose names even he did not know. He remembered Mrs. Bruton's floral trophy in the middle of her drawing-room, and in spite of his anger against her, he liked his wife's better. He went over to the fireplace, where a clear fire burnt, and partly by its light, and partly by the light of a pale amber-shaded lamp, he saw upon the mantel-piece an exquisitely painted and framed photograph of Bertie Carlyon. The man seemed to look out at him with lazy eyes of scorn and triumph, with insolent self-possession, witli barely concealed contempt. This it seemed to look to his distempered imagination, it may be said, for the same photograph looked nothing but sweet things at Dora. Nevertheless, distempered imagination paints us hideously truthful pictures sometimes. He strolled on presently to look at the contents of an elaborately carved oak book-case that occu- pied an irregular recess in the room. " I like to see an abundance of books in a Moman's room," he thought ; "it sliows that she does read ; and if she reads she thinks." His survey disappoint- ed him. Decidedly the books with which Dora's shelves were filled were not the books he would have had her read, far less were they the books he would have had her think about. Light, wick- ed, amusing Frencii novels, and English imita- tions of them, that made viciousness their theme, and its success their story. " And the stronp; man eighed in secret pain, 'Oh! that I were free again :' " Time passed. Eight, nine, ten o'clock struck, and still there came no Dora. He rang for a servant once— a servant who did not know him — and made inquiry as to the probable time of Mrs. Falconer's return. The woman could give him no other answer than this, "That she was sure she did not know : her mistress was always uncer- tain when she went out with Mr. and Mrs. Free- man and Mr. Carlyon." And he felt his face bum with a terrible glow as he listened to the words. Just as the minute-hand of her Watteau-paint- ed clock pointed to ten minutes to eleven he heard a light can'iage draw up at the door, and a mo- ment after heard Dora's voice. " Come in or not, as it pleases you," she was saying: "I feel your time for pleasing me is over." "Heavens and earth!" her husband thought, "whom can she be addressing?" His doubt was set at rest almost in an instant, for Dora floated into the room, and behind her dia- phanous robes he saw the shadow of Bertie Car- lyon. They all caught sight of one another at the same moment, and then for another moment each stood sUent and motionless. Then, with a mut- tered apology and good-night, Bertie Carlyon withdrew, and the husband and wife were left alone. She dreAv a long, nervous breath, and braced herself to the task of addressing him. " Robert, how you startled me !" she said, re- proachfully ; "it was not fair to come upon me in this way, making me seem negligent, when I would have given up any engagement to meet you." ' ' It makes you seem worse than negligent to me," he said, sternly. " Then it makes me seem worse than I am," she said, promptl}^ ; " as truly as I stand before you now, so I assure you that I have done noth- ing half so bad since you left me as that which you left me for. I have been idle, vain, foolish perhaps in seeking diversion with those who would have me when my own stood aloof from me — will you believe me ?" She came near to him with a gesture to the full as imploring as her words. And he recoiled from her. " I believe you to be as false a woman as the world holds," he said, slowly ; "I believe you to be incapable of one true thought or word, one im- selfish impidse, one atom of honest love. I be- lieve you to be unworthy of being my wife, or of acting as mother to my child. I came here to- day (not here, but to your grandfather's house, where you had led me to believe you were) with my heart full of love for you and penitence for my own former harsh judgment of you. Wom- an ! I leave you now, knowing full well that you deseiwe far harsher judgment than I have ever bestowed upon you, — feeUng that you will get it too from others." " I had only myself to guide me," she wailed. " Oh! Robert, I am innocent, I am innocent." She put her hands up to cover her eyes as she commenced speaking, and when she took them down he was gone. Then she knew herself left to herself indeed, and fell upon her knees, praying that, as all were gone from her, so slie miglit go from life, to rest in the grave before tlie world knew her deserted, withered, with nothing that she cotild lay claim to save the bea-itiful self for love of which she had sacrificed all. But she was young and strong, and unhappi- ness does not kill those who have so much in their favor physically. A night of moaning, and of absolute woe, only made her head ache cruelly ONLY HERSELF. 137 the following day. Perhaps the two following letters did not tend to lessen her agonies. The first was from her husband, and was briefly this : — "I have instructed my solicitors, Messrs. Be- wick and Bain, to arrange terms of separation between us, and to oflfer you an adequate income. I shall retain entire possession of the child you deserted. Robert Falconer." The other was from Bertie Carlyon, and ran as follows : "Dear Mrs. Falconer, — I hadn't the right cue last night, and so came upon the stage rather maladroitly, I fear. I make all the amends in my power for the unintentional awkwardness by starting for the Continent to-day. Paris will be my head-quarters for the future : if ever you are stroll- ing that way perhaps we may meet. Yours always devotedly, Bertie Carlyon." With a curse upon his carelessness she flung the letter from her into the fire ; and then, with staring eyes that scarcely took in the meaning of the words she saw so clearly, she re-read her husband's letter. " I will never go back to the old people to be looked at, and blamed, and pitied, " she muttered at last, rising up. " I would rather lose myself in the world — if I could." CHAPTER XLL, AND LAST. "alone." A SAD, solitaiy, sequestered English home. An English home bereft of that which should have been the best thing in it — the wife and mother. This is one of the last pictures I shall paint in these volumes for my readers. Dollington at its gayest and brightest, in the early days of brilliant Dora's regime, was a place upon which a great quiet had fallen. But now that brilliant Dora's regime was over, it was tlie very home of sad desolation. Not but that all things were well and sys- tematically and genei'ously oi'dered as for as the household was concerned. No better fed, no bet- ter clothed and better behaved domestics were to be found in the whole region I'ound about. The stamp of prosperity was upon the land, and upon the well-kept-up house and grounds. The signs of abundance were to be seen in the little heir's goat-carriage and pair of responsible attendants. The attributes of plenty were to be found in the servants' hall. It was only in tlie heart of the house — in the head-quarters of the master — that want and misery reigned. Sucli want and such misery ! Want that could never be supplied. Miseiy that never could be al- layed. In spite of all that sternness of speech with which he had told Dora that he had done with her, he did want back here in his home and heart tlie woman lie had once believed her to be. He did regret the wife he had married, though he could not yearn for the wife he had cast out. His life was solitary and desolate to a rare de- gree. It was in vain that old friends and new acquaintances sought him and strove to cheer him. He had no heart to be gay. He tried, in- deed, to think kindly of them for their well- meant attempts. It was not unnatural, it was only sad, that, sympathizing with him, pitjing him, deeming him most grossly tried and injured by one of their own as they did, the Court Royal people should be the ones from whom he shrank with a wincing shrinking that was almost akin to bodily pain. Until at last even they, soiTow- ing as they did for him, with an intensity of sor- row that was bom of their shame about Dora, accepted his aversion and could not blame him for it, or bring themselves to try further to re- move it. But he had one friend who did not accept his withdrawal into himself so readily. One friend who would not forget him, nor suffer him to for- get her. One patient, persistent persecutor, he called her to himself, who lavished oceans of balm and oil, that never healed wound of his, upon him. And that friend was Mabel Bruton. The fixed plan in this woman's mind, when once she knew that he was separated from Dora forevei", was to work upon him to procure a di- vorce from the wife of whom she (Mabel) honestly believed the worst, and then to get him to marry her — his early love — who by the sacrifice of her whole fortune could prove to him that her love at least was disinterested. She coidd not board him in his own house — the fear of eventual failure caused her to shrink from taking quite such a determined step as that ; but she went and took up her old quarters in the farmhouse at Dale-End, and wooed and won him to come and see her there constantly by insidious appeals. The voice of the old passion that had lived be- tween them, awoke and spoke out strongly. "We were lovers once," she said; "we had no concealments from one another, we openly rejoiced in looking forward to passing our lives together. Fate and circumstances were cruel to us, and cut those lives asunder. Fate and cir- cumstances are kinder now, and liave brouglit about a possibility of their being reunited. Rob- ert, let us blot out the remembrance of the wretch- edness we have both endured by being happy now at last." "I can not," he said. He did not reason, or argue, or reprove, or condemn. He only told her that he coidd not, and she nearly broke her heart in feeling that he meant it. ' ' More faithful than favored ! And I would repay you so richly now for any love that you could give me. Robert, I can not feel degraded by my pleading — I will not feel so, even if my pleading fails." ' ' You would wrong yourself very much if you did," he said. "But is it to fail? Must it fail?" she asked impetuously. "My heart is with the woman I manied. I shall never put another in her place." "And she has wronged you so." " Not the one I married. Dora made herself too cruelly distinct from that ideal, for me ever to mix them up in my love or my hate." " So you will sacrifice the happiness of the re- mainder of your life for an ideal!" she said bit- terly ; "a resolve worthy of a boy, but unworthy of you." " A resolve, nevertheless, which it is unworthy of you to scoft" at. The remainder of my life ! I should pray that the remainder of my life might be short indeed were it not for my poor little boy." "I would love him so dearly," she sobbed. 138 ONLY HERSELF. *' Be my friend and his ; and, Mabel, take my advice, be your own friend, and go from here to the world that will always have the power to dis- tract you," he said, rising up and holding his hand out to say good-bye to her. She gave up her quest. Whether she thought his advice good or not, at any rate she acted upon it. Perhaps she thought that time and distance would soften him. Perhaps she believed that tliere was tnith in that remark of his relative to the world offering her a panacea for most woes. Whatever .her motive, this was what she did. She went to Paris in Ma}', when all the world seemed young and glad, and there she met with some old friends. The beautiful widow had quartered herself in a delectable little appartement for a week or two, where she had a saloon, and a boudoir, and a dining-room, and a bedroom, and a kitchen, all in the space that one gaunt English dining-room would occupy, and here she began leading a pret- ty little existence that was composed of harmless solitary amusements such as even solitary Eng- lish women can have in Paris if they know it well. While she was running the round of these she met with several old friends, but before those meetings are set forth, one glance must be given to the solitary man who had recommended them to her as a panacea. From morning until night, from night imtil morning, he was alone now. For what compan- ionship was there for him in the feeble utterances and uncertain manners of an infant ? People had taken him literally at his first openly expressed will, and were suffering him now to rest in an undisturbed solitude, that, in spite of his maintain- ing it, never had a chami for him. His was a broken life — a life that had not been exhausted, that had not found the world weary, but that had been suddenly snapped off" in the middle of all that it had found most joyous. There would have been nothing melancholy about his routine if only it had been brightened by one ra}' of hope. He got up and breakfasted, and was delicately sen'ed, and was — alone ! He rode out round the land he farmed, and saw his estate rapidly increasing in value, in consequence of the improvements he had planned and carried out — alone ! He looked at his colts and year- lings, at his mild-eyed Alderney, and his stag- headed red cattle, at the promise of abundant game next season that was given in every field through which he passed — alone ! He went home to multitudinous occupations, to a libraiy filled with the literature he loved. To an atelier where- in A', ere the colors and the canvas which his deft hand brought together in many marriages of beau- t}'. To the marble and the chisel, out of which the lovehest form he could create was less lovely than his wife. And all these things he did alone ! Aiul all other tilings that he might ever do must be done alone ! He deserved a better fate, but this was what he had. The Lyntons were in Paris. Not the Lord and Lady Lynton who figured in these pages be- fore, but tlie then chrysalis Lord Waldron and butterfly Fanny Beninger. Lady Caroline Joce- lyn's brother was dead, and his son had come to his kingdom, and ^e great heiress was the Count- ess she meant to be from the first moment of her gaining admission into the L}mton circle. They were not a veiy happy pair, but, on the other hand, it may be stated that they were not a veiy unhappy pair. Having trapped and tricked him into* marrying her. Lady Lynton not unnat- urally formed a low estimate of her lord's intel- lect altogether, and so treated him with a sort of good-natured contempt that rather amused him, and left him very much at liberty. Rather to his sm-prise, and veiy much to his mother's relief, his wife's vulgar relations were no trouble to him. His fiiir Fanny took care of that for her own sake. No woman bom in the purjjle could have more entirely ignored all association with aught in trade than did the prosperous miner's daughter. More for the sake of pleasing her cousin, who was always fond of and kind to her, than from any anticipations of pleasm-e in the ^-isit, Helen Jocelyn had come to Paris to be the Lyntons' guest. Digby Burnington was there, too, but between these two was an impassable gulf, and Digby could do — dared do — nothing more than look jealously on and distrust every man who ap- proached the girl he had once given up, and stab- bed, and thought ill of. There was a young bride in this English circle then in Paris, a young bride to whom they were all attentive, and kind, and rather tender, know- ing what she did not know, her husband's antece- dents, namely. Mrs. Bertie Carlyon, the young bride in ques- tion, was a pretty brown - haired, brown - eyed, fawn-like creature, with a mignonne face, and an unsuspicious, unworldly, uncalculating heart, that had quickly made her irresistible to Bertie Car- lyon. He was startled himself to find how the girl won upon him in the course of a brief stay he made at a Boulogne boarding-house, where she was living with her mother. This mother was the widow of a man w ho had been a puisne judge in India, and who had amassed a decent competency there, which his ^^idow made to rep- resent a large fortune by her admirable manage- ment. She was rather younger than her daugh- ter in manner and attire, and (she said herself) in appearance. But in spite of all this youthfid- ness, she always thought aloud seriously of her latter end, and her girl's then uncared-for condi- tion, w-hen an eligible man appeared. In her eyes Bertie Carlyon was a very eligible man for her Julie, so she fostered their young passion in the most ingenious way. He must make much gold with his pen, she thought, and Julie as his wife would need no allowance from her mother. Accordingly she was conveniently deaf and blind and dumb, and as Bertie and the girl were really very much in love, it answered very well. All Julie's good qualities were moral and so- cial. Broadly speaking, she had not a spark of intelligence, except in this one ])oint — and on this she had a rare development of it — that she coidd dress admirably, and make the best of her pretty little person. She believed in her Bertie as tlie greatest of living writers, without having the vaguest notion as to what others had done or were doing. And he was satisfied with her — sat- isfied with her goodness, and devotion, and want of knowledge, and pleased with her prettiness, and with the attention that prettiness excited. They all, Helen included, made much of the 3'oung bride, and she peacocked herself in conse- quence of their attention in a genial frank way that ONLY HERSELF. 139 Avas pleasant to look upon. Helen even grew cordial to Mr. Carlyon under the influence of the liking she had for his wife, and he accepted her cordiality with a grateful, respectful air that made Jidie leani to look upon Helen as a star indeed. One day they were all sauntering through the gallery of the Louvre, and had stopped in the shade of the crimson curtains wliere the Venus of Milo stands in that immortal beauty of hers that time can not perish, nor custom stale. The rest of the party moA'ed on after a while, and Bertie Carlyon, beauty-worshipper that he was, lingered on, looking at the manellous marble alone. Presently into the silence of the room there came the rich soft rustle of silken draperies, and into the pale glory of the marble there swept the living, glowing beauty of a living woman. He glanced round carelessly at first, then he started and took off his hat. "Mrs. Falconer! you here? This is unex- pected indeed," he said. "You told me in your note that Paris would be your head-quarters for the future, so I have made it mine," she said, softly. " I am glad we have met, then, as I leave Paris almost immediately, and may not see any of nw friends again for many a long day." " Leave Paris immediately !" she repeated af- ter him, in a most flatteringly disappointed tone. "Even so — to-morrow, possibly; I have friends •waiting for me now at the other end of the gal- lery, I must not detain them. Good-bye." "I could have detained you from any one at one time, " she said, her eyes glittering Avith anger ; " do you know what I am. Do you realize that you have made me what I am — an outcast from my home ; a deserted, repudiated wife." He grew crimson ; his own wife, Dora's cous- ins and sister, might come back at any moment. " Mrs. Falconer, for yom- o^vn sake do not say such words." "But I will say them, for I feel them; you have been my bane, my curse, my ruin ; I have a right to expect that you shoidd not turn from me as all my other friends have done. Do you understand all my desolation ?" "God help you! I do," he said, solemnly; " but I can not brighten it even if I woidd. Good-bye, I must leave you to join my wife." " You are married ?" " I am ; to a girl who would break her heart if she found out that I was not all she thinks me : she is my first care now. I must wish you good- bye — for the sake of the past, shake hands. " " For the sake of the past ; for the sake of the past !" she repeated, hotly ; " what has the past brought me ? — disgrace and obloquy, and misfor- tune from my birth." She did not take his proffered hand, and he went out of her presence. For a few moments, while she was alone with the Milo, she let her face fi^ll upon her hands, and made her moan. ' ' He was so worthless that at least I made sure of being able to fiill back upon him," she said ; and then she went out and walked to a more cen- tral point, and waited there. Presently she saw them coming — a group that made her heart ache. There was Helen smiling, calm and happy, evidently quite recovered from her blight. There were her two cousins. Lord Lynton and Digby, and Lady Lynton. And lastly, a little in the rear of the rest, there came a pretty, innocent-faced young woman with Ber- tie Carlyon by her side. The pau- were talking together, absorbed in each other as married lov- ers may be, and Dora saw that she had passed from his thoughts even as he went along the gal- lery, and out of the range of her sight. So she saw the last of them, as we see the last of her — alone. THE EXB. HARTWIG'S POLAR WORLD THE POLAR WORLD : a Popular Description of Man and Nature in the Arctic and Antarctic Regions of the Globe. By Dr. G. Hartwig, Author of " The Sea and its Living Wonders," " The Harmonies of Nature," and "The Tropical World." With Additional Chapters and 163 Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $3 75. Dr. Hartwitj's " Polar World " is quite an illustrated encyclopaedia of what modern discovery has told us of the lands that lie around either Pole. The author, while not an original explorer, has digested with Ger- man thoroughness and patience the works of ancient and modern travelers ; he gives, in brief space, the re- sults of their explorations — sometimes he tells the etory of their labors. He has done his work well, and has given us a whole library of books in his single volume— a volume which will have, for the young, the interest of a fairy tale, and for the old the value of a scientific treatise. The remarkable scenery, climate, fauna, flora, aborigines, and meteoric phenomena of our colder regions are all fully depicted. The Ameri- can translator has added a fine series of one hundred and sixty-three authentic illustrations, selected from live works of authoritative value, and has appended two chapters — one giving the latest information in re- gard to Alaska, another condensing Captain H.all's re- cent experiences among the Innuits. — American Pres- byterian. Dr. Hartwig could scarcely have had a wider, more unique, or interesting subject for his pen than the "Polar World." It teems with wonders, animate and inanimate, which none can bring in their broadest outlines or most minute details into clearer and more captivating relief than he. You travel with him, and see not only through his eyes, but also through those of the famous travelers, for he uses them all, and thus furnishes a sort of vital :/.ed encyclopedia of that aw- ful and mysterious region through which he conducts us. For fireside reading in winter nights it would be hard to find any thing better than these descriptions of the Tundri, the terrible desolation of which is touched by the flower-growth which kindly Nature nurtures even there ; of the sunsets and long lunar nights of these frozen regions ; of the animals that live under the snow and ice, and in the dwarfed but evergreen forests that roll like another ocean up to the edge of these wastes ; of the inhabitants of the dif- ferent countries within the Arctic Circle — how they live and what they are ; of the great explorers, and their voyages; and then of the antipodes, with all its mar- velous contrasts. — Christiayi Union. Instead of poring over scores of volumes detailing the discoveries and adventures of the Cabots, Baffin, Ross, Hall, Kane, Hayes, McCliutock, and others, in the frozen regions adjacent to the Poles, for informa- tion concerning their geography, products, and inh.il)- itants, we have here all the knowledge gleaned by those gallant explorers compressed into "one book. With true German patience, Dr. Hartwig has read and analyzed every obtainable paragraph bearing on his subject, and has rewritten all the vast information thus obtained for the benefit of the general reader, eschewing technicalities, scientific speculations, and conjectures ; giving, it is true, a collection of facts, but all important ones. There is probably now not extant another single book in which is to be found the same amount of information on the Arctic and Antarctic lands and seas— Iceland, Spitzberiren, Nova Zembla, Siberia, Kamschatka, Alaska, the "Hudson's Bay Territories, Newfoundland, Greenland, and Pata- gonia. — Philadelphia Inquirer. • * * Apart from the vast storehouse of valuable knowledge thus opened to the reader, the narrative it- self is perfectly fascinating. Not only does it contain all the zest of romance, but is a perpetual feeder to that human weakness, a love of the marvelous. It is issued in splendid style, and well merits a place in every well- organized library.— ^Vc!u Orleans Times. Every page of the volume is replete with informa- tion of the most interesting and valuable kind. All works of travel in the Polar world have been levied upon for materials to complete this work. The best authorities, the most authentic documents, the scien- tific journals, and the pleasing descriptions of adven- turers have all furnished appropriate parts. The judg- ment which has guided the selection, and the scrupu- lous care which is shown to give honor to all the hardy and courageous men who endured such perils for the advance of knowledge, can not be too much admired. The artist must not be forgotten who has added the charm of the pencil to the grave discussions and to the lively descriptions of these attractive pages.— Episcopalian. A volume of generous proportions and singular in- terest. A careful and detailed history of that wonder- ful and little-known people, the Icelanders, is given by one who evidently tells from personal observation the singular features of the extreme northern and far southern latitudes.— iioc/iester Democrat. We have never seen a work on the same snlyect that was equally calculated to hold the attention of the reader. — Rochester Chronicle. It is difficult to imagine how a more graphic and interesting book on the subject of Polar explorations could h.ave been produced. The compiler has culled the choicest passages of a wide range of narrative, and his adaptation of illustrations to the text is in the highest degree artistic and sticcessful.- CZeueJand Leader. A compendium of the works of historians of the ice regions, and the explorations of the hardy voyagers, full of information upon a great variety of subjects, and exceedingly entertaining. — Sew Bedford Mercury. It seems to supply every sort of information which one would wish to have of the scenery, natural pro- ducts, and gradual discovery of the Polar regions, with interesting sketches of the daring adventurers who have signalized their courage and endur.ance upon these inhospitable coasts and seas. — Christian Witness and Church Advocate. We are not acquainted with any other single vol- ume that contains so much information relative to the Polar regions. — Worcester Sjjy. It seems to have been the aim of Dr. G. Hartwig to comprise into one volume all that has been told us by vovagers both of the Arctic and Antarctic Circles. "The Polar World" is a work of great fascination ; and the reader, while he pursues the narratives with the zest of fiction, will derive from it information that could otherwise only be acquired from a score of books of travel. — X. Y. Evening Post. Crammed with information gathered from all quar- ters. illustrated with pictures that really illustrate and aid in understanding the subject, they popularize geo- graphical, historical, and zoological knowledge in a most charming fashion. — Correspondence of the Cincin- nati Chronicle. A truly valuable book, and one that well accom- plishes its purpose— to popularize an important de- partment of learning.— 0/imrmation, scarcely attainable elsewhere. — St. Louis Times. Since the publication of Dr. Kane's Arctic Expedi- tion, no work on life in the North has left the Ameri- can i^ress so entertaining as this. It is not only en- tertaining and attractive ; it is also a work of solid in- struction and of permanent value. It treats of a great variety of subjects in a style most pleasing, and with- in limits that never tire the reader. Much information is brought within a small compass. — Lutheran Observer . Here may be found, combined and digested, all the knowledge respecting those icy regions which has been collected by civilized man. — N. Y. Sun. Remarkably interesting, and worth a place in all good libraries. — N. V. Tribune. The book richly deserves the epithet of fascinating. —Daily Telegraph, London. But any one who desires a general knowledge of that portion of our globe subjected to the longest terms of ice and snow — who would learn how people live with sis months' sunshine and an equal period of dark- ness, relieved only by the stars, moon, and the aurora ; who is curious about the bear, with its wonderful man- ner of rearing its young, the walrus, the seal, the use- ful reindeer, and almost equally valuable Esquimaux dog; who would investigate what Parry, Franklin, Kane, and the whole illustrious circle of brave explor- ers have done toward discovering the northwest pas- sage and the Polar Sea, may read the volume with satis- faction and derive therefrom both pleasure and profit. — Concord (N. H.) Daily Monitor. The book is a narrative of the enterprise which, from John and Sebastian Cabot, in 1497, down to Kane and Hayes and Petermann and Hall, in our time, has en- deavoi'ed to ascertain whether there be ice or clear water at the Poles, and whether a northwest passage can be made. In this endeavor, geographical knowl- edge has been very much increased, and our acquaint- ance with the natural history of the Polar regions made extensive as well as accurate. — Philad'phia Press. Dr. Hartwig has collected and produced, in excellent order and a most readable manner, complete accounts of nearly all the most considerable expeditions in the Arctic and Antarctic regions, and has thoroughly suc- ceeded in carrying out his intention to convey solid instruction in an entertaining form.— Spectator, Lon- don. Another of those popular and fascinating scientific works for which the author has been so justly lauded. — Examiner, London. A singularly complete account of all that the most daring voyagers and explorers in the Polar lands and seas have seen and done— of all that appertains to the stunted inhabitants in the present, or is known of their history in the past ; and we need not tell those who have the good fortune to be acquainted with Dr. Hartwig's previous works, that all this information is imparted in a very pleasant and attractive dress. The volume has the rare merit of being both thoroughly scientific and thoroughly popular. — English Independ- ent. Dr. Hartwig has showTi himself a very clever com- piler of popular scientific works, and the present is, perhaps, the best he has produced. — Student and Intel- lectual Observer, London. In his treatment of all these subjects, the author combines the qualities of a clever historian, a well- informed geographer, and a correct naturalist. Gath- ering up all the information supplied by numerous explorers, he has presented to us the result in a beau- tiful volume containing a clear, concise, and faithful description of man and nature in high latitudes. The work will be exceedingly useful as well as interesting to the naturalist, as nearly every chapter in it contains careful accounts of the animals peculiar to the regions described. — Land and Water, London. It is a most admirable compilation : so comprehen- sive in its range, so exhaustive in its treatment, so scientific in its method, and so readable in its style, as to attain the dignity of an original work. ♦ * • Dr. Hartwig has done justice to his subject, and has pro- duced a volume which is likely to become a standard authority. We wish the reader no better enjoyment th.an to sit, with a well-trimmed lamp, by a good fire, reading this account of the countries of remorseless winter, of the iceberg and the snow-field, of the Auro- ra Borealis and the midnight sun, and of brave and hardy men maintaining a life-long fight with the rig- ors of inexorable Nature. — Daily Sens, London. A volume of generous proportions and singular in- terest. — Troy Times. A very complete exposition of the subject upon which it undertakes to treat, and yet is written in such a plain and familiar style that it is eminently for the popular reading. — Telegraph, Philadelphia. We know of no better book for a group of young or middle-aged people to read ; and as they peruse this work they will be delighted and astonished at the rev- elations which it unfolds. The illustrations are of the most superb sort, and greatly enhance the value of the Vfor'k.— Evening Press, N. Y. C^^ Harpeb & Beotheks will send the above work by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United states, on receiiit of the price. By Mrs. Oliphant. THE MINISTER'S WIFE. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. BROWNLOWS. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 38 cents. THE LIFE OF EDWARD IRVING, Minister of the National Scotch Church, London. lUustrated by his Journals and Correspondence. 8vc, Cloth, $3 50, MADONNA MARY. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. MISS MARJORIBANKS. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 15 cents. AGNES. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. An Autobiography. A Novel. 12 mo. Cloth, $1 50. THE LAIRD OF NORLAW. A Scottish Story. 12mo, Cloth, 81 50. THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS. A Story in Two Voices. l2nio, Cloth, $1 50. THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, Si 50. LUCY CROFTON. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, Si 50. A SON OF THE SOLL. A Novel. 8vo, Cloth, 61 50; Paper, 6l 00. CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD. A Novel. Svo, Cloth, 8l 75 ; Pa- per, $1 25. THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 8vo, Cloth, $1 50 ; Paper, $1 00. THE ATHELINGS; or, The Three Gifts. A Novel. Svo, Paper, 75 cents. KATIE STEWART. A True Story. Svo, Paper, 25 cents. THE QUIET HEART. A Novel. Svo, Paper, 25 cents. Tliat the authoress of the "Chronicles of Carlingford" is entitled to a prominent position in the upper chamber of modem novelists, none will be inclined to dispute who have been fliscinated by that delightful series Compare Mrs. Henry \Yood's stories with the creations of Miss Bronte', Mrs. Gaskell, the authoress of "Adam Rede," or Mrs. Oliphant; gauge them respectively by the tests of truth, insight, force, and grace of style, and the difierence is as between paste anil diamonds. — London Reader. Mrs. Oliphant's books are always characterized by thought and earnestness — some purposs making itself manifest in them beyond that of merely striking the fancy of her readers, or gaining their attention for a moment. — London Review. We are entitled to look for something beyond the common in all that Tilrs. Oliphant writes, end we find it in her masterly delineation of character, in the perfect keeping of her personages, whose conduct changes naturally with the natural growth and decay of their ruling motives. London Daily Neics. Some writers seem to have no power of growth ; they reproduce themselves Avith more or less success. But others, who study human nature, improve instead of deteriorating. There is no i=ving novelist in whom this improvement is so marked as Mrs. Oliphant. — London Press. Mrs. Oliphant is one of the most admirable of our lady novelists. — London Post. PuBMsiiED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, New Yokk. ©" Harper & Beotheks icill i^rnd the above Works hj Mail, jmstaye free, to an>, part of th United States, on receipt of the price. LOSSING'S FIELD-BOOK OF THE WAR OF 1812. THE PICTORIAL FIELD-BOOK OF THE WAR OF 1812 ; or, ILLUSTRATIONS, BY PEN AND PENCIL, OF THE HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, SCENERY, RELICS, AND TRADITIONS OF THE LAST WAR FOR AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE. By BENSON J. LOSSING, AUTHOR OF "THE PICTORIAL FIELD-BOOK OF THE REVOLUTION." With Eight Hundred and Eighty-two Illustrations, engraved on Wood by Los- sing & Barritt, chiefly from Original Sketches by the Author. Complete in One Volume, 1084 Pages, Large Svo. Price, in Cloth, $7 00 ; Sheep, $8 50 ; Full Roan, $g 00 ; Half Calf or Half Morocco extra, $10 00. A splendid volume, richly and lavishly illustrated. This work is an admirable sequel to Mr. Lossing's History of the Great Revolution. * * * Mr. Lossing is fairly entitled to say that he has told the history of the war in greater detail than can be found in any work hitherto published. He has conversed with many of the survivors of the strug- gle, and received from their lips information and illustra- tive anecdotes not previously told in print. We have spoken of this book as a sequel to the author's History of the Revolution, and this, indeed, it literally is. Mr. Los- sing begins with an account of the perils surrounding the new and hardly-formed nation after the close of the War of Independence, the utterly inefficient scheme of govern- ment provided by the Articles of Confederation, the ill- concealed jealousy and contempt felt by England toward the Republic, the difficulties with the French, the strug- gles with the alliance of British and Indians in the North- west, and the gradual kindling of the quarrel to the histo- ry of which the great bulk of the volume is devoted. The story of the war is told clearly, minutely, and, we think even English readers will admit, impartially. * • * The book is interesting in style ; and although Mr. Lossing makes no attempt at the sort of description which has of late been christened "word-painting," yet his accounts of battles and sieges are always animated and stirring, and the personal memoirs with which the history is sprinkled whenever occasion requires, are attractive and vivid. In every sense this work must be regarded as a very valua- ble addition to our historical literature. — Independent. The valuable service which Mr. Lossing rendered to the history of the American Revolution he has now repeated, with equally happy results, for the story of our Second War with Great Britain, and we-heartily congratulate him upon an achievement which does him so much honor. The value of such labors in the elucidation of history can hardly be overestimated. Mr.Lossing'sbookhasbeen pub- lished in a form worthy of its intrinsic merit. — Tribune. Worthy of the highest praise for its full and vivid recital of the stirring events on land and sea that ended with the Battle of New Orleans, and for its valuable summary of political affairs from the close of the Revolution to the Peace of Ghent. — Eve7ii7ig Post. Mr. Lossing not only writes excellent history, but he collects the materials from which that history is made ; and we are reminded of Herodotus, who traveled into many lands to obtain the materials from which his m- mortal work was composed, and whose skillfulness in ac- quiring knowledge, and sagacity and truthfulness in using his acquisitions, modern research and criticism are put- ting beyond all question, thus refuting that ignorance which would have it that the Father of History was the Father of Lies. Mr. Lossing's industry is equaled on'v by his conscientiousness, which leads him to treat all pa ties to the War of 1812 with the utmost impartiality, and to give all the facts that throw light upon the contest, which is a novelty in writing about it, for never was the history of an important war told in a more partisan man- ner than that of our second conflict with England. * * * The time has come when it is possible to write of it with candor as well as with spirit, as Mr. Lossing \\Tites its his- tory ; and the time has come, too, when we are beginning to understand its real effect on the country, and when it is possible to discuss its character and its consequences in a philosophical manner, as Mr. Lossing discusses them. * * * It is proper that the history of such a contest should be given in a sound manner ; and such is the work that Mr. Lossing has placed before his countrymen, after im- mense exertions to make it worthy of their approbation. That they will well appreciate what he has done so thor- oughly, is a thing of course. For young persons who would have correct views of their country's history, no better book can be named. Its minuteness, its liveliness, its accuracy, its high tone, and its exhaustive character render it a fine opening work for youthful readers, whose minds are always injured by the perusal of superficial his- tories. * * * The volume is perfectly printed, no Euro- pean or American book ever having come from the press in a more elegant state. The paper and the binding are faultless. In fact, the book pleases the eye as much as it affords food for the mind. It should be in every library, public and private, and in the hands of all persons who would understand American history, and who would ac- quire knowledge thereof from the highest available sources. — Boston Traveller. Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. Sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of the price. ■1 1^ THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Santa Barbara THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW. Series !t4H2 Battle of New (Jrleans, and for its valii political affairs from the close of the i Peace of Ghent. — Evening Post. Published by H Sent hy mail, postage prep 3 120502042 3313 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY liiiililllllllliillillllllilllllllllilllllllll^ A A 001 425 777 8 ■/.:'..,U;1^ '•/V. .'V'';'i^-,v'U' ■•■'>':. ' ' ,)•'/' 'i.^r?; ^y,.v;-/:v.^