ONCE IN A LIFE
 
 ONCE DSf A LIFE 
 
 By CHARLES GARVICE 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP 
 PUBLISHERS . . NEW YORK 
 
 Copyright 1892, by George Munro.
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE Spaniards, who have always a proverb on their lips, are 
 particularly partial to this one: 
 
 " God m*ikes woman perfect; man spoils her; love redeems 
 her." 
 
 If you leave the town of Barnstaple on your right, and walk 
 a matter of a mile or two, you come upon a scene which will, 
 according to your temperament and the state of the tide, either 
 make you shudder and turn back appalled, or rivet your at- 
 tention and cause you to linger with a kind of fascination as 
 indescribable as it is irresistible. For it is just here that the 
 bed of the river Taw widens, presenting, at high tide, a broad 
 stretch of water pleasant to look upon, but at low tide a reach 
 of sand which is the embodiment of desolation and solitude. 
 
 The reach of sand goes down to the sea, which at neap-tide 
 sometimes crawls up it like a weary snake, but at spring-tide 
 comes tearing up like a wild beast rushing with an ominous 
 and deadly silence upon its prey. 
 
 Nine persons out of ten who stand and look, at low tide, at 
 this waste of salt-sand and listen to the cry of the sea-birds 
 which soar across the waste, sometimes swooping down upon 
 the fish in the shallow pools, or upon the sand eels that vainly 
 try to burrow out of sight, would shiver, shudder and hurry 
 back to the comfortable. inn at Barnstaple which is a pity; 
 for if they would only walk half a mile along the bank, going 
 toward the sea, they would come upon a scene which, for 
 sheer out-and-out loveliness, they would find it hard to match. 
 They would find a little valley verdant as the Emerald Isle it- 
 self, with softly covered hills on either side, with a rippling 
 brook, with birds tamer and sweeter of song than the guille- 
 mots; with everything, in short, which the poet and painter 
 insists upon having. 
 
 In this valley, close to the mouth of the brook, stands a mill;
 
 C OXCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 say, rather, hides, for you can not see it from the river-bank, 
 and the trees round it shut it from the view of the hills. At 
 one time it was, in a very small way, a flourishing little mill. 
 Farmers brought their wheat there to be ground; the wheel 
 spun round merrily and industriously; the miller and his man, 
 both white with flour, sung cheerily. 
 
 But the mill has long been motionless, the machinery is 
 rusty, and though the water still trickles over the broken 
 wheel, it does so in a sleepy, lazy fashion, and with a subdued 
 murmur. The neighboring farmers no longer bring their wheat 
 there to be ground; have, indeed, most of them, forgotten that 
 the mill exists; though within a few miles of the busy town it 
 is so " remote " that it might be a hundred miles distant. The 
 cart road is overgrown with weeds and grass, through which only 
 a narrow footpath is visible. No one has any business to 
 transact there, so no one comes, excepting, perhaps, the ubiq- 
 uitous tourist; and he only stands and stares about him for 
 awhile, and then, perhaps oppressed by the silence and the 
 solitude, tramps off to better-known and duly advertised spots. 
 
 In this mill cottage lived Edwin Chester and his daughter 
 Lyra. 
 
 He had come to the cottage and its ruined mill some ten years 
 before this story opens, when Lyra was a slip of a girl in the 
 " all legs and wings " stage. No one knew anything about 
 him, no one cared. Father and daughter settled down alone 
 and unaided, and had continued to live in the little out-of-the- 
 way valley in solitary unfriendliness. 
 
 It is a way failures have. For the man was a failure. He 
 had started to make money, and failed; he had married to 
 secure happiness, and failed; for his wife had died in giving 
 birth to Lyra. 
 
 How many men, alas! lose their wives; but many, fortu- 
 nately for them, live down their sorrow; but this man could 
 not do so. He had loved his wife with all his heart and soul. 
 She had been very beautiful, and she had loved him with a love 
 almost as absorbing as his own. When she passed away she 
 took his heart with her; it lay buried in her grave, and there 
 it remained, notwithstanding Heaven had given him a daugh- 
 ter as lovely as her mother, and as lovable. 
 
 You see, he could never look upon Lyra's beautiful face 
 without seeing the reflection of his dead wife's, without re- 
 membering what the child had cost him. 
 
 Shut up with his books, he lived the life of a recluse, shun- 
 ning his fellow-men, speaking seldom, smiling never. 
 
 In the sole companionship of her father and a hunchbacked
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 7 
 
 old man, an old servant who had followed Mr. Chester in his 
 ruin, Lyra had grown from childhood to that mystic state in 
 which childhood stands palpitating 'twixt girl and woman. 
 
 She had no friends outside the cottage save the birds in the 
 little wood behind the house, their wilder cousins sailing above 
 the sands, the babbling brook, the flowers in the valley, the 
 salt waves that, when the wind blew, turned the river into a 
 mimic sea, and her books. 
 
 A girl must love something. Lyra loved her father and 
 nature. Her father, unfortunately, could not return that 
 love, but nature had responded, and responded generously. 
 
 It lavished its gifts upon her had given her beauty far be- 
 yond the ordinary, had given her strength and health, and a 
 nameless charm which, perhaps, the very conditions of her life 
 had created and developed. 
 
 She was not above the average height, but exquisitely 
 formed, with the lissom grace which belongs to those whose 
 lives are spent in the open air, untrammeled and unburdened 
 by such fashionable customs as tight-lacing, afternoon tea- 
 drinking, late hours, and unhealthy excitement. 
 
 Her face, oval in shape, was one of those which one sees in 
 the paintings of Murillo, the eyes dark and dreamy, yet with 
 the " maiden fierceness " smoldering, as it were, within their 
 depths. The mouth was not small by any means, but it spoke 
 ere the words left her lips, so facile of expression was it. Her 
 hair was of that dark rich brown which, because it has the gold 
 and the russet of an autumn leaf in ifc, we call auburn, and 
 there was so much of it that Lyra was often tempted to cut it 
 off; for it got in her way when she was rowing the boat across 
 the river to the little village of Peterel on the other side, and 
 when the wind blew it about her face as she walked across the 
 hills above the valley. 
 
 But if an artist would have fallen into a rapture at the 
 beauty of her face, a musician would have been as delighted at 
 the music of her voice. Naturally clear in tone, her life in 
 these fogless regions, in which the sea and the moorland air 
 combined, had made her voice full and round and bell-like; 
 though she spoke in the low tones which become habitual to 
 those who dwell far from the madding crowd. 
 
 In short, to sum up in the passionate words of an Eliza- 
 bethan poet: 
 
 " Sweetness itself was she; none other in the world so sweet to me." 
 
 And all this sweetness was wasted on the desert air. 
 
 And yet Lyra did not complain, nor was she unhappy. How
 
 8 OKCE IK A LIFE. 
 
 can they be unhappy whom the gods have blessed with youth, 
 and health, and strength, and a nature which can find some- 
 thing to love in the babbling brook, the singing birds, the 
 flowing tide? 
 
 But these and her books were all Lyra had. Though 
 her father had not forbidden her to go to the town, which, 
 with its thin crown of filmy smoke, lay in the hollow of the 
 hills, Lyra knew that he did not like her to go; and all her 
 walks were taken over the hills, by the low river-banks, and 
 up the leafy valley in which the cottage nestled; and if she 
 wanted any other exercise, why, there was the boat, which she 
 could sail, and row as skillfully, if not as strongly, as any fish- 
 erman on the estuary. 
 
 If sometimes, as she wandered over the hills or lay back in 
 the drifting boat, she wondered what the great world was like, 
 the world of which she read in her books, the wonder was 
 untouched by discontent. She lived in a world of her own, a 
 land of dreams, and it seemed as if the time of awakening, 
 that hour in which the soul springs into passionate life, as that 
 of the Sleeping Beauty was awakened by the kiss of the ad- 
 venturous prince, would never dawn for her; as if all her life 
 would pass away untroubled, eventless, in the secluded valley 
 by the waste of sand and fast-flowing tide, innocent of all that 
 makes the joy and the misery of her sisters in the great world 
 far away. 
 
 God makes woman perfect; man spoils her; love redeems 
 her. The hour was at hand. 
 
 One day in June, she stood at the door of the cottage, her 
 slim figure, in its well-worn serge frock, drawn to its full 
 height, as she held above her head a bowl of corn with which 
 she was feeding a flock of pigeons that fluttered excitedly round 
 her, so fearless in their affection and impatience that they 
 stood upon her feet and buffeted with their wings her golden- 
 tinged hair. 
 
 She knew them all by name, and chided them laughingly 
 for their greediness, sometimes pushing them gently from her 
 head, or as gently throwing them off the bowl with her hand. 
 A hen and a brood of chickens clucked and chirped about her 
 feet, and a dog, with the dog's cheerful readiness to take part 
 in any noise, jumped up at her, barking and yelping lovingly. 
 
 The bent figure of an old, deformed and hunchbacked man 
 came down the path beside the water-wheel, with a load of 
 wood on his back, and paused to look at her with an expression 
 of devotion on his warped face as dog-like in its intensity as 
 the dog's own.
 
 OKCE IN" A LIFE. 9 
 
 " Down! Carlo, down!" he said in a thin, strained voice, 
 as if it came from his narrow chest with difficulty. " You let 
 'em tear you to pieces, Miss Lyra." 
 
 Lyra laughed softly. Her laugh was like her voice, full of 
 music, but soft and subdued, as if she were more accustomed 
 to laughing to herself for her only audience. 
 
 " No, no, Griffith," she said. " It is all right; he is doing 
 no harm. Where are you going?" For he had put down the 
 load of wood, and was going down the path that led from the 
 house. 
 
 " The master wants something from Peterel." 
 
 Lyra flung the remains of the corn into the air. 
 
 " I'll go, Griffith," she said. " You are tired. " 
 
 " No, no, Miss Lyra." v 
 
 " But you are," she insisted. " I can see that by the way 
 you walk; and you have carried that great pile of wood from 
 the woods. I'll go; I should like the row. Now, don't be 
 ibstinate, there's a good Griffith. Besides, it isn't any use. I 
 "ways have my way in the end, you know." 
 
 " Yes, Miss Lyra," he said, in a gentler voice than one 
 would have deemed him capable of, judging by his rugged ex- 
 terior, " and from the beginning. Well, I'll get the boat 
 ready." 
 
 Lyra turned and entered the cottage. She moved quickly, 
 though gracefully, with the gait of a girl whose limbs are 
 under perfect command, and went into the little sitting-room, 
 where her father was sitting reading, with the blinds down, as 
 if he were desirous of shutting out the bright, warm June 
 sunlight. 
 
 She glided up to him, and bending over him, put her arms 
 round his neck. He suffered the caress of the sweet young 
 arms, but did not return it. 
 
 " What is it you want at Peterel, father?" 
 
 He raised his eyes from the book and gazed before him, 
 blinking vacantly. 
 
 " At Peterel? I want nothing. Yes, I remember; I want 
 the London paper. They take it at Greely's farm. He 
 offered to lend it to me whenever I wanted to see it." 
 
 Lyra laughed very softly. 
 
 " Yes, I recollect. But that was what? a year ago?" 
 
 " And I have not wanted to see it till now," he said, his 
 eyes returning to his book. 
 
 " Very well, father," she said. " I don't suppose Mr. Greely 
 has forgotten. Is there anything else?" 
 
 He looked up with weak impatience.
 
 10 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " What? Where are you going?" he asked, as if the sub- 
 ject had passed from his memory. 
 
 "ToPeterel. All right, father." She touched his head 
 with her lips a kiss as light as thistle-down and leaving the 
 room, caught up the sun-browned, weather-stained hat, and 
 ran down the path to where the brook emptied itself into the 
 river. 
 
 The tide was coming up, creeping up slowly for it was not 
 a rushing spring-tide and Griffith was standing keeping the 
 boat afloat. 
 
 " I should think there's enough water for you to get across, 
 Miss Lyra," he said, bending his shoulder for her to rest her 
 hand upon as she sprung into the boat; and she did so rest 
 her hand, though she did not need his assistance. 
 
 " Oh, yes," she said. " I sha'n't be gone long, Griffith; 
 look after father." 
 
 He stood and watched her for a moment or two, then turned 
 to the house, his lips moving with a " God bless her!" but 
 a voice that would have better harmonized with a curse the 
 harsh, guttural under-tone of the hunchback. 
 
 Lyra rowed against the incoming tide for a few minutes, 
 then let the boat swing half round till its nose pointed to the 
 opposite shore, and took it straight across. 
 
 She knew every inch of the river, knew where the sand 
 raised itself into hillocks, upon which the boat, if not kept 
 clear of them, would strike and stick fast, and in another ten 
 minutes she had reached the opposite bank, pulled up the boat, 
 and walked to the farm. 
 
 It was a small farm, lying almost close to the bank, and the 
 farmer's wife had seen her coming across, and was out to meet 
 her. 
 
 " Why, Miss Lyra, you be a stranger!" she exclaimed, wip- 
 ing her hands on her apron, and looking up at the girl's lovely 
 face with the wistful admiration of a woman from whom girl- 
 hood has gone forever. " You're looking bonny, too. Come 
 in, come in." 
 
 As they entered the farm a batch cf children came rushing 
 out and surrounded Lyra, very much as the poultry had don') 
 a few minutes before. 
 
 She had a kind word for them all, and caresses for the 
 youngest, who, caught up in her arms, threatened by its em- 
 braces to pull down the thick coil of leaf-brown hair, till re- 
 strained by her anxious mother. 
 
 " Put her down, Miss Lyra, put her down," she said. 
 " Polly, how can you?"
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. 11 
 
 " Never mind,," said Lyra, laughing, as the hair at last 
 came tumbling down. " It doesn't matter. I can wind it 
 up; besides, there is no one to see me." 
 
 She made the observation artlessly enough, but the woman 
 sighed regretfully as she echoed it. 
 
 " No, there's no one to see you, miss, more's the pity," she 
 said. 
 
 Lyra did not notice the response or its tone, and made her 
 request for the paper. 
 
 The newspaper! Yes, Mis? Lyra, certainly. Now, where 
 did I see it? Joseph was reading it last night in that chair. 
 Oh! here it is. Lor'! it isn't often Mr. Chester asks to see 
 the paper. Hope it isn't bad news he's expecting, Miss Lyra?" 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 " BAD news?" said Lyra, rather vaguely. Two children 
 were in her lap, and the others were clustering round her. 
 If' No; I think not. I don't think my father expects any 
 news at all. We never hear any. " 
 
 " You never go into the town, Miss Lyra?" 
 
 Lyra shook her head. 
 
 " Never," she said. " Now, Johnny, I'll tell you the story 
 of your namesake, the giant-killer. Well, come on my knee, 
 then. I think we can make room; can't we, Polly?" 
 
 While she told the grand old story, Mrs. Greely hastened to 
 get a cup of tea. They give you tea in Devonshire at all 
 hours, just as in the Rhine provinces they give you wine. If 
 you rushed into a Devonshire cottage to tell them that the 
 world was coming to an end, they would insist upon you tak- 
 mg tea, cakes, and cream. 
 
 Lyra drank her cup of tea, and with the folded paper in her 
 pocket went back to the boat. 
 
 The tide had been flowing silently, steadily, and the sand- 
 banks in the river-bed had disappeared. She got into the 
 boat, pushed off, and began to row for the opposite shore. 
 
 For perhaps the first time in her life she Lyra, the Taw 
 maiden miscalculated the height of the tide. Thinking that 
 she could row straight across as the crow flies, she pulled a 
 vigorous, careless stroke, and lo! in midstream the keel of the 
 boat struck one of the sand-banks, the boat swung round, and 
 there she was, aground! 
 
 She jumped up and tried to push it off into deep water; but 
 &.& had rowed hard, and the keel was imbedded in the soft, 
 tenacious sand. There was nothing for it but to wait until
 
 12 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 the tide flowed higher and floated her off. Accordingly, 
 she leaned back in the stern of the boat to wait patiently. 
 
 The sun poured down upon her in a manner which would 
 have filled a London beauty with despair; for, where the sun 
 falls upon the human face divine, there grow freckles. But 
 Lyra was indifferent to freckles, and the state of her complex- 
 ion troubled her not, so the sun-god reveled in her beauty 
 unchecked. 
 
 As she leaned back, gazing dreamily over the waste of 
 waters, the sea-gulls hovered over her, wheeling in their flight, 
 and uttering their weird, shrill cries; and one or two of the 
 flock, made daring by her stillness and the brooding silence, 
 swept down almost as low as her face. 
 
 The air was full of life and the delight of life; the sun stirred 
 the young blood within her. She rose presently with an oar in 
 her hand not the light scull which ladies play with on smaller 
 rivers, but a stout, serviceable, heavy oar and shading her 
 eyes with her hand, looked before her seaward. Then, as the 
 gulls audaciously swooped round her, she dropped her oar, 
 and waving her arms, shouted loudly, though musically, 
 laughing, as the birds, scared by the sudden cry and movement, 
 flew shrieking beyond her reach. 
 
 Now, five minutes before, while she had been lying dream- 
 ing in the stern of the boat, a young man had appeared on the 
 bank. He had been walking briskly enough, with his back to 
 Barnstaple, but with rather a careless and unobservant air. 
 He was a remarkably good-looking young fellow, and, even 
 for these days of athleticism, strikingly well made and stal- 
 wart. 
 
 He dressed in a knickerbocker suit of rough tweed, and he 
 wore the suit as a gentleman does; with that air of uncon- 
 scious ease which distinguishes the true gentleman from the 
 make-believe. One would describe his appearance the 
 cleanly cut features, the steady but brilliant eye, the graceful 
 form of the well-knit figure as patrician; but, unfortunately, 
 so many patricians nowadays possess anything but well-knit 
 frames, brilliant eyes and cleanly cut features; indeed, a great 
 many of them are too terribly commonplace in face, manner 
 and appearance. 
 
 This young man strode along swinging his stick, and fol- 
 lowed by a wiry fox-terrier, walking fast, but as if he were 
 putting on the pace rather for his own amusement than an 
 object, and with his eyes steadily fixed before him. 
 
 It was not until Lyra had rowed some distance from the 
 opposite shore that he chanced to look that way and saw her.
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. 13 
 
 He did not stop even then, but walked on, looking at her and 
 admiring her long, steady strokes. 
 
 " Jove!" he said to himself, " wouldn't disgrace a 'varsity 
 boat. If some of our fellows would come down to a place like 
 this and take lessons of a fisherman or a fisherman's daugh- 
 ter, for that matter they'd get a sight of good." 
 
 As he made this wise reflection Lyra struck upon the sand- 
 bank, and the stroke he had so much admired came to a sud- 
 den cessation. 
 
 He stopped and leaned on his stick. 
 
 " Run aground," he murmured. " Now I wonder whether 
 she'll be able to get it off? The tide's rising, so she's all 
 right, I suppose." 
 
 He stood watching, quite easy in his mind, until Lyra's 
 sudden uprising and gesticulation. 
 
 Certainly, to a man standing at some distance from the boat, 
 it looked as if the occupant had got into trouble, and had sud- 
 denly become painfully aware of the fact; in fact, it looked to 
 him "as if Lyra was in a terrible state of fright. 
 
 " George! something has happened," he exclaimed to him- 
 self; " she's lost her nerve, or the boat's keeling over and fill- 
 ing." 
 
 At that moment Lyra, all unconscious of a spectator and 
 listener, uttered a louder cry and swung her arms above her 
 head. 
 
 To him the cry was a cry for help, the gesture of one in de- 
 spair. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " she's in a deuce of a fix. She's as likely 
 as not to upset that cockle-shell, and then " 
 
 He looked at the tide, now flowing fast and rather angrily, 
 and then at the boat, and he lifted his voice in what he in- 
 tended to be a shout of encouragement. Unfortunately for 
 him, or for her how fate mocks us! the shrilling of the sea- 
 gulls was in Lyra's ears, and she did not hear him, and as if 
 in response to his shout, she uttered another cry. 
 
 " Well, there's nothing else for it," he said, with an ah* of 
 resignation. " I don't mind a swim, though I should prefer 
 it without my clothes. Bother the girl! I can't stand here 
 and see her drown, and I suppose she will drown." 
 
 He took off his Norfolk jacket and waistcoat with a leis- 
 urely kind of quickness, and, after wading into the stream as 
 far as he could, took to swimming, and swam toward the boat. 
 
 That is to say, he swam toward the boat for the first few 
 yards; then the stream took hold of him bodily, irresistibly, 
 and bore him upward.
 
 14 ONCE IN A LIFE. ~ 
 
 " Confound it! who'd have thought it ran so hard?" he 
 muttered. 
 
 But he fought against it with that stolid kind of steadfast- 
 ness which distinguishes your practiced athlete, and just to let 
 the damsel in distress know that he was hastening to 'Tier res- 
 cue, shouted to her encouragingly. 
 
 This tune Lyra heard the shout, and turning her head, saw 
 him saw him with amazement, for never in her life before 
 had she seen a man swimming in the tide-way of the Taw. 
 For, sad to say, persons living by & river are not given to 
 bathing. 
 
 She watched him with surprise and much interest; but sud- 
 denly the astonishment and interest changed to a deeper feel- 
 ing. 
 
 Tidal rivers are dangerous for strangers. They are full of 
 tinder-currents which, though unseen, are deadly strong, and 
 as deadly deceitful. The young fellow was in the grip of one 
 of these currents, and as she looked she saw him being borne 
 along against his will, against his struggles. 
 
 Lyra imew that a man caught in such a current might fight 
 in vain to reach the shore, that he might struggle and struggle 
 until his breath and strength were gone, and then the swirling 
 river would suck him under its deceitfully calm surface. 
 
 Her face grew pale, and for a moment she stood transfixed 
 by his danger; then the blood rushing to her face with shame 
 for her moment of irresolution, she caught up the oar, easily 
 pushed the boat off the sand-bank, and rowed to the swimmer. 
 
 Perhaps because her heart was beating fast she did not row 
 as strongly and steadily as usual, and the current a different 
 one to that in which the young man was struggling bore her 
 away from him. 
 
 Looking over her shoulder, she saw his head sinking lower, 
 saw his strokes becoming more rapid a mistake which a swim- 
 mer in difficulties always must make and a low cry of alarm 
 escaped her lips. 
 
 Then she set herself to her task, kept the nose of the boat 
 straight, and sent it rushing through the water. She was 
 almost within reach of him; she could see his face, pale but 
 quite fearless, when he suddenly disappeared. 
 
 She did not cry out, but she held the boat up against the 
 current, so that it might not pass over him, and leaned over 
 the side. 
 
 She came up close to him. He was conscious still; she could 
 see that much as she made a grasp at him; but the boat 
 swerved, and he was swept bey^rul her reach.
 
 ONCE Iff A LIFE. 16 
 
 Then she called to him, her clear voice thrilling above th'J 
 swish of the tide against the sides of the hoat: 
 
 "Keep still! Float! float!" 
 
 He must have heard her, or he followed the natural impulse 
 of an accomplished swimmer, for he turned on his back. In 
 another instant she had sent the boat toward him, and leaning 
 over now, so that the gunwale almost touched the water, 
 seized him by his shirt. 
 
 She held him by a grip like that of a vise, but she could not, 
 of course, lift him. 
 
 " Cling to the boat!" she said. 
 
 He assented with a rather languid movement of his eyelids 
 and what was intended for a smile, and he put up his hand 
 and seized the side of the boat. She put her hand upon his 
 it struck very, very cold as if she would hold hire, by sheer 
 force; and so they drifted for a hundred yards. 
 
 Then he put up the other hand, and, as she careened the 
 boat over to him, and put her strong young arms around him, 
 he slowly and none too easily drew himself into it. 
 
 He lay at the bottom of the boat for some moments, pant- 
 ing like a man who had been run out of breath, then he rose 
 into a sitting posture, and pushing the hair from his fore- 
 head, said, rather breathlessly: 
 
 " Fm afraid I don't understand the rules of this game." 
 
 Lyra looked at him. She was bending forward, the sculls 
 in both hands keeping the boat straight. The color was com- 
 ing and going in her face, her eyes were full of a divine pity, 
 a human gratitude. 
 
 " What?" she murmured, faintly. 
 
 He hoisted himself upon the stern thwart. 
 
 " I beg jour pardon, but Fm afraid I don't understand the 
 rules of this game." 
 
 " Game!" she echoed, looking at him, the red dyeing her 
 face one moment and fading the next. 
 
 " No," he said, with a laugh that was rather shaky. " You 
 are all right, I hope?" 
 
 Lyra stared at him, her brows straightening. They were 
 darker than her hair, ,snd did marvelous things in the way of 
 expression. 
 
 I all right? I? Oh! yes, yes! But you how could you 
 v -could you bathe in the river without knowing the currents?" 
 
 Then she stopped, as it struck her that he could not have 
 intended to bathe in his clothes. 
 
 It was his turn to stare, and he took his innings to the full. 
 
 "Bathe!" he exclaimed. "How could I bathe!" Then
 
 .16 ONCE IK A LIFE. 
 
 he burst into a laugh, a short, almost fierce laugh. " Well' 
 oh, I wish you weren't here!" 
 
 " Wish I weren't here!" Lyra's L ; ps reformed his words. 
 
 " Yes; because I should like to swear swear hard! But I 
 beg your pardon," he said, abruptly. He had been looking at 
 her, had seen by this time that she was no fisherman's daugh- 
 ter, no farm wench. " It was your joke, and you are fully 
 entitled to it." 
 
 " My joke!" Lyra stopped rowing, and opened her lovely 
 eyes upon him. "My joke! I don't know what you mean;" 
 and there was a note of indignation in her amazement. 
 
 He wrung the water of the Taw from his shirt-sleeves and 
 his knickerbockers, and laughed. 
 
 " Weren't you in difficulties?" he said. " But I see now you 
 weren't. You pushed the boat off quite easily. I thought it 
 was keeling over, that you were calling for assistance." 
 
 Lyra flushed crimson. 
 
 " I I was calling to the birds, frightening the gulls," she 
 faltered. 
 
 He stopped in his wringing process and gazed at her, and as 
 he gazed, her beauty smote him more fully; he forgot her re- 
 sponse almost in his intense appreciation of her fresh young 
 loveliness. 
 
 " Calling to the gulls? Oh, by Jove!" and he laughed in 
 self -derision. " I thought you were shouting for help." 
 
 "I?" said Lyra, open-eyed. " The boat was aground, and 
 I had only to wait till the tide rose and floated it. And and 
 it was because you thought I was in danger that that " 
 
 He nodded as he took off his shoes and poured the water 
 out of them. It is wonderful how much water a shoe will 
 hold. 
 
 " Did you ever hear the story of the man in the train?" he 
 asked. 
 
 She did not shake her head, but he took her silence as a 
 confession of ignorance, and went on: 
 
 " A man in the train moaned or groaned. The passenger 
 opposite him took out a flask of brandy and kindly offered it 
 to nim. The other fellow looked rather surprised, but took a 
 drink and returned the flask. When they got to the terminus, 
 the man who had offered his flask leaned forward and said: 
 
 " ' I hope you are better now.' 
 
 " ' Better?' said the other. * Why, nothing is the matter 
 with me. I'm not ill.' 
 
 " ' Not ill?' said the Good Samaritan. ' Why, I heard you 
 groaning.'
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 17 
 
 " ' Groaning!' exclaimed the other. ' Oh, no! I was only 
 singing/ ' 
 
 Lyra smiled; she could not laugh. Through her brain 
 through her heart ran the whisper: " He thought you were 
 in danger; he has risked his life for you." Then she said 
 and what a miserable commonplace it sounded: 
 
 " I I am afraid you are very wet." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " Yes, that about describes my condition;" but his careless 
 tone changed, under the tender expression in her eyes, to a 
 more serious one. " There's nothing in that. I was just 
 looking out for an excuse for a swim, and, really and truly, 
 I'm immensely obliged to you. But I'm afraid I've given 
 you a great deal of trouble and a fright into the bargain. I 
 didn't take the current into consideration." 
 
 Lyra's face grew a shade paler, and her eloquent eyes 
 drooped hid themselves behind their lids, lest he should see 
 the emotion in them. 
 
 " You you were nearly " 
 
 She could not go on. 
 
 " Nearly done, do you mean?" he said, carelessly. "Yes, 
 I suppose I was. I don't know why, for I'm not a bad swim- 
 mer. The sudden cold of the water after the heat and I 
 fancy I felt a touch of cramp." Lyra shuddered. "But 
 please please don't be concerned about me; I'm all right," 
 he laughed. " I shall be dry before we get to the shore." 
 
 A silence fell upon them both. She rowed on; he sat press- 
 ing the water from his shirt-sleeves and smoothing his short 
 hair, which seemed to be almost dry already. 
 
 Lyra looked at him without seeming to look at him. All 
 women the most innocent and unsophisticated know how 
 to perform this trick; they learn it in their cradles. 
 
 She noticed the fashion of his garments; the shapely, sun- 
 tanned hands, with the thick gold ring on the fourth finger of 
 the left; the handsome face, with its short-cut, military-look- 
 ing mustache; the dark eyes, brilliant again now. 
 
 She had never in all her life seen any man like this one; 
 and he well, he could not, like a woman, " look without 
 looking;" but as he sat there he was conscious of the lovely 
 face, of the grace of the lithe figure, of the half -proudly shy, 
 half -grateful light in the lovely eyes; and for the first time in 
 his life, this man not a very good man, by the way; a man 
 who knew all the ways of this wicked world of ours felt sub- 
 dued and quieted. 
 
 The boat touched the shore, and, as if awaking from a spell,
 
 18 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 he leaped out and offered her his hand. She just touched it 
 and stood at his side. 
 
 " No, no," he said, as she began to pull the boat in; and 
 silently she stood aside and let him do it. 
 
 " My coat and waistcoat are along there," he said. " I'll " 
 for perhaps the first time in his life his voice faltered in 
 addressing a woman " I'll wish you good -afternoon." 
 
 She stood with downcast eyes for an instant; then she raised 
 them, but did not look at him, but at the opposite shore. 
 
 He took her silence for his dismissal. 
 
 " Yes. Good-afternoon. I'd thank you for saving my life " 
 she turned to him with a swift, eloquent protest "but I 
 know you wouldn't care for that sort of thing; nobody does. 
 'Pon my word, I don't know why, most people set a goodly 
 store by their lives, and fight hard enough for them!" 
 
 Lyra opened her lips as if about to speak, but at the instant 
 footsteps sounded behind them, and the thin, bent figure of 
 her father came up. 
 
 " Have you got the paper, Lyra?" he said, as if the pres- 
 ence of the young man were unnoticed by him. 
 
 " Yes, father," she said. Her voice faltered slightly, and 
 she waved her hand toward the stranger, as if calling her fa- 
 ther's attention to him. 
 
 Mr. Chester raised his lack-luster eyes and blinked. 
 
 " He has been nearly drowned," said Lyra, trying to speak 
 carelessly, coolly why, she could not have told. 
 
 " That's true, sir," said the young man; " and should have 
 been quite, but for your daughter." 
 
 Mr. Chester blinked at him in silent apathy for a moment, 
 as if nearly drowned young men were always on supply. 
 
 " Yes," he said, dreamily. " You had better come in and 
 dry your clothes." 
 
 The young fellow hesitated, and looked from Lyra to her 
 father, and then at the river, and at his own boots, and then 
 at Lyra again, while the fox-terrier yapped quite plainly, 
 " Why don't you accept?" She stood silent, motionless, 
 palely statuesque. The woman who hesitates is lost; how 
 much more often is she lost when the man hesitates! 
 
 " Thanks!" he said, at last, and almost curtly. " I think 
 I will." And so the hour of Lyra's awakening was on the 
 point of striking.
 
 19 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 THE young man followed Mr. Chester into tha cottage. 
 Lyra remained by the boat for a few minutes, looking dream- 
 ily across the river to the spot where she had snatched him out 
 of the jaws of death; then she too entered the house and found 
 the other two engaged in discussing the young fellow's wet 
 clothes. 
 
 " I don't know what's to be done," Mr. Chester was saying 
 in a rather querulous tone. " You must be wet very wet, of 
 course, and ought to dry your things. But I don't know what 
 you are to wear; you couldn't get into anything of mine, and 
 there's no one else. You wouldn't like to go to bed, I sup- 
 pose?" he suggested. 
 
 The young fellow laughed. He was seated by the window 
 in the hot sunlight, and seemed to be as much at ease as if he 
 had known his host for years. 
 
 " I certainly should not," he said. " Please don't trouble 
 about me. My things are nearly dry by this time, and if they 
 weren't it wouldn't matter. It's salt water, you know; and, 
 besides, I'm used to getting wet; I'm always wading about 
 when I'm fishing. It doesn't in the least matter." 
 
 Mr. Chester shrugged his shoulders slightly. 
 
 " It would be the death of me," he remarked. 
 
 There was a moment or two of silence. Lyra had taken off 
 her hat and was spreading the cloth for lunch. The young 
 fellow allowed his eyes to wander round the room with its 
 dark, old-fashioned furniture and closely crammed book-ease, 
 its antique copper-plate engravings, and well-worn carpet. 
 Then his gaze settled on Lyra. She was like a beautiful flower 
 in a dusky garden a spot of delicious color and light. 
 
 "Are you a stranger in these parts?" asked Mr. Chester, 
 holding his book with his thumb between the pages, as if he 
 were only waiting for the visitor to take himself off to resume 
 his reading. 
 
 " Quite," was the reply. " I came down here for somo 
 fishing, but the late heavy rams have made the streams too 
 thick, and I'm waiting for it to clear. I ought to tell you my 
 name," he added, with an easy frankness. " It is Armitage 
 Dane Armitage." 
 
 Mr. Chester nodded and smiled f aintly. 
 
 " Yes? Mine is Chester. This is my daughter Lyra." He 
 smiled again. " It is a strange introduction."
 
 20 ONCE nr A LIFE. 
 
 " Yes," said the younger man, rather quietly. " If it had 
 not been for Miss Chester's pluck and presence of mind, there 
 wouldn't have been any introduction at all." 
 
 Most fathers would have looked pleased at this tribute to 
 their daughter's courage, but Mr. Chester only nodded ab- 
 sently. 
 
 "Dane! It's a singular Christian name," he said, mus- 
 ingly. 
 
 The owner of the singular name laughed. 
 
 " Isn't it? I don't know why my godfathers and god- 
 mothers bestowed it on me; though I fancy it is an old family 
 name. I've an aunt who firmly believes that we had some- 
 thing to do, in the past, with the Danes who first came over 
 and made themselves unpleasant in Britain. It's strange how 
 anxious most respectable and honest people are to claim kin- 
 ship with a band of robbers, whether they came over with 
 William the Conqueror or any one else. It doesn't matter so 
 that it happened a long while ago." 
 
 Mr. Chester nodded and blinked absently. 
 
 " We are of the Chesters of Lowickshire," he began, then 
 stopped. 
 
 Yes? I know some of them," said Dane Armitage, cas- 
 ually. 
 
 " Oh, I haven't seen any of my people for years many 
 years," Mr. Chester made haste to remark; then, as if desir- 
 ous of getting away from the subject, he went on to inquire if 
 the fishing was good on the river. 
 
 " Yes, I believe so I'm told so. You don't fish?" 
 
 Mr. Chester shook his head. 
 
 " No," he said. " I have never been up to the fresh water 
 part of the river; I seldom go outside my garden, excepting to 
 the brink of the river or up the valley. Is lunch nearly ready, 
 Lyra?" 
 
 He was not inhospitable, but the unwonted presence of 9 
 stranger and the necessity of talking to him was irksome to 
 the recluse. If Dane Armitage, whoever he was, would be 
 content to sit hi silence and not want to be talked to, he might, 
 go far as Mr. Chester was concerned, sit there for a week. * 
 
 The maid brought in the cold beef and the rest of the frugal 
 fare, and Lyra took her place at the head of the table. Dane 
 Armitage drew up his chair and made a hearty meal. His 
 manner was perfectly free from even the shadow of shyness, 
 and he talked freely, gradually addressing himself almost en- 
 tirely to Lyra, as he saw that her father preferred silence. 
 
 Lyra listened as one listens to a new song, and looked at
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. 21 
 
 him as one looks at something quite novel and hitherto un- 
 dreamed of. 
 
 He talked of the strange world of which she was so ignorant, 
 and talked of it as if he knew it and a very great deal of it 
 exceedingly well. It seemed to her that he had been every- 
 where: fishing in Norway and Iceland Iceland! grizzly-bear 
 hunting in the Rockies, pig-sticking in India, elephant-shoot- 
 ing in Ceylon, skating in Russia, yachting in the Mediter- 
 ranean. As she listened, her chin resting in her hand, her 
 beautiful face with its intent, thoughtful expression forming 
 an exquisite picture, her eyes, though they were fixed on his 
 face, saw it not; she was trying to realize the sort of life he 
 must have led. It seemed to her like that of a fabled hero, in 
 its contrast to her own eventless existence. 
 
 She woke from her reverie with a start when his voice 
 ceased, and rose, still rather dreamily. 
 
 " Shall we go into the garden? It is warmer than in here, 
 and you must still be wet." 
 
 " Not a bit/' he said in his prompt, almost abrupt, fashion. 
 " But I should like to go into the garden, all the same." 
 
 As he rose, the terrier, which had been lying at his feet, rose 
 and barked. 
 
 "Oh, I quite forgot him!" said Lyra. "lam so sorry! 
 Poor little doggie!" 
 
 She cut him some scraps of meat, and went down on one 
 knee to feed him, and his owner stood and looked down at the 
 pair. 
 
 They reminded him of a colored picture in one of the Christ- 
 mas annuals. 
 
 " Will you come, father?" Lyra asked. 
 
 But Mr. Chester shook his head. 
 
 " Mr. Mr. Armitage will excuse me," he said. " I like to 
 rest after my meals " as if he ever did anything else but rest. 
 
 Lyra pulled down the blind to exclude the sunlight, and be- 
 fore they had left the room Mr. Chester had returned to his 
 book. 
 
 The two, followed by the terrier, went down the path. The 
 garden was a mass of roses and pinks and gayly colored an- 
 nuals; and Dane Armitage looked round admiringly, one 
 could have said wistfully. 
 
 " "What beautiful flowers you have!" he said. 
 
 " They grow almost wild here," said Lyra. " Griffith 
 that is our man says that they nourish in the salt air and the 
 wild wind. Look at that rose!"
 
 22 0NCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 She pointed to a devoniensis clambering in snowy profusion 
 over the porch. 
 
 " Wonderful!" he said. " May I have one?" 
 
 " Oh, not that one!" she said. " It is full blown, and will 
 fall to pieces directly. See! there is a better one." 
 
 And she reached up on tiptoe and picked a partially opened 
 bud and gave it him. 
 
 She was as free from shyness as he; but his freedom was 
 caused by his knowledge of the world, hers by her ignorance 
 of it. 
 
 He took the rose and held it for a moment, then put it into 
 the button-hole of his coat. 
 
 " Here is the warmest place," she said, indicating a rustic 
 seat under a laurel hedge, which formed a perfect shelter from 
 the winds. " Father and I sit here in March, when the east 
 wind blows, and even then it is like summer." 
 
 He sat down and stretched his legs in luxurious comfort. 
 
 " Do you mind my smoking?" 
 
 She shook her head " Oh, no," and he lighted his pipe, 
 folded his arms behind his head, and watched her with blissfui 
 content as she moved among the flowers. 
 
 " You have chosen a very picturesque spot for your home, 
 Miss Chester/* he said, breaking the silence. 
 
 Lyra looked over her shoulders at him. 
 
 " Is it not beautiful?" 
 
 " It's a pretty county, take it all round," he went on. 
 " I've been tramping about Barnstaple, up the Taw Vale > 
 you know that, of course?" 
 
 Lyra shook her head. 
 
 " No; I have never been there/' she said. 
 
 " No! It is quite close, too," he remarked. 
 
 " Is it?" she said. " No, I have never been there. I don't 
 even know where it is. I have never been any further than 
 Barnstaple, and seldom go there." 
 
 He took his pipe from his mouth and looked at her with 
 frank surprise. 
 
 " Do you mean that you never go away from here, from 
 home?" he asked. 
 
 She smiled faintly. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He looked round musingly. 
 
 " You must find it dull sometimes. I mean that it is sc 
 quiet here; there is not a house near. I didn't see one as I 
 came along."
 
 OKCE LNT A LIFE. 23 
 
 " No; thero is no house near here excepting the farm 
 Greely's farm and that is across the river." 
 
 He pondered over this for a moment or two. 
 
 " And you don't find it dull? I beg your pardon, but you 
 don't look dull." 
 
 Lyra laughed, and remained silent for a moment, then she 
 said: 
 
 ' ' I never thought of it. You see, I am used to it. We 
 came here when I was quite a little girl, and I have grorn up 
 in the place, and got accustomed to seeing no one but our- 
 selves." 
 
 " Don't you go and visit stay with friends sometimes?" 
 he asked, not in a tone of idle curiosity, but respectfully 
 enough. 
 
 Lyra shook her head. 
 
 " No, I don't think we have any friends," she replied, con- 
 tentedly. " I never heard father speak of any/' 
 
 "Good Lord!" he murmured, under his breath, and his 
 handsome eyes softened with an expression of something like 
 pity. 
 
 " Does that seem so strange?" she asked, after a pause, as 
 if she had understood and felt the look in his eyes. 
 
 " Well, rather," he said, frankly. " Most people go about 
 and have friends; but," he added, "perhaps you are all the 
 happier. At any rate, you are happy, I should say, Miss 
 Chester?" 
 
 She thought a moment. 
 
 " Yes, I am happy; I think so." 
 
 Until this moment she had never asked herself this question. 
 
 " You have a great many friends, I suppose?" 
 
 As she spoke she came and sat down beside him, with the 
 bunch of flowers she had gathered, and set to work arranging 
 them, holding them a little away from her and regarding them 
 critically, with her shapely head a little on one side. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so," he said. Then he laughed the short, 
 curt laugh. " Now you ask me point-blank, I feel rather 
 doubtful. Has any one many friends? One, two perhaps, 
 but not many. Anyhow I know a lot of people. My father 
 is fond of company, and crams the house twice a year. I was 
 going to ask you if you knew Starminster, but from what you 
 have said I suppose you don't." 
 
 Lyra shook her head. 
 
 " Like Taw Vale, I never even heard of it," she said. " Is 
 that where your father lives?" she added, with an innocent 
 interest.
 
 24 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 ' 'Yes/' 
 
 " And you live with him? Is it a pretty place as pretty 
 as this?" 
 
 " Not nearly," he said, " but pretty enough in its way. 
 No, I don't live with him. My father and I " he paused a 
 moment, then laughed, and there was a touch of bitterness in 
 the laugh " my father and I don't get on very well. It's 
 my fault, of course." 
 
 " Is it?" she said, still intent upon her flowers. 
 
 He changed his position into a still more comfortable one, 
 and took two or three more pulls at his pipe before answering. 
 
 " Yes, I'm afraid it is," he said, slowly. " My father is a 
 man who prides himself upon having always done his duty." 
 
 Lyra looked at him with a smile. 
 
 " And haven't you always done yours?" she asked. 
 
 He looked down, then laughed. 
 
 " I'm afraid not; that's the trouble. I'm afraid I'm what's 
 called a black sheep. I don't think I'm right down bad." 
 
 Something in the tone of the apology made Lyra laugh, and 
 he laughed in harmony. 
 
 " Self-praise is no recommendation, is it?" he went on. 
 " But this is how it is: my father says that I'm worse than 
 wicked; I'm idle and restless. At the same time, I won't do 
 what he wants me to do, and I'm always doing what I want to 
 do myself. Don't fancy I've put that very plainly, some- 
 how." 
 
 " Oh, it is plain enough," said Lyra. " And what is it you 
 are always doing?" 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " Well, I'm always wandering about. I don't seem able to 
 stop in any one place for long together. I've got a touch of 
 the complaint the Wandering Jew suffered from." 
 
 She looked musingly across the garden. 
 
 " Yes, I know; I ve read the story. He was never able to 
 rest, but was continually tramping on through the ages." 
 
 " That's my case," he said. " Not that I look very much 
 like it now;" and he laughed as he leaned back and smoked. 
 
 " And what is it your father wants you to do?" she asked, 
 displaying her interest with the frankness of one to whom the 
 conventionalities are unknown. 
 
 " Well, for one thing, he wants me to go into Parliament." 
 
 Lyra pondered over this for a moment or two. 
 ' Why don't you go?" she asked. " Don't you like it?" 
 
 "I certainly do not!" he said, emphatically and abruptly.
 
 OtfCE IN A LIFE. 25 
 
 " How would you like to have to stand for a place to have to 
 go down to Mud-cum-sloper and curry favor with the Mud- 
 cum-sloperites to jaw the hind leg off a donkey at political 
 meetings, and make a fool of yourself generally?" 
 
 Lyra laughed. 
 
 " I shouldn't like that at all/' she said, promptly. 
 " Would you have to do all that?'-' 
 
 " And worse," he said, in a tone of disgust. " A man has 
 to eat no end of mud to get into Parliament nowadays. It 
 was all very well in my father's time, when you just planked 
 down a certain sum of money, and got in with no further 
 trouble; but it is all different now." 
 
 " And why does he want you to become a member of Par- 
 liament, then, if if it is so degrading?" 
 
 " You may well ask," he responded. " That's just what I 
 have said to him. But he always talks of duty duty to my 
 country as if my country, or any other country, would be 
 any the better if I spouted in Parliament ! But my father 
 doesn't see that. He was in the House of Commons himself 
 till he went into the House of Lords." 
 
 " Why did he go into the House of Lords?" asked Lyra. 
 " Oh, yes! it is because he is a lord, I suppose?" 
 
 Most girls would have been startled, would have felt a throb 
 of excitement at this discovery of his rank, but Lyra's tone 
 was as even and placid as before. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HE nodded carelessly. 
 
 " Yes, he is the Earl of Starminster. I dare say you have 
 heard of him, read of him in the papers." There was some- 
 thing very near akin to annoyance, just stopping short of con- 
 tempt, in his voice. " He is always on the stump." 
 
 " On the stump?" echoed Lyra. 
 
 " Yes; spouting at public meetings, and all that sort of 
 thing," he said, impatiently. " He's in the Cabinet'." 
 
 " The Cabinet?" she murmured. " Oh, yes! I know what 
 you mean." 
 
 " Yes; and he says it's his duty to trot up and down the 
 country and educate that's his word, not mine educate the 
 masses. As if the masses wanted educating ! What they want 
 is to be let alone. At any rate, if I were one of the masses 
 that's what I should want, and want it badly." 
 
 Lyra laughed softly. 
 
 " It all sounds so strange to me!" she said.
 
 26 ONCE IN A LIFE. ' 
 
 " I dare say," he said, almost angrily, as if indignation were 
 smoldering within him. " You wonder so do I why a maa 
 should want to, like to, ' fuss around ' so. That's an American 
 phrase, but it hits off what I mean exactly; that's the advan- 
 tage of most of the American slang. I couldn't do it, and I 
 won't, and, to come back to the ^beginning, that's the trouble 
 between us. I hate the whole business, always did hate it. I'd 
 rather be a day-laborer and live in a cottage than be Earl of 
 Starminster and live at Starminster, with a mob of people 
 political nuisances buzzing round me and worrying. Why, 
 the house isn't fit to live in most of the time!" He refilled 
 his pipe, and lighted it impatiently, angrily. " But I beg 
 your pardon. I've been cackling about myself and my be- 
 longings too much. You must be bored to death." 
 
 No," said Lyra slowly, thoughtfully. " It is all new and 
 strange to me, and interesting, Mr. Armitage." She paused, 
 and looked at him with a frank smile upon her lovely face. 
 " But I suppose you are not ' Mr.' Aimitage. "What is it I 
 ought to call you?" 
 
 He laughed curtly. 
 
 " Oh, that's good enough/' he said. " Anyhow, it is as 
 good as Lord Armitage, as I am usually called." 
 
 She laughed softly, freely, unaffectedly. 
 
 " I ought to have said, ' My lord,' " she said. 
 
 He sat bolt upright with annoyance, then leaned back. 
 
 " Good heavens no!" he said. " It sounds as if you were 
 a deputation or something of that kind. Please call me Armi- 
 tage or Dane, if you like." 
 
 His eyes dropped as he made the last suggestion, but her 
 own rested on him with simple candor. 
 
 " I don't know anything about it," she said. " I never 
 spoke to a lord before in all my life, and probably shall not 
 do so again." 
 
 " Oh, I hope so!" he said, almost fervently. " I hope you 
 won't cut me altogether, Miss Chester." 
 
 " Cut you?" she murmured, perplexed by the slang. 
 
 " I mean avoid me not know me," he explained. 
 
 Lyra laughed softly. 
 
 " Oh, I see! I dare say we shall never meet again, Lord 
 Armitage," she said, placidly. " But if we should, I shall 
 not ' cut ' you. Why should 1?" 
 . " Why, indeed?" he said. " I hope you won't" 
 
 The maid came out of the house. 
 
 " Will you have tea out here, miss?" she said iu her broad 
 Devonshire. " Master's asleep. "
 
 OtfCE ITS A LIFE. 27 
 
 " Shall we have it here?" asked Lyra. " Yes; but pres- 
 ently, Mary." 
 
 He knocked out his pipe. 
 
 " I am staying an unconscionable time/' he said, slowly, as 
 he dreaded his dismissal. 
 
 " Are you?" said Lyra. " It does not matter at least, 
 to me. But you shall go now if you like if you do not care 
 for tea." 
 
 "Oh', yes, I do!" he said. 
 
 He loathed it. They rose, as if by mutual accord, and went 
 down the path to the river-bank. 
 
 " That's a beautiful valley up there," he said, looking to- 
 ward it. 
 
 " Oh, you don't know how beautiful!" exclaimed Lyra. 
 " It is a little paradise. There are ferns there which grow in 
 no other part of Devonshire. You can get the English maiden- 
 hair, and you know how rare that is." 
 
 " I'm afraid I don't," he said. " What's it like?" 
 
 " Come, and I'll show you," she said, brightly. 
 
 They walked side by side up the valley. The sun shone 
 through the veil of leaves; the birds sung their midsummer 
 song of love and gladness; the whole air was perfumed by the 
 wild flowers. A strange sense of peace and rest fell upon this 
 restless young man a strange sense of happiness sprung up in 
 the heart of the girl. They seemed to breathe an enchanted 
 air; the flowers took to themselves a new and more glorious 
 coloring; the sky appeared of a brighter, happier blue; the 
 song of the birds was full of a new and sweeter music. Now 
 and again as they walked on and talked together he glanced at 
 the girl by his side, and her fresh, unstained loveliness wrought 
 upon him like a spell. 
 
 In all his life and how full of experience his life had been 
 he had never met any one like her. Never. So frank, so 
 free, and so beautiful. Living here in this lovely solitude 
 the loveliest thing in it without friends, outside the world, 
 her purity and innocence as yet unsullied, how strangely dif- 
 ferent her life was to that of the other girls he knew; and yet 
 she was so self-possessed, so full of quiet, maidenly dignity, 
 there was no vulgar shyness, timidity, with half -frightened 
 glances and awkward movements, such as make the unculti- 
 vated and underbred so *' difficult " and " impossible." She 
 was a lady from the crown of her beautiful head to the soles 
 of her feet. 
 
 Now, Dane Viscount Armitage was neither a particularly 
 good nor charitable young man, but as he sauntered up the
 
 28 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 moss-pared valley beside Lyra Chester, he was conscious of a 
 very strong desire to change this life of hers, to show her some- 
 thing of the world, of its brightness, gayety , and pleasure. It 
 seemed a sin and a crime, a waste of good material, as Ruskin 
 says, that one so eminently fitted to shine in the world, in so- 
 ciety, should be doomed to waste all her rare gifts of beauty, 
 of voice, of face, on the solitude and silence that brooded over 
 Taw stream. 
 
 Lyra Chester's life was no concern of his indeed, there was 
 one good reason, which will appear presently, why it should be 
 a matter of perfect indifference to him but Dane Armitage, 
 walking up this enchanted valley beside the lovely girl, who 
 seemed as if she were its natural queen, did not think of this 
 reason. 
 
 And Lyra? She did not think at all. At her age and in 
 her state of innocence and ignorance of the world, one takes 
 one's happiness as the young birds in the nest take their food; 
 without 'asking questions as to whence it comes or why. If 
 she had wondered why she felt so happy that afternoon, she 
 would have decided that it was because she had a companion, 
 some one with whom she could talk, to whom she could listen; 
 she who had never had a companion of her own age, and 
 talked and listened so seldom. 
 
 While the terrier Lyra had already learned to call him by 
 his name, Rags, and he came to her call as promptly as he did 
 to his master's while Rags hunted rabbits, the two humans 
 hunted English maiden-hair. Lyra found a root at last, and 
 pointed out its beauties to Dane. 
 
 " It's not a very fine one," she said. " The best and big- 
 gest always grow up in the crannies of the rocks. Why, there 
 is one!" and she pointed to a root above her head, and catch- 
 ing at a branch, swung herself up lightly, put her foot in a 
 crevice, and reached for the fern. 
 
 Dane reached in amazement and some apprehension, which 
 was almost overborne by admiration, so full of ease and graCO 
 was her action. 
 
 " Pray take care!" he said. " If that branch were to give, 
 or your foot slip, you would fall and break something." 
 
 She looked down at him with an assured smile. 
 
 " I am all right," she said. " I am used to clambering 
 about. This is nothing to the rocky hills further up the vl- 
 ley." 
 
 " Give me the fern. Let me hold your hand," he said. 
 
 Obediently she tried to do both, and, as might have been ex-
 
 OKCE IN A LIFE. 29 
 
 pected, lost her balance; her foot slipped, and she would have 
 fallen if he had not caught her. 
 
 For a moment he held her in his arms for a moment only; 
 but in that short space of time he was thrillingly conscious of 
 her breath upon his cheek, the beating of her heart against 
 his side. 
 
 She was out of his arms in an instant, and though he felt a 
 queer pulsation in his veins that sent the blood to his face, she 
 stood quite calm, unruffled, and unconscious. 
 
 " Is it all right?" she asked. 
 
 He looked at her as if he were rather dazed, as he was in- 
 deed. 
 
 " The fern, I mean? I tried to get as much of the root as 
 I could." 
 
 " Oh yes, yes; it is all right,'* he said, examining the speci- 
 men with more attention than it required. 
 
 " If you keep it in water till you plant it, it will live," she 
 said. 
 
 He plucked a large fern-leaf and wrapped the maiden-hair 
 in it carefully. 
 
 "I'll take every care of it," he said, in rather a low voice; 
 his heart was still beating unsteadily. " And I'll plant it my- 
 self when I get to Starminster." 
 
 " You must put it in a damp place, under the shadow of 
 some trees. They die in too much sunlight." 
 
 He stowed the fern away in the under breast-pocket of his 
 coat, and they walked on. Presently they came out of the 
 little wood. The valley had broadened and the stream was 
 here clear of bushes and undergrowth. Dane uttered an ex- 
 clamation of satisfaction. 
 
 " There ought to be fish here," he said. 
 
 " Fish!" laughed Lyra. " It is full of fish trout." 
 
 " ~No. But of course it must be; every stream in Devon- 
 shire is. I wish I had a rod! We could fill a basket here. 
 Don't you fish?" 
 
 She opened her eyes upon him. 
 
 " No. Do ladies fish?" 
 
 " Why, yes," he replied, " no end of them. It is a lady's 
 sport. If I had a rod I could teach you in half an hour or 
 so." Like all anglers, he was enthusiastic. " Ladies, as a 
 rule, throw a better fly than men; their hands are lighter and 
 their sight quicker. I taught a cousin of mine " he hesitated, 
 and stopped as if he had said more than he intended; but as 
 Lyra looked expectantly at him he went on, but in a casual
 
 30 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 way " and she got on very well, but she dropped it like a hot 
 coal after the first time." 
 
 " She got tired of it?" 
 
 " No, oh, no! she was awfully fetched by it, but it suddenly 
 struck her that it was cruel and wicked, and she spent the res/" 
 of the morning jawing I beg your pardon lecturing me 
 upon its sinfulness." 
 
 Lyra gazed at him thoughtfully. 
 
 " You see, she's one of the very good sort," he explained, 
 but in an uninterested way, as if he did not care for the sub- 
 ject. " Thinks it wicked to enjoy one's self in any way; one 
 of that kind of persons who are always asking themselves if 
 they're not committing a mortal sin in daring to eat their 
 breakfast or take a walk." 
 
 " I never heard of any one like that," said Lyra, medi- 
 tatively. 
 
 " You're precious lucky, then," he said, rather ruefully. 
 " They're uncomfortable sort of people, and to be carefully 
 avoided, not that Theodosia is a bad sort in other ways," he 
 added, almost to himself. 
 
 " Theodosia! Isn't that a strange name?" she said. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " Yes; we rather go in for peculiar names in our family," 
 he said. " But it fits her like a glove. How far does this 
 stream run clear of bushes like this?" he asked, changing the 
 subject abruptly. 
 
 Oh, it winds in and out among the rocks for a couple of 
 miles," she said. " But I am afraid : ' and she sighed 
 faintly " that we must go back. Tea will be ready, and my 
 father may want me." 
 
 They strolled back rather silently, Lyra stopping to gather 
 flowers now and again, Dane Armitage smoking in a thought- 
 ful way. 
 
 When they reached the cottage, they found the tea ready on 
 the rustic table and Mr. Chester seated, waiting. He looked 
 up vacantly at Dane Armitage, as if he had not seen him be- 
 fore, then remembered, and nodded. 
 
 Lyra poured out the tea, and Dane Armitage drank to the 
 bitter dregs the cup which he loathed; then, with a strange re- 
 luctance, prepared to take his departure. 
 
 " I have to thank you and Miss Chester for a very pleasant 
 afternoon, sir," he said. 
 
 Mr. Chester blinked at liim, and murmured the conventional 
 response : 
 
 " Very pleased to see you any time!"
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. 31 
 
 But absent-minded as was the tone in which the invitation 
 was given, Dane Armitage seemed to welcome it. 
 
 " Thank you very much/' he said, quite gratefully. Then 
 as he held Lyra's small, soft hand, he said in a low voice: 
 " Do you think you would consider fly-fishing very wicked?" 
 
 She had risen and was walking by his side to the gate, and 
 she looked up at him with the frank smile in her eyes. 
 
 "No, I don't think so." 
 
 " Well, you can't very well tell ti'.l you try, can you?" he 
 said. " If you'll let me, I'll bring a rod to-morrow yes, to- 
 morrow morning and give you a lesson." 
 
 The smile grew brighter, and her evident, quite uncon- 
 cealed pleasure in the proposal smote him. 
 
 " Will you? That will be very kind of you! Yes, I should 
 like it. But won't it be giving you too much trouble? I 
 shall be very awkward and clumsy." 
 
 " No, it won't be any trouble, and I'm sure you will pick it 
 up easily enough," he said, trying to speak casually and al- 
 most indifferently to hide his intense satisfaction shall it be 
 written, delight? " Good-bye, then till to-morrow." 
 
 Lyra stood at the gate, looking after him; then she went 
 slowly back to the table. 
 
 Had the sun gone behind a cloud? Had a sudden wind 
 arisen to chill the morning? Somehow, as he was lost to sight, 
 something of the brightness and the glad warmth of the day 
 seemed to have vanished with him. 
 
 She sat down with her hands in her lap, a dreamy, ques- 
 tioning look in her eyes; and her father's voice made her start. 
 
 " Did you get that paper, Lyra?" he asked. 
 
 " The paper? ^ Oh, yes! But what did I do with it? 1 
 must have left it in the boat. One moment, father." 
 
 She lan down to the boat and found it lying under the seat. 
 it wais rather wet and ran up with it. 
 
 " There it is," she said, breathlessly. ' ; It got wet when I 
 pulled him I mean Lord Armitage out of the water." 
 
 ' He took the paper and opened it. 
 
 "I've left my spectacles in the parlor," he said. She rose 
 with the promptitude of one accustomed to instant obedience, 
 and went into the house, but could not find the spectacles. 
 When she came out again her father had them on and was 
 reading the paper. It was clutched tightly in his hands and 
 hid his face, but when she said: 
 
 " Why, you have them after all," he lowered the paper with 
 a spasmodic kind of motion, and she saw that his thin face 
 was deathly white. " Oh, father! what is it what is the
 
 32 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 matter? Are you ill?" she asked, going to him and putting 
 her arm round him. 
 
 He put up his hand. She felt it tremble, and put her arm 
 from him. 
 
 " No, no," he said huskily, shakily. " It is nothing. I 
 I think the air has got colder; I'll go in." 
 
 "Let me help you,. father," she said anxiously, lovingly; 
 but he put out his hand as if to ward her off. 
 
 " No, no," he said, generously, " I am quite able to walk 
 by myself. I tell you it is nothing I am all right;" and he 
 went into the house. 
 
 Meanwhile, Armitage tramped back to Barnstaple. He 
 walked fast; he smoked furiously; there was a troubled frown 
 upon his brow; all of which are, in men, signs of the working 
 of a guilty conscience. Rags knew this well enough, and 
 trotted demurely, gravely at his master's heels, instead of 
 scampering after rabbits and barking furiously, as was his 
 wont. 
 
 " Confound it!" murmured Dane. " It won't do no, it 
 won't do. I'll go off by the night train if there is a night 
 train." He filled his pipe again. " How beautiful she is, 
 and how how " If he had been a poet or a woman he would 
 have said " sweet;" but he couldn't find a word to please him. 
 " I wish to Heaven I'd taken myself off when I got out of the 
 boat; and I've promised to go again to-morrow. How pleased 
 she looked when I told her I was coming. Poor girl ! Lead- 
 ing such a life, it must have seemed something to look for- 
 ward to. I can see her face now. Yes, I'll go off at once. 
 Another day by her side and and I shouldn't be able to go 
 at all." 
 
 He sighed, and strode on till he came to the station. 
 
 " Any train leave here for London to-night?" he asked. 
 
 " No, sir. Last London train just gone." 
 
 Dane Armitage swore; but a look of relief, of guilty relief, 
 came into his face. He walked into 4he town and stopped in 
 front of the hotel; but instead of going in, he went along up 
 the High Street and entered a fishing-tackle shop. 
 
 " Got any trout rods?" he asked. 
 
 The man remarked that he had the best the very best 
 assortment in all the country. 
 
 " I want a light one a very light one for a lady," Dane 
 said. 
 
 The man showed him one an expensive, nickel-mounted 
 affair with all the latest improvements. 
 
 " Is that the best you've got?" demanded Dane, in a dis-
 
 ONCE' IBT A LIFE. 33 
 
 satisfied voice. He would not have considered one mounted 
 with gold too good. 
 
 The man stared. 
 
 " It's the very best split cane, sir " 
 
 " Oh, all right/' said Dane, cutting him short. He paid 
 for the things, and marched down the street with it and into 
 the hotel. 
 
 As he entered his private sitting-room, with the same rest- 
 less and uneasy expression in his eyes, it made them rather 
 fierce. A gentleman half rose from the usual hotel sofa, and 
 in soft and lisping accents greeted him with: 
 
 " How do you do, Dane?" 
 
 He was a young man, very fair insipidly fair with almost 
 colorless hair and steely blue eyes. His hair was thin and 
 beautifully parted. He was clean shaven, and he looked the 
 
 Sicture of fashionable and fastidious neatness. Was it Sydney 
 niith who said that he did not like a man because he was so 
 disgustingly neat? If so, Sydney Smith would not have liked 
 this young man. There was something well, exasperatingly 
 effeminate in the clean-shaven face, the dress, the long white 
 hands, the voice, and something equally exasperating in the 
 languid air of self-satisfaction and self-conceit which clothed 
 him as if in a garment. 
 
 Dane Armitage stared at this specimen of our ultra-civiliza- 
 tion in silence for a moment, then, by way of greeting, re- 
 marked, none too politely: 
 
 " What the devil brings you here, Chandos?" 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " WHAT the devil brings you here, Chandos?" said Dane 
 Armitage, not very politely, considering that Chandos Armi- 
 tage was his cousin. ., 
 
 The Honorable Mr. Chandos smiled sweetly he was famous 
 for his smile, among other things which shall be mentioned 
 presently. 
 
 " My dear Dane, what a greeting! Any one who did not 
 know you as well as I do, would imagine that yoii were not 
 glad to see me." 
 
 " Oh, that's all right!" said Dane the brusque. "But, 
 after all, what has brought you here?" 
 
 Chandos Armitage shrugged his shoulders remonstratingly. 
 
 " This is a free country, my dear Dane, and we are all free 
 men. I am here in the course of my wanderings."
 
 34 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " Wanderings!" growled Dane, rather impatiently, under 
 his breath. 
 
 " Yes; wanderings in search of the Beautiful and the True." 
 The Honorable Chandos Armitage was a poet; that is to say, 
 he wrote feeble verses which were feeble imitations of real 
 poets: Tennyson, Browning, Swinburne. These were very 
 much admired by his female acquaintances and himself 
 especially by himself. 
 
 He not only wrote verses, but he set them to music also a 
 feeble copy of well-known composers, or more often long-for- 
 gotten musicians, for Chandos Armitage was not without 
 guile. And he sung these " Songs of Exile " though why he 
 called himself an exile no one knew with his head thrown 
 well back, and his eyes fixed with an emotional expression on 
 the ceiling; and the ladies some of them declared his songs 
 and him to be too, just too sweet and lovely. 
 
 He also painted a little feeble little sketches without life or 
 backbone; dabs of color generally indigo which he called 
 impressions, and were intended to mean Heaven knows what. 
 He also played the guitar in a tinkling fashion, and carved 
 Swiss girls and chamois in wood. In fact, he was a very ac- 
 complished gentleman, and considered to be an ornament to 
 his family in particular, and a sweet boon to mankind in gen- 
 eral. It is true that not one of his accomplishments would 
 have earned him a crust of bread if he had been starving; but 
 this did not matter, for, fortunately for him, he possessed a 
 small but sufficient income; just enough to allow him to grat- 
 ify his numerous tastes, to live in luxurious chambers, ride in 
 hansoms, belong to two or three first-class clubs, dress like 
 well, like Mr. Chandos Armitage and travel about " in search 
 of the Beautiful and the True." 
 
 But for Dane Armitage he would have been a very great 
 and a very rich man, for Dane, and Dane only, stood between 
 Mr. Chandos and the earldom of Starminster. If Dane should 
 chance to die, or fail to marry, Chandos would be the earl. 
 
 But though Chandos would not have been sorry if his cousin 
 should be removed to the land of Rest, he, Chandos, was not 
 likely to stab him in the back or poison him? for Chandos 
 Armitage was not that kind of villain. 
 
 Indeed, he was scarcely a villain at all, in the ordinary ac- 
 ceptation of the term. 
 
 He was vain as a peacock, weak as water, and selfish as as 
 A man, and only a man, can be. All his little verses were 
 about love, and breathed tenderness and sentiment, full of 
 " hearts " and " darts," " loves " and " doves," parting and
 
 IN A LIPE. 35 
 
 despair, constancy and the domestic affections; but, to put the 
 matter bluntly, Mr. Chandos Armitage, though he wailed so 
 tenderly, was as heartless as a doll he was all hay and saw- 
 dust inside. 
 
 He would have sacrified his nearest relation or his dearest 
 friend if by such sacrifice he could have gratified the smallest 
 desire, the most transient caprice. 
 
 Dane had a very strong inkling of this disposition of this 
 cousin of his, had a lively contempt for his "poems" and 
 protestations of sentiment, and, I am afraid, despised him and 
 all his works. 
 
 Dane liked a man who could ride, hunt, fish, swim a man, 
 in short and, in his opinion, the elegant, dainty, warbling 
 Chandos was only a feeble imitation of a man. He irritated 
 Dane, made him lose his temper and swear, and all the more 
 readily and furiously because Mr. Chandos Armitage never 
 lost his temper and rarely, if erer, swore. 
 
 " You know I am at work at my new volume of poems," 
 went on Chandos, lying back, with his head gracefully resting 
 on his arm, his white hand hanging down " lolloping/' 
 Dane would have said. " They're of a rustic, rural character 
 this time, and I am studying from the life. I like to get all 
 my ' properties' correctly; to see my farmers and dairy-maids 
 in the flesh, to inhale the perfume of the hay and the orchards, 
 hear the birds sing, and and " 
 
 " The pigs grunt," put in Dane, with the intention of nip- 
 ping Chandos's sentimentalizing in the bud. 
 
 " Er yes, quite so," smiled Chandos, with a little sniff of 
 disgust. " Quite so, though that is scarcely poetical, my dear 
 Dane." 
 
 " Well, pigs do grunt, they don't sing," said Dane, put- 
 ting the fishing-rod in the corner and " tidying " the room 
 generally. 
 
 " All the voices of Nature are harmonious to the real poet," 
 remarked Chandos, sweetly. 
 
 " I dare say. But what made you come here to Barnstaple?" 
 
 Chandos shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Mere whim, chance, caprice," he said, languidly. "I 
 have heard of its beauties, its downy hills and ferny vales, its 
 silver streams " 
 
 " And clotted creams," broks in Dane, with laughing im- 
 patience. ' ' Why the deuce do you always talk in such a high- 
 falutin style, Chandos? You're not at a tea-party, surrounded 
 by a lot of women who believe in you, and think every word 
 you utter an an oracle. You came here because you did,
 
 36 OKCE IHT A LIFE. 
 
 eh? All right; now then, to business. You'll stop to dinner? 
 You're stopping here at this hotel, I suppose?" 
 
 " Yes/' replied Chandos. " For to-night 
 
 " ' For one night only,' as they say in the bills," said Dane, 
 who somehow or other never could resist the desire to chaff 
 his exquisite relative. 
 
 " Yes; I want to see the sun set from the bridge, and the 
 river at the bottom of the town. I think I can write a poem 
 on that scene. I have got the first lines. " 
 
 He raised himself slightly, fixed his washed-out blue eyes on 
 the opposite wall, and murmured: 
 
 " I stood by the stream at midnight, 
 When all was dark and weird " 
 
 " For I'd drunk too much in the morning, and my eyes 
 were red and bleared/' struck in Dane. " I've heard some- 
 thing like that before. Why, man, it's Longfellow's ' Bridge ' 
 slightly altered; that is to say, murdered." 
 
 A faint, resentful red came into Chandos's face, and his eyes 
 grew sullen and angry. 
 
 " I fear you have no soul for poetry, my poor Dane," he 
 said. 
 
 " 'Fraid I haven't," assented Dane, with Philistine cheer- 
 fulness. " You see, you've got it all, Chandos; you've 
 mopped up all there was in the family, and just now I'm too 
 hungry for anything less substantial than food." 
 
 He rang the bell. Immediately a well-dressed, respectable- 
 looking waiter appeared. 
 
 " Hurry up the dinner, waiter; and look here, this gentle- 
 man, Mr. Armitage, will dine with me." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the waiter. 
 
 Chandos raised himself again with a feeble interest. 
 
 " What have you ordered, Dane? They will be sure to give 
 you soles; people in these sort of places always do," he re- 
 marked, plaintively. " Waiter, please see that they are boiled, 
 not fried, unless Lord Armitage has specially ordered them 
 
 80." 
 
 "Oh! have 'em as you like," said Dane, indifferently. 
 
 The waiter stared, looked surprised, and became humbly 
 respectful in a moment . Dane had not acquainted them with 
 his rank. 
 
 " Yes, sir yes, my lord," he said. " Certainly boiled." 
 
 " And," murmured Chandos, " if you give us a fowl 
 which you are sure to do please, please do net forget the 
 bread-sauce."
 
 OHCE IK A LIFE. 3T 
 
 "No, sir. Certainly not, sir." 
 
 " For a poet, yon are mighty particular, Chandos," he re- 
 marked. J had an idea you high-souled gentry didn't care 
 what you eat or drank." 
 
 Chandos sighed plaintively. 
 
 " I am not strong, and I am obliged to be particularly care- 
 ful. I have not, like you, the digestion of an ox, Dane. And, 
 by the way, you mentioned drink. Do you think they have 
 some decent some really decent Hock? If not, perhaps we'd 
 better have champagne. ' ' 
 
 " I should say they don't know what Hock is, or wouldn't 
 even know how to spell it," responded Dane. " I'll order 
 gome champagne." 
 
 " A-h! I think I'll go and dress," said the poet; and he 
 rose slowly, as if to soft music. 
 
 " Dress?" said Dane, eying him with a smile. " Why, you 
 look as if you had come out of a bandbox already. Don't 
 trouble to put on dress-clothes for me." 
 
 "No? You mean it really? Very well; but I never feel 
 as if I could enjoy my dinner in morning attire." 
 
 " Oh! you'll enjoy your dinner well enough, unless you've 
 changed pretty considerably since I saw you last," said Dane, 
 laughing his curt laugh. " Look sharp; you've only got a 
 quarter of an hour." 
 
 The Honorable Chandos got up slowly, and gracefully left 
 the room. 
 
 Dane went up to wash his hands, with the feeling of impa- 
 tient irritation which Mr. Chandos never failed to arouse 
 strong upon him. 
 
 Dane was as hospitable as an Arab; would have shared his 
 last crust with a beggar better than that, have given them 
 his last cigar but he was not glad to see his cousin this even- 
 ing. 
 
 He wanted to be alone, to think over what had happened on 
 the river Taw that day; to think yes, the truth must be told 
 of Lyra Chester. 
 
 He paused several times in the process of washing himself, 
 with the towel in his hand, to recall some expression of her 
 face, some inflection of her musical voice. He thought of 
 her living there at the ruined mill, growing up in that soli- 
 tude, with no girl, no woman friend, and his heart ached with 
 a yearning kind of pity which only intensified his interest in 
 her. 
 
 " I shall see her to-morrow," he thought, as he brushed his 
 hair; and the thought was inexpressibly pleasant and soothing;
 
 38 ONCE IN A LIFE* 
 
 scarcely soothing, though, for conscience with a cnpihu 
 cut in and worried him with ' that still voice which we all 
 spend our lives in trying to stifle. 
 
 When he went down he found his cousin awaiting him. 
 Chandos had changed his morning attire for a suit of dark 
 clothes which was a kind of compromise with evening-dress. 
 He looked beautiful, and he smelled of lavender water. 
 
 The waiter served the dinner. It was a good plain meal, 
 well cooked, and, strange to relate, hot, not lukewarm. 
 
 Dane was hungry, and eat as if he enjoyed it. Chandos 
 was hungry also, but eat as if he were discharging a duty to 
 mankind. He sent down for fresh sauce, and sighed plaint- 
 ively because the cutlets were served without paper frills. 
 
 " The champagne's all right,'' said Dane, taking a draught 
 with the air of a man not ashamed to be thirsty. 
 
 " Yes/' said Chandos. " It is not '80, but we must not be 
 too exigent in these barbaric regions." He had drunk by far 
 the best part of the bottle, by the way. " As I was saying at 
 Castle Towers the other day, an Englishman only understands 
 one liquid, and that is beer. Unfortunately, I can not 
 drink beer." 
 
 " Thank goodness I can lots of it!" said Dane. " And so 
 you've been to Castle Towers, Chandos? Try these cigars." 
 
 " Thanks! Tour cigars are too strong for me; I tried one 
 of them once." He shuddered. " Yes, I was at Castle Tow- 
 ers last week." 
 
 " Yes? And how are they all? How is Theodosia?" 
 
 As he put the question, Dane winced inwardly. Conscience 
 pricked him. 
 
 Chandos got up, and murmuring, " Do you mind?" ex- 
 tended himself on the sofa. 
 
 '* Not a bit. Sit, lie where you like. Theodosia seemed in 
 the best of health, and as sweet as usual." 
 
 "Oh! was she sweet?" said Dane, rather absently. 
 
 " Yes," murmured Chandos, with half -closed lips, but 
 watching his cousin, the viscount, nevertheless. " \'es; she 
 is a rare plant, is dear Theodosia." 
 
 Dane put his foot upon a chair and leaned back and laughed. 
 
 " That sounds as if she were a kind of trick, deception," he 
 said. " You've the oddest way of expressing yourself, Chan- 
 dos." 
 
 " Yes? What I meant was that dear Theodosia is the very 
 epitome of those chaste and devout virtues which which are 
 woman's rarest and sweetest charms. You are an extremely
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 39 
 
 fortunate man, Dane, to be betrothed to such an altogether 
 adorable woman." 
 
 " Thanks. Yes,, I suppose I am. And what was she doing? 
 Usual kind of thing, I suppose;" and he suppressed a sigh 
 that was remarkably like an impatient one. 
 
 " Theodosia is engaged in her usual good works/' replied 
 Chandos. " I found her surrounded by clergymen of various 
 denominations. She was just starting a society for the assist- 
 ance of fallen women. I was very glad humbly glad to be 
 able to contribute my mite." 
 
 "Oh!" said Dane, rather queerly. 
 
 He was silent a moment; then he said, looking hard at his 
 cigar : 
 
 " By the way, Chandos, I had rather a strange experience 
 the other evening." 
 
 "Y-es?" drawled Mr. Chandos, sipping his champagne, 
 with half -closed eyes. 
 
 " Yes. My man came into my room and said a woman 
 wanted to see me." 
 
 Mr. Chandos shook his head sadly, and blew out a cloud of 
 cigarette smoke with luxuriously easeful reproach. 
 
 " My dear Dane, I trust you did not see her. No woman 
 with proper self-respect would visit a man in his chambers." 
 
 " Well, I did see her," said Dane, slowly, and with still 
 averted eyes. " I didn't know who she was or what she 
 wanted, and well, I suppose I was curious. Walford showed 
 in a girl a young girl." 
 
 " My dear Dane," murmured the poet, with gentle reproach 
 Dane glanced at him with the same kind of queerness " one 
 should never lay one's self open to temptation, or give even 
 the excuse for scandal. A young girl visit your chambers! 
 What would be thought if it were known? And I suppose 
 your man Walford, like the rest of them, is not to be trusted. 
 My dear Dane, you should have more consideration for your 
 reputation." 
 
 " Thanks," said Dane, in a dry voice. " As for Walford, 
 I have had him for many years ever since I left college and 
 he would as soon think of talking of my visitors, male or fe- 
 male, as you would." 
 
 " I am delighted to hear it!" rejoined Chandos, in a tone 
 that implied that his distrust of Walford was as strong as ever. 
 " But the girl, Dane? What did she want?" he inquired, with 
 a curiosity remarkable in so virtuous and superior a young 
 man. 
 
 " Well," said Dane, slowly, " she seemed surprised and
 
 40 . OKCE IS A LIFET 
 
 taken aback when she got into the room and saw me, and 
 when I rose and offered a chair, she blushed for a moment, 
 then went white, and faltered out that there must be some 
 mistake." 
 
 Mr. Chandos smiled in a superior way. 
 
 " The usual excuse! My dear Dane, she was acting; it was 
 all theatre, as the French say. And what was her business?' 7 
 
 " That's what I asked her," said Dane. " She was very 
 overwhelmed and confused, and for a time I couldn't make 
 out what was amiss. But it seemed that she had been cruelly 
 used. The old story, Chandos a trusting woman and a black- 
 guard who had taken advantage of her innocence to betray 
 her." 
 
 " Dear, dear; this is dreadful!" murmured Chandos. " I 
 suppose her story was true. It was not a cleverly got-up tale 
 to draw some money from you?" 
 
 " I believe her story was true," said Dane. " I'm not a 
 clever man like you, Chandos, but I'm not too easily imposed 
 upon. Her story was true yes!" 
 
 " But why on earth did she come to you?" said Chandos, 
 curiously. 
 
 " Well, it happened this way," said Dane, staring hard at 
 his cigar: " Her betrayer had managed to keep her in igno- 
 rance of his real name, and had left her, as he thought, with- 
 out any clew to his identity." 
 
 " The scoundrel!" murmured Chandos, with mild indigna- 
 tion. " Ah, my dear Dane, when will our legislature pass a 
 law punishing such cold-hearted villainy? I trust, when you 
 get into the Upper House, that you will turn your attention 
 to this question." 
 
 " Y-es," said Dane. "But it seems that this gentleman 
 had been, as usual, not quite clever enough. He had left a 
 handkerchief in her possession a handkerchief marked with 
 his name." 
 
 Mr. Chandos nodded, with profound satisfaction. 
 
 " But still I don't see, Dane, why she should come to you." 
 
 " Well, you see," said Dane, slowly, " the name was the 
 same as mine Armitage." 
 
 Mr. Chandos raised himself, and opened his mouth like a 
 cod, then he sunk back very red in the face and quite dumb. 
 
 " The same name," repeated Dane. " Some friend had 
 looked up the name for her in the directory, found mine and 
 my address, and the poor girl had come to my chambers, ex- 
 pecting to find her betrayer." 
 
 Mr. Chandos blew his nose with his delicately scented hand-
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 41 
 
 kerchief, and kept it up before his red face for a lengthened 
 period. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " I WAS naturally curious to know who he was this man 
 with the same name as my own and I asked her to describe 
 him." He paused, and took a draught of his champagne. 
 " You will be surprised to hear that she gave an exact descrip- 
 tion of yourself, Chandos." 
 
 Mr. Chandos sat up, then sunk down again. 
 
 ' ' My dear Dane, I you er ' ' 
 
 " Hold on," said Dane, coldly. " I don't want you to ex- 
 plain your conduct, or to make it worse by lying. Your pri- 
 vate life is no concern of mine; the whole business would not 
 concern me in any way, if the girl had not come to me. But 
 as she had come I could not turn a deaf ear and a cold heart 
 to her story. She says you left her to starve. " 
 
 " My dear Dane, you you shock me. There there must 
 be some misunderstanding," said Chandos, rather huskily, and 
 still very red in the face. " There is er always er a 
 great deal of exaggeration in these cases, and er I'm 
 afraid" 
 
 " Perhaps/' said Dane, sternly; " but I don't think there 
 was in this one. Anyway, I gave her some money for you, 
 and I promised to give her some every month still on your 
 account. I did this for the honor of the family. You can 
 pay me back, if you like, and if you don't, you can leave it 
 alone." 
 
 " My dear Dane" 
 
 " Hold on a moment. I don't want to hear any more about 
 it. I've got my own opinion of your conduct, and I dare say 
 you know what that is without my telling you. But " with 
 a sudden burst of indignation, with a sudden eruption of the 
 temper for which he was famous " for Heaven's sake! don't 
 vapor about sentiment and virtue to me any more, or I shall 
 feel jolly well tempted to chuck you out of the window." 
 
 Mr. Chandos turned pale for Dane had half risen from his 
 chair and eyed his cousin with mingled fear and hate; and it 
 may be said that at .that moment, though he would not have 
 had the courage to stick Lord Dane under the fifth rib, he 
 would have looked on, while some one else did it, with cheer- 
 ful satisfaction. 
 
 " I I think you make too much of the the matter, my 
 dear Dane," he said, rather stammeringly. "An affaire de
 
 12 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 vceur an an ordinary flirtation with with a girl whom a 
 man in my position could not dream of of marrying " 
 
 " No, you were too good to marry her, but not too high and 
 mighty to 'ruin her,'" said Dane, fiercely. "There! for 
 Heaven's sake, hold your tongue! I always thought you were 
 a mean lot, Chandos, with all your poetical rant; and now I 
 know it. That will do. Better keep your mouth shut; you 
 can't better the business by lying about it. I'm sorry to have 
 to talk to you like this while I am, so to speak, your host 
 but" 
 
 "My daar Dane, you you act according to your lights," 
 murmured Mr. Chandos. " I er never set up to be a par- 
 agon of all the virtues. And I er dare say you yourself 
 are not Immaculate." 
 
 " No," responded Dane, with a mixture of passionate indig- 
 nation and self-reproach. " I'm a bad lot enough, I know; 
 
 but I'm d d if I'm as bad as ^that. There, that will do. 
 
 Have some more wine another cigar?" 
 
 Mr. Chandos rose with a very good attempt at dignity, but 
 was still rather pale, and kept the table between him and the 
 stalwart, strong-limbed Dane. 
 
 " No, thanks; I have had enough, thank you; and if you 
 will permit me to say so, I think you have too. Nothing but 
 but the excellence of the champagne would excuse your er 
 language. But I forgive you, my dear Dane," he made 
 haste to add, as Dane took his legs off the chair and regarded 
 his virtuous cousin with flashing eyes " I forgive you. I can 
 bear a great deal at your hands, and and I trust that the 
 story which is not er altogether correct, will not be re- 
 peated." 
 
 Dane laughed savagely. 
 
 " Yes; it's likely I should repeat it," he growled. 
 
 " Quite so. These these small matters of private senti- 
 ment are er better kept private." 
 
 " Oh, go to bed!" exclaimed Dane. 
 
 " Yes, I think I will. Good-night, Dane. I er shall con- 
 tinue my rambles to-morrow. I may start early, quiet early, 
 before your breakfast hour. If so, I will say ' good-bye. ' ' 
 
 He held out his hand, but as Dane, with unusual short-sight- 
 edness, did not appear to see it, Mr. Chandos pretended he 
 was reaching for a match, took it, lighted a cigarette, and 
 with another softly, sweetly murmured " Good-night!" elo- 
 quent of long suffering and forgiveness, got himself out of the 
 room. 
 
 But when the door closed, dividing him from his indignant
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 43 
 
 and hot-tempered cousin, Mr. Chandos' s expression changed, 
 and his refined and poetic countenance contrived to display an 
 extraordinary malignity. 
 
 " Curse you!" he muttered. " You ride the high horse 
 over me, do you? You think because you are the heir to the 
 earldom and I am only Chandos Armitage that you can say 
 and do what you like. Take care, you bully, take care! My 
 time may come some day. Er er it is a fine night, waiter," 
 he broke off aloud as a waiter came along the passage and, not 
 unnaturally, stared at the gentleman who was gesticulating 
 and muttering in such an extraordinary fashion. 
 
 " Beautiful night, sir; the moon is a-shinin' like like any- 
 thing!" 
 
 " Ah! I think I will take a turn before going to bed." 
 
 He went down-stairs and got his hat, and paused at the bar. 
 
 " I think I will take a glass a small glass well, perhaps 
 I'd have one of your ordinary er large glasses of brandy 
 and water hot," he said, in dulcet tones to the barmaid. " I 
 do not usually take it, but it is as well to be careful." He 
 drank this with surprising ease, considering its unfamiliarity, 
 and walked out. 
 
 The people of Barnstaple go to bed early, and it is therefore 
 to be presumed that they are wealthy, healthy and wise; and 
 the streets seemed to be deserted. 
 
 Mr. Chandos strolled along smoking his cigarette and chew- 
 ing the cud of Dane's vigorous language, without meeting any 
 one for some time, but presently he almost ran against a man 
 coming out of a small public-house at one of the corners. 
 
 The man apologized, and was passing on, when Mr. Chan- 
 dos stopped with an exclamation of surprise and looked hard 
 at him. 
 
 " Why, Rawdon, is that you?" he said. 
 
 The man stopped as if he had been shot, and stared at his 
 interlocutor in rather a confused and vinous manner. He was 
 a respectably dressed man, having something of the appear- 
 ance of a clerk or school -master, and his face was rather a 
 weak than a bad one. It was,,however, heavily lined, and, 
 but for the flush which drink bestows, pale and careworn. 
 
 He regarded Mr. Chandos shyly, reservedly, for a moment, 
 then smiled feebly. 
 
 " It's Chandos Armitage, isn't it?" 
 
 He had been at the same college with Chandos, but after 
 leaving Cambridge they had gone their respective ways; and 
 Rawdon's had been a downward one. 
 
 " Yes, it is I/' said Chandos, blandly. " It is very strange
 
 44. ONCE IK A LIFE. 
 
 meeting you here in this out-of-the-way place. What are you 
 doing here, Rawdon got a living, curacy?" 
 
 Rawdon shook his head and lowered it for a moment. 
 
 " N-o," he said. " I didn't take orders, after all. I'm 
 not in the Church." 
 
 " No? Then what are you doing? Dear me! it is years since 
 we met/' said Chandos, glancing at the other's black and 
 shabby garments, and at once adopting a superior and rather 
 patronizing tone. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Eawdon, looking up and down the street, 
 and then shyly at the well-clad and flourishing Mr. Chandos. 
 " All sorts of things have happened since then. You're pretty 
 flourishing, Armitage, I can see." 
 
 Mr. Chandos smiled with that complacency which arouses in 
 one a burning desire to kick the man who displays it. 
 
 " Yes? Well, you've been luckier than I have," said Raw- 
 don, with a suppressed sigh. " I've had a rough time of it. 
 I meant going in for the Church, as you know, but but 
 well, I came a mucker somehow. " 
 
 Mr. Chandos shook his sleek head reproachfully. 
 
 " Ah, my dear Rawdon, the old, old story! Those dreadful 
 cards and er the wine cup; you were rather too fond of 
 them in the old college days!" 
 
 " Yes," assented Rawdon, with a sigh. " Yes, I suppose 
 that will account for it; at any rate, I got on the down track; 
 it doesn't matter how, does it?" 
 
 He looked up and down the street, and his hand went to hia 
 lips in a stray, restive kind of way. Who does not know it? 
 
 " You don't care for a drink, I suppose, Armitage?" 
 
 "I rarely drink," said the virtuous poet. "Besides, I'm 
 afraid we could not get anything fit to drink." 
 
 " You can get a decent drop of brandy in this place," said 
 Mr. Rawdon, with the air of one who knows by experience; 
 and he led the way into the small public-house. 
 
 Mr. Chandos was served with some more hot brandy, which 
 he drank leisurely, while Mr. Rawdon drank his glass of 
 spirits with a feverish kind of impatience. 
 
 " And so you have fallen on evil days?" remarked Chandos, 
 blandly. 
 
 Rawdon nodded. 
 
 " Yes. I used to think myself a clever sort of fellow, but 
 you see what I've come to." He glanced down at his seedy 
 clothes. Mr. Chandos offered him a cigarette, but Rawdon 
 shook his head and lighted a strong-looking pipe. " Every- 
 thing went wrong with me. I could have passed for the
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 45 
 
 Church, or the Army, or the Bar, or anything, if it hadn't 
 been for " 
 
 He lifted his glass significantly. 
 
 " Dear, dear! Ah, my dear Rawdon, what a curse thisdrinK 
 is!" murmured Mr. Chandos, as he sipped his steaming toddy 
 with a pious sigh. 
 
 " Yes/' assented Rawdon, dryly; "but it's the kind of 
 curse that men like myself would rather have than a blessing." 
 
 " And what are you doing now?" inquired Mr. Chandos. 
 
 Rawdon shrugged his shoulders apologetically. 
 
 " At present I'm teaching elocution and history at a ladies' 
 school here," he said. " It isn't much of a berth, but it 
 keeps the wolf from the door and finds me in clothes, such as 
 they are, and and tobacco. I suppose you don't know of any- 
 thing better? You'd help an old friend, I suppose, Armi- 
 tage?" 
 
 " Can you doubt it?" murmured Mr. Chandos, who 
 wouldn't have helped him on any consideration. " No, my 
 dear Rawdon. If there is any sentiment which lingers longer 
 and clings closer to the human heart, it is I say " the 
 brandy and water on the top of the champagne was rather 
 muddling " if there is any sentiment which I foster with the 
 greatest care, it is the friendship of early youth. Be sure, if 
 I hear of anything that would er suit you, that I will com- 
 municate with you at once. Hear me! it's a thousand pities 
 you didn't go into the Church. Why, you look more like a 
 parson than anything else now!" 
 
 Rawdon laughed bitterly. 
 
 " Do I? That is because I dress in black clothes. It's more 
 respectable, and the school-mistress where I teach likes it. 
 Well, will you have another? No? Then I will. You'd 
 better. Fill up this gentleman's glass, Jennie." 
 
 Mr. Chandos did not protest very firmly, and while he sipped 
 his third glass, he regarded his companion and old college 
 chum with a thoughtful smile, though with rather a doubtful 
 and double vision. 
 
 " And you, I suppose," said Rawdon, " are as flourishing 
 as ever. Let me see, weren't you next heir to some swell earl 
 the earl of of I forget" 
 
 "The Earl of Starminster," said Mr. Chandos. "My 
 cousin ('curse him!')" he put in, mentally " Dane Armi- 
 tage is the heir, you remember." 
 
 " Yes, I remember," said Rawdon. " A fine fellow. Was 
 stroke in the 'varsity boat. Yes, I remember; and there is
 
 46 CHS'CE LST A LIFE. 
 
 only his life between you and this title, eh? By Jove! if an; - 
 thing should happen to him, or he shouldn't marry " 
 
 Mr. Chandos set his teeth hard. 
 
 " Nothing is likely to happen to him," he said, bitterly; 
 " and he's sure to marry; he's engaged, as it is." 
 
 Rawdon laughed rather unfeelingly. Mr. Chandos consid- 
 ered. 
 
 " That's rather hard lines on you, Armitage. Well, if yo; 1 
 do come into the title by any fluke, don't forget an old friend. " 
 
 " I won't I won't," asseverated Mr. Chandos. 
 
 " Thanks. Look here, I'll give you my card, so that you 
 can write to me if anything turns up." 
 
 He pulled out an old and rather greasy pocket-book, and 
 extracted a card. It read: 
 
 " EGBERT RAWDON, 
 
 Teacher of Elocution and History, 
 
 No. 28 Clongate Street, Barnstaple." 
 
 '' I'd ask vou to come and see me, but my diggings are too 
 shabby for you, and I'm ashamed to do so. I'm awfully hard 
 up. If if you can lend me a fiver, for God's sake, do so, 
 Armitage." 
 
 " My de-ar fellow!" murmured Mr. Chandos, who, though 
 he had taken more than was good for him, was not quite in- 
 toxicated, " I should be delighted, delighted; but, unfortunate- 
 ly, I have left my purse at the hotel. Good-night, and God 
 bless you!" 
 
 " Good^night," said Rawdon, rather dryly. " Here, you 
 haven't taken the card." 
 
 "Bless me yes!" said Mr. Chandos; and he took it and 
 stuck it in his waistcoat pocket, and hurried off, little dream- 
 ing how soon he would find his old friend useful. 
 
 Mr. Chandos went to bed and slept heavily, to wake the 
 next morning with a "head on." To Dane came the sleep 
 which blesses the strong and the temperate, though it was 
 haunted by dreams in which he swam for dear life in the cur- 
 rents of the Taw, and fancied himself floating out to sea with 
 an angel, whose face was singularly like that of Lyra Chester, 
 hovering over him and keeping death at arm's-length. 
 
 But the sleep-god refused to settle on the eyes of Lyra until 
 the night watches had faded into the hours of the cool gray 
 dawn. 
 
 And when she fell asleep it was to dream that Dane Armi- 
 tage was sitting by her in his wet clothes, his arms folded be-
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 47 
 
 hind his head, his eyes, with their frank, pleasant smile, rest- 
 ing on her. 
 
 She woke with a start to remember it flashed upon her in 
 the first moments of consciousness that he had promised to 
 come again that day. 
 
 Would he come? Was it not more likely that he would forget 
 all about it; that, tired of the place and of his adventure, he 
 would take the first train back to London, to that world which 
 yas so unknown to her, so full of mystery and enchantment? 
 
 She went down and into the garden and looked round, and 
 instinctively her eyes wandered to the seat on which he had sat. 
 
 Was it only yesterday that he had sat there? It seemed 
 ages and ages ago; it seemed as if she had known him for 
 years, as if he had become a part of her life's history. 
 
 Mr. Chester, coming down, found her leaning against the 
 porch, the pigeons and the chickens fluttering round her, and 
 for the first time disregarded. 
 
 " Is there to be any breakfast this morning, Lyra?" he 
 asked. And she did not notice that his voice was more than 
 usually querulous. 
 
 She went in and poured out his coffee for him; but she was 
 strangely silent. It seemed to her that she could not talk, as 
 if something were going to happen, and as if she were waiting 
 for it. 
 
 Once or twice she caught herself listening, and at such 
 times she started half guiltily and blushed. 
 
 " Father," she said, at last, " Lord Armitage has promised 
 to come here this morning and show me horn to fish. May I 
 go with him?" 
 
 Her father looked up from the book which always lay beside 
 his plate, an old edition of Quarles's " Emblems." 
 
 " What?" he said, absently. " May you go where? Yes, 
 yes; why do you ask?" 
 
 She went outside into the garden again after breakfast, and 
 fed the pigeons; but she had no word for them that morning, 
 and threw them their corn with her eyes fixed on the sands, 
 which soon would be covered by the tide the tide which had 
 nearly swept Mm out of life yesterday. 
 
 Nine, ten o'clock was struck by the tall, rusty-tongued 
 clock on the stairs, and still he did not come. 
 
 She plucked a. rose from the bush from which she had gath- 
 ered one for him yesterday or was it years ago? and was 
 going into the house with a strange feeling of sadness and dis- 
 appointment weighing heavily upon her, when suddenly she 
 heard a footstep.
 
 48 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 It might have been Griffith's, the maid's; but she knew it 
 was neither. She stood, her heart beating wildly why, why* 
 she asked herself, with a kind of fierce resentment then she 
 heard his voice at the gate and went to meet him. 
 
 His eyes, with the frank smile in them and and was 
 there something else? something more tender and gentle than 
 a smile? dwelt on hers. 
 
 " Am I too early?" he asked. 
 
 Her heart bounded with a kind of amazement at the ques- 
 tion. Too early? Why, had she not been waiting hours, 
 days, months? 
 
 " N-o," she said; and she knew her voice faltered. " N-o; 
 I am quite ready;" and she gave him her small, softly warm 
 hand. . 
 
 Oh, Love, cruel Love! Here is one who has done you no 
 harm, one so innocent, so pure, so free from earthly taint that 
 surely you will, must, spare her. But Love has no pity. 
 
 " God made woman perfect; man spoiled her; Love re- 
 deems her." 
 
 " I've got the rod," said Dane. " Shall we go at once? Th 
 trout are rising, I think." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 DANE and Lyra walked side by side up the valley, and at 
 first they were rather silent. Perhaps Dane was engaged in 
 listening to the chidings of his guilty conscience; perhaps she 
 was rather overwhelmed by the strangeness and novelty of the 
 situation. It was the first time in her life that she had been 
 alone with a man, young, pleasant, and good to look upon; 
 and perhaps she was too full of wonder at his graciousness in 
 coming all the way from Barnstaple to take the trouble of 
 teaching her to fish. Certainly, her silence was not caused by 
 a guilty conscience. She did not know that she was sinning 
 against the conventionalities in spending the morning alone 
 with him; that she ought to have had a chaperon with her. 
 
 They walked through the little wood with the sun shining 
 through the leaves and touching her hair with flecks of gold, 
 and emerged into the clearer valley. 
 
 " What a lovely morning," she said at last, and almost to 
 herself. 
 
 Dane shook his head. 
 
 " Rather too fine for our work," he said, eying the sun and 
 bright blue sky reproachfully. 
 
 "Really?"
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 49 
 
 " Yes, it's a bit too bright; you see, the trout can see you 
 afar off, and see the line, and recognize the fact that the flies 
 are made of feathers, and have a suspicious-looking hook under- 
 neath then. But, never mind, perhaps we shall have some 
 luck, and it will cloud over and rain. Though," he added, 
 glancing at her simple morning frock, which for all its sim- 
 plicity seemed to him the prettiest dress, the most becoming 
 he had ever seen. Once again, as he looked at her, he thought 
 of pictures he had seen in the illustrated papers and the Acad- 
 emy. She was like one of the girls Lester paints so exquisitely; 
 the lovely, frank-eyed, innocent school-girl, with the promise 
 of a more lovely womanhood shining in those eyes " though 
 I'm afraid you'd get wet, and that wouldn't do." 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 " Oh, it would not matter. I am used to getting wet, and 
 I have nothing on that will spoil. This frock," she added, 
 answering his glance at it, " is as old as the hills." 
 
 " All right," he said. " I'll put up the rods now. This is 
 yours." 
 
 " What a pretty one!" she said; " and it looks quite new." 
 
 " Yes," he said, with a fine suppression of the truth; he did 
 not want her to think he had bought it specially for her. " I 
 haven't used it much. I hope it will suit you, that it won't 
 be too heavy;" and he spoke as anxiously as if a kingdom de- 
 pended upon it. 
 
 She whisked it to and fro in the awfully reckless fashion of 
 the novice, and Dane thought to himself, " She'll smash the 
 top the first go off; glad I brought a second one." 
 
 " NOAV I'll show you how to run the line in. See? Now 
 you put on the gut the ' collar,' as they call it; you see, it's 
 as fine as a hair and the color of water; and now for the fly. 
 Let me think yes," he selected an artificial fly from his book 
 and put it on the gut line. '"' Pretty, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes; but it doesn't look very much like a real fly," said 
 Lyra, critically. 
 
 ' ' Oh, it does when it is on the water. It would take a very 
 clever fish to detect the difference. And now I'll show you 
 how to throw it." 
 
 " I think I'd rather watch you do it for a few times," said 
 Lyra, with becoming modesty. 
 
 " All right," he said. 
 
 He put up his own rod quickly, advanced to the stream cau- 
 tiously and threw the fly lightly, and Lyra, as she watched 
 him, discovered that the art of fly-fishing was, at any rate, a 
 verj graceful one. He whipped the stream for a hundred
 
 50 ONCE EST A 
 
 yards or s^ , but the sun was streaming on the water, and the 
 fish saw him and refused to be caught; and he came back to 
 her with a shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 " Too bright," he said. " Never mind, it will be practice 
 for you. i\ow hold your rod like this, firmly, but still lightly, 
 don't you know." 
 
 It was necessary, absolutely necessary, that he should place 
 her fingers round the rod, and for a moment or two he inclosed 
 her small hand in his; but Lyra was too absorbed in her en- 
 deavors to follow his instructions to notice it, though the touch 
 of her hand throbbed through him. 
 
 " That's right; now creep quietly to the stream not too 
 close and throw the fly like this see?" 
 
 Lyra raised the rod, and hurled, literally hurled, the fly at 
 the water, so that every trout within sight and hearing was 
 scared to death, and fled wildly up stream. 
 
 " Oh, dear!" she said, ruefully; " and it looked so easy." 
 
 He laughed encouragingly. 
 
 "So do most things till you try 'em. Sewing looks easy 
 enough, when you're watching a lady do it, but I expect I 
 should find it pretty difficult. Don't you be down-hearted; 
 that wasn't a bad throw for the first," he said, mendaciously. 
 " Try again here, let me hold your hand and guide it. Now 
 then let the rod go of itself, it only wants a movement of the 
 wrist see? That's better. I told you you could manage it." 
 
 " But you threw that," remarked Lyra, gravely. 
 
 " Not altogether," he said. " Now try by yourself. That's 
 better. Now another let the line describe a curve and fall 
 naturally, lightly. See! That was a fish rose that time; it 
 was indeed." 
 
 " Was it? I didn't see it," she said, eagerly. 
 
 " That's because you've not got used to looking out for 
 them," he responded, promptly. " Presently you'll get as 
 sharp as a hawk. Now I'm going to step back and leave you 
 a full hand." 
 
 Lyra at once took advantage of it to throw the fly over her 
 shoulder, and nearly caught him in the face with it. He 
 grinned behind her back; it was not the first time he had 
 taught the art, and knew his danger. 
 
 He stood and watched her, and as he watched, he forgot his 
 business in rapt admiration. The lithe figure, as it raised itself 
 to its full height and swung its arm, the poise of the beauti- 
 fully shaped, golden-hued head filled him with an ecstatic de- 
 light which shone hi his eyes. She looked over her shoulder,
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 51 
 
 and very nearly caught the expression, which he rapidly 
 changed to an impersonally critical one. 
 
 " Is that better?" she asked, anxiously. 
 
 " It's perfect," he replied, off his guard for a moment. " I 
 I mean that it's much better. Don't throw hard as lightly 
 as you can, remember." 
 
 " Do you think I shall catch any fish?" she asked, inno- 
 cently, after two or three more throws. 
 
 " I'm certain you will," he responded, with a shameless dis- 
 regard of the truth. " If it would only cloud over!" he mut- 
 tered, fervently. He had set his heart upon her catching at 
 Jeast one. 
 
 " There is a cloud over there," said Lyra, nodding toward 
 the west. 
 
 " So there is," he said, hopefully. " I'll smoke a pipe; it 
 generally brings rain." 
 
 She laughed softly. The gentlest joke of this young man 
 brought the laughter to her lips and eyes. 
 
 " But this must be very wearisome for you, Lord Armitage?" 
 she said presently, and after a dozen throws. " You will be 
 very sorry you offered to teach me." 
 
 "Perhaps I shall," he assented. "Anyhow, I'll tell you 
 when I'm tired of it; that's a bargain, eh?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " Is your arm getting tired?" he asked presently, and in a 
 gravely tender tone. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 '* No, no; not in the least. Do you know, I think I saw 
 one run at the fly just then." 
 
 " Very likely," he said, knowing that no fish would venture 
 within a hundred yards of the flopping fly. " You shouldn't 
 say ' run,' because, as a matter of fact, fish don't run. Say 
 rise!" 
 
 " Yes." she assented, with a meekness that instantly made 
 nim feel like a brute for correcting her. 
 
 She made her way slowly up the stream, and he walked be- 
 side her, out of reach of the hook, and she cast the fly for 
 some minutes in silence. He could see that she was trying her 
 hardest. Her brows were drawn straight, the firm, expressive 
 lips were shut closely, her eyes were fixed on the stream. It 
 was evident that she had almost forgotten him, and he 
 smoked, and watched her with a continued sense of infinite 
 pleasure and satisfaction. 
 
 Ely-fishing IL the poetry of spori You wander beside a sil-
 
 52 rOKCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 ver stream that babbles rippling music, to which the birds 
 keep up a soft and constant accompaniment. The trees are in 
 their freshest greenery; the banks are gemmed with wild- 
 flowers, rustic gentian, graceful rushes, velvety moss. A but- 
 terfly flutters from flower to flower; a dragon-fly, in all the 
 glory of its gorgeous summer dress, soars over the water, 
 chased by a still more gorgeous kingfisher. The air is soft, 
 balmy, and full of a strange and mystic charm. On such a 
 morning one realizes how truly the poet understood the case 
 when he sung: 
 
 " In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove; 
 In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love." 
 
 Dane, as he followed Lyra, all unconsciously was thinking 
 of her and of love. 
 
 How innocent, how unconscious she was! Most girls would 
 have thought more of their companion, of then- pose, how they 
 looked, and whether he was admiring them; but this girl had 
 evidently forgotten herself and him, was completely absorbed 
 in her lesson. Some day, he thought, some man will come 
 along and win her heart, wake the love in it, and she will turn 
 those beautiful eyes upon him with a look that ought, if it 
 does not, send him half mad with joy and rapture. 
 
 Yes, that would happen some day, and to some lucky fellow. 
 He sighed. The sigh startled her, and she stopped and 
 looked at him. 
 
 " You are getting tired, Lord Armitage," she said. 
 
 " Oh, no!" he said, hastily, for she had startled him by her 
 sudden turn. " But I'm afraid you will be, and then I shall 
 never forgive myself . Look here; I'll take a few turns. Never 
 mind; I've left my rod behind there." 
 
 " Won't mine do?" 
 
 He took the rod; the butt was warm with her grasp; it was 
 almost as good as clasping her hand. 
 
 " Thanks," he said. " It ought to bring me luck." 
 
 As it happened, the cloud floated over the sun just then, and 
 his opportunity came. Throwing with the greatest care, he 
 got a rise; the next moment a trout, gleaming like silver, lay 
 flopping on the grass at her feet. 
 
 Lyra started back with a little cry, then blushed and laughed 
 shamefacedly. 
 
 " It was so sudden," she said. " How did you manage it? 
 How pretty it looks! It it seems rather a pity to catch it." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " For goodness' sake, don't say that/' he said. " Fish aro
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 53 
 
 meant to be caught and eaten; and lie has had his amuse* 
 ment. Don't say it's wicked, like Theo " 
 
 " Like Theodosia?" she said. " I remember. No, I won't, 
 for I don't think there is any harm in it." 
 
 He put the trout in the basket hanging at his back, and 
 with a glance at the sky, handed her the rod. 
 
 " Now then! Pll wager a thousand to one that you catch 
 a trout now. It wasn't your fault altogether that you haven't 
 done so before. Now, carefully, and very lightly, mind! You 
 see that broken water there that little eddy in front of that 
 stone; throw the fly there. Just let it drop. That's it! 
 Again lightly, mind!" 
 
 She threw the fly, and fairly well; and, as much to his de- 
 light as hers, caught a trout. Of course she jerked it out as 
 jf ifc weighed at least a ton and a half, and of course it went 
 whirling round her head two or three times, narrowly missing 
 Dane's eyes and nose. 
 
 " Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. " When will it stop!" 
 
 He caught the line, unhooked the fish, and showed it to 
 her, his eyes aglow with pleasure in her pleasure and satis- 
 faction. 
 
 " And I really caught it?" she exclaimed. " It doesn't 
 sound possible!" She began to prepare for another then im- 
 mediately. 
 
 " Well, what do you say to fly-fishing now?" he asked, with 
 a smile. 
 
 " It is delightful!" she said. There was silence for awhile, 
 and presently she caught a couple more. A bright light shone 
 in her eyes, a delicious color warmed the clear ivory of her 
 cheeks, her lips smiled gratefully upon him. 
 
 " I understand it now," she said, thoughtfully. 
 
 " Yes; you only want to catch a trout to get the angling 
 mania," he said, laughing. " You're sorry you didn't know 
 the art before, aren't you?" 
 
 " Yes," she said; " and I should never have thought of 
 trying if you had not been kind enough to teach me. And, 
 oh, what a trouble I must be to you! It must be so much 
 nicer to fish one "s self than teaching some stupid person. " 
 
 " That's all right," he said; " and don't call yourself 
 names. You're quicker at it than most people." 
 
 " Than the young lady you call Theodosia?" she asked, 
 innocently. 
 
 "Oh, yes; ever so much!" he replied, briefly. "And 
 now, what do you say to moistening the fish? It's generally
 
 54 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 done at thfe stage just enough to encourage the rest, you 
 know. " He had changed the subject quickly. 
 
 "Moistening the fish?" she asked. Though she had 
 learned to catch trout, she had not yet acquired the angler's 
 slang. 
 
 He drew a silver sherry flask from his pocket. 
 
 " We really moisten ourselves, but we put it the other way, 
 out of politeness to the fish. I don't know whether you're 
 hungry you ought to be; I am, fearfully. Shall we sit down 
 and get some lunch?" 
 
 She looked the picture of self-reproach. 
 
 " Oh, I am so sorry; but I I quite forgot to bring any- 
 thing!" 
 
 " That's all right," he responded, cheerfully, in his pet 
 phrase. " I thought of it. See!" He dived into liis pocket 
 and produced a sandwich-case. 
 
 "I'm afraid they'll taste of trout," he said. " They al- 
 ways do, however carefully you wrap 'em up in paper or tin. 
 Where's a nice place?" 
 
 He found a bowlder standing up in the mossy grass, and 
 flicked the top of it with his handkerchief. 
 
 " There's a seat for you," he said. " Give me your rod. 
 Or, better still, why not sit on the grass and lean against the 
 stone. That's the thing. I hope it's comfortable?" 
 
 " It's as good as an arm-chair," she said. 
 
 He opened the by no means small sandwich-case, and ex- 
 tended it to her. 
 
 " Own up that you're hungry, now?" he said. 
 
 Lyra laughed softly, her eyes reflecting the happy, careless 
 smile in his. 
 
 " You needn't be afraid," he said. " There's enough for 
 three; it's wonderful what this case holds." 
 
 Sandwiches are, as a rule, tasteless and deceptive fare; but 
 on this lovely morning, in this pure and flower-scented air, 
 with the stream making music, with the bright June sun shin- 
 ing down from the blue sky, sandwiches took to themselves a 
 new and delicious flavor, and seemed a banquet fit for the gods. 
 
 Dane dropped down beside her and extended his long length 
 on the spring grass, and eat with the happiness and content of 
 the Lotus-eater. 
 
 " I wish I'd brought some champagne," he murmured, 
 presently. " I could have put a small bottle in the basket 
 easily enough. I'm an idiot." 
 
 "Do you like it so much?" she said, ingeniously. "I 
 never tasted it."
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 55 
 
 " I wish I had brought some more than ever, nowi And, 
 oh! by George, I forgot to bring a glass! You don't mind 
 drinking out of the cup at the bottom of the flask? Shall I 
 put some water with the sherry?" 
 
 " I think I'll have plain water," she said. " I seldom or 
 ever drink wine." 
 
 " I don't think mind, I'm not sure but I don't think you 
 can moisten the fish properly with water. They prefer wine." 
 
 He half filled the cup of the flask with water and filled it up 
 with the sherry not public-house sherry, but from the famous 
 Starminster cellars. 
 
 " It is very nice," said Lyra. " But what are you going to 
 drink out of?" 
 
 " Oh, the same cup will do," he said as nonchalantly as he 
 could. " I take my sherry neat." 
 
 He would not have washed the cup for worlds, and he tried 
 to notice from which side she drank that he might drink from 
 the same. 
 
 " Another sandwich? Why is it that one enjoys one's grub 
 I beg your pardon lunch so much more in the open air 
 than in-doors?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Lyra, dreamily. " But who would 
 not rather be out-of-doors than in such a day as this? How 
 you must enjoy fishing, and eating your lunch like this a 
 quiet picnic all by yourself!" 
 
 " Yes," he said " sometimes. But sometimes it isn't so 
 pleasant." He leaned back on his elbow, and looked up at 
 her exquisite profile with a perfect contentment. " I remem- 
 ber once, when I was on the Rockies the Rocky Mountains in 
 America hunting a grizzly bear, when I should much have 
 preferred to have been in-doors." 
 
 " Yes," &he said, looking down at him, with almost childish 
 eagerness in her eloquent eyes. 
 
 " Yes; it was a beast of a day was snowing hard, had been 
 snowing for weeks months, I should think. I'd been out on 
 the track since early morning, and in the middle of the day I 
 thought I'd have a snack, as we are doing now. I'd got the 
 same sandwich-case and flask, by the way." 
 
 She glanced at them as if they had suddenly acquired a new 
 interest in her eyes. 
 
 "I sat down in a kind of cave just hi the mouth of it 
 out of the snow, and was enjoying myself as much as a man 
 can when he's bitterly cold, and knows, by the best of all evi- 
 dences, that he has got several pounds of snow down his back, 
 when I saw a shadow across the mouth of the cave, and the
 
 56 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 next moment the owner of the shadow appeared. It was an 
 Indian, and not one of a friendly tribe. In fact, as Artemus 
 Ward says, ' all Injuns,' whether friendly or not, ' arep'ison.' 
 This gentleman looked anything but pleasant, and he eyed my 
 flask and sandwich-case with an expression which plainly 
 showed that he wouldn't mind adding them to his family plate. 
 He'd got a rifle and a scalping-knife, and " he broke off as 
 he saw her shudder " my rifle lay near my hand, but I knew 
 that if I reached out for it, he would shoot me before I could 
 raise it to my shoulder; and so, though I should much have 
 preferred putting a bullet through him, I made friendly signs 
 to him, and offered him a sandwich. Now, an Indian, of 
 whatever tribe, will eat anything. They most live on grass- 
 hoppers and dogs dogs count as a luxury. So he took all 
 the sandwiches that remained there was very little pride 
 about him and put the sandwich-case in his pocket." 
 
 " Oh!" 
 
 " Yes. Rough, wasn't it? Then he pointed to the flask. 
 I made signs io him to hold out his tin cup and I'd give him 
 some, but he shook his head and pointed to the flask. Now, 
 I'd had that flask a long while. It was an old friend, and I 
 don't hold with parting with a friend without a struggle, so I 
 shook my head." 
 
 He gave a charming grunt and raised his gun, and I should 
 have been an interesting corpse shortly afterward, but at that 
 moment This is a true story, Miss Chester." 
 
 '* Oh, yes, yes!" she breathed, eagerly. " Please go on!" 
 
 " Well, at that moment we both heard a growl behind me, 
 and out of the darkness of the cave came something that 
 looked like a huge rusty mat on two legs, with another couple 
 of legs pawing the air. " 
 
 " The the bear!" breathed Lyra. 
 
 " It was the bear yes; and a remarkably fine and vicious 
 one. I threw myself on my face. Off went the gun, and I 
 wondered whether I was shot or going to be chewed into small 
 pieces, when, looking up, I saw the Indian on the ground and 
 the bear on top of him. He sprung over me. " Lyra uttered 
 a cry only a woman can do it a combination of horror and 
 relief. " I scrambled to my feet and snatched up my rifle; 
 but the bear and the man were so beautifully mingled that I 
 was afraid to fire for a moment or two, and when I did, I 
 missed with the first barrel, but with the second I stretched 
 the bear on the top of the Indian, as dead as a herring!" 
 
 Lyra drew a breath of relief. 
 
 " That was returning good for evil," she said; and the
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 57 
 
 quiver In her voice showed, though she smiled, how much thi 
 story had affected her. " How grateful and ashamed of him- 
 self he must have been!" she added. 
 
 " Ahem! Well, that's the proper kind of ending to the ad- 
 venture, I'm aware," said Dane, with a laugh; " but, to tell 
 the truth, it didn't finish up in that story-book kind of way. 
 No, your Indian is never grateful, and couldn't be ashamed if 
 he tried. Directly he got up on his feet and found he wasn't 
 dead, he remembered that he had another charge in his gun, 
 and that it was a pity the flask shouldn't go with the sandwioh- 
 box, so he aimed at me again. You can't believe it?" He 
 rolled up the sleeve of his Norfolk jacket and bared his arm, 
 and Lyra saw a furrow drawn, as if by a red pencil, across the 
 flesh. " I put up my arm and caught it there, instead of my 
 head, and then I gently knocked him down with the butt end 
 of my gun." 
 
 He laughed with lazy enjoyment of the reminiscence. 
 
 " Did did it kill him?" inquired Lyra. 
 
 " For the sake of society, I regret to say it didn't. He came 
 to after a bit, and didn't seem at all offended. He helped me 
 skin the bear and cook some of the ham, and was gracious 
 enough to join me at dinner. We parted very good friends, 
 though he was quite forgetting to give me back the flask, and 
 was walking off with it, until I reminded him. But I beg your 
 pardon! I'm like the fellow in Shakespeare, who was so fond 
 of bragging about his exploits. What was his name? oh, 
 Othello. He used to spin impossible and wonderful yarns to 
 Desdemona." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 HE made the comparison innocently, unintentionally enough, 
 and Lyra smiled at first, then, as it came home to her, a blush 
 rose to her face. He did not see it he had lighted his pipe, 
 and was smoking in happy ignorance. Though he did not 
 know it, he had told the story very well and simply, and ho 
 had, all unwittingly, presented to her another picture of him- 
 self to add to the gallery of her memory. It seemed to her 
 wonderful that he who had gone through so much, had courted 
 peril and danger in wild and distant countries, should be con- 
 tent to lie there at her feet and smoke with half-closed eyes. 
 
 " Well," he said presently, " this is very delightful, but it 
 isn't business. We've got to fill that basket between us, yon 
 know." 
 
 " I am quite ready," she said, springing up.
 
 58 ONCE IN A LIFE; 
 
 "I think I'll change your fly," he said. "The MarcTj 
 brown fly is on the water. Do you see them? those little fel- 
 lows with the long tails. Look; here's an imitation one. Now, 
 I'll show you how to put it on, so that you may do it when I'm 
 not here." 
 
 It is easy enough to put a fly on the line when you know 
 how but you want showing, and in being shown your hand 
 and your head must of necessity be brought very close to your 
 instructor's. Lyra was intent upon her lesson, and perhaps 
 perhaps she did not notice that her hair now and again touched 
 his cheek, that her hands and his were now and again in close 
 contact; but Dane Armitage came out of the lesson with a 
 slightly heightened color, and as she turned away with her rod, 
 and an " oh, thank you, thank you! I shall not forget," his 
 conscience that troublesome conscience of his smote him, 
 and he registered a vow that he would not risk the touch of 
 her hands again. 
 
 But the force of circumstances was against him. 
 
 He kept away from her, behind her, for some time; but he 
 watched her, and could see that she was catching a trout now 
 and again. He caught some too, but his eyes were more intent 
 upon her than his fly. 
 
 Presently he noticed that she had ceased fishing, and was 
 standing looking at the water in an absent kind of way. 
 
 He strode up to her. 
 
 " Tired?" he said. 
 
 " I am a little, I think," she said, with an apologetic 
 glance. " My arm aches, only just a little. I can't under- 
 stand it, this rod is so light." 
 
 " Give it to me," he said. " Halloo, you've lost your fly; 
 the line's broken; a fish must have run off with it. I know 
 that kind of ache in the arm. You walk beside me, or will 
 you sit down? I don't care whether I fish or not." 
 
 " No, no," she said, eagerly. " Please go on, and I will 
 Tratch you. I shall learn a great deal that way. " 
 
 " How keen you are," he said, gratefully, admiringly. "It's 
 awfully good of you." As he spoke he thought that she looked 
 rather pale. " You are sure you would rather not rest?" 
 
 " Quite," she said. " Please go on." 
 
 He fished on, and she walked beside him. The clouds 
 came up again, and, to his satisfaction, it began to rain; to 
 his satisfaction, because, for some unaccountable reason, Mas- 
 ter Trout will take the fly more readily when it rains. Dane 
 caught them continually, and, in the true sportsman's absence 
 of mind, forgot that his companion was getting wet. Who
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 59 
 
 cares in the hunting-field whether the ladies are getting wet, 
 or otherwise coming to grief? Who of us, alas! when the 
 yacht is going well before the wind, cares whether the ladies 
 on board are sick or well? Man is a selfish animal. The 
 sporting man well, the least said the soonest mended. 
 
 But presently Dane woke up to the fact that it was raining 
 hard, and that the girl beside him had no mackintosh, and, of 
 course, no umbrella. 
 
 " Good gracious!" he exclaimed, dropping his rod. " What 
 a selfish brute I am! You are getting wet all this time." 
 
 " Am I? I did not know it notice it/' she said, carelessly. 
 
 " It does not matter." 
 
 " Oh, doesn't it?" he said, with the irony of self-reproach. 
 
 He looked round for shelter for her, but there was absolutely 
 none save an old thorn bush. 
 
 " Come along," he said, making for it. " That will shelter 
 you a little. I wouldn't have you wet for worlds. Why, what 
 would Mr. Chester say, and rightly? It would be a long time 
 before he trusted you out with me again." 
 
 " It isn't of the least consequence," repeated Lyra. " I 
 am wet most days when it rains; and you know it rains here 
 for months at a time sometimes." 
 
 " Does it? Cheerful climate. Anyway, you are not going 
 to get wet through to-day." 
 
 They had reached the thorn bush, and he stood in front of 
 her to protect her from the drifting rain; but he saw that it 
 was poor protection, and he took off his thick Norfolk jacket 
 of Harris tweed. 
 
 " Put this over your shoulders," he said, in a matter-of- 
 fact way. 
 
 Lyra drew back. 
 
 " Why, you would get wet through!" she said, almost in- 
 dignantly. 
 
 " Not a bit of it. Besides, it wouldn't matter. I was wet 
 yesterday, you know" his voice sunk a little " and I didn't 
 catch cold, as you see. The rain can't hurt me;" he touched 
 his shirt sleeve. " Flannel see?" 
 
 He put the coat over her shoulders, but she made a gesture 
 of refusal. 
 
 " Please put in on again. I will not have it," she said. 
 
 He laughed with a boyish maliciousness. 
 
 " I'll pitch it in the river if you don't let it stop where it 
 is!" he declared. 
 
 Lyra could not help laughing, though her brows were drawn 
 straight with determination.
 
 <JfO ONCE IK A LIFE. 
 
 " Oh, but that is absurd foolish!" she remonstrated. 
 
 " I dare say. I don't care. Come, you pretended to 6e 
 Tery grateful to me just now " 
 
 " Pretended!" 
 
 " Well, were grateful. Show it by being obedient.*' 
 
 She bit her lip, but he had his way, and the warm coat 
 sheltered her. 
 
 " We are in for a biggish storm," he said, looking up at the 
 sky. " What an idiot I was to forget that this is Devonshire, 
 and not bring a mackintosh! My mackintosh would have cov- 
 ered you from head to foot." 
 
 " I wish you had brought it," she said. " You would have 
 kept your coat then." 
 
 She put up her hand to take it off, and he put up his and 
 took her arm to prevent her; as he did so, she uttered a cry 
 of pain. 
 
 His hand dropped, and he looked at her aghast. 
 
 " Oh, I hurt you!" he said in a voice of remorse. 
 
 '* No, no!" she faltered. " Indeed you did not." 
 
 " But I did I must hate done. What a rough, clumsy 
 brute I am!" 
 
 She bit her lip as if to force herself to silence, but his re- 
 morse and penitence constrained her to speak. 
 
 " It it is nothing," she said, carelessly too carelessly; 
 " but the fly the hook." 
 
 " The fly the hook? Well," he demanded, anxiously, 
 " what about it?" 
 
 She held out her arm, then put it behind her and laughed. 
 
 " I caught it hi the sleeve of my dress, and and in trying 
 to get it out I've run it into my arm." 
 
 " Good heavens!" he exclaimed; " and I've caught hold of 
 it and and sent it in further! Please let me look." 
 
 She extended her arm again, and he saw that the hook of 
 the fly had gone above the barb through the delicate skin. 
 Now, when this is the case, you can not once in a hundred 
 tunes pull the hook out. It is a small matter, just a tiny 
 piece of bent steel, but there it is, fast and firm ; the more you 
 try to extract it, the more if sticks, and every time you touch 
 it, the more pain you inflict. 
 
 Dane knew that there was only one way of getting that fly 
 out, and at the thought his face paled beneath its tan. 
 
 " It's of no consequence; it will come out presently," she 
 said. " I will get Mary to pull it out when I get home. It is 
 clearing up now; shall we go on? Take jour coat, please/'
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 61 
 
 " Stop! r he said, looking at her and still holding her hand. 
 " Neither Mary nor any one else can pull that hook out.'* 
 
 She opened her lovely eyes at him. 
 
 "No? Why? I couldn't just now, but I thought that was 
 because I only had the left hand to do it with." 
 
 " No/' he said; "it is because the barb on the hook has 
 gone in. Miss Chester I I shall have to cut it out." 
 
 He stood with compressed lips and a look on his face as if 
 he had said, " I must cut off your arm." 
 
 Lyra laughed easily. 
 
 " Eeally?" 
 
 " Yes," he said; " and and I am afraid I shall hurt you." 
 
 She laughed as easily as before. 
 
 " Not much, I should think," she said. " Such a little cut 
 as it must be for such a tiny hook." 
 
 " You don't mind pain?" he asked. 
 
 " Not such a little as that would be," she said. " Can I 
 not cut it out myself? The trouble I have been to you this 
 morning!" 
 
 " You can not," he said. " What an idiot I was not to 
 warn you! It's my fault." 
 
 " That I was so clumsy as to catch the hook in my arm?" 
 she said. " It is a wonder that I have not caught you with it." 
 
 " Would to Heaven you had, instead of yourself; that 
 wouldn't have mattered!" he rejoined. As he spoke he took 
 the scissors out of the fly-book in his jacket pocket. " I must 
 cut the sleeve," he said. 
 
 " That's of no consequence," she said, carelessly. 
 
 He cut a square piece out, and revealed a patch of the white 
 arm with the malicious little hook sticking in it. 
 
 " Look another way/' he said, with a queer huskiness in his 
 voice as he opened his pen-knife. 
 
 Lyra obeyed for a moment, but naturally her eyes turned 
 to the hook again; and then she saw that his face had turned 
 pale, though his hands were as steady as a rock. She noticed, 
 too, how softly, how tenderly he held her arm this great 
 strong man who had faced, courted death in strange lands. 
 
 " Are you afraid," she asked, with a smile " afraid of my 
 calling out? I shall not, I promise you." 
 
 " Yes," he said, still huskily; " I am afraid of hurting you, 
 and yet I must do it, for Mary would hurt you more than I 
 shall." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " Please go on," she said. e{ It is such a trifle." 
 
 " Not to me," he muttered* below his breath, and with a
 
 CH ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 palpitation at th.9 heart. He would have done much, suffered 
 much to gain a moment's happiness, transient pleasure, for 
 this innocent girl; and now he was fated to hurt her hurt 
 her in cold blood, with the lovely eyes looking on. 
 
 He set his teeth hard, and cut out the hook. He dared not 
 look up at her, lest she should see in his eyes the emotion, the 
 passionate emotion that raged within him. 
 
 It was a tiny cut, and she did not cry out or wince even, 
 though, for all its srnallness, the operation was a painful one. 
 
 His hand closed gently, tenderly over the miniature wound, 
 and he raised his eyes. 
 
 Tb.ey must have told the secret that was throbbing through 
 his heart; they must have said that which he kept from utter- 
 ing with his lips at a cost almost insupportable. There must 
 have been, " I love you! I love you!" in the intense gaze of 
 his eyes, for Lyra caught her breath and drew back slightly, 
 very slightly, and the color left her face. 
 
 " I have hurt you, Lyra!" he exclaimed, almost hoarsely. 
 " Lyra dearest! I have hurt you, I who love you! Love 
 you!" 
 
 She drew back from him, put out her hand as if to keep 
 him his almost fiercely passionate avowal away from her. 
 
 She was startled, frightened, and yet ah, was it fear only 
 that made her heart throb with a sensation that was almost 
 painful? 
 
 He caught her hand and pressed it against his heart. All 
 the passion of a strong man caught in the toils of a love as 
 strong as himself had got possession of him, and yet the caress, 
 for caress it was was gentle, reverential. 
 
 " Lyra " his voice sounded strangely in his own ears " I 
 love you! Yes, I know I know! I ought not to say it here, 
 now, but but [ can not help myself! Do you hear? I love 
 you! Are you angry? Forgive me, I would rather die than 
 frighten you but to have hurt you when I love you so dearly, 
 so dearly " 
 
 He stopped suddenly. The coat had dropped from her 
 shoulders as she stood with her hands pressing against her 
 bosom to still the beating of her heart, stood panting as if for 
 breath. The coat slipped, and as it slipped, something white 
 fell from the pocket, and dropped on the ground between 
 them. It was an unopened letter, and it fell with the address 
 upward. 
 
 Her eyes followed it, and his followed hers. He started, and 
 the blood rushed to his face, then left it, and left it absolutely 
 Vhite.
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 63 
 
 She glanced from the letter to his face, and then to the letter 
 again. At that moment why, she knew not it seemed as if 
 the innocent-looking thing had grown into a sheet of snow, 
 and reared itself between her heart and his an impassable 
 barrier. 
 
 She pointed to it; she could not speak. He stood panting 
 as she had panted; then, like a man suddenly dazed, he 
 stooped and picked up the letter, and mechanically, with ab- 
 solute unconsciousness, opened it, unfolded the sheet of paper, 
 and as mechanically read the contents. 
 
 " DEAR DANE, Your father has the gout in his hand, and 
 asks me to write and beg you to come home. I don't add my 
 entreaties, because it is evident from your not having answered 
 my last two letters that you have forgotten Your 
 
 " THEODOSIA." 
 
 That was all. But it was as a voice from the thunderous 
 sky. It was the voice which bid him choose between love and 
 honor. 
 
 He stood with the letter in his hand, the cold sweat breaking 
 ou.t upon his brow. 
 
 " Your Theodosia!" 
 
 His eyes at last sought hers. She stood as if turned to stone. 
 
 Her woman's wit had guessed that something had come be- 
 tween them. The barrier of snow was freezing her heart. 
 
 He stretched out his hand, then let it drop to his side, and 
 his head hung like that of a man suddenly overwhelmed with 
 shame. 
 
 " Lyra!" he said, hoarsely, almost inaudibly " Lyra for- 
 get forgive! I No, I can not lose you I can not!" 
 
 He made a movement toward her; but she put out her hands. 
 
 " No! no!" she panted. " Let me go!" 
 
 His hands, which he had raised to seize hers, dropped to hip 
 side, and he turned away with a groan, as if he could not dare 
 to gaze upon her. 
 
 For a moment she stood looking at him; then, with a 
 shiver, as if the summer breeze had been charged with ice, she 
 turned and left him. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LTKA left Dane standing as if turned to stone, and with 
 unsteady, uncertain steps went down the valley toward home. 
 
 Her heart beat wildly one moment, and the next seemed to 
 stop altogether.
 
 64 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 A great overwhelming sense of misery swept through her, 
 alternated by a strange feeling of wonder that was an ecstasy 
 half of pain, half of joy. 
 
 She had read of love often, but it might almost be said that, 
 until Dane had uttered the word with all the eloquence of pas- 
 sion, she had never heard it spoken. 
 
 His declaration had come upon her with the suddenness of 
 a flash of lightning. And yet, sudden as it was, she under- 
 stood it, and knew that he really loved her and that she re- 
 turned his love. 
 
 As he spoke she learned suddenly, as in another lightning 
 flash, why the sunlight had seemed to fade when he left her 
 yesterday; why she had lain awake thinking of him; why the 
 sight of him at the gate had made the heart within her leap 
 with a strange, bewildering joy. 
 
 Love, this love of which she had read so much, was a real 
 thing, then; and it had come to her, swept down upon her like 
 an angel with widespreading wings, and soared with her into 
 the highest heavens. 
 
 And yet she had understood quite as fully that something 
 had come between her and Dane, that though he loved her 
 and she loved him, that letter which had dropped between 
 them had contained the death sentence of their happiness. His 
 faltering, heart-broken words had told her that; and so she 
 hurried through the undergrowth, scarcely knowing where she 
 was going, and heedless of the brambles that caught at her as 
 if trying to detain her and turn her back. She felt as if she 
 had left not only her heart, but her life's blood behind, there 
 where Dane stood with clinched hands and drooping head. 
 
 It is said that to every man and woman is given a soul for 
 which a mate is specially created, that each human soul goes 
 through the world seeking this mate. Sometimes it finds it 
 sometimes only, and ah! how rarely and then there is joy 
 and happiness unspeakable for those two fortunate souls; but 
 too often the desolate spirit wanders over the earth, seeking the 
 mate it shall never find, doomed, perhaps, to be tied to some 
 spirit with whom it has nothing in common, and with whom it 
 must lead a life of miserable discord, or fated to wander 
 through the realms of space sobbing and wailing, a sad and 
 unsatisfied and restless ghost, unloving and unloved. 
 
 Surely these two spirits, Dane's and Lyra's, had found each 
 other. They were within sight of love's paradise, their locked 
 hands were touching the gate, their feet were pressing the 
 threshold, when lo! they had been thrust forth, the gates had
 
 OKCE IN A LIFE. 65 
 
 been clanged in their faces, and they were separated, to wan 
 der divided and miserable. 
 
 As Lyra made her way through the wood, she tried to re- 
 alize all that had happened to her. Dane's passionate words 
 rang in her ears as if they would ring there forever. Love, 
 love; it was all love! She could feel his hands clasping hers 
 still, could feel his eyes piercing through hers into the inner- 
 most recesses of her heart. He loved her, and yet she should 
 never see him again. Something had come between them, had 
 taken him from her forever forever! 
 
 She uttered the words which have fallen from so many de- 
 spairing lips, and clasped her hands over her eyes. It seemed 
 as if a cloud had come over the heavens, and blocked out the 
 sun and light. 
 
 She stopped, exhausted, and leaned against a tree, her 
 hands pressed to her bosom as if to still the agony in her that 
 racked it. As she stood thus, lost to all sense of sight and 
 hearing, the bent figure of Griffith came along the narrow 
 path. He had his bill-hook in his hand and a bundle of wood 
 on his bent back. As he saw Lyra he stopped, dropped tha 
 wood, and limped to her side. 
 
 " Miss Lyra!'* he exclaimed, hoarsely. " What is it? What 
 is the matter?" 
 
 She turned her aching eyes upon him, as if she did not see 
 or recognize him, and at the agony in her face he groaned 
 with mingled pain and rage. 
 
 " What is it what is it?" he said in his guttural voice, and 
 he took her hand and pressed it. " Tell me tell me, Miss 
 Lyra, dear; tell me, dearie." 
 
 The sound of his rough voice, the touch of his hand, aroused 
 her. With a long, painful sigh she raised her head and looked 
 away from him. 
 
 " Nothing is the matter, Griffith," she said, in a voice from 
 which all the brightness and joy had vanished. " I I have 
 been a long way, and and am overtired." 
 
 His grasp of her hand grew tighter. 
 
 " A long way," he said " only to the top of the valley? 
 That shouldn't have tired you. Where where is the gentle- 
 man that went with you? He was with you till just now." 
 
 He put the question with a kind of subdued ferocity, and 
 gripped at her hand. 
 
 Her face grew paler, if possible, and her lips quivered. 
 
 " He has gone," she said; and the full significance of the 
 Words smote her with a fresh pang. 
 
 " Gone," he echoed, hoarsely" and left you to come homo
 
 60 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 alone? Look; your dress is torn by the brambles. You are 
 white and unhappy. Has he been saying anything to trouble 
 you? Tell me, Miss Lyra, dear?" 
 
 The crimson burned in her face for a moment, then left it 
 pale again. 
 
 "No no," she faltered, brokenly; "he has said nothing. 
 It does not matter. He has gone; he will not come back. 
 We we shall not see him again." 
 
 His small, glittering eyes scanned her face keenly. 
 
 " Are you telling me the truth the whole truth, Miss Lyra?" 
 he said, hoarsely. "If he has said anything to trouble you 
 if he " He paused, with clinched teeth, then went on in 
 a low, hoarse voice: " Miss Lyra, you won't keep anything 
 from me? It's me, old Griffith, that asks you. You'll tell 
 me, Miss Lyra, dearie. Years ago, when you were a little 
 child, your mother left you. I was with her when she died. 
 Almost her last words were: ' Griffith, you'll take care of my 
 little one?' His voice gave way, but he mastered it, and went 
 on: " She knew your mother that the master would be too 
 broken to take care of you. She knew that you would want 
 some one else some one that would always watch over you. 
 I promised her, Miss Lyra, dear, and and I've kept my 
 promise. Look back, dearie, and tell me if you can remem- 
 ber any time in your young life when you can not remember 
 old Griffith." 
 
 Lyra could not speak, but pressed his hand. 
 
 " When you were ill like other children, it was for me, 
 and not your nurse, that you used to cry. I've carried you in 
 these arms for hours ay, almost for days. I've watched you 
 grow up, year by year, from a tiny mite to a beautiful woman, 
 and there is not a wish of your heart that I haven't known. 
 No dog ever loved its master as I've loved you. Miss Lyra, 
 dear, I'd lay down my life for you, and be glad to do it!" 
 
 She pressed his hand again. His devotion, though it could 
 not remove the aching in her young heart, soothed it. 
 
 "I know, I know, dear Griffith," she murmured, almost 
 inaudibly. 
 
 " I've kept my oath, for it was an oath, and I mean to 
 keep it till some one comes to take you from me, to win your 
 heart away and teach you to forget me. I'll stand between 
 you and trouble, Miss Lyra, if you'll let me. Tell me what 
 has happened." 
 
 " Nothing, nothing," she faltered. 
 
 His rugged brows darkened above his sharp eyes. 
 " Something has happened," he said, doggedly. 
 
 If I
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 67 
 
 thought *hat gentleman had said anything to trouble you like 
 this" 
 
 He stopped, dropped her hand, and half turned, as if he 
 were going in search of Dane. She caught his arm and held 
 him. 
 
 " No, no, Griffith, he has said nothing. It is because he is 
 too good and noble " She stopped. " Stop, Griffith, I I 
 bid you. I am unhappy, but but it is not his fault." 
 
 "You are sure?" he demanded, almost fiercely. 
 
 " Yes," she said, with a heavy sigh; "it is not his fault. 
 You you must not harbor anger against him, must not 
 threaten him for you did threaten him, Griffith. " 
 
 " Yes," he assented, with sullen anger. " I'd threaten any 
 one that would harm you or make you unhappy, Miss Lyra, 
 dear. I'd " He stopped, but his clinched hand and glitter- 
 ing eye finished the sentence graphically enough. ' ' The faith- 
 ful dog bites as well as barks when it sees its mistress at- 
 tacked." 
 
 " Yes, yes," she said, soothingly, " I know, Griffith; but 
 no one has attacked me. Do not say any more. Let us go 
 home. I am very, very tired." 
 
 Her head sunk, and she sighed again. 
 
 " Lean on me; put your hand on my shoulder, Miss Lyra," 
 he murmured, huskily. " Don't be afraid. Why, those arms 
 are strong enough to carry you still, old as I am." 
 
 They went through the woods thus, Lyra pale and preoccu- 
 pied, the hunchback with his eyes fixed on the ground, his 
 gnarled lips emitting a kind of hoarse snarl at intervals, and 
 had reached the clearing at the foot of the cliff, when sud- 
 denly a groan was heard by both of them. Lyra started, re- 
 moved her hand, and uttered a faint cry. 
 
 " What was that? Did you hear it, Griffith?" she fal- 
 tered. Instantly her fears flew to Dane. Could it have been 
 he who had groaned? " Oh, what was it, Griffith?" she 
 asked, in an agony. 
 
 " Hush! hush! Miss Lyra," he said, almost imperatively; 
 and he listened with his great head on one side. 
 
 The groan came again, and Lyra uttered another cry. 
 
 " There, there! You must have heard it, Griffith!" 
 
 " Yes, I heard," he said, calmly. " Don't be frightened, 
 dearie. It came from the hollow of the cliff. Stay here while 
 I go and see." 
 
 " No, no," she said; " I will come too." 
 
 A mental vision of Dane in mortal peril rose before her. 
 
 Griffith, with his peculiar gait a mixture of limp, spring
 
 68 ONCE US A LIFE. 
 
 and shamble hurried in the direction of the sound, and Lyra 
 followed closed behind him. 
 
 Where the wood ended in a waste of grass-grown sand, the 
 range of cliffs, or downs, commenced. The sand, blown by 
 the winds, was over them all. They were soft and graduating 
 in places, but in others Avere steep and precipitous. As Lyra 
 and Griffith hurried to the foot of these cliffs, the groan which 
 had alarmed her sounded again. 
 
 Griffith's sense of sight and hearing were as keen and true 
 as an Indian's, and he went straight for a clump of sand- 
 sprinkled bushes from whence the cry of distress had pro- 
 ceeded. Lyra kept close behind him, and they both saw the 
 figure of a man, half lying, half sitting, among the furze. 
 
 He was a fair young man, with light hair and pale-blue eyes, 
 and he was' very pale and wof ul -looking. It was Mr. Chandos 
 Armitage, with his Bond Street clothes torn and covered with 
 sand, and his delicate white hands scratched and bleeding. 
 
 At sight of Lyra and Griffith he uttered a doleful " Help!" 
 and dropped back amid the furze. Griffith bent over him. 
 
 " What is the matter?" he muttered, in his rough, grating 
 voice. 
 
 Lyra stood looking over his shoulder, her pale face expres- 
 sive of apprehension and, it must be said, relief; for it was 
 not thank Heaven! it was not the beloved one it was not 
 Dane Annitage. 
 
 Mr. Chandos opened his eyes and groaned faintly. 
 
 " I've had an accident," he murmured, in acute accents of 
 profound self-pity. " I've fallen over the cliff and broken my 
 leg, I'm afraid. Oh!" 
 
 " Fallen over the cliff!" grunted Griffith. " Let me see." 
 
 " Don't touch me!" wailed the Honorable Chandos. 
 
 "Humph!" grunted Griffith, "you'll have to be touched, 
 sooner or later, if you're to get away from here. Let ine see. 
 Which leg is it?" 
 
 " Oh, take care, Griffith," murmured Lyra, gently. 
 
 Mr. Chandos opened his eyes again, and as they rested on 
 her lovely face their pale-blue light grew warmer and more 
 admiring; but only for a moemnt, for his pain absorbed all his 
 attention. 
 
 " Thank you, my dear lady," he said, sweetly; " this is the 
 leg, my good man. I'm afraid it is broken in several places. " 
 
 Griffith knelt down and examined the wounded member, Mr. 
 Chandos watching with nervous apprehension. 
 
 " It isn't broken/' said Griffith, after a moment or
 
 ONCE Df A LIFE. 69 
 
 " You've sprained your ankle, I think. Wait, I'll take off 
 your boot." 
 
 " No, no!" responded Mr. Chandos, in nervous terror. " I 
 must have a surgeon; you'll hurt me." 
 
 Griffith grunted grimly. 
 
 " Not I. Sit still, sir; I'll soon see what's the matter." 
 
 He took out a woodman's knife, at sight of which the ele- 
 gant Mr. Chandos shuddered, cut the laces of the boot, and 
 removed it. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " it's a sprain; there's no bones broken." 
 
 " I don't see how you can know; you're not a surgeon," 
 said Mr. Chandos, querulously. " It's painful enough for 
 half a dozen fractures." 
 
 " Very like," said Griffith, philosophically; " but there's no 
 bones broken, all the same. How did you do it?" 
 
 Mr. Chandos leaned on one elbow, turned his blue eyes on 
 the cliff, and then on Lyra. 
 
 ' I was standing up there on the edge of the eliff, admiring 
 the peculiarly mystic light on yonder hill, when the ground 
 gave way beneath me, and I was precipitated where you see 
 me," he wound up, rather prosaically. 
 
 Griffith grunted. 
 
 " And didn't you know any better than to stand on the 
 edge of a sand-hill?" he said. " You'll be more knowing for 
 the future. You've had a fall and sprained your ankle, that's 
 all." 
 
 " That's all," retorted Mr. Chandos, who thought that it 
 was a very great deal; " but I can't walk. I've tried to stand 
 several times, without success. You will not desert me?" 
 
 He extended his pretty hand to Lyra with a charmingly 
 pathetic gesture. 
 
 She drew back, for the voice, the gesture, the manner of the 
 man repelled her, and it was Griffith who responded. 
 
 " Oh, we won't desert you, as you call it. I'll go and gee 
 something to carry you on." 
 
 " Let me," said Lyra, in a low voice. 
 
 " No," said Griffith, almost peremptorily. *' You'd run 
 all the way to the cottage and back, I know, and you're tired. 
 You stay here, Miss Lyra. I sha'n't be long. You'd better 
 keep your foot still," he added to Mr. Chandos, curtly, as he 
 limped away. 
 
 Lyra, left alone with the disabled man, stood looking sea- 
 ward. She felt dazed still; her heart was aching with a dull, 
 gnawing pain. It is to be feared that she did not give much 
 thought to the interesting sufferer.
 
 70 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 But this left Mr. Chandos free to gaze upon her beautiful 
 face, and he did so to the fullest extent; so fully that for the 
 moment he forgot his broken bones, or sprain, and was lost in 
 intense admiration of her loveliness. 
 
 Who was she, and whence did she come? 
 
 He thought he had never seen a more lovely, more interest- 
 ing face; for her pallor, the sad expression in her eyes, lent 
 her an additional charm in Mr. Chandos's opinion. 
 
 " I am afraid I am detaining you and giving you a great 
 deal of trouble," he said, in his" sweetest voice, with the 
 " flute stop " well on. 
 
 Lyra started slightly and turned to him. 
 
 " Oh, no," she said. " Are you in much pain?" 
 
 She put the question with a tone of self-reproach. She had, 
 indeed, almost forgotten him. 
 
 " Yes," he sighed. Mr. Chandos would have made an out- 
 cry over a pin-prick, and was not likely to make light of a 
 sprain. " Yes," he murmured, " the pain is great; but pain 
 has its consolations; the spirit is never keener or more en rap- 
 port with beauty than when it is stimulated by bodily anguish. " 
 
 He made this remark in the proper esthetic manner, with 
 the " flute stop " in his voice again, and with a sad look in his 
 pale-blue eyes. 
 
 Lyra looked at him with a drear and weary questioning, and 
 Mr. Chandos's gaze grew unsteady. 
 
 " I allude to the scenery oh!" his foot gave him a twinge. 
 " It is indeed beautiful. Doesn't it remind you of a Canaletti 
 or a Burne- Jones ? Oh ! oh, dear ! ' ' 
 
 Lyra continued to gaze at him. 
 
 " I am afraid I don't understand," she said. 
 
 " No? You are not acquainted with the works of these 
 oh! oh! these artists? That is a pity. The beautiful should 
 know and be of kin with the beautiful." 
 
 It is to be feared that Lyra thought for the moment that 
 the wounded man was either insane or delirious. 
 
 " But, pardon me, you look pale," said Mr. Chandos, after 
 a pause. " I fear I have caused you some alarm." 
 
 A faint color came for a moment into Lyra's face, and he 
 looked away across the river. 
 
 " No," she said, in a low voice. " I am not frightened." 
 
 " Oh!" murmured Mr. Chandos, tenderly. "It is the 
 sympathy of your womanhood which is oh! oh, dear! oh, 
 dear! emblematic of the divine. Without sympathy, true 
 sympathy, man is whew! little better than the beasts of the 
 field. "Will you not sit down and rest?"
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 7i 
 
 Lyra shook her head. She was, with every word he ut- 
 tered, more inclined to consider him a harmless lunatic. 
 
 Mr. Chandos nursed his foot for some moments in silence, 
 then he said: 
 
 " Do you live far from here?" 
 
 " No/' said Lyra. " Griffith will not be long" 
 
 " Oh, I can wait, if not with cheerfulness, with resigna- 
 tion," he murmured. " Pain and patience seem appropriate 
 to this desolate spot, this weird and impressive scenery. Do 
 you er paint ?' ' 
 
 "No," said Lyra. His suave, languishing voice grated on 
 her and irritated her. She longed with a longing past descVip- 
 tion to be in her own room, alone; alone to think. 
 
 " That is a pity," he said. " I er am an humble but 
 devoted servant of Art. I should like to sketch this stretch of 
 sand, these phew! oh! oh, dear! mystic-looking hills. 
 They would make an exquisite study in gray and chrome." 
 
 Lyra remained silent. How much longer would Griffith be? 
 
 " If you do not paint, you are a musician, I am sure oh, 
 dear!" resumed Mr. Chandos. 
 
 Lyra shook her head. 
 
 " No, I can not play," she said. 
 
 " In-deed! It seems scarcely credible. Your face pardon 
 me is that of the Cecilian type. Cecilia is the patron saint 
 of music, you know. But you sing; indeed, you must sing! 
 Hah oh!" 
 
 Lyra shook her head. 
 
 " Does your foot pain you still? Is there anything I can do, 
 get, for you?" 
 
 " I fear not," he said, in the tone of an expiring martyr. . 
 
 I am very thirsty, it is true, but I fear there is no water " 
 
 " I will get you some," she said. 
 
 She ran to the stream, made a cup of a large fern leaf, and 
 brought it to him carefully. 
 
 " Thanks, thanks!" he sighed. " It is a draught from the 
 stream of Isis." And he gazed up at her with a sentimental, 
 languishing air. " I shall never forgive myself for all the 
 trouble I have caused you. Ah 
 
 " ' Woman, in our hours of ease, 
 Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 
 When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
 A ministering angel, thou!' " 
 
 He mouthed the hackneyed lines in. the most approved style 
 of the modern school, and expected Lyra to blush and simper,
 
 72 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 and the slightly surprised look in her large sad eyes rathr 
 disconcerted him. 
 
 " Are you fond of poetry?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes," said Lyra, wearily. 
 
 " I knew it," he murmured. " It were unnecessary to ask. 
 Your face is the index of a poet's soul. I er am an humble 
 but devoted servant of the divine Muse. Have you chanced 
 oh! whew! have you chanced to read these lines of mine 
 they are tolerably well known? 
 
 " ' When in the dark and ' oh whew! ' stilly night, 
 I see the ' ah! ' flickering candle-light; 
 What visions swarm ' oh, dear! ' around my head, 
 And fill the curtains of my ' gracious! ' bed!' " 
 
 " No," said Lyra. 
 
 " Yes," she thought, " he must be a madman escaped from 
 some lunatic asylum." 
 
 " No? I thought they had penetrated even to such remote 
 regions as this. Would you like shall I repeat the remainder 
 of the oh! oh! poem?" 
 
 " I do not think you should talk," faltered Lyra, sooth- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Do not forbid me the sweet consolation of conversing with 
 my preserver," he murmured. " I forget my pain almost 
 while exchanging these sweet reflections with one so er so 
 capable of appreciating them as I am sure you are." 
 
 Lyra walked a little way toward the valley to render any 
 further conversation difficult, if not impossible, and stood 
 watching and waiting for Griffith. 
 
 At last, to her infinite relief, she saw him and Mary hurry- 
 ing along. 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad you have come, Griffith!" she said. " I 
 am afraid he is very ill; he has been talking so strangely." 
 
 Griffith grunted, and unfolded a thick rug. 
 
 " He's not so bad as he thinks, Miss Lyra," he said, almost 
 within hearing of the martyr. 
 
 " Now, sir, let us put this rug under you, and we'll carry 
 you to the master's cottage." 
 
 Mr. Chandos, with sundry groans and moans, got himself de- 
 posited on the impromptu stretcher, and was raised from the 
 ground by Mary and Griffith. 
 
 "For God's sake, don't drop me!" he exclaimed, in an 
 agony of apprehension. 
 
 " We sha'n't drop ye/' said Griffith, curtly. ' You're 
 none so heavy."
 
 ONCE Mf A LIFE. 73 
 
 "Be careful, be careful, I beg of you!" implored Mr. 
 Chandos, as ho swayed to and fro. " A sudden shock, a fall 
 on this uneven ground, might Heaven knows what it might 
 do. Where is my fair rescuer?" 
 
 Griffith scowled over his shoulder at him. 
 
 " D'ye mean Miss Lyra?" he snarled. 
 
 '* Yes, if that is her name it is a sweet name beg her not 
 to leave me." 
 
 Lyra walked beside him. 
 
 " You are quite safe," she said, encouragingly. 
 
 " I feel it, I feel it, with you by my side," murmured Mr. 
 Chandos; and he stretched out his hand with the expression of 
 a man fast sinking; but Lyra probably did not see the hand, 
 for her eyes wene fixed on the river, and her thoughts far 
 away, so that Mr. Chandos' s delicate paw was fain to hang 
 limp and disregarded over the rug. 
 
 They reached the cottage, and Mr. Chandos was deposited 
 on the sofa to the accompaniment of a string of groans and 
 moans and " oh, dears!" 
 
 Mr. Chester entered; he had been wandering along the river- 
 bank with a book which he still held in his hand, and he not 
 unnaturally stared at this eruption into his small and quiet 
 sitting-room. 
 
 " What what ?" he stammered, looking from one to the 
 other vacantly. 
 
 " It is an accident, father," explained Lyra. 
 
 " To you?" he asked, looking at her pale, wan face. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "No; to this gentleman. He has hurt his foot." 
 
 " I fear it is a bad, a very bad fracture," murmured Mr. 
 Chandos. " I must apologize for this intrusion; but, indeed, 
 if it had not been for the timely arrival oh, dear! of your 
 daughter and man-servant upon the spot where I lay alone 
 and helpless " 
 
 Mr. Chester cut short the suavely flowing voice. 
 
 "' What is it what is the matter with him?" he asked, im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " Leave Tn'm to me and Mary, and we'll see," growled 
 Griffith. 
 
 Mr. Chester and Lyra went out of the room. 
 
 " Are you frightened?" he asked, blinking at her pale face. 
 " Where have you been?" 
 
 She looked at him with all her new, strange misery in her 
 eyes, and would have thrown her arms round his neck, and, 
 with her face hidden against his breast, have poured out all
 
 f4 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 fcer trouble, had there been one spark of tenderness in his face 
 t>r voice; but there was none. 
 
 " No, father," she said, " I am not frightened. I I have 
 been up the valley." 
 
 She passed him, and went slowly, with a dragging step, up 
 the stairs, and was in her own room and alone at last. Alone, 
 fcnd free to recall again and again the scene between her and 
 Dane! 
 
 What a different person was this wan girl who knelt beside 
 her bed, with her face hidden in her hands, to the Lyra Ches- 
 ter who, with Love's music beginning to sing in her heart, had 
 Walked beside Dane Armitage up the valley! In that brief 
 space of a few hours she had passed across that mystic brook 
 which divides girlhood from womanhood; had learned the 
 meaning of love, and, alas! of sorrow. She was confused, be- 
 wildered, still, but through all her vague misery there rose 
 distinct and palpable the face of Dane Armitage, and though 
 all else were uncertain, she knew that she loved him, that he 
 had taken with him her heart and soul, and that without his 
 love, his presence, her life must be one long yearning, one 
 long pain. 
 
 While she drank to the dregs of the cup which Love pressed 
 to her lips, Griffith and Mary removed Mr. Chandos's stocking, 
 and Griffith was able to pronounce the injury a sprain and not 
 a broken limb. 
 
 " You'll be all right in a day or two a week at most," he 
 grunted, as he wound a cold-water bandage round the ankle. 
 
 You don't want a doctor," he remarked to Mr. Chandos's 
 querulous request that a doctor the best in the place might 
 be fetched. All you want is to rest your foot till the sprain's 
 gone. I'll get you a fly from Barnstaple." 
 
 But this suggestion did not meet with Mr. Chandos's ap- 
 proval. He pictured to himself a week on a horse-hair sofa in 
 the parlor of a provincial hotel, and shuddered at the vision. 
 He looked round the shabby but cozy room, remembered Lyra, 
 reflected that it would be far more pleasant to lie here within 
 sight of the lovely face, within hearing of her musical voice, 
 and resolved that he would remain at the cottage. Yes, it 
 would be quite too delightful to spend the time conversing 
 with and " cultivating " this beautiful girl who seemed to have 
 no protector but an absent-minded father and a hunchback 
 servant. Yes, he would stay. 
 
 " I I really don't think I could bear removal," he mur- 
 mured, with a deep sigh. "I am in great pain; and though 
 the Injury may be no greater than you say, my man, the jour-
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. ?5 
 
 ney to Barnstaple over these terrible roads of yours might ag* 
 gravate it. Pray, ask your master what is his name?" 
 
 " Chester," growled Griffith. 
 
 " Mr. Chester if he will take pity upon a wounded man, 
 and give him shelter for a few days?" 
 
 Griffith eyed him with strong disfavor. 
 
 " You're able to go to Ameriky!" he snarled. 
 
 " I think not, my good fellow," said Mr. Chandos, with a 
 sigh. " Please take my message to your master." 
 
 Mr. Chester came in and blinked and stared at the visitor, 
 and, in response to Mr. Chandos' s plaintive prayer, at onc 
 offered his hospitality. 
 
 " I suppose there is a room somewhere?" he said, vaguely, 
 to Mary. 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir, we can put the gentleman up," said Mary, 
 to whom a visitor was an agreeable novelty and pleasurable 
 excitement. 
 
 " Very well," said Mr. Chester, absently. " We shall be 
 very pleased if you will stay with us till you are able to to 
 walk, Mr." 
 
 Mr. Chandos was about to give his name, but paused and 
 hesitated. 
 
 There are some men who prefer the ways of darkness to 
 those of light who seem incapable of " going straight." 
 
 " My name is Geoffrey Barle " he had publised a volume 
 of " poems " under that nom de plume " Geoffrey Barle " 
 he said. " You may have heard of it?" 
 
 Mr. Chester shook his head. 
 
 " I I hope you'll be comfortable," he said, absently; and 
 made haste to get out and back to his book in the garden. 
 
 Mr. Chandos closed his eyes and drew a breath of relief and 
 satisfaction. Yes, she certainly was a lovely creature, and 
 worth " cultivating." After all, notwithstanding his sprained 
 foot, he was very lucky very lucky! 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 made his way back to the hotel, and something of 
 the storm that raged within him must have been visible in his 
 face, for the waiter stared at him curiously and apprehensively, 
 and shrunk away from him timidly, as Dane said: 
 
 " Get my bill at once, and send my things to the station." 
 To put it shortly, he was as bewildered as Lyra as bewil- 
 dered, but even more troubled and sorrow-stricken, for our 
 friend, the guilty conscience, contributed his quota.
 
 76 ONCE IN A LIKE. 
 
 Dane Armitage was not a good young man, by any means; 
 but, with all his follies, he still had a keen regard for honor. 
 
 His creed was a very simple one, and honor was its key- 
 stone. He was engaged to his cousin, Theodosia Hainault. 
 That is to say, he was bound by a promise, had plighted his 
 word, his oath, and as a gentleman he was bound hand and 
 foot, heart and soul, by that plighted word. There are still 
 some men whose word is as good as their bond, and Dane was 
 one of them. 
 
 If he had promised to ride barebacked from London to 
 Mesopotamia, ne would have tried it, even if he had died in 
 the effort. He had promised to marry his cousin Theodosia, 
 and he must keep that promise. 
 
 In the supreme moment when he became conscious, when 
 he realized that he loved Lyra Chester, he had for that mo- 
 ment forgotten Theodosia and his plighted word; but the let- 
 ter, as it lay on the ground between him and Lyra, reminded 
 him of it. 
 
 He stood between Love and Honor, and with such a man as 
 Dane, Honor must, at all costs, win the day. 
 
 As Lyra had left him, as he watched her go, he felt that the 
 joy, the hope of his life was going with her; but he made no 
 sign, no effort to stop her. It was noblesse oblige. A better 
 man, a " good " man, might have yielded, would probably 
 have said, " Love before all," and gone after her; but not 
 Dane. 
 
 The Starminsters had never broken their word, much less 
 their plighted troth, and he could not do so. And yet lie 
 loved her as dearly, as passionately as ever man loved woman, 
 and he knew that she loved him. He had read it in her face, 
 her eyes, and yet he had to let her go. 
 
 All the way to the hotel her face haunted, tortured him. 
 Not once nor twice, but many tunes he stopped short, tempted 
 by the agonizing desire to go to her, to cast honor to the winds, 
 and claim her for his own. But honor prevailed, at a cost no 
 pen can describe. 
 
 They took his things to the station, and he paced up and 
 down on surely that draughtiest of all platforms, the Barn- 
 staple, till the London train steamed slowly in. He flung 
 himself into a comer of a carriage and lighted his pipe; but 
 for once the soothing weed refused to calm him. 
 
 There, on the opposite seat, sat, in his mind's eye, Lyra 
 Chester. He could see the lovely, innocent face quite plainly, 
 the grave, half-sad eyes seeme- 3 to gaze at him; he could hear 
 her voice through the pulling oJ' ^ *mgine, the rattle of the
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. -77 
 
 wheels, the screeching of the whistle. There was not an inci- 
 dent of their brief acquaintance that he did not re-enact. 
 
 He felt himself drawn down by the current of the Taw, -saw 
 her beautiful face anxiously bent over him, put her arms her 
 dear arms! round him. He saw her as, all unconscious of 
 his gaze, she threw the fly over the stream, and, last and most 
 i bitter vision of all, there rose before him the vision of her 
 standing pointing to the letter that lay on the ground between 
 them. 
 
 It was the worst journey Dane Armitage had ever made, 
 and it lingered in Ms memory for many a year. 
 
 When he got to Waterloo, he inquired how soon the next 
 train started for Starminster. 
 
 The porter, after a great deal of inquiring, informed him 
 that it started at midnight. Dane took a ticket, and spent a 
 couple of cheerful hours marching up and down the platform, 
 going over the whole thing again and again. 
 
 Once he was tempted to fling his ticket to Starminster on to 
 the permanent way, and book for Barnstaple; but honor still 
 prevailed, and he found himself in the Starminster train, 
 wearied to death physically and mentally. 
 
 It is a long journey from classic Waterloo to Starminster, 
 and it was getting on toward noon when Dane alighted from 
 the train at the little country station. 
 
 The station-master, all the porters, knew him, and gathered 
 around him, obsequiously eager to be of service; and between 
 them, with much hustling and emulation, they got him a fly. 
 
 " Drive to Castle Towers," he said, wearily, as he sunk 
 back and pulled his traveling-cap over his aching eyes. 
 
 " To Castle Towers, not the Hall, my lord?" queried the 
 driver, with respectful surprise. 
 
 Dane, I regret to say, swore. 
 , " To Castle TowersJ" he repeated. 
 
 The man gathered up the reins and whipped up his horse, 
 and for the space of another half hour Lord Dane had the op- 
 portunity of ruminating over his misery. At the end of that 
 time the fly lumbered up a spacious avenue and drew up at 
 the terraced entrance of Castle Towers, the residence of Lady 
 Theodosia Hainault. 
 
 As the fly stopped, Dane roused himself, looked round him 
 and sighed. 
 
 The avenue, the far-stretching facade of the great house, 
 the trimly kept hedges, the exquisitely arranged garden in 
 iront of the terrace, were all eloquent of wealth and smiling
 
 78 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 prosperity a marked, a striking contrast to the simple, 
 shabby cottage which haunted him. 
 
 He got out; a couple of footmen hurried down the marble 
 steps and bent their heads in respectful, reverential greeting. 
 > "Is Lady Theodosia in?" he asked. 
 
 One of the men looked at him with veiled curiosity. Dane 
 was pale, almost haggard, and remarkably travel-stained. 
 
 " Yes, my lord. In the library." 
 
 Dane went slowly up the steps, dropped his hat on the hall 
 table, and was ushered by another footman into the library. 
 
 It was a noble room, lined with books in book-cases of rose- 
 wood picked out with ormolu and paneled with Wedgwood. 
 
 Seated in chairs round a table but at a little distance were 
 two clergymen in the regulation dress, and a lady in widow's 
 weeds. 
 
 In a chair by the table sat a young lady dressed in black 
 merino relieved by white gleamingly, almost painf ully white 
 collar and cuffs. 
 
 She was small, very small, but there was an air of mature 
 solemnity and gravity in her by no means plain countenance 
 which made her look older than her years. 
 
 Before her on the table were an account book, pamphlets, 
 and formidable-looking papers, and she held a pen in her hand. 
 
 She looked up as Dane entered, and greeted him with a 
 grave smile not a blush, and he noted it and made an entry 
 in the account book before she rose, and said, by way of wel- 
 come. 
 
 " Is that you, Dane? Good-morning. We are in the middle 
 of a Dorcas committee meeting. Sit down." 
 
 Dane nodded to the parsons and the lady, and, with a sup- 
 pressed groan, sunk into a chair. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 DANE sat down and looked at the Dorcas committee with 
 the expression on his handsome face which a man wears when 
 he finds himself in company which he doesn't like, and which, 
 he knows, doesn't like him, and both he and the company 
 have to try and look pleasant. 
 
 The lady in the widow's weeds smiled at him severely, one 
 of the clergymen smiled at him vacantly, the third eyed him 
 with a grim kind of disfavor. There is no need to describe 
 the first, the vicar; the third was a thin, rather lantern- jawed 
 young man, with a big nose and thin lips, and remarkably in- 
 tellectual eyes. His name was Martin Fanshawe. The Rev
 
 ONCE ITS A LIFE. 79 
 
 erend Martin Fanshawe was the curate of the parish in which 
 Castle Towers stood. He was a good young man, but rather 
 hard and exacting, as a man must necessarily become who, 
 being " good " himself, burns with a desire to make his fel- 
 low-creatures good also. He was a great favorite of Lady 
 Theodosia Haicault, who regarded him as a type of all the 
 Christian and several of the heathen virtues; and she and 
 he, to put it vulgarly, " ran " the parish, the vicar being a 
 dear, sleepy, easy-going old man who left things generally to 
 Ms curate, and was quite content as long as he himself was not 
 worried. So the Reverend Martin, being an energetic young 
 man, threw himself into his work, and made things in Tor- 
 chester, which was the name of the parish, " hum " as the 
 Americans say. 
 
 He started temperance societies, bands of hope, Dorcas 
 meetings, savings banks, workingmen's clubs, penny readings, 
 and all the other means by which the village laborer is wooed 
 from the public-house and made " good," whether he likes it 
 or not. 
 
 And Lady Theodosia Hainault, the young lady with the 
 thoughtful eyes and grave mien, helped him with all her heart 
 and soul, and with her purse. 
 
 She was the daughter of a well-known peer who had mar- 
 ried an enormously wealthy woman, and all her mother's 
 money had come to Lady Theodosia, together with Castle 
 Towers, one of the finest seats " in England. 
 
 Her father, Lord Hainault, had been a great friend of 
 Dane's father, and the two men had arranged that their chil- 
 dren should become husband and wife; so that Lady Theodosia 
 and Lord Dane had been, so to speak, betrothed in then* cra- 
 dles. They had been playfellows together, and as Starminster 
 Hall and Castle Towers were at no great distance from each 
 other, were seldom apart. The girl, always a quiet, solemn 
 little thing, had grown up to regard the wild, harum-scarum 
 boy as her husband, and Dane had always considered himself 
 " booked " to his cousin Theodosia. 
 
 To bind the tie still closer^ Lord Hainault made a will by 
 which a certain sum of money a very large sum even for these 
 " millionaire " times should go to the young people if they 
 married, and go away from them to the heir to the title a 
 cousin in the event of their breaking off the match. 
 
 Naturally, Lord Starminster was exceedingly anxious that 
 the match should not be broken off, but that the matrimonial 
 arrangement should be carried through; and it was not only 
 monetary considerations which made him anxious that his son
 
 80 ONCE IK A LIFE. 
 
 should marry Lady Theodosia. Dane was rattier, well, 
 "wild" and restless; Theodosia was grave, serene, " good; n 
 therefore she would make a very suitable wife, be a fine re? 
 straining influence on Dane, and keep him straight. 
 
 And the young people were fond of each other; there could 
 be no doubt of that. They always got on well together. Dane 
 used to confide in Theodosia, confessed his scrapes some of 
 them to her, took her advice, and her sermons and lectures, 
 patiently and in good part. 
 
 They seldom quarreled; but when they did, Dane was always 
 the first to own up and make friends; for he was a good- 
 natured, easy-going modest young fellow, and had sense enough 
 to see that the little girl with the grave face and dark eyes had 
 twice as many brains as he, and was twice as good. 
 
 And until he met Lyra Chester he had been quite satisfied 
 with his matrimonial prospects, had looked forward to marry- 
 ing Theodosia some day with easy serenity, and had never 
 asked himself what love meant. Now all things had become 
 changed in his mind and his heart. He had learned what love 
 meant, and the knowledge like most knowledge, by the way 
 had brought him much misery. 
 
 He sat and looked round at the solemn conclave, and won- 
 dered how he could get away. A few days ago he would have 
 jumped up, and said: 
 
 " See you presently, Dosie," and cut and run; but he 
 couldn't do it to-day, he felt too penitent and full of remorse. 
 
 " Thirty-six yards of Welsh flannel, at a shilling and five- 
 pence farthing, would come to to " 
 
 There was a pause, and Theodosia looked absently at Dane 
 as she tried to make the mental calculation. 
 
 " No use looking in this direction," he said, shaking his 
 head. " Haven't the least idea; couldn't tell you to save my 
 life." 
 
 Theodosia smiled indulgently; but the Reverend Martin 
 Fanshawe frowned as if in rebuke at such levity. 
 
 " Two pounds eleven and nmepence," he said, gravely. 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Fanshawe," with gentle gratitude. 
 
 ' Two pounds eleven and ninepence. Now, let us see; how 
 
 many members are there? Twenty-eight; and they subscribe 
 
 twopence a week. How many how long would it be before 
 
 they made up the amount?" 
 
 There was a pause, which Dane very injudiciously filled iz 
 by remarking: 
 
 '* About a hundred years, I should think."
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. 81 
 
 They all looked solemnly, reprovingly at him, and Lady 
 Theodosia colored slightly. 
 
 " My dear Dane, I'm afraid you don't understand the im- 
 portance of this work. We are endeavoring, under Mr. Fan- 
 shawe's guidance, to establish a Dorcas society, with the object 
 of supplying the poor with warm winter garments. " 
 
 " I see," said Dane, cheerfully; " and you want to buy the 
 flannel. All right. Let me help. I shall be delighted. I'll 
 give the two pounds eleven and tenpence no, ninepence, 
 wasn't it?" 
 
 The lady in the weeds groaned, the vicar smiled pitingly, 
 Martin Fanshawe sighed with an air of long sufferance. 
 
 " Oh, no! no, thank you," said Lady Theodosia. " Don't 
 you understand, my dear Dane, that we want the society to 
 be self-supporting. We do not wish to pauperize them. We 
 want to guard against that most carefully. It is very kind of 
 you to take so much interest and be so generous 
 
 " Oh, come!" said Dane. 
 
 " But we can not make a charity of it; it must be self- 
 supporting." 
 
 " All right," said Dane, cheerfully and with a glimmer of 
 common sense, " then you must raise the subscriptions or 
 give 'em less or cheaper flannel." 
 
 Mr. Fanshawe rose with a slight frown. 
 
 " I think we had better adjourn the meeting, Lady Theo- 
 dosia," he said, in his grave, clerical voice. 
 
 " Here! I'll clear out," said Dane, rising with suspicious 
 alacrity. " I'm in the way. " 
 
 "Oh, not at all!" murmured Mr. Fanshawe, in rather a 
 shocked voice. " We have taken up a great deal of Lady 
 Theodosia's time already, and er we can meet again later 
 on." 
 
 They gathered up their papers, and made their adieus Mar- 
 tin Fanshawe bending over Lady Theodosia's hand with a rev- 
 erential gesture and, as Dane would have put it, " cleared 
 out;" and he and Theodosia were left alone. 
 
 " I didn't know you were engaged, Dosie," he said, " or I 
 wouldn't have come in. Why didn't you let me take myself 
 off. I'm like a bull in a crockery shop." 
 
 She shut up her account book, and smiled up at him gently, 
 indulgently, as a mother smiles at a good-hearted but rather 
 spoiled child. 
 
 " Oh, no, Dane! Besides, you might have helped us." 
 
 " Well, I tried' to," said Dane, 
 
 She shook her head.
 
 82 OffCE DJ A LIFE. 
 
 " In the wrong way, I'm afraid, Dane. But you are not 
 expected to understand this kind of thing." 
 
 " No; it's rather out of my line," admitted Dane; 
 " though, after all, it still seems to me that it must be easier 
 to give 'em the flannel petticoats, or whatever they are, and 
 say no more about it." 
 
 " Easier? Ah, yes! but if we always did that which was 
 the easiest in this life " 
 
 " We should all be much jollier," he put in, like the heathen 
 he was. " But never mind. You haven't told me how you 
 are, Dosie." 
 
 " You haven't asked me yet," she said, with a smile. 
 am very well; but your father is not at all well. He has a bad 
 attack of the gout in his hand, as I told you, and he wants to 
 see you. That is why I wrote." 
 
 "Yes," he said, with a nod; " and I came." 
 
 " Yes," she said she didn't throw her arms round his neck 
 and murmur: " I am so glad you have come, dear Dane!*' 
 " yes; he caught it at a meeting up in the north. He had to 
 stand on a draughty platform for three hours." 
 
 " I see," said Dane. " Why on earth does he do such mad 
 things?"' 
 
 She reproachfully raised her dark eyes to bis. 
 
 " Your father does bis duty at all costs, Dane." 
 
 " I know," he said, rather wearily. 
 
 " But where have you been?" she asked, looking up at him 
 from the depth of a great chair which seemed to swallow her. 
 
 He was leaning against the mantel-shelf with his hands 
 thrust into his jacket pockets. 
 
 " Oh, here, there, and everywhere; going up and down like 
 a roaring lion " 
 
 " Dane!" she murmured, reprovingly. 
 
 :< Eh? Oh, beg pardon! Oh, I've been all over the shop." 
 ' You are not looking well," she remarked. " Have you 
 been traveling a great deal?" 
 
 A faint color tinged his face, and he kept his eyes on the 
 carpet. 
 
 Well yes, I've had a longish spell in the train, and I'm 
 rather tired." 
 
 " And have you not been home? Why did you not go there 
 first?" she asked, quite calmly. 
 
 Dane looked at hr. He could scarcely say: " A guilty 
 conscience drove me here." 
 
 " Oh, I'll go there now," he said. " I thought, perhaps, 
 you'd be glad to gee me," he added, thinking, as he spoke, of
 
 OKCE IX A LIFE. 83 
 
 yesterday In the valley, of the lovely, passion-lit face of 
 Chester, and not unnaturally drawing a comparison between 
 her and this cold little saint. 
 
 " Of course I am glad to see you/' she said, in even tones. 
 "And you must stay to lunch. It is just ready. You did 
 not tell me where you have been." 
 
 " Didn't I?" he said, turning away and examining one of 
 the bronses on the mantel-shelf, as if he had not known it 
 since boyhood. " Oh, I've been fishing and tramping about. 
 There's nothing to tell." 
 
 " Oh, Dane, Dane!" 
 
 " I'd better go and wash a few pounds of the dust off me." 
 he remarked. " It's a good many hours since i saw soap and 
 water last. I won't be long." 
 
 He went up the broad staircase with rather a dragging step 
 very unlike his usual one, and got a good wash, and then came 
 down to the meal which had been served in the spacious din- 
 Jig-room, which, because it was of less size than the great 
 banquet-room, was called " the small parlor." 
 
 Lady Theodosia's companion was present a lady just past 
 middle age a very pleasant woman of the world who was very 
 much attached to Theodosia and a great friend of Dane. She 
 always stood up for him when Theodosia alluded to his idle 
 restlessness, and declared that Lord Dane, like a good many 
 other persons, was not so bad as he was painted. It may be 
 added that Mrs. Leslie was not particularly fond of parsons. 
 
 " How do you do, Lord Dane?" she said, as she gave him 
 her hand. " You have come to see us at last. Theodosia in- 
 sisted that you had gone to Africa. Everybody goes to Africa 
 now, you know./' 
 
 " I know," h*e said. " England will soon relapse into bar- 
 barism, I surjpose, and civilized people will be coming from 
 Africa presently, just to see our ruins and shoot our wild 
 beasts." 
 
 " The accounts of the mission work hi Africa are very in- 
 teresting," remarked Lady Theodosia. "But I suppose you 
 do not read them, Dane." 
 
 " I'm afraid I don't," he said. " Let me carve that fowl 
 for you, Mrs. Leslie. Missionary work isn't much in my line. 
 By the way, they might send over half a dozen missionaries 
 from Africa to look up our heathen in the slums of London. 
 That isn't a bad idea, eh, Dosie? Afraid it isn't original, 
 though." 
 
 Theodosia was about to retort in her gravely mild 
 when Mrs. Leslie gently stopped the fight.
 
 i4 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " Oh, don't you two begin to argue about missionaries and 
 the rest of it, until after lunch and I've got out of the way! 
 Argument is bad for the digestion and tempej." 
 
 " All right," said Dane. " I didn't begin it, please, mum." 
 
 " Tell us some news," said Mrs. Leslie. " Theodosia says 
 you have been fishing. Have you had good sport?" 
 
 Dane vigoro*usly helped himself to another slice of ham. 
 
 " Oh, yes," he replied, " fairly good. As to news, I ex- 
 pected to hear it from you. I don't often read the papers, 
 excepting The Field, you know. " 
 
 Lady Theodosia sighed. 
 
 " How do you keep your mind cultivated?" she asked. 
 
 " I don't cultivate it," he rejoined, cheerfully. " Rather 
 think I haven't any mind to cultivate. Can't help it. It isn't 
 my fault, as the boy said when they asked him why he 
 squinted." 
 
 " No, Dane; that is not true," said his betrothed, sweetly. 
 " I can not let that plea pass. We all of us are responsible 
 for our mental condition all excepting those of us who are 
 insane." 
 
 " Put me down among the idiots, then," he responded, with 
 unabated cheerfulness. " It's no use, Dosie; I never had any 
 brains. You can't gather grapes from thistles. " 
 
 " Thistles are not bad things in their way," remarked Mrs. 
 Leslie, with a faint smile. " Some people like them." 
 
 " Yes donkeys," said Dane, laughing. 
 
 " Thanks oh, thanks!" murmured Mrs. Leslie, with a 
 laugh. 
 
 Theodosia looked on at this sally with grave eyes. 
 
 " Why do you encourage him?" she asked, with gentle re- 
 proach. 
 
 " My dear, Lord Dane doesn't need any encouragement," 
 retorted Mrs. Leslie, blandly. 
 
 Dane leaned back and laughed. He could enjoy an epi- 
 gram, though he wasn't clever enough to make one. 
 
 " No," she said. " But don't you think, dear, you do en- 
 courage him; that it would be better, more honest, to try and 
 open his eyes to his faults, and help fam to a higher and more 
 useful life than the one he is leading r' 
 
 Mrs. Leslie suppressed a smile. 
 
 " Perhaps it would be," she said. " Suppose we begin at 
 once. What shall we take first?" 
 
 " Couldn't you open my eyes, as you call it, after we've 
 finished, and I'm having a smoke on the terrace?" asked 
 J)ane. " Besides, how do you know they are not open?"
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 85 
 
 Lady Theodosia shook her head. 
 
 " No, Dane, I can not believe that you realize the responsi- 
 bilities of your position, that you realize the sin of a useless, 
 misdirected life, of the wasted golden hours which are intrusted 
 to us for self -improvement, and for labor for our fellow-men. " 
 
 Dane leaned back in his chair and seemed to be listening re" 
 spectfully; but as he gazed out of the window at the beautiful 
 lawns and far-spreading meadows beyond, all of which would 
 be his some day, when he married the present pretty and pious 
 owner, his thoughts strayed. He saw the Taw valley, he 
 heard the babble of the stream, he saw the slim, girlish figure, 
 the rapt, absorbed face of Lyra Chester, as she stood with 
 poised fltfhing-rod. 
 
 " You might do so much, and I fear indeed, I know, dear 
 Dane, that you do so little," the fair preacher went on, in the 
 soft, gently chiding voice. " You are blessed with health, and 
 strength, and position, all advantages which you should use in 
 the service of those of your brothers who have not been so 
 richly endowed/' 
 
 He saw Lyra Chester turn to him just at that moment, felt 
 her eyes meet his, with the glow of innocent joy in them. 
 
 " Can you tell me of one really useful thing you have done, 
 one good object you have accomplished during the time you 
 have been absent? Can you recall one, dear Dane?" 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 " No. It is, I fear, an unbroken record of forgive me 
 selfish amusement. Fishing is not the sole end and aim of 
 life, Dane." 
 
 " No. There's hunting and shooting," he said, absently. 
 
 Lady Theodosia colored, and looked like a sweet little bird 
 whose feathers had been suddenly ruffled; but Mrs. Leslie 
 laughed. 
 
 " What is the use of preaching at him, my dear," she said. 
 *' He has been thinking of something else while you have been 
 sermonizing. Now confess you were?" and she turned on 
 Dane. 
 
 Dane started slightly and flushed. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Dosie," he said, penitently. " I I'm 
 afraid I didn't pay the closest attention. Now, look here; I'll 
 own up to all you've accused me of what did you charge me 
 with manslaughter, burglary, what? and I hope your wor- 
 ship will give me the option of a fine. It's true that I am a 
 lazy, worthless kind of a wretch, and spend my time smoking 
 cigars when I'm not on pipes but I'll promise to reform. I 
 offered to take the pledge? if vou remember, some time ago,
 
 86 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 and you only sighed. I'll do anything you like except deliver 
 tracts, or collect for the missionaries so lay your commanda 
 upon your humble slave right away." 
 
 Lady Theodosia sighed. 
 
 " You can not be serious, Dane, dear," she said. " If you 
 can not find work to your hand, I can not point it out to you." 
 
 "There you are, you see!" he exclaimed, with mild tri- 
 umph. "I'm too utterly useless for anything. I told you 
 so!" 
 
 " No, Dane, dear," she rejoined, sweetly. " No one can 
 put in that plea. All of us can find some work suited to us. 
 Take, for instance, Chandos." 
 
 Dane made a grimace. 
 
 " I'd rather take castor oil," he murmured. Mrs. Leslie 
 laughed. 
 
 Lady Theodosia, glancing at her reproachfully, went on: 
 
 " Chandos even works. It is true that one can not always 
 approve of of all he writes. There is something besides love 
 in this world." 
 
 " There's taxes," murmured Dane, irreverently. 
 
 " But Chandos, when he was down here, took a great inter- 
 est in our parish work, and has promised to write a volume of 
 ballads for our bazaar in the autumn." 
 
 " That's all right," said Dane, cheerfully, wondering, as he 
 spoke, what Lady Theodosia would think of the exquisite 
 Chandos if she knew as much of that gentleman's ways as he, 
 Dane, knew. " That's very kind of him; but I can't write a 
 volume of ballads. But I tell you what, I'll give you a ten- 
 pound note a genuine one, not of my own make for your 
 bazaar." 
 
 *' I do not want your money, Dane," said Lady Theodosia, 
 rather ungratefully. 
 
 " I see; it's my life you want," he rejoined. 
 
 Lady Theodosia colored, and rose with dignity. 
 I "Dane!" 
 
 " Eh? What have I said now?" he demanded. 
 
 Lady Theodosia bent another reproachful glance at him, 
 and, with a sigh, left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " WHY do you tease her so?" asked Mrs. Leslie. 
 * That's strange! I thought I was the one who was 
 teased," said Dane. 
 Mrs. Leslie laughed, but rather ruefully.
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 87 
 
 " She is very fond of you, Dane/' she said. 
 
 " Is she?" he rejoined, penitently and rather doubtfully. 
 
 " Yes, yes; it is because of her fondness for you that she " 
 
 " Lectures me, wants to make me better," he said. " Dosie 
 is too good for me, I know that," he added, with self-reproach. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie looked at him earnestly. 
 
 " I wish, for both your sakes, that you would try and get on 
 better. Why do you not come to see us oftener, Lord Dane?' > 
 
 He looked down; he felt as if her keen, womanly eyes were 
 reading his heart and learning its secret. 
 
 " You should not stay away so long. Theodosia is sur- 
 rounded by by adverse influence, by person persons," she 
 corrected herself, " who make it their business to keep her re- 
 minded of your " 
 
 " Crimes." 
 
 " Shortcomings. Lord Dane, Theodosia is a sweet-natured, 
 warm-hearted girl, and her only fault is " 
 
 He waited. 
 
 " That she is too good," she added, with a burst of candor. 
 " But she will improve in time." 
 
 " With my aid, eh?" said Dane, smiling, but rather rue- 
 fully. " All right; I won't tease her any more if I can help 
 it. But look here, Mrs. Leslie, you are a friend of both of 
 us" 
 
 " I am that, certainly, Lord Dane." 
 
 " Well, do you think " he hesitated " do you think Dosie 
 would be happier, more content, if if she were free?" 
 
 Mrs. Leslie shook her head. 
 
 " No, no," she responded; " you must not think of that. 
 No, no. Be patient, be well, more ' good/ and wait until 
 she is a little bad. Ah, no, Lord Dane, you and she are 
 pledged; you can not draw back." 
 
 Dane went on to the terrace and smoked his cigar. When 
 he had hinted to Mrs. Leslie of a rupture of the engagement, 
 his heart had stirred with a sudden wild hope; but her words 
 had dispelled that hope. He smoked his cigar and went back 
 into the house, and spent some further time with his affianced, 
 during which, by careful self-restraint, he managed to avoid 
 another passage of arms, then started for Starminster. 
 
 He reached Starminster in the gloaming. Every one knows 
 the place from the engraving in the illustrated papers. It is a 
 huge building, standing in a park noble in extent and rich in 
 forest-trees. It had been the home of the Starminsters for 
 centuries, and a great deal of history had been made within its 
 irregular walls. Dane was fond of it, proud of it in a way;
 
 88 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 but as he looked up at its crooked front, which generations of 
 his line had added to, he wished in Ms heart that he had been 
 born a mere nobody, free to do as he pleased, free to yes, to 
 tell Lyra Chester that he loved her, and make her his sweet, 
 dear wife. 
 
 He flung his cigar away as he entered the hall the earl did 
 not like tobacco and was met by the stately butler, who had 
 been in the family since he was a boy, working his way up 
 from " buttons" to footman, and thence to the lofty position 
 he at present filled. 
 
 " How are you, Brownley?" said Dane, in his genial, kindly 
 fashion. 
 
 " Thank you, my lord, quite well, and I hope your lord- 
 ship's the same," replied Mr. Brownley, with the mixture of 
 affection and respect which distinguishes the " old retainer." 
 " The earl's been expecting you, my lord. His lordship has 
 got a bad attack of the gout, and ought to be in bed; but he 
 won't go. He's in the library, my lord." 
 
 " All right; 1*11 go to him," said Dane. 
 
 He passed through the hall the famous hall, which has 
 been painted and engraved so often that it has almost become 
 public property and knocked at the library door. 
 
 A thin and rather squeaky voice answered, " Come in," 
 and Dane entered. 
 
 Though it was not yet dark, there was a shaded lamp on 
 the large writing-table, and its light fell upon a thin, care- 
 worn, and must it be said? rather querulous face. It was 
 lined with wrinkles that clustered in a thick group round the 
 tired-looking eyes. 
 
 " How are you, sir?" said Dane. 
 
 The earl looked up from a sheet of paper over which he was 
 bending. 
 
 " Is that you, Dane? Shut the door, will you? The 
 draught simply kills me. Sit down. Where have you been?" 
 
 Dane sat down. How many more tunes was he to be asked 
 that Question the question he dared not answer? 
 
 :( Wandering about, as usual, sir," he replied. 
 
 The earl pushed the paper from him with restless impa- 
 tience, and leaning back, surveyed his stalwart, handsome son 
 with a troubled gaze. 
 
 " Isn't it almost tune you ceased wandering?" he asked. 
 " I ask the question for your own good. You will be master 
 here soon " 
 
 " 1 hope not, sir," put in Dane, honestly, affectionately. 
 " I am sorry you are bad again. "
 
 OKCE IN A LIFE. 86 
 
 " I'm nearly always bad now," put in the earl, impatiently. 
 " I've got the gout in my hand in my right hand so that I 
 can't write. It's a terrible nuisance and just at this crisis, 
 too. I suppose you know that a general election is likely?" 
 
 " I I'm afraid I don't," said Dane. " I don't study pol- 
 itics much, you know, sir." 
 
 The earl groaned. 
 
 " I suppose not," he said, resignedly. " I wish to Heaven 
 you did. Dane, no young man ever had a better opportunity 
 to distinguish himself than you have." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Dane, rather absently here hi the lamp- 
 light, as in the sunlight at Castle Towers, the tormenting 
 vision of Lyra Chester rose before him. 
 
 " I have made a place for you," went on the earl, " a place 
 into which, with a little thought and labor, you could easily 
 step." 
 
 Dane shook his head. 
 
 " No use, father," he said, regretfully, affectionately. 
 " You can't give me your brains, you know. For Heaven's 
 sake, don't build your hopes upon my following hi your foot- 
 steps. I'm no good." 
 
 The earl sighed and passed his ungouty hand over his weary 
 forehead. Not only was his brain weary, but his heart and 
 soul, and why he should desire that his son should inherit his 
 weariness Heaven, and Heaven only, knows. But he did desire 
 it most fervently. 
 
 " Well, well," he said, with a sigh, " we are as God made 
 us;" and his tone almost implied that this straight, handsome 
 son of his was an idiot. ' * But, Dane, I am glad you have 
 come. I wanted to speak to you. " 
 
 " Yes, father," said Dane, with the tenderness which the 
 strong-minded, firm-nerved man feels for the weak-minded, 
 weak-nerved. " What is it?" 
 
 " I want to speak to you about Theodosia and your engage- 
 ment." 
 
 Dane started slightly and looked down. 
 
 " Yes?" 
 
 " Yes. Dane, I fear you don't realize your position, the 
 responsibilities." Poor Dane had heard the word " responsi- 
 bilities " a great many times that day, and he winced. " You 
 don't realize that your engagement to Theodosia is a solemn, 
 a very solemn undertaking." 
 
 " I think I do, sir," said Dane, in a low voice. 
 
 " You do? I am glad of it," said the earl. " I am de- 
 voutly glad of it. I feared that of late you had grown weil,
 
 90 OKffi IN A LIFE. 
 
 yes careless, Dane. I don't want to inquire into your mode 
 of life or your doings. I know a young man permits himself 
 a certain amount of latitude; but I know that you are well, 
 rather wild and reckless." 
 
 " Oh/' said Dane, " whom did you hear that from, sir.'' 
 
 The earl shuffled uneasily hi his chair. 
 
 " Er er " he replied, hesitatingly " I heard it Chan- 
 dos " 
 
 Dane did not start up from his chair, but his brows dark- 
 ened. 
 
 " I see, sir," he said, in a dry voice. " Well, Chandos 
 ought to know." 
 
 " Chandos Don't be angry, Dane. I can not endure 
 ;nuch excitement." 
 
 " I am not angry," said Dane, calmly; and indeed his scorn 
 and contempt smothered his anger. 
 
 " Chandos let fall a hint or two. I don't blame you, Dane. 
 Please understand that. If I mention the matter at all, it is 
 because I want to impress upon you my conviction that your 
 best chance of happiness lies in marrying Theodosia, and and 
 that before long. Dane, I don't ask any questions, I don't 
 \yant you to confide hi me; all I wish to do is to remind you 
 that I am an old man, that you will soon be standing in my 
 place, and that it is only natural that I should desire to see 
 you settled in life before I depart hence and am no more." 
 
 There was a touch of dignified pathos in the old earl's voice 
 which went straight to Dane's heart. 
 
 He rose and went round to him, and laid his hand on the 
 shoulder bent with the cares of state. 
 
 " What is it you want me to say and do, father?" he asked. 
 The earl looked up at him with loving, earnest eyes. 
 
 I hoped to see you married to Theodosia, Dane," he said, 
 in a low, grave voice. He must have seen the grave melan- 
 i holy, the wistful sadness in Dane's eyes; for he went on ear- 
 
 ily, imploringly: " Dane, you are not thinking of of draw- 
 ing back? It can not be! You have pledged your word. 
 You can not draw back. None of our names has ever been 
 false to his word, his plighted oath! Dane! Dane!" for 
 Dane's face had gone white " what does this mean? Stop! 
 If you are going to tell me that you are going to break your 
 word, violate your oath, don't do so! I I could not bear it! 
 You have been pledged to marry Theodosia from your boy- 
 hood ; the engagement has stood until now. It can not can 
 not do you hear? bo broken! Dane, if you were false to 
 your word, if you you playec* the traitor in this matter, you
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 91 
 
 
 
 would literally bring my gray hairs in sorrow to a dishonored 
 grave!" 
 
 Though the vision of Lyra Chester rose before him at the 
 moment, though his heart ached with love for her, though he 
 would ha\e given the world to be able to claim her for his 
 wife, what could Dane, Lord Armitage, say but this: 
 
 " Father " and his voice sounded hoarsely in the quier, 
 room " you need not fear. No Armitage ever broke his 
 word. I shall marry Theodosia!" 
 
 " Thank God, my boy thank God!" murmured the old 
 man. 
 
 And so the chains were drawn more tightly round Dane, and 
 as they were being thus drawn, a spider was weaving a web 
 round Lyra Chester, the girl whom Dane loved a spider not 
 ugly and repulsive in form, but sleek and exquisite a very 
 cunning spider, whose name was Chandos, alias Geoffrey 
 Barle! 
 
 CHAPTEK XIII. 
 
 THE Honorable Chandos Armitage, alias Geoffrey Barle, 
 found himself in extremely cozy quarters, and, as his sprain 
 did not hurt him very much though he made as much of it 
 as he could, be sure he was extremely comfortable. 
 
 The spare room at the cottage was small and plainly fur- 
 nished; but there was, notwithstanding, a daintiness about it 
 which gratified Mr. Chandos's refined, esthetic taste. The 
 curtains were of prettily flowered dimity; there was a great 
 bunch of sweetly smelling flowers on the table beside the bed, 
 and the diamond-framed windows overlooked the Taw. 
 
 It was much more comfortable and home-like than a room 
 at a hotel, and Mr. Chandos congratulated himself upon his 
 refusal to be removed. 
 
 Here he lay for three days, quite the interesting invalid to 
 Mary, who waited upon him with all the zest which attends a 
 novel duty. 
 
 " He do look such a gentleman, and he have got such a soft, 
 pleasant voice, for all the world like a woman," she remarked 
 to Griffith, who growled and snarled something under his 
 breath in response. 
 
 To say that Mr. Chandos was curious about his host and hia 
 beautiful daughter, would be an altogether inadequate descrip- 
 tion of his state of mind. He had never seen any one .eo 
 beaatiful " so altogether lovely/' as he wculd have put it
 
 92 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 as Lyra in all his life, and in an artful way he got as much in- 
 formation respecting her from Mary as he could. 
 
 There did not seem much to tell, for Mary had not been in 
 
 the Chesters' service long, and knew nothing of their history 
 
 previous to her coming to the cottage, and, strange to say, she 
 
 did not mention Lord Dane's visit, perhaps because Mr. Chan- 
 
 . dos, not being aware of it, did not ask any questions. 
 
 " And Miss Lyra lives all alone here with her father and 
 sees no one?" he said. " It is a very sad life, a very dull ex- 
 istence, Mary, and I must see when I get up if I can not 
 brighten it a little. Does ahem! does your young mistress 
 ever mention me, Mary?" he asked, with affected carelessness. 
 
 " She always asks every morning how you be, sir," she re- 
 plied; "but she don't say naught beside. I'm afraid Miss 
 Lyra bean't very well; she's so mortal pale-looking, and so 
 quiet like. Why, Lor', she's quite different these last three 
 days, so quiet and sad like; she as used to be singing all day 
 long, and romping with Carlo and the cats, and always on the 
 move; she don't seem to care to do nothing but sit in the gar- 
 den with her book, and she don't read, neither, for I've seen it 
 lying turned down on her lap for hours; me nor Griffith can't 
 think what ails her. If the master were like any other father 
 which he bean't he'd send for the doctor for to her. Griffith's 
 mortal cut up about it, but he won't let me speak to her, and 
 gets into one of his tantrums and Griffith bean't pleasant in 
 his tantrums if I says she ought to have a doctor." 
 
 Mr. Chandos felt a pleasant sensation about what he called 
 his heart. Was it possible that his charms had already com- 
 menced to work havoc in the beautiful's girl's bosom? Was 
 it possible that she was already smitten by Love's dart? 
 
 It seemed more than possible to Mr. Chandos; indeed, ex- 
 ceedingly probable. 
 
 What a delightful romance it might prove, he thought, as 
 he lay gazing out of the window with his pale-blue eyes, quite 
 a too charming episode in his life if he could win the love of 
 this simple maiden ! What a happy idea it was, his giving 
 a false name. He coidd amuse himself with this romance 
 as " Geoffrey Barle," and well, when tired, could ride away, 
 like the lover hi the poem, and leave no traces behind. 
 
 He whiled away the time thinking of Lyra's beautiful face, 
 and composing sonnets and lyrics to her sweet, passionate 
 verses which were echoes of the originals he had read but 
 which it was not likely such an unsophisticated girl as Lyra 
 would know anything about. 
 
 On the afternoon of the th'nl day he sent into Barnstaple
 
 OKCE IS A LIFE, 93 
 
 for a guitar, and set some of these verses to a tinkling melody- 
 which, when it penetrated to the sitting-room, where Mr. Ches- 
 ter sat reading, made that absent-minded gentleman stare- 
 round him with bewilderment. 
 
 " It's only the gentleman upstairs playing on the banjo," 1 
 explained Mary to whom a banjo and a guitar were one and. 
 the same " and he do play it lovely.'* 
 
 Mr. Chester groaned. 
 
 "Oh!" he said, vacantly, "I suppose he is quite well 
 now;" then mentally he added: " and able to go." But when 
 Mr. Geoffrey Barle came down-stairs in the afternoon of the 
 next day, leaning heavily on Mary, and looking sweetly inter- 
 esting, he, Mr. Geoffrey, did not hint at taking his departure. 
 
 " I hope you are better," said Mr. Chester, blinking at him 
 as he sunk back carefully and with a soft moan into the easiest 
 chair. 
 
 " Thank you very much," murmured Chandos. " I am 
 better, but I fear I fear I am not strong enough to relieve 
 your hospitality. I can not express my gratitude to you for 
 your great, your tender care of me. But for your kindness I 
 might" he shuddered " have been a cripple for life." 
 
 " I don't think a sprain generally has such serious results," 
 remarked Mr. Chester, in his dry, preoccupied manner. 
 
 " Not usually, perhaps," assented Mr. Chandos, blandly. 
 <( But I am er peculiarly delicate and er susceptible to 
 injury, and But I don't see your daughter, Mr. Chester. 
 I am anxious, devoured with anxiety, to express my gratitude 
 to her." 
 
 " Lyra is in the garden," said Mr. Chester, still more ab- 
 sently, his eyes wandering wistfully to his book. 
 
 Mr. Chandos got up with surprising ease. 
 
 " I'll go to her if you will permit me," he said; then he 
 suddenly remembered that he was lame. " That is, if you 
 will allow your servant to assist me?" , 
 
 Mr. Chester rang the bell, and leaning on Mary's arm, and 
 with his sweetest, most " fetching " expression on his face, Mr. 
 Chandos limped as gracefully as possible into the garden. 
 
 Lyra was leaning on the gate, looking over the river, her 
 head resting on her hand, and as she turned at the sound of 
 footsteps, Mr. Chandos was struck by the alteration in her ap- 
 pearance. She was very pale, but it was not only her pallor 
 which started him. There was a look in her eyes which was 
 eloquent of suffering and sorrow, of the strain caused by a 
 mental struggle and battle. She looked as oce looks when th
 
 94 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 canker worm of a secret sorrow is eating into the bud of Ifie'a 
 happiness. 
 
 But this only made her more interesting in the eyes of Mr. 
 Chandos, especially as he was convinced that he was the r;ause 
 of her unhappiness. He expected to see her blush as she 
 turned and saw him, and was rather disappointed that she did 
 not, but regarded him with the steady gaze of her sad, dark 
 eyes. 
 
 " I hasten to lay the tribute of my gratitude at your feet, 
 Miss Chester,'' he began, in his " highfalutin," affected style; 
 but Lyra's brows grew straight, and he was sharp enough to 
 see that he was taking the wrong line. " As I have just told 
 Mr. Chester, I can not express my sense of your great goodness 
 to me," he said, in a more natural and respectful tone. " An 
 invalid, even when he or she is a member of the family, is 
 always a burden, but must be doubly so, when, like myself, 
 he is a stranger. You have played the part of the Good 
 Samaritan, Miss Chester) with a perfection which has ren- 
 dered me eternally your debtor. I am, of course, very anxious 
 to relieve you of the burden, but I am not what is called a 
 strong man; I do not mean," he made haste to add, " that I 
 am weak or or puny; but I am of highly strung and ex- 
 tremely sensitive nerves, and er I feel I shall have to tres- 
 pass upon your Arabian hospitality a little longer." 
 
 " My father will be very glad if you will stay," said Lyra; 
 and, as she spoke, Mr. Chandos noticed that her voice was low 
 and subdued, and that she uttered the sentence mechanically. 
 " Will you not sit down?" and she moved toward the rustic 
 seat. 
 
 With Mary's assistance the invalid got himself seated, and 
 striking an esthetic attitude, gazed up at Lyra, who stood, 
 with the climbing roses for background, pale and dreamy-eved, 
 * You have a most delightful, most picturesque home, Miss 
 Chester," he murmured, with the flute stop on. "It is an 
 Arcadia a sweet haven of rest and repose. But, tell me, do 
 you never weary of it? Do you never, like an imprisoned 
 bird, sigh for liberty, for change, for er life?" 
 
 Lyra looked down at him as if die had brought her thoughts 
 back to him from a long distance. 
 
 " Do I? Am I never weary, dull?" die said, as if she were 
 asking the question of herself. 
 
 A few days ago, before the advent of Lord Dane, she would 
 have replied with a laughing negative; now her brows came 
 together, and there came no laugh or smile to her lips, She 
 looked round and sighed. Never until that moment had sjoe
 
 1* A LIFE. 95 
 
 thought of weariness or ennui, never felt dull or lonely. But 
 now Yes, he was right. She felt like a bird bruised and 
 sore with vain and futile beatings against the walls of its cage. 
 
 " Ah! I see you do/' murmured Mr. Chandos. " Believe 
 me that this life of yours if you can call it life; it is really 
 but existence is not worthy of you. You were born to shine 
 a star in brighter, happier spheres." Lyra looked at him 
 with grave inquiry perhaps she still thought him a little mad 
 and Mr. Chandos' s pale-blue eyes fell before the sad, inno- 
 cent orbs. " Do not think I natter," he said, with mock 
 earnestness. " I could not be guilty of flattery to one so er 
 so pure and er so intelligent as you, Miss Chester. I 
 merely uttered the thought that the sight of your er beauty 
 and grace aroused within my mind." 
 
 Lyra ought to have blushed certainly ought to have looked 
 down and been overcome but she did neither, rather to Mr. 
 Chandos' s embarrassment. 
 
 " You are fond of poetry," he said, rather than inquired. 
 
 Lyra said nothing. But silence, as we know, gives con- 
 sent, and Mr. Chandos drew a small, elaborately bound vol- 
 ume from his pocket " ' Soul Throbs/ by Geoffrey Barle." 
 
 " My own," he said, almost solemnly, as he held up the 
 volume. " ' Soul Throbs/ Do you like the title?" 
 
 Lyra looked uninterested, much to Mr. Chandos's disgust. 
 
 " Does a soul throb?" she said, listlessly. " Shouldn't it 
 be 'Heart Throbs'?" 
 
 Mr. Chandos winced. 
 
 " Oh, no, no!" he murmured, in quite a shocked voice. 
 " That would, indeed, be commonplace. Any one, every one, 
 says ' heart throbs;' but the soul is a different, a er higher, 
 a more esthetic phrase. You feel that, I am sure." 
 
 Lyra neither assented nor dissented, but turned her eyes 
 riverward again. 
 
 " May I read you my favorite one of my favorite lyrics?" 
 he asked, opening the book. 
 
 " It is very kind of you," said Lyra, but without the enthu- 
 siasm which Mr. Chandos certainly considered proper, if not 
 obligatory. 
 
 He cleared his throat, and with half-closed eyes whkJfe 
 Watched her, he commenced: 
 
 " No linnet I, to sing on topmost bough, 
 
 No lark to soar to heaven's gate; 
 But if I sing my best, wilt thou 
 Sing sweetly to me, oh! my mate?" 
 
 It is to be feared that only tke last word caught Lyra's at*
 
 96 ONCE Itf A LIFE. 
 
 tention, for when he paused and looked up at her inquiringly, 
 she said, with a little confusion, for she did not want to 
 wound him: 
 
 " It is a sea-song. The Devonshire people are very fond of 
 them, and sing them all along the river " 
 
 She saw by the horrified expression of his washed-out eyes 
 that she had made a mistake, and waited. 
 
 " A sea-song!" he exclaimed. 
 
 " There there, was something about a male, wasn't there?" 
 said Lyra, eager to soothe him. 
 
 Mr. Chandos went pale with mortification. 
 
 " Oh, no, no!" he murmured, reproachfully. " The mate 
 alluded to was a a companion, a er kindred soul." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Lyra. " It it was very stupid 
 of me. But will you not read some more? I will try and, 
 umderstand them." 
 
 The apology was almost worse than the offense, in Mr. 
 Chandos' s eyes; but he stifled his disgust and disappointment, 
 and read another choice extract. Lyra sat down and seemed 
 to listen, her hands clasped, her lovely profile turned to him. 
 If she had sat full face to him, he would have seen that he 
 might as well have been reading to a statue. 
 
 " It is very pretty," she said, when he had finished. 
 
 Mr. Chandos with difficulty suppressed a groan. 
 
 " Pretty!" Such a word applied to one of his " Soul 
 Throbs " was an insult. He forgot his lameness and rose, 
 then sunk down, and once more stifled his disappointment. 
 
 " Er pardon me ' pretty ' is perhaps scarcely the word to 
 apply to the verses," he said. " But I am sure you appreciate 
 tnem. Er while a prisoner in my room, I wrote some new 
 stanzas. I will, if you care to hear them and will allow me 
 to send for my er guitar sing them to you?" 
 
 Mary was at the door at the moment, and brought the 
 guitar. 
 
 Mr. Chandos struck a suitable attitude, and, his eyes cast 
 up at Lyra with an expression of deep despair, piped away in 
 the thin voice which was so much admired by his female 
 friends. The verses were quite equal in pathos to those he 
 had read. The dealt in the usual " laurel wreath " and 
 " death;" " love " and " dove;" " grave " and " passion's 
 slave;" and, though Lyra did not know it, were really ad- 
 dressed to her. 
 
 The performance would have been, if not a success, at any 
 rate a tolerable one, if Lyra had not chanced to glance at th 
 anger when he was fluting out the most impassioned
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 8? 
 
 But she did so chance to glance, and the sight of his upturned 
 eyes, " like to those of a dying duck in a thunder-storm/ ' his 
 sleek head all on one side, like that of a piping bullfinch, ana 
 his lackadaisical expression generally, were too much for her. 
 
 W retched as she was, aching though her heart was with the 
 memory of Dane, she could not help laughing. The laugh 
 was one of pain as much as of mirth, and it did not last long. 
 It died away on her lips as suddenly as the effect it produced 
 upon the singer. His face went crimson and then white, his 
 pale-blue eyes grew lighter not darker and seemed to glow 
 with rage, and his thin lips were distorted with the passion of 
 wounded vanity and self-conceit. 
 
 Lyra was not frightened, but she was startled. He had 
 risen and confronted her, his hands clutching the guitar, his 
 mouth half open. 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon. Forgive me, please forgive me," 
 she said, brokenly. " I can not tell what made me laugh. I 
 am so sorry. Will you " she tried to say " sing it again," 
 but she dared not, for she knew that heavily though her sud- 
 den misery bore upon her, if he sung again she must laugh 
 again or die. 
 
 Mr. Chandos seemed to struggle for breath. 
 
 " No-o," he gasped at last. 
 
 He had never been laughed at openly and he was writh- 
 ing as a man writhes under the lash of a delicate whip, that 
 for all its slightness stings like a scorpion. 
 
 " Forgive me/' she said again, and she put her hand gently, 
 pleadingly on his arm, and as she did so tears came into her 
 eyes. " I did not mean to do it. It was rude and yes, cruel 
 to laugh. It was ungrateful, after after your kindness in 
 taking so much trouble. Will you forgive me, Mr. Barle?" 
 
 Chaudos's eyes drooped and he sunk down again, both his 
 hands quivering round the neck of the guitar, his thin lips 
 writhing still. 
 
 "Yes y-es," he stammered, as if he were fighting with 
 himself. " There there is nothing to forgive. I do not sup- 
 pose," with a tone of dignity which was excruciatingly comi- 
 cal, " I do not imagine for a moment that you were laughing 
 at at my verses. Something some passing incident must 
 have caught your attention " Lyra hung her head " and 
 you were laughing at that. But I will not sing again. To 
 appreciate these poor little poems of mine, one must be in the 
 mood. Will you take this volume? See, I have ventured to 
 anticipate your gracious acceptance, and have written your 
 name in it. Will you take it and er stuclj it in quiet and 
 
 4
 
 98 ONCE IN A tI?E. 
 
 Beclusion? You may er find some thought in harmony 
 with your sweet nature, your scarcely uttered aspirations." 
 
 Lyra rose and took the proffered volume. 
 
 " Thank you/' she said, humbly. " It is very kind of you, 
 I I will send Mary." 
 
 As she left him, Mr. Chandos leaned back and gave vent to 
 the rage that had been choking him gave vent to a long 
 stream of muttered oaths, hissed act with hot, savage gasps, 
 his face working, his lips twitching. 
 
 " You laugh at me, do you?" he stammered. " You laugh, 
 you you " he tried " cat," but even at that moment of 
 ferocious anger, the name struck him as inappropriate to the 
 sweet-faced girl who had just left him "you insolent plow- 
 girl! Laugh on, but but only for a time!" He ground his 
 teeth. " If I could only bring the tears to those eyes of 
 yours, if I could only have you cringing at my feet! I will, 
 too!" he hissed out. " Yes " he swore it with a charmingly 
 original oath" I will!" 
 
 Mary,running in, found her patient on the verge of an apo- 
 plectic fit. 
 
 " Lawks sakes, sir!" she exclaimed. " Why, what be the 
 matter? You haven't gone and swallowed soment the wrong 
 way, hev ye?" 
 
 Mr. Chandos with some difficulty smoothed his distorted face 
 into something like its usual expression of serene self-conceit, 
 and forced a ghastly smile. 
 
 " Er er I have had a fit of coughing, my good Mary," 
 he stammered. " I er think I must have taken a chill. 
 Will you kindly lead me back to my room?" 
 
 Most men, after such a repulse and humiliation, would have 
 taken their departure; but Mr. Chandos was unlike most men. 
 
 He lay on his bed and tossed to and fro, hot one moment 
 and cold the next, as Lyra's innocent laugh rang in his ears 
 lay and thought, thought and planned. 
 
 It is asserted, by those who ought to know, that it is quite 
 possible for a certain order of beings to love and hate at one 
 and the same moment. If that be so, Mr. Chandos belonged 
 to this peculiar order. One moment his admiration for Lyra, 
 his longing to win her, got possession of him; the next hate, 
 hot and sinister, obtained the mastery. But, predominating 
 above these flashes of love if you can call it love and hate, 
 was the burning desire to get her in his power, to see her at 
 his feet, to hear her begging, wailing for mercy, the mercy 
 which he would grant or withhold as suited his humor. 
 
 He lay awake for hours, his cunning brain striving after
 
 O:NCE iir A LIFE. 99 
 
 some means to enable him to gain the desired revenge, and fell 
 asleep at last, dreaming that he was sinking down a deep well, 
 and Lyra was standing at the top laughing down at him. 
 
 In the gray dawn he woke, and almost at the moment of 
 waking there flashed into his mind one of those ideas with 
 which the basest of men are sometimes inspired by the devil 
 they serve. 
 
 It made him start; it sent the blood rushing to his head; it 
 made him laugh, a laugh which might have found an echo 
 down in the regions of lost souls. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE following day Mr. Chandos kept to his own room, send- 
 ing word to Mr. Chester that he feared he had got up too 
 soon, and felt very much weakened by the effort. 
 
 He dispatched Mary to Barnstaple for books and writing and 
 drawing materials, and amused himself by composing some 
 " poems " and making sketches. 
 
 The poems were about a " scorned love,'* and the sketches 
 weak, washy ones of the river. As he sat at the window mak- 
 ing these, he saw Lyra go in and out the garden, and his pale- 
 blue eyes watched her from behind the curtain with a peculiar 
 expression, half wistful and longing and half malicious; an ex- 
 pression one sometimes sees in the monkey, and now and 
 again in the tiger. 
 
 He noticed that she was pale and sad-looking, and once, as 
 she paced the garden, he heard her sigh. 
 
 In the afternoon he saw her go down to the boat, push it 
 into the rising tide, and row to the middle of the river. A 
 sand-bank caught it there, and he watched her as she leaned 
 forward, and, letting her face drop in her hand, seemed lost in 
 a melancholy reverie. 
 
 " Can she be fretting after me, after all?" thought Mr. 
 Chandos. " What else can she be brooding over? There 
 can't be any other person or I should have heard of him from 
 Mary." 
 
 The thought soothed him considerably, and he continued to 
 watch her until in the evening she slowly rowed the boat home- 
 ward. 
 
 The following day he came down after lunch and found Lyra 
 just setting out for. the boat. 
 
 She had almost forgotten him during the preceding day, 
 and she greeted him with a gentle sweetness for though she 
 iiad forgotten him she had not forgiven herself for wounding
 
 100 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 his feelings. That rejoiced Mr. Chandos who, on his part, 
 was meekness and humility itself. His little bow, his whole 
 manner seemed to say: " You have wounded me to the heart's 
 core, but I forgive you!" 
 
 " I hope you are better?" said Lyra, in her low, sweet, and, 
 alas! now sad voice. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Chandos, plaintively. " I feel much 
 stronger this morning. I ' am afraid I overdid it yesterday. 
 What a lovely day; you are going out in the boat?" he added, 
 glancing at the oar in her hand, and then at the river flowing 
 like liquid gold in the sunshine. 
 
 " Yes," she replied, listlessly. Then it occurred to her that 
 he might like to go. " Would you like to come with me? Are 
 you strong enough?" 
 
 " I should like it above all things," responded Mr. Chandos, 
 suppressing his eagerness, " and I am sure the air would do 
 me good." 
 
 " Come,, then," she said; and, by way of atoning for her 
 cruelty of the day before, she added: " And will you bring 
 your guitar?" 
 
 " Shall I?" he asked, looking at her with an humble, dog- 
 like air. "Yes, I will." 
 
 Mary helped him down to the boat, and he was ensconced on 
 a cushion in the stern, with another cushion for his wounded 
 leg, and Lyra rowed from shore. 
 
 " How exquisitely you row!" he said, after watching her 
 with a longing admiration which he concealed as well as he 
 could under bis lowered lids. " It is a graceful and delightful 
 accomplishment. ' ' 
 
 " I am used to it," said Lyra, absently; for they had reached 
 the spot where Dane had nearly gone down, and she was 
 thinking of him. 
 
 " I wish you would teach me, when I recover," said Mr. 
 Chandos, with a little sigh, and strumming on his guitar. 
 
 " I. will, if you wish it," she said, still absently. " It is 
 not difficult to learn." 
 
 'You must be very strong," he said, after a pause. 
 ;< Would you mind my making a sketch of you while you are 
 rowing? It would make a beautiful picture. I should call it 
 ' Youth at the Oars,' and perhaps exhibit it at the Acad- 
 emy." 
 
 It was well Mr. Chandos said " perhaps," as there was as 
 much chance of any sketch of his getting into the Academy 
 as of his being wafted to heaven. 
 
 " If you like," she said, indifferently.
 
 IN A LIFE. 101 
 
 He took out his sketch-book and made his feebls sketch, 
 talking the while. 
 
 " Ycu have never seen the Academy Exhibition?" 
 
 She shook her head. She wished that he would not talk: 
 he was bearable while he was silent. 
 
 '* Ah, what a pity! How I should like to show it to you! 
 You would revel hi the pictures, for I know that you have an 
 artist's soul; one sees it in your eyes. There is no place like 
 London; one lives there, but only exists elsewhere. It is in 
 London one finds one's life's work; there is work for all 
 there." 
 
 Lyra leaned, on her oars and looked at him dreamily, with- 
 out seeing him. Her heart was filled with an aching desire 
 for something to do; something that should help her to forget 
 Dane help her to stifle, crush out the misery of her love for 
 him. Here everything reminded her of him brought him be- 
 fore her mental vision all day long; the garden, the roses, the 
 river most of all the river the valley. 
 
 "One is wasted in the country," went on Mr. Chandos, 
 speaking carelessly, as if wrapped in his sketch. " Beautiful 
 as it is, it palls on one in time; the human soul needs change. 
 I think you would like London, Miss Lyra; you would find 
 kindred spirits there. Here " he shrugged his shoulders 
 ' ' here among farmers and such like persons you are wasted 
 wasted. London is life. There are concerts, divine music, 
 theaters, the ever-moving, ever-changing crowd; humanity 
 at its best and brightest. You would shine there." 
 
 Lyra smiled sadly and faintly. "Why was he always harping 
 on this? 
 
 " I do not wish to shine. You spoke of work. What work 
 could one so ignorant as I do?" 
 
 She asked the question with no definite object; but Mr. 
 Chandos caught the yearning in her voice, the yearning of 
 which she herself was totally unconscious. 
 
 " Oh, believe me, there is a great deal you could do," he 
 said, glancing at her, and then bending over his sketch. 
 " You could engage yourself as a governess." 
 
 Lyra laughed. 
 
 ' 'In all London there would not be one more ignorant, ?i 
 she said, half to herself. 
 
 "Believe me, you do yourself an injustice," he rejoined. 
 " I have seen in the sitting-room the books you have read? 
 you speak forgive me with the truest refinement; you would 
 have no difficulty in getting a situation. But if you do noi 
 care for teaching you could learn to paint, to sing "
 
 103 ONCE IK A LIFE. 
 
 Lyra looked at him with mild incredulity. 
 
 " Or," he went on, " there are hundreds 'of persons old 
 and middle-aged ladies who are alone in the world who would 
 be only too grateful to have you for a companion." 
 
 " A companion?" said Lyra. 
 
 " Yes; to write their letters, to read to them, to bestow 
 upon them the invaluable, the priceless boon of your society 
 and sympathy. Believe me, Miss Lyra, you were not meant 
 to live alone in this solitary, desolate place. You should go 
 to London, the great city that throbs with life and er the 
 joy of living." 
 
 Lyra looked at him. 
 
 " I am not alone," she said, with faint surprise. " I have 
 my father; you forget." 
 
 Mr. Chandos coughed. 
 
 " Ah, yes! I forgot," he mtirmured. " But surely he loves 
 you too well, he is not so selfish as to desire to sacrifice your 
 young, your beautiful life, your many gifts He stopped, 
 for he saw by the expression of her face, as she bent to the 
 oars again, that she had ceased to listen to him. 
 
 They rowed down the river against the tide, and Mr. Chan- 
 dos, having finished his sketch, held it away from him, and 
 surveyed it with his head one side, waiting for her to ask to 
 see it; but as she did not do so, indeed, appeared to have for- 
 gotten it, he said, rather plaintively: 
 
 " Do you not wish to see my poor attempt to portray you, 
 Miss Lyra?" 
 
 " I beg your pardon," she said, apologetically; and she took 
 the sketch. 
 
 Mr. Chandos possessed some little skill, and he had not 
 sketched her very badly; indeed, he had contrived to flatter 
 her by some extraordinary fluke. 
 
 Lyra smiled. 
 
 !< Why do you smile?" he murmured, reproachfully. " Am 
 I doomed always to provoke your laughter? 
 
 "Oh, no, no!" said Lyra. "I smiled because " she 
 paused, then said with listiess frankness " it is too good for 
 me." 
 
 ' No, no," he said, with genuine eagerness. " It is not, it 
 is not. No one could do you justice. Ah, do you not know 
 have you no mirror to tell you how beautiful you are?" 
 
 Lyra flushed to the brow, and laid the sketch down with a 
 quiet dignity which made Mr. Chandos wince. 
 
 " I I beg your pardon," he said, humbly: " but but it 
 is the truth/'
 
 ONCE IN A LI*E. 103 
 
 Lyra looked over his head, the flush faded, her face pals 
 again, and rowed on in silence, Mr. Chandos hanging his head 
 like a scolded school-boy. 
 
 The boat drifted near the shore, and, looking up, he saw 
 some ruins in the shape of a church standing amidst some 
 trees. 
 
 " What is that?" he asked, pointing to them. 
 
 " That is an old church, St. Mark's/' she murmured. 
 
 " How beautiful, how interesting," he murmured. 
 
 " Would you like to see it?" she asked. " We can land 
 here, and it is only a few steps from the shore/* 
 
 " I fear that I can not traverse even a few steps without 
 assistance, and I could not trouble you," he said, wistfully. 
 
 She put the boat's nose shoreward. 
 
 " I will help you," she said, sweetly. 
 
 She drew the boat on to the beach and helped him out, and 
 gave him her arm; the color crept into Mr. Chandos 's face, 
 and his eyes dropped as he took it, and his sordid little heart 
 beat. 
 
 All unconscious of the effect she produced on him, Lyra led 
 him into the ruined church, and he looked round. 
 
 " It would make a charming picture," he murmured. ee I 
 should call it, ' I Once Have Been.' It would create a sensa- 
 tion in London." 
 
 A portion of the church was still hi fairly good preserva- 
 tion, and it was shut off from the rest of the ruins by a door 
 of rough planking. 
 
 " Why, what is this?" he asked, stopping before it. 
 
 " It is a portion of the church that has been kept up/' said 
 Lyra. * ' Service is held here sometimes. It is for the fisher- 
 men at Peterel, and they come over in their boats to it when 
 the roads are too bad for them to get to Barnstaple. Would 
 you like to see the inside?" 
 
 Mr. Chandos admitted that he should, and Lyra thrust her 
 hand among the ivy growing thickly about the extemporized 
 door and drew out a key. 
 
 " Are you the lady warden?" he asked, with a smile. 
 
 " No," she said, simply; " but I know that the key is kept 
 here." 
 
 She opened the door as they passed hi. Their entrance 
 startled an owl from its day-dreams, and it flew hooting over 
 their heads. 
 
 Mr. Chandos looked round with idle curiosity. This rem- 
 nant of the old church had been made as decent as possible. 
 There was an old weather-beaten communion-table, and some
 
 J04 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 roughly made pews, and seats with books on them. Bat the 
 place smelled damp and musty, as all rarely used buildings do. 
 
 " And there is service here sometimes?" he said. 
 
 " Yes," said Lyra, in a low voice. The quiet serenity, the 
 semi-religious light of the place, soothed her troubled heart. 
 : " Yes; the fisher-folk are often married here, and always 
 bring their children to be christened. They believe that it se- 
 cures good fortune for the little ones." 
 
 Mr. Chandos listened rather absently at first, then his face 
 changed, and he glanced round him and at her sad, preoccu- 
 pied face. 
 
 " They marry here?" he said. :t When when was the 
 last wedding, do you remember?" 
 
 Lyra thought for a moment. 
 
 . " In the spring this spring," she said. " Shall we go 
 now?" 
 
 1 ' Yes," he said. As they passed out he murmured: "I 
 should like to be married there. Should not you, Miss Lyra?" 
 
 " I don't know," she said, simply, unconscious of his melt- 
 ing gaze. 
 
 As they drifted home with the tide, Mr. Chandos was re- 
 markably silent; and when she helped him out of the boat 
 and up to the house, he only said: 
 
 " Thank you very much for all your kindness, your great 
 kindness to me, Miss Lyra." 
 
 She went straight to his room and remained there, and he 
 spent some hours neither sketching nor writing, but leaning 
 back in his chair, softly biting at nis under lip and staring 
 across the Taw from under his lowered lids. For Mr. Chau- 
 dos was thinking hard, very hard. 
 
 In the gloaming he saw Lyra go down the garden path to 
 the shore; and Mary, entering the room a moment afterward, 
 he remarked, casually: 
 
 '' Was that Miss Lyra I saw go out just now?" 
 ' Yes, sir; she be gone to Greely's to borrow the paper foi 
 i master." 
 
 "Why didn't you or the man Griffith go?" asked Mr. 
 Chandos, quite as if Lyra were his property. 
 
 " Griffith be gone for wood, and I've got to go to Barn- 
 staple," replied Mary. " So I've just come up to bring you 
 the light and ask if there's anything vou'll want before I come 
 back?'' 
 
 " No, no; thank you, my good Mary," said Mr. Chandos, 
 with a sight *' Er unless er you will be kind enough to 
 bring me a bottle of whisky with you. I think I should like
 
 OHCE IN A LITE. 105 
 
 to rub my foot with it. Whisky's an excellent thing for a 
 sprain. ' ' 
 
 " All right, sir," sa:d Mary, taking the money. She 
 groaned as she went out, for she was not by any means a fool. 
 
 Half an hour later Mr. Chandos heard the garden gate open. 
 He got up without any difficulty and went to the window to 
 get a glimpse of the girl who was now never out of his 
 thoughts; but instead of Lyra's slim, graceful figure, he saw 
 a tall, thin man coming up the path. 
 
 He was not a Peterel fisherman or Bamstaple farmer the 
 only kind of visitors Mr. Chandos had as yet seen but a man 
 with the unmistakable London stamp. He was dressed in 
 London clothes, wore a London tall silk hat, and carried a 
 London umbrella. 
 
 The visitor knocked and waited; then Mr. Chandos heard 
 him open the door and enter. 
 
 A moment afterward he heard a sound something between 
 a groan and a cry of alarm proceed from the sitting-room be- 
 low. 
 
 It startled Mr. Chandos pretty considerably, and it filled 
 him with a burning, an intolerable curiosity. 
 
 He waited for a moment or two, then heard voices; the 
 weak, reedy one of Mr. Chester, and a harsh, unsympathetic 
 one; presumably the strange visitor's. 
 
 Mr. Chandos drew off his boots quickly, opened his door 
 cautiously, and then as cautiously and noiselessly stole down 
 the stairs, and, crouching beside the closed door of the parlor, 
 listened. 
 
 CHAPTEK XV. 
 
 THE high-souled poet, the exquisite and accomplished Mr. 
 Chandos, crouched down beside the parlor door and listened. 
 For a moment or two the voices came to him in a confused 
 murmur, but presently he managed to hear what was going on. 
 
 " You must have known that this must have happened some 
 day or other," said the stranger. 
 
 Mr. Chester groaned. 
 
 " I I didn't think, I forgot," he groaned. 
 
 "Ah!" retorted the visitor, grimly. " That's just like yon 
 jusfe like gentlemen of your sort. You didn't look forward. 
 Now, a business man 
 
 " Fm not a business man; I never was a business man/ r 
 dghed Mr. Chester.
 
 106 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 The other laughed, not exactly unfeelingly, but in a dreary 
 kind of way. 
 
 " No, I suppose not, or you wouldn't have done this sort of 
 thing. What a pity it is that folks like you are ever taught to 
 write! Talk about universal education! Seems to me that 
 one half the people hi the world would be happier if they'd ; 
 never learned to put then* pens to paper. Now, if you'd been I 
 taught to write " 
 
 " I I don't understand it even yet," said Mr. Chester, in 
 a hoarse voice. " Try and explain it to me. Tell me slowly 
 slowly, Mr. Jarvin." 
 
 The man addressed as Jarvin " clucked " his lips half pity- 
 ingly, half contemptuously. 
 
 " You mean to say you don't understand? Lord! a baby 
 would understand it." 
 
 "I I am worse than a child in these matters!" groaned 
 Mr. Chester. 
 
 Mr. Jarvin clucked his lips again. 
 
 " 'Pon my soul, I think you are! Look here." (Mr. 
 Chandos crouched on his knee to the key-hole, and saw the 
 visitor, who was seated on the extreme edge of a chair, strike 
 a folded paper with his forefinger.) " Seven years ago or as 
 good as seven years ago you borrowed five hundred pounds of 
 Levy Moss. It is evident that you don't know much about 
 business, or you wouldn't borrow five hundred farthings of 
 such a man as Moss!" Mr. Chester sighed. " But you do 
 borrow it, and you pay do you know how mudh interest you 
 
 Eay? No, I'll be sworn you don't!" Mr. Chester shook" his 
 ead and groaned. " Not you! That's the last question gen- 
 tlemen like you trouble yourselves about. Well, I should say 
 you paid sixty per cent, at the very least." 
 
 " That is a great deal," murmured Mr. Chester. 
 Mr. Jarvin laughed. 
 
 " I should think so! But you didn't pay so much as some 
 men I know, after all. Well, Levy Moss renews this bill from 
 time to time, and you go on paying the interest; and, I dare j 
 say, good old Moss would have let the bill run till doomsday 
 so long as you were good enough to pay him his sixty per cent; 
 but unfortunately, or, fortunately for you, as it may turn out, 
 Moss makes a bad spec the cutest of these chaps do sometimes 
 and has to realize, and he had to hand over the bill to me 
 for money owing. And you may bet he didn't pay me sixty 
 per cent," remarked Mr. Jarvin, viciously. 
 
 Mr. Chester blinked and groaned.
 
 OXCE HT A LIFE. 107 
 
 " Then then if I understand it, I owe the money to you?" 
 he said, falteringly. 
 
 " You do," asserted Mr. Jarvin, gravely. "Every penny 
 of it." 
 
 " Then then why can't I go on owing it for for a little 
 longer?" asked Mr. Chester, not unnaturally. " I I can pay 
 the interest. " 
 
 Mr. Jarvin shook his head. 
 
 " Sorry," he said, shutting his lips tight. "But I can't 
 manage it. For one thing, I'm not sure, from all I hear, that 
 you can go on paying the interest, and for another, I want the 
 money. The market's tight, very tight, and it's as much as I 
 can do to keep my head above water. I want understand 
 me, Mr. Chester I want this five hundred, and I must have 
 it. It's best to be plain and straightforward, isn't it? That's 
 my way; whatever I am, I'm plain and straightforward. I 
 always say what I mean ; and when I say that I must have 
 this money, why, I mean it, I really do." 
 
 Mr. Chandos saw Mr. Chester lean back and put his hand 
 to his eyes a pitiable spectacle, which, however, drew pity 
 from neither Mr. Jarvin's nor Mr. Chandos's breast. 
 
 " I I haven't the money," Mr. Chester said, at last, rais- 
 ing his eyes to the hard ones of the man who sat on the edge 
 of the chair and stared like a stone image at his distress. 
 
 " That won't do, Mr. Chester it won't, indeed," he said, 
 remonstratingly. " It really won't do. You've had this 
 money, you know, or part of it, for I suppose old Moss de- 
 ducted the first year's interest?" 
 
 " He did." 
 
 "Just so. I thought so, but it's no business of mine. Moss 
 is hard, very hard, always; but I'm not. I've given five hun- 
 dred gold sovereigns for this bill, or as good as five hundred 
 sovereigns, and I must have 'em back; now, mustn't I?" 
 
 " But but if I haven't the money?" pleaded Mr. Chester j 
 "and I haven't." 
 
 Mr. Jarvin shrugged his shoulders and glanced round the 
 poorly furnished room, as if he were taking a mental inven- 
 tory. 
 
 " I'm sorry, very sorry; as much for my sake as ^pr your 
 own; for, from what I can see, I'm afraid the sticks won't 
 realize half, quarter the sum.''
 
 103 ONCE ITS A LIFE. 
 
 Mr. Chester rose from his chair, then sunk back white arJ 
 shaking. 
 
 DO do you mean that that you will sell the furniture, 
 the house turn us out?" he gasped. 
 
 Mr. Jarvin shook his head lugubriously. 
 
 , " I'm very sorry/' he said, in a funereal yoice. " But 
 ' what's to be done? You can't expect me to lose this money. 
 But look here, Mr. Chester; it needn't come to selling out. 
 You must have friends." 
 
 Mr. Chester shook his head. 
 
 " I I have no friends," he said, huskily; " no friends at 
 all. There is no one who would lend me this money to save 
 my life. I have no one but my daughter " his voice broke. 
 "You you can not, will not turn us both out into the 
 streets a young girl " 
 
 He covered his face with his hands. 
 
 " Tut, tut!" said Mr. Jarvin, in his dry, raspy manner. 
 " This is very er disagreeable; it is indeed. I'm very sorry 
 for you and the young lady; but what can I do?" and he 
 spread his hands out with an injured air. " I do hate having 
 to do business with unbusiness-like persons. Just remember, 
 Mr. Chester, that I'm only asking my fair due. Come, I'm 
 sure you can get this money. You must have had some 
 money some time. What's gone with it?" 
 
 Mr. Chester looked up with a half -frightened, half -guilty 
 air. 
 
 " I I saw an advertisement of a limited company a for- 
 eign the Bongalaboo Tramway Company and I bought 
 some shares. They were payingften per cent." 
 
 Mr. Jarvin looked at him with a fine combination of pity 
 and contempt. 
 
 "You went and invested in shares," he said; "and you 
 know as much about limited companies as I know about 
 about the mountains of the moon; and I suppose they've gone 
 down, eh?" 
 
 Mr. Chester bowed his head mournfully. 
 
 " Yes," he said, almost inaudibly. " I I read in the paper 
 that they had; but but"-^-with a feverish wistfulness 
 " they may have gone up again; increased in value. I have 
 sent for a newspaper. I shall see." 
 
 Mr. Jarvin rose. 
 
 " Dear! oh, dear! Well, all I can say is, Mr. Chester, that 
 
 nle like you don't deserve to have money; they don't, in. 
 ! To go chucking good coin away in companies! Why 
 the most knowing of us get bit, and you " His feelings ap'
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 109 
 
 peared too strong for adequate expression. " Look here; I'm 
 afraid you're in a nice mess; but perhaps these shares may 
 turn out all right, and I'll wait a bit and see. 1*11 give you a 
 fortnight." 
 
 Mr. Chester expressed his gratitude in broken, almost inai- 
 ticulate words. 
 
 " Well, yes; it's unbusiness-like," remarked Mr. Jarvin, 
 almost as if he were ashamed of his leniency; " but I'll do it. 
 You shal have a fortnight; but, mind, that's the limit. 
 You'll have to find the money by that time, or really I shall 
 have to be compelled to " He coughed, and polished up his 
 hat on his sleeve, and Mr. Chaudos removed his eye from the 
 key-hole, and softly drew himself up the stairs as far as the 
 landing, where he knelt down and watched through the bal- 
 usters. 
 
 Mr. Chester either forgot to offer any hospitality or Mr. 
 Jarvin declined it, for the man of business came out a moment 
 or two afterward and left the house. 
 
 Mr. Chandos crept up to his own room, softly rubbing his 
 back he had got a crick in it from long kneeling and his 
 eye, which was chilled by subjection to the draught through the 
 key-hole, and waited and listened with a thoughtful smile. 
 
 Half an hour later he heard the gate opened, and Lyra's 
 step in the halL He crept down to the lobby again and list- 
 ened. 
 
 " I have brought you the paper, father," he heard her say; 
 then she stopped, and hi a tone of alarm exclaimed: " Father, 
 what is the matter? Are you ill?" 
 
 " No, no!" he faltered. " Give me the paper." 
 
 Mr. Chandos could hear it rustling in the shaking hands, 
 and knew, though he could not see her, that she was bending 
 over him, with tender anxiety. Then came a low cry of de- 
 spair and grief, and a faint scream from Lyra. 
 
 With the proper expression of concern and consternation. 
 Mr. Chandos limped down-stairs and into the room. Mr. 
 Chester was lying back, white and unconscious, and Lyra was 
 kneeling by his side almost as white as himself; the paper lay 
 beside the chair where it had fallen from the limp hands. 
 
 Mr. Chandos behaved like a ministering angel. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed; pray, pray, don't be alarmed, dear, 
 dear Miss Lyra," he murmured. " He has only faulted. It 
 is nothing serious. Yes, some water " for Lyra, after the 
 first moment of paralyzing terror, had flown for some " he 
 will be all right presently. Ses, he is coming to. Now don't,
 
 110 OKOE IK A LIFE. 
 
 pray don't be alarmed. Remember, I am here/' he added, iU3 
 if he were the whole College of Physicians rolled into one man. 
 
 " Oh, what is it?" said Lyra, with her arm round her fa- 
 ther's neck, his head on her bosom. 
 
 " It is only a fainting fit; I am subject to them myself," 
 said Mr. Chandos, bathing Mr. Chester's forehead, and deftly 
 pushing the newspaper out of sight under the chair. 
 
 Mr. Chester with a deep sigh came back to the world which 
 we somehow or other manage to make a very troublous one, 
 and as his eyes rested on Lyra he moaned and let his head sink 
 on his breast. For the first time in his life, perhaps, he was 
 conscious of all she was to him. 
 
 " My poor girl!" he murmured, as she pressed him to her 
 in an agony of apprehension. 
 
 " What is it, father?" she besought him. 
 
 " My poor child!" iie moaned again. " Lyra " but Mr. 
 Chandos' s suave voice slipped in: 
 
 " I don't think you should excite yourself by talking, my 
 dear sir. Keep quite for a few minutes, and then we will help 
 you to your room." 
 
 Mr. Chester, after a glance round the parlor, as if he ex- 
 pected to still see the odious figure of his creditor, sunk back. 
 
 " We will get him upstairs, dear Miss Lyra," murmured 
 Mr. Chandos; "and then I don't think I would permit him 
 to talk at all to-night. We will send for the doctor pray do 
 not cry " There were no tears in Lyra's eyes, her grief "and 
 terror being beyond tears. " I can not be too thankful that 
 I am by your side in this hour of trouble." 
 
 Between them Mr. Chandos still keeping up his limp 
 they got the stricken old man to his room. 
 
 " I will send Mary to you the moment she comes in," mur- 
 mured Mr. Chandos, " and Griffith shall go for the doctor. 
 And be sure you do not let him talk and excite himself." 
 
 This spurious sympathy was rewarded by a look of grati- 
 tude from Lyra's eyes, and feeling quite like a good Samari- 
 tan, he went down to the parlor without the limp and fish- 
 ing out the newspaper from under the chair, turned to the 
 money article. 
 
 Running down the stock and share quotations, he came to 
 the Bongalaboo Tramway Company. Its shares had gone down 
 to zero; and Mr. Chester was indeed a ruined man. 
 
 Mr. Chandos read the disastrous information with a com* 
 placent smile of profound satisfaction, then carefully tore out 
 the portion of the paper which contained the money news, and 
 popped it in the fire.
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. 1U 
 
 " What a piece of luck!" he murmured, his pale eyes glist- 
 ening, his thin lips still smiling. " Yes, my dear Miss Lyra, I 
 think it will be my turn to laugh presently." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 LTEA sat beside her father all that night. When trouble 
 comes it comes in battalions and not in single spies, and this 
 trouble of her father's sharp and sudden illness, following so 
 closely on the discovery of her love and loss of Dane, confused 
 and bewildered her. 
 
 The doctor whom Griffith brought from Barnstaple was no 
 better and no worse than the usual run of medicos, but he 
 was an honest man and he owned himself puzzled. He 
 couldn't account for the fainting fit. The heart was weak, he 
 said to Mr. Chandos as the heart of a man who pores over 
 books and takes no exercise must be; but he, the doctor, was 
 inclined to think that there must have been some mental dis- 
 turbance. Did he, Mr. Chandos, know of any matter that 
 might be troubling the sick man? 
 
 Mr. Chandos shook his head and looked innocently round 
 the parlor in which he and the doctor were talking. 
 
 " No," he said; " I should say there was nothing whatever 
 to trouble Mr. Chester. He leads a remarkably quiet and re- 
 poseful life, as you may imagine, and appears to be singularly 
 happy and contented in the society of his daughter and his 
 beloved books.' 5 
 
 " You are a friend of the family?" asked the doctor as he 
 pulled on his driving-gloves. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Chandos, blandly. " I am here on a visit; 
 have been detained by. an accident to my foot; and of course 
 of course I shall remain while I can be of any service." 
 
 " Quite right; very good of you, my dear sir," said the sim- 
 ple-minded doctor, who thought Mr. Chandos a very nice man 
 indeed a very kiad-hearted, considerate man, in fact. ' ' You 
 can be of the greatest service. It seems to me that the poor 
 young lady upstairs is singularly lonely and friendless. Yes, 
 stay by all means." 
 
 Lyra held her father's hand all night. He did not seem to 
 be in any pain, and he slept at intervals; but in his sleep he 
 moaned as if something was troubling him, and once he 
 breathed her name pityingly, lovingly. 
 
 When he woke in the early morning his eyes turned to her, 
 he sighed deeply.
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " Lyra/* he murmured, in a hollow voice, ' v are you there? 
 I I have something to tell you." 
 
 " No, no, dear/' she said, laying her face against his; 
 " you must not talk. You shall tell me when you are better, 
 when you are quite well. You must do nothing but sleep and 
 rest now;'' and she kissed and soothed him. 
 
 Mr. Chester was a weak man in every sense of the word, 
 and grasped at the chance of postponing the confession of his 
 folly. So he turned away from her with a stifled groan and 
 closed his eyes. 
 
 For three days he lay thus, and Lyra scarcely left the bed- 
 side. On the fourth he was well enough to leave his bed; but 
 it was a feeble and broken man, the shadow of even his former 
 weak and feeble self, who sat beside the window looking over 
 the Taw, his head sunk on his breast, his eyes fixed on vacancy, 
 yet with an expression in them as if he were waiting for some 
 great sorrow. 
 
 And during all this time Mr. Chandos still behaved like a 
 ministering angel. He lost his limp and went to Barnstaple 
 for jellies and other delicacies, sat beside the old man and 
 read to him, and in every way played the parb of the devoted 
 and self-sacrificing friend. Even Griffith, who hovered about 
 the place, anxious and troubled, and sometimes entered the 
 sick-room, was forced to admit, with a grunt, that Mr. Chan- 
 dos was behaving very well, and was not such a fool as he, 
 Griffith, thought him. 
 
 The doctor came and looked at the old man, with the 
 queer, inscrutable expression which doctors seem to acquire as 
 part of their profession, and said: yes, he was getting better; 
 and sent him tonics and spoke hopefully to Lyra; but he was 
 grave and less cheerful with Mr. Chandos. 
 
 " He is very weak, Mr. Barle," he said. " Very. I can't 
 help thinking that there is something on his mind. He seems 
 to be always brooding. I don't like to ask Miss Chester by 
 the way, she must take more rest, or she will break down. She 
 is strong, I know, but this perpetual anxiety " 
 
 " I will see that she has some rest," said Mr- Chandos. " I 
 know that she is doing too much, but I will put a stop to it. 
 Mary and I can relieve her. Yes, I will see that she has more 
 rest." And Mr. Chandos spoke with such sympathetic con- 
 sideration that the doctor went away, confirmed in his opinion 
 that Mr. Geoffrey Barle was a nice, unselfish man and a true 
 friend. 
 
 That afternoon Mr. Chandos whispered softly to Lyra, who
 
 IIT A LIFE, 113 
 
 gat beside her father, holding his hand and looking as she was 
 looking, over the Taw: 
 
 " Will you come into the garden for a little while. Miss 
 Lyra?" 
 
 Lyra glanced at her father. 
 
 " I can not leave him/' she said, in a low voice; " he 
 misses me if I go away for even a few minutes." 
 
 " You must come, please," he said, with gentle persuasion. 
 " I there is something I want to say to you. Mary will stay 
 with him." 
 
 Lyra got up reluctantly and went down-stairs and into the 
 garden. She had not left the house for four days, and the 
 scent of the roses and the pinks came upon her with a peculiar 
 sense of strangeness. It seemed weeks, months, since she had 
 stood in the garden with Lord Dane by her side. She went and 
 sat down on the rustic seat behind the hedge, and as she looked 
 round with sad, dreamy eyes, the morning she and Dane had 
 sat there and talked together came back to her as vividly as if 
 it had been only yesterday. 
 
 Mr. Chandos's voice woke her from her reverie and dispelled 
 the vision. 
 
 " You are making yourself ill, dear Miss Lyra/' he said, in 
 his soft voice. * ' That will not do indeed it will not. If you 
 were to break down I do not know what we should all do? 
 You must take more rest " 
 
 Lyra turned her sad eyes absently upon him. 
 
 " I am quite well," she said. " I am very strong, stronger 
 than you think. Do you think my father is getting better?" 
 she asked, with tremulous eagerness. " Please please tell 
 me the truth." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he said " oh, yes, he is getting better. He 
 is very ill, as a man must be who suffered such a shock as he 
 suffered." 
 
 " Shock?" said Lyra, starting slightly, her eyes fixed anx- 
 iously on him. " What shock? Oh, what do you mean, Mr. 
 Barle?" 
 
 Mr. Chandos looked aside, as if he had been guilty of a slip 
 of the tongue. 
 
 " I er tut, tut! I did not mean " He faltered 
 
 Lyra put her hand on his arm. 
 
 " You did not mean to say what? You know something 
 about my father's .illness. You are trying to keep something 
 from me. Oh, do not, do not! Tell me, please! Are you 
 afraid I can not bear it? You need not be. I can bear any- 
 thingbut this uncertainty suspense."
 
 114 OKCE IN A. LIFE. 
 
 Mr. Chandos, with still averted eyes, let his hand fall on her 
 hand upon his arm, and pressed it soothingly, encouragingly. 
 
 " I ought to have been more careful," he murmured. " I 
 have tried indeed, I have tried to conceal it from you^ to 
 keep you in ignorance." 
 
 "What is it you have tried to keep from me?" said Lyra, 
 looking earnestly into his averted face. " Why should you 
 keep me in ignorance? I am his daughter, and and I am 
 not a child. What is it?" 
 
 " One always desires to keep trouble the shadow of trouble 
 from falling on those one lov likes," murmured the sym- 
 pathetic Chandos. 
 
 Lyra's hand dropped, but' her eyes still scanned his face. 
 
 " You have no right to keep anything from me," she said, 
 with sad dignity. " If you know the cause of my father's 
 illness if you know of anything that is troubling him, you 
 should tell me. Tell me at once, please." 
 
 " I I only heard it by accident," murmured Mr. Chandos ; 
 humbly; " and if I have kept it from you it was from a desire 
 to shield you." 
 
 " There is something that troubles him!" murmured Lyra, 
 more to herself than him. " Tell me, please, Mr. Barle! I 
 will, I must know! Has anything happened is any one 
 dead?" 
 
 " No, no," he said. " It is a money trouble, dear Miss 
 Lyra." 
 
 " A money trouble," she echoed, looking at him with a 
 confused, bewildered expression in her lovely face. 
 
 " Yes," he said, with a sigh, " a serious trouble; but don't 
 be alarmed, I " 
 
 " Tell me, tell me!" she cried, tremulously. 
 
 Mr. Chandos shook his head sympathetically. 
 
 " Your father is in want of a large sum of money, dear 
 Miss Lyra. A creditor a hard-hearted creditor is pressing 
 him for a large sum five hundred pounds which it appears 
 your father borrowed some years ago and seems to have almost 
 forgotten." 
 
 " Well," said Lyra, " can he not pay it? If he borrowed it 
 he can pay it. " And there was a touch of pride in her voice. 
 
 Mr. Chandos shook his head. 
 
 " Alas! I fear not; indeed, I am sure he can not, and it IB 
 this that is crushing him and keeping him ill." 
 
 " My father " her voice broke " my father can not pat 
 hia debts?" 
 
 Kr. Chandos shook his head and sighed.
 
 (WCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " I fear not. Do not blame him, dear Miss Lyra " 
 
 " Blame him!" The idea was a sacrilege. 
 
 " But of course you will not. He has heen unfortunate; 
 we are all of us unfortunate in money matters at times. His 
 investments have gone wrong they will they do sometimes, 
 just when it is most inconvenient. But you understand now 
 what it is that is troubling him. It is a terrible prospect foi 
 a man of his age." 
 
 " Terrible prospect?" she echoed, gazing at him, her hands 
 tightly clasped. 
 
 " Yes," he murmured. "To have one's house sold over 
 one's head, to be turned adrift into the world an old and 
 feeble man ' 
 
 Lyra rose with a cry, a low, but terrible cry, her hands 
 stretched out before her, then sunk into the seat again. 
 
 Mr. Chandos watched her. 
 
 "My dear, dear Miss Lyra!" he murmured, with deepest 
 sympathy. " Don't take it to heart so much! Pray, pray be 
 calm! It is true it is terrible, dreadful to contemplate; an 
 old man in his state of health without home or money or 
 friends. But, I forget; you may have friends who will help 
 you?" 
 
 "Friends?" her voice sounded hollow and despairing. 
 " No. I know of none. Oh! my poor father!" and she hid 
 her face in her hands, but only for a moment. 
 
 " No?" murmured Mr. Chandos. " Are you sure? Dear,, 
 dear! this is very, dreadfully, sad. It wrings my heart. Oh,.- 
 something must be done, Miss Lyra." 
 
 She scarcely heard him and did not respond. 
 
 He drew a little nearer and touched her arm with the tip of. _jr 
 his fingers. ** 
 
 " Miss Lyra, will you let me help you?" 
 
 "You?" 
 
 She turned her wild, sorrow-laden eyes upon him. 
 
 " Yes, I. It is true I can scarcely dare to call myself "by- 
 such a sacred name as ' friend/ though ah! if you could only 
 see my heart " he paused dramatically and Md his hand over 
 the spot where that troublesome organ is generally placed 
 " if you could see my heart, you would know how truly, how 
 sympathetically it throbs for you. I would lay down my life 
 for you; I would go to the stake to save you from an hour's, 
 a moment's unhappiness. Lyra, you must know you can 
 not be ignorant of the fact that I I love you." Lyra still 
 gazed before her with wild, sorrow-laden eyes. He drew a 
 Little closer to her. " I love you with all my heart and soul.
 
 lltf OKCE IS A LIFE. 
 
 You are my goddess my queen my chief rose in a garden o| 
 roses!" A glimmer of the meaning of his words began to 
 dawn upon her. She shrunk from him slightly, " I love 
 you!" he went on, sidling up to her, his pale-blue eyes glow- 
 ing, his lips working, in his earnestness; for at that moment 
 Mr. Chandos was as earnest in the pursuit of his prey as Dane 
 would have been in the Rockies after deer or bears. 
 
 "You love me?" 
 
 The words fell from her lips mechanically, and she looked 
 at him with wild amazement. 
 
 " Yes yes, a hundred times! Don't speak! Listen to me 
 wait till I have told you all. Lyra, I can help you, I can 
 help your father, if if you will give me the right to do so." 
 
 " The right?" 
 
 She echoed the words, her hand to her forehead. 
 
 " Yes," he murmured, almost hoarsely, for Mr. Chandos was 
 terribly in earnest. Her beauty sent the blood coursing 
 through his veins; the hope, the chance of winning her of get- 
 ting her in his power, of seeing her soon at his feet made his 
 brain burn. " Yes, the sweetest, the divinest right. Lyra, 
 I am a poor man, but I can help your father you out of 
 this strait. If matters are allowed to take their course, he 
 will be turned out of house and home. It will alas! I fear 
 it will kill him. ' ' She leaned back panting, her face deathly 
 white. " You know how weak, how ill he is; and this man, 
 his creditor, is inexorable; he will have no pity. You, who do 
 not know anything of the world, can not imagine how heartless 
 and pitiless men can be where money is concerned. Yes, I 
 fear it will kill him. But I can save him. I am a poor man, 
 but I can raise this money sufficient to ward off this danger 
 I can save your father, Lyra. Only give me the right. 
 Lyra " he took her hand, cold as ice, in his hot one " Lyra, 
 say that you will be my wife, and I will save your father." 
 | A shudder ran through her. She drew her hand from his, 
 and drew her head, herself away, as she would have shrunk 
 from some loathsome reptile. 
 
 " Your wife!" fell from her white lips; and as she uttered 
 the words there rose the vision of Dane, the man who had 
 stolen the heart from her bosom. " Your wife!" 
 
 At the expression of her face, the tone of her voice, Mr. 
 Chandos's own expression grew anxious; but he controlled it. 
 
 '* Yes, dearest, dearest Lyra. You can not hesitate. You 
 you do not hate me?" 
 
 Lyra could not force a " No " to her lips. 
 
 " You will not refuse my aid?" he went on, in a low, per
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 117 
 
 suasive voice. " You, who love your father, will not stand bj 
 and see him cast out into the streets, when one word, a sim- 
 ple * Yes,' will save him? Think; I will pay this money, I 
 will take this awful burden off his shoulders, I will be his 
 friend for life, if you will only promise to be my wife. See, 
 Lyra, it rests with you. Your father's fate is in your hands." 
 
 She bent forward, her hands clasped in her lap, her lovely 
 eyes fixed in a wild, distraught gaze. Her father and yet, 
 Dane rose before her like specters. To be this man's wife! 
 The horror of the idea benumbed her. This man's wife! To 
 be his entirely, wholly! To be linked with him until she or 
 he died! She shook and quivered with repugnance. 
 
 " What is your answer, Lyra dearest?" he murmured. 
 " Do you refuse to save your father?" 
 
 He was wise to harp upon that, the principal string. It 
 was irresistible. 
 
 She turned to him slowly, like a statue of stone imbued with 
 the power of movement only. 
 
 " I I will do what you wish," she panted almost inartic- 
 ulately. " You you will give my father this money you 
 will save him?" 
 
 " Yes, yes!" he cried, unwisely putting his arm round her; 
 for at his touch she shrunk away from him, and scarcely re- 
 frained from thrusting him from her. " Yes, Lyra, dearest, 
 my own, my very own, I will get the money; the debt shall 
 be paid ; your father shall be spared any further anxiety; and 
 you ah, Lyra! dear, dear Lyra! I will try to make you 
 happy. We will lead the sweetest, the gayest of lives. We 
 will go to Paris." 
 
 She rose, clutching the arm of the seat, as if to fly from his 
 touch. 
 
 * Tell tell my father," she panted. 
 
 Mr. Chandos bit his lip. 
 
 " A moment, dearest," he said. " I I think it would be 
 as well if we kept the fact of our engagement a secret even 
 from him." 
 
 " A secret?" she said, in a lifeless way. 
 
 " Yes," he murmured, suavely. " Sit down, dear one, and 
 listen to me." 
 
 She did not sit down, but stood grasping the seat, her face 
 turned from him. 
 
 " I er " Mr. Chandos cleared his throat. ' There are 
 reasons why our engagement, marriage, should be kept se- 
 cret," he said, rather huskily, his pale-blue eyes watching her 
 intently, " I am dependent upon a relative an uncle whc
 
 118 ONCE IK A. 
 
 who might, probably would, refuse his consent, to what he 
 
 he would consider an imprudent marriage. We we shall 
 
 have to be married quite quietly er in fact, I may say se- 
 cretly. Even your father must not er know of it. Do you 
 rnind, dearest? It is for your sake as well as my own that I 
 say this/' 
 
 Lyra shook her head hi a dull, apathetic way. 
 
 Mr. Chandos moistened his lips. 
 
 " My dear Lyra, how sensible, how sweetly sensible you are. 
 Yes, our marriage must be kept a close secret. I must think 
 of a plan " he knit his brows and looked thoughtful, as if his 
 plan, his vile plan, were not already cut and dried " by which 
 we can keep the whole affair to ourselves. But leave that to 
 jne, dearest Lyra." 
 
 She let her eyes fall on him. His face was flushed, his lips 
 quivering. 
 
 " Won't you won't you let me give you one kiss, our be- 
 trothal kiss?" 
 
 She stood like a figure of stone, her beautiful face white as 
 marble itself, then she moved, statue-like, toward him; but as 
 he rose and approached her she drew back. 
 
 "Not not yet. Give give me tune!" broke from her 
 white lips; and staggering like a person recovering from a 
 swoon, she went into the house. 
 
 Mr. Chandos sunk back into the seat, biting his lips. 
 
 " Oh, very well, very well, my dear," he muttered, with a 
 sinister smile of disappointment. " I can wait a little longer, 
 a little longer." 
 
 He remained hi the arbor for some minutes, smiling at 
 times, at others gnawing at his lips, for Mr. Chandos was en- 
 gaged in rather a dangerous game; then he went into the 
 house and up to Mr. Chester's room. 
 
 The old man was lying back in his arm-chair, his eyes fixed 
 1 on the window; Lyra was sitting at his feet, her head resting 
 on his knee. She did not move as Mr. Chandos entered and 
 came up to the chair. 
 
 " Mr. Chester," he said, hi his soft, suave voice " Mr. 
 Chester." 
 
 Mr. Chester turned his wasted face and faded, care-worn 
 eyes on him. 
 
 " You will be glad to hear," said Mr. Chandos, in a voice of 
 tender benevolence, "that the little matter that has been 
 troubling you has been arranged." 
 
 Mr. Chester knit his brow ^ith an expression of mental 
 confusion.
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. 119 
 
 " The matter " he faltered, in & thin, husky voice, 
 
 " The matter of the five hundred pounds the bill," said 
 Mr. Chandos, with a glance at Lyra's downcast face. 
 
 " The bill?" repeated Mr. Chester, dully, vacantly. 
 
 " Yes. It will be settled ahem! at least, I have every 
 reason to think it will be; will it not, Lyra?" 
 
 She raised her head slowly and looked up at her father, her 
 eyes full of loving tenderness and self-sacrifice. 
 
 " Yes, father yes/' she breathed; then her head sunk 
 upon his knee again. 
 
 That same evening Mr. Chandos walked over to Barnstaple. 
 It was by no means a chilly evening, but for reasons best 
 known to himself he wore the collar of his coat turned up, 
 and his romantic, poetic wide-awake tilted well over his fore- 
 head; and when, after several inquiries, he found No. 28 
 Clongate Street, and the door was opened to him, it was with 
 quite a different voice to his ordinary one a voice that one 
 would almost have imagined was carefully disguised that he 
 asked for Mr. Robert Rawdon. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 AN untidy, smutty- visaged " slavey " opened the door a few 
 inches only of 28 Clongate Street, and stared at Mr. Chan- 
 dos' s muffled face. 
 
 " Is Mr. Robert Rawdon at home?" he asked, in a carefully 
 disguised voice. 
 
 The girl peered at him suspiciously. 
 
 " I dunno/' she said, evasively. " What do V' want with 
 him?" and she pushed the door closer with her foot. 
 
 Mr. Chandos stuck a shilling in between her grimy fingers. 
 
 " Perhaps you'll go and see," he said, blandly. 
 
 The girl put the shilling in her mouth and shut the door; 
 but after a moment or two it was opened, as cautiously as be- 
 fore, and Rawdon peered round. 
 
 " How do you do, Rawdon?" said Mr. Chandos. 
 
 Rawdon started, but looked relieved. 
 
 " Oh, it's only you, is it?" he said. " Come in. Be quick, 
 please." 
 
 Mr. Chandos slipped in through the narrow opening, and 
 Rawdon closed the door and locked it. 
 
 " Hold on a minute/' be said. " I'll get a light." He dis- 
 appeared, leaving Mr Chandos in the dark and not particu- 
 larly pleasant-smelling passage, and reappeared with a candle 
 stuck in an empty gin bottle, " Come upstairs," he said.
 
 120 ONCE IIT A LIFE. 
 
 Mr. Chandos followed him up a rickety staircase, very 
 nearly treading on a remarkably dirty infant who was engaged 
 in sucking the balusters, and entered a dingy room which 
 smelled of herrings, beer, and stale tobacco. 
 
 It was the shabbiest and most unsavory apartment the ele- 
 gant Mr. Chandos had ever seen, and be held his breath and 
 looked round appalled. 
 
 Eawdon drew a chair forward, one of those ingenious contri- 
 vances which provide a chair by day and a bed by night. 
 
 " Take a seat," he said. " Don't sit down too too hard 
 or suddenly." 
 
 Mr. Chandos arrested himself half-way and looked round 
 nervously. 
 
 " Oh, it's all right if you're tolerably careful," said Eawdon, 
 reassuringly. 
 
 Mr. Chandos sat down gingerly and clutched the arms of the 
 chair. 
 
 " It's very good of you to look me up," said Kawdon. 
 " I'm sorry I haven't a better place to receive you in." 
 
 He looked round the room with a weary kind of disgust. 
 
 " Not at all," murmured Mr. Chandos, pleasantly. " Hon- 
 est poverty is always respectable, my dear Eawdon." 
 
 Is it?" said Eawdon, sardonically. " That's rot. Pov- 
 erty, whether honest or the other thing, never is respectable. 
 You know that as well as I do." 
 
 He reached for a pipe as he spoke, a black, grimy brier, and 
 got out a pouch from his frayed pocket, but the pouch was 
 empty and he tossed it and the pipe on the mantel-shelf. 
 
 Mr. Chandos watched his friend and former college chum 
 with covert scrutiny. Mr. Eawdon looked even more dissi- 
 pated and raffish than he had looked on the night Mr. Chandos 
 had met him on the street. His face was pale and haggard, 
 with dark hollows under the eyes, and a crop of blue bristles 
 round his chin, and his lips twitched nervously. 
 
 " I can't offer you any refreshment, Chandos," he said, 
 sticking his hands in his pockets and leaning moodily against 
 the grimy mantel-piece. " There isn't a thing to eat or drink 
 in the house or the room, for I've only got this room. You 
 must take the will for the deed." 
 
 " Certainly, certa^i/y, '' said Mr. Chandos, amiably. " Per- 
 haps er perhaps you would allow me to to " he drew 
 eonie silver from his pocket as he spoke in a tentative way; 
 Out he need not have been so modest and hesitating. 
 
 " Allow you to stand treat?" said Eawdon, with a sort of 
 6itter promptness. " Of course I will."
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 181 
 
 Mr. Chandos laid half a crown on the table cov&red with a 
 sticky cloth, and Rawdon took up the coin with an affected 
 indifference. 
 
 " What shall it be?" he said, his eyes beginning to glitter 
 with a thirsty, eager look. " I suppose you'd like whisky, or 
 brandy? They sell very good gin at the pub. round the cor- 
 ner/' he added, suggestively. 
 
 " Whichever you please; let it begin, as you recommend it. 
 my dear Rawdon," said Mr. Chandos, blandly. 
 
 Rawdon went to the door and called " Polly!" but in a 
 rather subdued voice. 
 
 The slipshod girl could be heard struggling up the stairs, 
 and a whispered colloquy ensued between her and Rawdon. 
 " Mind, best Ply mouth unsweetened! There, I'll let you out," 
 Mr. Chandos heard him say, and he also heard the key turned 
 in the street door. 
 
 Rawdon waited in the passage for the girl's return, and Mr. 
 Chandos passed the time in an examination of the room. Its 
 dirt and squalor made him shudder; " and there won't be a 
 glass fit to drink out of!" he murmured to himself, plaint- 
 ively; but he sunk back carefully and smiled pleasantly as 
 Rawdon entered, lovingly nursing a gin bottle under his arm 
 and carrying a jug of hot water. 
 
 "If s "best hot," he said; "but you can have some cold 
 water if you like." 
 
 " I prefer it as you do," said Mr. Chandos. " Your house 
 seems indeed to be a castle, my dear Rawdon," he remarked, 
 sipping the steaming grog. " You take as many precautions 
 with the front door as if it were the gate of a besieged for- 
 tress." 
 
 "So it is," said Rawdon, taking a great draught of the 
 
 grog, and filling up his glass with neat gin. " So it is," and 
 
 he laughed a short, defiant laugh. " It is besieged by duns. 
 
 I'm stone broke, and that's a fact, Chandos; clean stone 
 
 i broke. I owe money everywhere, though how the devil I've 
 
 managed it I can't think, seeing that I never seem to have 
 
 half enough to eat, and not a quarter enough to drink, and no 
 
 new clothes. Poverty respectable !" and he refilled his glass 
 
 and laughed bitterly. 
 
 " I'm extremely sorry to see you in this plight, especially as 
 it is undeserved, as I am sure it is." 
 
 Rawdon glanced at him, suspecting sarcasm, but Mr. Chan- 
 dos's expression was blandly sympathetic as he sipped his gin 
 and water. 
 
 " Thanks/' said Rawdon, bluntly. " Very kind of
 
 ONCE rsr A LIFE. 
 
 but soft words butter no parsnips not that I've any to butter, 
 by the way. And so you've come to look me up, have you, 
 just for old friendship's sake? Ton my soul, I didn't expect 
 it of you." 
 
 Mr. Chandos's eys fell. 
 
 " Did you not? You do me an injustice, my dear Rawdon. 
 I never " he leaned forward, but hastily sat back as the chair 
 creaked threateningly " I never forget an old friend." 
 
 " Thanks," said Rawdon again, and more genially; hot gin 
 and water has a mellowing influence, it is said. 
 
 " Yes," said the generous-hearted Mr. Chandos, " I am as 
 pleased to visit you in this er not too luxurious apartment, 
 my dear Rawdon, as if you were snugly housed in some cozy 
 country vicarage, as you ought to be." 
 
 "For God's sake, don't harp on that string, and call up 
 past hopes and visions," said Rawdon, huskily. " Have a 
 pipe. I told the <rirl to spend the change in ' bacca. ' ' 
 
 Mr. Chandos declined, and tried not to cough, as Rawdon at 
 once proceeded to fill the room with the fnmes of a most po- 
 tent shag. 
 
 " I thought you had left the neighborhood," said Rawdon, 
 sinking into a chair, and leaning back with his hand caress- 
 ing the tumbler. 
 
 Oh, no!" said Mr. Chandos. "It is so beautiful, so pict- 
 uresque, that I have been tempted to stay on and er study 
 it. Besides, I should not have thought of leaving it without 
 coming to see you, and er pray, forgive me, Rawdon vent- 
 uring to offer you some light ahem! pecuniary assistance." 
 
 Rawdon stared at him and flushed. 
 
 'You mean it?" he said, with some, not very flattering, 
 astonishment. " I thought you were going to say ' offer you 
 some advice. ' And upon my word, if you had, I should have 
 felt inclined to chuck this glass at you it's empty. You 
 really mean to give me a hand? Excuse my incredulity, but 
 you refused to loan me a simple fiver the other night, you 
 know. " 
 
 " I had not my purse with me," said Chandos. 
 
 " Left it on the piano at the hotel; I see," said Rawdon. 
 " W e M> Better l ft te than never; and, by George! no poor 
 devil ever wanted a friend more than I do, Chandos." 
 
 " I am afraid that is true," said Mr. Chandos. " Dear me, 
 it seems as if it must be some other person than yourself sit- 
 ting there in this er rather gloomy-looking room. When I 
 look back to the old college times the nice parties, the pri 
 Vftte theatricals "
 
 ONCE DSP A LIFE. 123 1 , 
 
 " Don't look hack if it hurts you," broke in Rawdon; 
 " though it can't hurt you more than it hurts me. How 
 much are you going to lend aie, Chandos? Make it as nmchi 
 as you can/' 
 
 Chandos looked down pensively and sighed. 
 
 " I want to be of some real, some lasting service to you, my ' 
 dear Rawdon," he said. " I feel that a paltry five-pound 
 note, such as you asked me for the other night, can not be of 
 much use to you; it can only relieve your er poverty in the 
 most temporary way." 
 
 " It will give me something to eat, drink, and smoke for a 
 fortnight or more/' remarked Rawdon, laconically. 
 
 "Just so; and after?" murmured Mr. Chandos. 
 
 " After that the deluge!" exclaimed Rawdon, with a laugh. 
 " * Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.' ' 
 
 Mr. Chandos shook his head with gentle rebuke. 
 
 " Ah, my dear friend, if you could only learn to think more 
 of the future!" 
 
 Rawdon laughed sardonically. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, don't try to preacn, Chandos!" he 
 said. " You look too killingly funny. What is it you mean? 
 What is it you're aiming at?" 
 
 Mr. Chandos seemed to ponder. 
 
 " Well, my dear Rawdon," he said, " I have been thinking; 
 over your sad fate, and it seems to me that with your brilliant 
 attainments, with your ripe scholarship and er " 
 
 "Gift of the gab!" 
 
 "Great oratorical powers," continued Mr. Chandos, "you 
 ought to be able to carve out for yourself a new, perhaps a 
 great career in another sphere." 
 
 " Do you mean heaven, or the other place?" asked Raw- 
 don, bluntly. 
 
 " I mean in one of our colonies, my dear Rawdon," said 
 Mr. Chandos. 
 
 Rawdon laughed grimly. i 
 
 " Thanks. I know; steerage passage paid to Australia, : 
 New Zealand, anywhere; land with two pounds ten in your 
 pocket, and when that's spent, take to breaking stone. 
 Thanks. I can break stones here in England, when 1 happen 
 to take a fancy to that artistic industry." 
 
 " No, no, my dear Rawdon, you misunderstand me," said 
 Mr. Chandos. " I meant nothing so er absurd. What I 
 proposed to myself to offer you was a passage paid to one of 
 our most nourishing colonies, and er sufficient capital to 
 enable you to look round and find congenial employment.."
 
 124 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 Kawdon almost let the pipe drop out of his mouth, and 
 stared at the benevolently smiling Mr. Chandos as if he could 
 not believe his senses. 
 
 "You you mean to do that for me?" he said, huskily. 
 
 You Chandos Armitage I beg your pardon; but well, 
 
 " I am quite sure you will, my dear Kawdon," said Mr. 
 Chandos, sweetly. " I know your upright, honorable nature 
 so well. How much? Well, do you think fifty pounds would 
 be sufficient?" 
 
 Eawdon rose from his chair and then sunk down again. His 
 face flushed, then turned pale, and there were tears in his 
 bleared eyes; tears which owed their existence to the emotion 
 of gratitude as well as hot gin and water. 
 
 " Fifty pounds!" he said, huskily. " My dear Chandos 
 But " his voice broke and he started up again " but this 
 isn't a joke, a jest, on your part, is it? You are not playing 
 it down on me?" a savage light gleamed in his eyes through 
 the tears. 
 
 " No, no. Sit down, I beg," said Chandos. " Er er 
 will you give me a little more of the er gin? It is excel- 
 lent, excellent. And do look after yourself, my dear Eaw- 
 don." 
 
 Eawdon, with an unsteady hand, replenished the glasses, 
 nearly filling his own, as Mr. Chandos noticed, with neat gin. 
 
 " As an earnest of my desire to help you, let me offer you a 
 small loan to commence with." 
 
 He fumbled in his pocket. 
 
 " Tut, tut! I have left my purse at home I had a five- 
 pound note in it" Eawdon began to laugh suspiciously, iron- 
 ically " but I have some loose change*" He laid a couple 
 of sovereigns on the table and some silver. " That will keep 
 you afloat until I can give you the remainder. You will not 
 mind waiting a few days, my dear Eawdon?" 
 
 Eawdon picked up the money and turned it over as if he ex- 
 pected it to transform itself into dead leaves, like the money in 
 the " Arabian Nights' " story; then, when he had quite assured 
 himself that it was genuine coin of the realm, he dropped it 
 into his pocket and sunk into the chair with a sigh of amaze- 
 ment and gratitude combined. 
 
 " Mind waiting?" he said. " Of course not! That is, if it 
 isb t too long. I could hold out here for a few days a week.
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 125 
 
 You don't expect me to pay my debts before I start, eh? 5 and 
 he grinned. 
 
 Mr. Chandos looked down. 
 
 " I leave that to you, my dear Rawdon," he said, gravely. 
 " I am afraid that if you did er that you would not have 
 much left. I leave that to you. " 
 
 Rawdon nodded and laughed. 
 
 " Not such a fool!" he said. " It would be a waste of good 
 money; for once out of this cursed country, you won't see me 
 back; no, not if I have to take to stone-breaking. And you 
 will do this for me lend me this money without security? 
 Look here, Chandos, I've done you an injustice; I've thought 
 badly of you since the other night. I beg your pardon. 
 You're a good fellow, a true friend, and and God bless you !" 
 
 He held out his hand and Chandos took it. Perhaps some- 
 thing in Mr. Chandos' s cold paw, perhaps something in his 
 sleek face, or pale-blue eyes, again roused Rawdon's suspicions, 
 for he dropped the hand suddenly and scanned his friend's 
 countenance. 
 
 " Chandos, you are going to do all this for nothing for the 
 sake of old friendship? Isn't there something you want for 
 it, something you want me to do?" 
 
 Mr. Chandos smiled sweetly. 
 
 " No, no, my dear Rawdon," he said. " There is nothing. 
 Nothing I think." He seemed to ponder. "If you really 
 think you would like to make me some return, I wish there 
 was something. Let me think. Ah, yes! my dear Rawdon, 
 there is a slight service you could render me " 
 
 " I thought so," said Rawdon, with an indrawing of his 
 lips. "What is it?" 
 
 Mr. Chandos, still smiling sweetly, motioned his friend to 
 his chair, and, as he did so, replenished Rawdon's glass. 
 ' " It is a small, a very small matter. Scarcely worth your 
 notice, my dear Rawdon, and I shall not be at all surprised or 
 offended if you decline." 
 
 Rawdon took a drink and watched his benefactor silently. 
 
 " You remember the theatricals we used to have?" said Mr. 
 Chandos, " and how splendidly you used to play? Well, I 
 want you to take part in some er theatricals for me." 
 
 " What part?" 
 
 " The er part of a clergyman," said Mr. Chandos, 
 blandly, airily. 
 
 " A clergyman?" echoed Rawdon, frowning. 
 
 " Yes; you would play it so well," murmured Mr. Chandos. 
 " You would look and speak the part so perfectly, iny dear
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 Rawdon. And now that I come to think of it, it is only for a 
 rehearsal that I shall require you." 
 
 " A rehearsal?" said Kawdon, still frowning. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Chandos. " The er young lady who 
 plays the part of the bride " 
 
 " It is a marriage, a wedding, then?" 
 
 " Exactly," assented Mr. Chandos. " How quick you al- 
 ways are! Ah, my dear Kawdon, in another sphere, in sun- 
 nier climes than these, your quickness, your adroitness will 
 meet with their reward!" 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 " I er the young lady who plays the part of the bride has 
 a peculiar fancy, a strange whim. She wants, I think, to give 
 an air of realism, she wants to thoroughly realize the char- 
 acter, and she is therefore anxious that the rehearsal of the 
 wedding ceremony should take place in a er real church." 
 
 Kawdon started and stared under his brows at the sleek, the 
 blandly smiling Mr. Chandos. 
 
 " A real church? What the devil do you mean?" 
 
 " Well, when I say a real church I allude to a hoary old 
 ruin near here, which, I think, bears the name of St. Mark's." 
 
 Kawdon nodded silently, and refilled his pipe, which in his 
 astonishment he had allowed to go out. 
 
 " St. Mark's yes," said Mr. Chandos, suavely. " The 
 rehearsal will be quite er private; there will only be the 
 bride and bridegroom and clergyman present." 
 
 Kawdon raised his head. 
 
 " Who is to be the who is to play the part of bridegroom?" 
 be asked. 
 
 Mr. Chandos, smiling like a cherub, touched his own bosom. 
 
 " I, my dear Kawdon." 
 
 Rawdon sprung to his feet, then sunk into his chair again. 
 
 " By Heaven, I I thought so!" he muttered. 
 
 " It is a small matter, a very trivial affair," said Mr. Chan- 
 dos. " You will only be engaged a few minute* how long 
 does the marriage ceremony take? And er you can play 
 your part the day before you sail for the colonies." 
 
 Rawdon rose and stood with his back to him. 
 
 " Chandos," he said, hoarsely, "do you know what this 
 means for both of us?" 
 
 Mr. Chandos smiled. 
 
 " Pardon, my dear Rawdon?" 
 
 " It means penal servitude, perhaps for life," whispered 
 Sawdon, almost inaudibly. 
 
 Mr. Ckandos laughed.
 
 OHCE IN A LIFE. 127 
 
 * e My dear Rawdon, your usual good sense seems to have 
 taken leave of you. Penal servitude for a piece of harmless 
 foolery, for a piece of amateur play-acting. Tut, tut! my 
 dear fellow, you are forgive me absurd; 7 ' and he laughed a 
 laugh of pleasant badinage. 
 
 " I know what I'm talking about," said Rawdon, grimly; 
 "and, by Heaven! I see your game. Chandos, you must be 
 mad to run such a risk. Besides, the girl whoever she is 
 can not be so ignorant of the world " his voice died away, 
 and his hand it trembled reached for the glass of almost 
 neat gin. 
 
 " My dear Rawdon, pray clear your mind of such absurd 
 and ridiculous misapprehensions. This is merely a rehearsal 
 of a portion of a play some friends and I are getting up for 
 future representation. All mark me all you have to do is 
 to attend at an appointed place in the ordinary garb of a 
 clergyman and repeat the marriage service; not a difficult 
 part, you'll admit. " 
 
 " I by " Rawdon swore " I can not do it!" 
 
 " Well, well/' said Mr. Chandos, " I will not force you. 
 Er er touching this money I offered you, my dear Rawdon. 
 There may be, I say there may be some difficulty in raising it. 
 You mustn't be disappointed if I fail in carrying out my in- 
 tention of helping an old friend." 
 
 Rawdon sunk into the chair from which he had risen, and 
 hid his face in his hands, and Mr. Chandos stole to his side 
 and laid a hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " Tut, tut! My dear Rawdon, you are absurdly, childishly 
 nervous and fearful. Remember, rf you don't wish your name 
 to appear, it need not. If you like, you can, when you dress 
 for the part, wear one of those wigs the clever costumers 
 make; a wig no one could possibly recognize you in, and after 
 the ceremony ahem! the rehearsal is over, you can join 
 your ship. You leave the country never to return." 
 
 Rawdon jerked off the hand from his shoulder. 
 
 "Chandos!" he exclaimed, hoarsely, "you you are a 
 devil!" 
 
 Mr. Chandos laughed at his friend's very extravagant com- 
 pliment. 
 
 " No, no; it is you who are a very foolish fellow," he mur- 
 mured, persuasively. " Dear me, to refuse me this slight serv- 
 ice when I am so anxious to help you. Tut, tut! my dear 
 Rawdon, you must be very fond of poverty, and duns, and dirt 
 and with such abilities, such prospects. Who knows what 
 position you may not attain to in the distant land to which I
 
 128 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 had hoped I should assist you. Who knows! My dear Raw- 
 clon, this is, believe me, the great chance, the golden oppor- 
 tunity of your life." 
 
 As he spoke he stealthily filled the tempted man's glass. 
 
 " But come, never mind. Drink up, my dear Rawdon, and 
 let us part good friends." 
 
 He insinuated the glass into Rawdon's shaking hands. 
 
 Rawdon took a long draught. His face flushed he rose 
 and struck Chandos on the back and laughed a shaky, hys- 
 terical laugh. 
 
 " I'll I'll do it," he said. " Mind, I take no risk. I leave 
 the moment the the play's over, and I have the money in 
 my hand while I read the service you hear?" 
 
 " My dear Rawdon," murmured Mr. Chandos, " of course 
 you shall. You shall be treated with all the consideration due 
 to a talented actor I engaged to play a difficult, delicate part." 
 
 Rawdon sunk into the chair, white and haggard, notwith- 
 standing the gin. 
 
 " Yes/' he said, hoarsely, " I'll do it. I'd I'd commit 
 murder by Heaven, this is worse! for one more chance in 
 life!" 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MR. CHANDOS, as he walked home to the mill cottage that 
 night, sometimes chuckled and glowed with satisfaction, and 
 sometimes grew pale and felt nervous. 
 
 It was a terribly dangerous game he was playing, but the 
 great god, Chance, was helping him, and the prize was so 
 great, he coveted it with so mad a longing, that he felt as if he 
 must grasp it at any risk. 
 
 To have Lyra, who had laughed at him, Lyra, with all her 
 loveliness and innocence, in his power, at his feet! The 
 thought sent the blood, warmed by hot gin and water, spin- 
 ning through his veins. 
 
 When he reached the cottage he found Mary sitting up for 
 him for he was late, and she eyed his flushed face rather curi- 
 ously as he dropped into a chair and began to rub his ankle. 
 
 " Miss Lyra told me to say that the master was very low 
 and restless to-night, sir, and that she wouldn't leave him, if 
 you'd excuse her, sir." 
 
 And Mr. Chandos felt relieved; for, once or twice on his 
 way home, the thought of meeting the direct gaze of Lyra's 
 sad, lovely eyes had sent an unpleasant chill through liirn. 
 
 "Very well, Mary," he said; "quite right. But I hope
 
 OtfCE IN" A LIFE. 129 
 
 Miss Lyra will not be knocked up. You must help her all you 
 can, Mary. By the way," he put his hand in his pocket and 
 drew out a sovereign, " I want to give you a little present as 
 an acknowledgment of all your kind attentions to me." 
 
 " Oh, Lor'!" exclaimed Mary, eying the gold coin reposing 
 in her huge red palm. " Is all this for me? You be kind, 
 sir." 
 
 " Not at all, my good Mary," said Mr. Chandos, benevo- 
 lently. " I should have liked to have made you a handsome 
 present, but I am er not a rich man." 
 
 " Lawks goodness sake, this is plenty!" said honest Mary. 
 
 " I'm glad you think so," said Mr. Chandos. " Er Mary, 
 I expect some letters. There is only one post a day, is there?" 
 
 " Only one, sir." 
 
 " Ah, well, perhaps you will bring the letters to me; I 
 mean, bring them all, and I can pick out mine and give the 
 rest to Miss Lyra." 
 
 Mary nodded unsuspiciously. 
 
 " All right, sir; I'm not good at reading writing hand. But 
 it isn't many letters that come to the cottage." 
 
 Mr. Chandos was quite aware of that, but deemed it well to 
 be on the safe side. There must be no communication between 
 the Chesters and the outside world, if he could prevent it. 
 
 He paused outside the door of Mr. Chester's room on his 
 way to his own, and heard Lyra's voice, low and soothing, as 
 she spoke to her father. And then he went to bed, to lie 
 awake and gloat in anticipation over his coming victory. 
 
 Lyra sat and watched beside her father through the long 
 night, with an anxious, loving absorption which scarcely per- 
 mitted of any thought of self. 
 
 " Love took up the harp of life and smote on all its chords with might, 
 Smote the chord of self that, trembling, passed in music out of sight." 
 
 Once or twice the remembrance of what she had done, the 
 promise she had made to this man, Geoffrey Barle, flashed 
 across her, but though it made her shudder, there was no 
 thought of drawing back. She would have laid down her life 
 to save her father, why then should she hesitate to make the 
 sacrifice which Geoffrey Barle demanded? What did it matter 
 whether she was happy or unhappy, so that her father should 
 end his days in peace and rest? Once the vision of Dane rose 
 before her^, but she put it from, her firmly, resolutely. He had 
 come into her life and gone again liks a dream; she must 
 never even think of him again, now that she was going to be 
 the wife of another man. If she thought of Geoffrey Barle's 
 
 6
 
 130 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 stipulation, that the marriage must be a secret one, that sh 
 must not tell a single person of their engagement, it did not 
 seem strange to her, or unreasonable. What did it matter? 
 Nothing mattered so long as her father was saved from this 
 terrible trouble which had almost killed him. 
 
 Mr. Chester's condition was unaltered in the morning. He 
 seemed dazed and confused, and scarcely conscious of any- 
 thing going on around him; at any rate, quite indifferent. 
 During the morning, Lyra ventured to allude to the anxiety 
 that haunted him. 
 
 " You are not anxious, unhappy now, father, after after 
 what Mr. Barle said? The money will be paid now, and all 
 will be well." 
 
 He looked at her vacantly. 
 
 " He did say so?" he said. " You are sure he said so? I 
 thought thai I might have dreamed it." 
 
 " Yes, yes," she said, earnestly. " You did not dream it; 
 it is quite true. The money will be paid, and you need not 
 worry yourself any more. Mr. Barle has been very kind, 
 father." 
 
 He nodded, staring vacantly beyond her. 
 
 " Yes, very kind," he assented. " Why is he going to lend 
 ms the money? Do you know?" 
 
 Lyra turned her pale face away. 
 
 " He he is a friend, father," she faltered. 
 
 He sighed, but seemed satisfied with her reply, and presently 
 sunk back and closed his eyes. 
 
 Lyra did not go down-stairs that day. She shrunk from 
 meeting the man she had promised to marry. In a day or 
 two she would be able to do so, would be able to thank him 
 properly for all he was doing for them. 
 
 And Mr. Chandos was rather relieved by her absence, for he 
 had rather a bad headache, and felt nervous and out of sorts, 
 the results of the gin and water. He spent the day completing 
 his plans; looked up the tidal trains in " Bradshaw;" went 
 put to Barnstaple and bought some clothes and a nice travel- 
 ing-trunk, and wrote to his bankers. 
 
 The next day, as he sat alone at breakfast, Mary brought 
 him hi some letters. There was one for Mr. Chester, in a 
 business-like envelope, the contents of which Mr. Chandos 
 guessed as he turned it over and over. 
 
 " Will you tell Miss Lyra that I should like to see her for a 
 few minutes, if she can leave her father, Mary?" he said, 
 blandly; and presently Lyra entered the room.
 
 OffCE ITS A LIFE. 131 
 
 He rose and took her hand and held it, looking into her 
 pale face with tender, respectful solicitude. 
 
 " My dear Lyra, how good of you to come down to me!'* he 
 murmured. 
 
 She slowly withdrew her hand, which he had not ventured 
 to kiss, and went to the window. 
 
 " You sent for me," she said, in a low voice, the voice of a 
 slave who has pledged himself to obey. 
 
 " How is your father this morning?" he asked. 
 
 " He is just the same/' said Lyra, with a faint sigh. 
 
 "Ah! not well enough to be troubled with business mat- 
 ters?" 
 
 Lyra started slightly and turned her eyes, full of apprehen- 
 sion, upon him. 
 
 " No. Oh, no!" she cried. " He can not what is it? Is 
 there fresh trouble?" and her lips trembled. 
 
 " I am afraid so," he replied, gravely, sympathetically. " I 
 see that there is a letter for him here. It looks as if it were 
 on business. I fear it would not be wise to give it to him. Do 
 you not think you should open it and learn its contents?" 
 
 Lyra took it and hesitated, but only for a moment. As she 
 read' it a faint cry escaped her. 
 
 " It is cruel, cruel!" she cried. 
 
 " May I read it, dearest Lyra?" murmured Mr. Chandos. 
 
 She held it out to him and turned away. 
 
 The letter was from Mr. Jarvin, who remarked that he had 
 seen the drop of the shares, and that under the circumstances 
 he felt compelled as a business man to curtail the fortnight's 
 grace to that of a week; and that he should be extremely 
 obliged if Mr. Chester could possibly pay him even before the 
 expiration of that period. 
 
 Certainly chance was on Mr. Chandos's side. 
 
 " It is cruel!" he murmured. " But, Lyra, dearest, do not 
 let it worry or distress you. Your father must not see this 
 letter; it would make him ill again, perhaps dangerously " 
 
 " No, no!" she panted. 
 
 He put the letter in his pocket and went to her and took 
 her hand. 
 
 " Do not look so anxious, Lyra," he said. " It only means 
 that this money must be paid at once, and it shall be paid." 
 
 She lifted her eyes to his gratefully. 
 
 " You you will pay it at once?" she said, almost inaudi- 
 bly. 
 
 " Of course I will," he said. " I have written to raise the 
 money, and it will be here presently. Have no fear, Lyra. 
 
 I'.' I T / .
 
 132 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 When an Armi ahem! a Barle pledges his word, it may be 
 relied on to the hilt." 
 
 " Thank you. I I can not thank you enough,'* she fal- 
 tered. 
 
 " I do not want your thanks, I have yourself, dearest," he 
 murmured. " Lyra," his voice sunk, and he glanced at the 
 door to see if it was closed " Lyra, I find that our marriage 
 must take place at once. " 
 
 " At once!" she echoed, not with a start, but with a dull 
 kind of apathy. 
 
 " Yes," he murmured. " I may have to leave here at any 
 moment. My uncle is not well. I told you that I am his 
 heir, you remember? and I may have to go to him. You must 
 not refuse if I ask you to be my wife soon, quite soon. " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 ** No," she said, quietly, in the same dull, helpless way. 
 
 He stroked her hand. 
 
 " My dearest Lyra, you quite realize that our marriage must 
 be a secret one?" 
 
 She assented by a movement of her head. 
 
 " You have not told any one anyone of our engagement?*' 
 
 She looked at him with a faint surprise at his question, and 
 his eyes fell. 
 
 " No one?" 
 
 " No one," she said. " You asked me not to do so." 
 
 " Yes, yes! Dear girl! I asked because it is so important 
 to me to both of us that no one should know. You see, I 
 have to think of both our futures now. If our marriage were 
 known it would mean ruin to both of us. I do not care for 
 myself, but I am bound it is my duty to regard your wel- 
 fare." 
 
 She did not speak, but listened in the same dull, half -con- 
 fused way. She was thinking of her father only, the gray- 
 haired old man whom she was going to save from further 
 trouble. 
 
 " I have been making arrangements, dearest," Mr. Chandos 
 went on, his eyes fixed on the shabby carpet, " and do you 
 know I have hit upon what I hope you will consider a very 
 happy idea." 
 
 She waited silently. 
 
 " This is my idea," he said. " You remember the day we 
 went to St. Mark's?" 
 
 " Yes," she said. 
 
 " Well, now, why shouldn't we be married there?"
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 138 
 
 He waited, but she was still silent, her sad eyes fixed on his 
 shifty ones. 
 
 " It is a church, you know, and marriages take place there. 
 Why shouldn't we walk over there one morning to-morrow, 
 say." 
 
 She started slightly, and a faint color crept into her face; 
 but it vanished in a moment and left it pale again. Why 
 should she hesitate? 
 
 " Well the day afterward," he murmured, watching her 
 closely. "I can get the license." He saw by her face that 
 she did not understand. " But I need not trouble you with 
 all that. You can trust me, Lyra, dearest?" 
 
 She looked at him with the same dull regard. Why should 
 she not trust him? Incapable of guile herself, it never oc- 
 curred to her to suspect him. 
 
 " A friend of mine, a er clergyman, a remarkably good 
 fellow, will perform the ceremony. It will be the quietest 
 wedding that ever took place, I should think. We shall just 
 walk or shall we row? over to the church as if we were out 
 for a stroll, the ceremony will be got through as quickly and 
 quietly as possible, and then you can come back to your father 
 and resume your loving care of him as if as if nothing had 
 happened. When he is better and directly he knows that this 
 money has been paid, directly he feels that this burden has 
 been lifted from his heart, he will get better, dearest " 
 
 " Yes, yes!" she said, with the first touch of interest; " oh, 
 yes!" 
 
 " Yes. Then you consent, dearest?" 
 
 " Yes," she said, apathetic again. " I will take Mary. I 
 can can take Mary?" 
 
 Mr. Chandos started apprehensively. 
 
 *' Er er Mary? I er think not, my dear Lyra. No, it 
 would not be wise to take Mary. She is a good girl, a very 
 nice, good girl, but I'm afraid she would not be able to keep 
 her own counsel; and er it is important, it is seriously im- 
 portant that our marriage should remain a secret at present." 
 
 " I am to go alone?" said Lyra, shrinkingly. 
 
 " Why not?" he said, smilingly, but watching her closely. 
 " Ah, well yes, I understand. Let me see. Ah, yes! the 
 very thing. I will ask a lady friend, a relation of mine, to be 
 present. That will do, will it not, dearest?" 
 
 Lyra assented with a sigh. 
 
 " Yes," she said. " It does not matter. Andand this 
 money my father ' 
 
 " Shall be paid before we go to church. I am only waiting
 
 134 ' ONCE IN A JJ7E. 
 
 for it. I have had to borrow it, Lyra " lie turned his eyes 
 away modestly. 
 
 She held out her hand to him. 
 
 " You have been very good, very kind/' she said. " I will 
 do whatever you wish/' 
 
 He took her hand and raised it to his lips. 
 
 " How can I express my love for you, my sense of your in- 
 finite trust in me, Lyra?" he murmured. Then as she left 
 the room he sunk into a chair and drew a long breath. " The 
 day after to-morrow," he breathed. "It is not long to wait." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE day of Lyra's sacrifice dawned sadly, as if in sympathy 
 for her. 
 
 Up the valley of the Taw a gray mist drove before a driz- 
 zling rain. She woke with the plaintive cry of the curlews in 
 her ears, woke with that awful sense of impending calamity 
 which falls upon us in the first moments of waking. 
 
 Her sleep had been a restless one, haunted by dreams. At 
 one time she saw herself standing beside Geoffrey Barle before 
 the altar in the ruined church, with Dane, amidst the shadows, 
 looking on with a sad, despairing face; at another she dreamed 
 that her father and she were wandering homeless and friend- 
 less through the streets of a great city, followed by Geoffrey 
 Barle laughing at and taunting them. 
 
 She rose with a heavy sigh, and went into the adjoining 
 room where the old man lay. 
 
 He was asleep, and breathing so lightly that it looked almost 
 like the sleep of death. She bent over him and kissed him, 
 then dressed herself and went down-stairs. 
 
 Mr. Chandos was waiting for her. He too had slept but 
 badly, and felt a certain shakiness which not even a stiff glass 
 of whisky had succeeded in banishing; but he smiled tenderly 
 end with a pretense of gayety as he took her hands and kissed 
 them. 
 
 " Our marriage morn, dearest," he whispered. " I wish it 
 were a brighter one; but love laughs at clouds, Lyra; and there 
 will be no company with fine dresses to spoil. After all, such 
 a solemn ceremony as a marriage should, 1 think, be performed 
 in a quiet, solemn manner, and you are too sensible, too wise, 
 to attach any importance to the usual fuss and excitement." 
 
 She withdrew her hands, and went to the table without a 
 word. 
 
 He looked covertly at her pale, sad face.
 
 OKCE IN A LIFE. 135 
 
 " All the arrangements are complete," he went on, in a low 
 Yoice. " My friend, the clergyman, will be at the church at 
 eleven; we will go out as if we were going for a simple stroll, 
 and and it will be all over in a few minutes. Mary will look 
 after your father, and he will scarcely miss you. " 
 
 " You you have the money?" asked Lyra, without raising 
 her eyes. 
 
 He took out his pocket-book and tapped it. 
 
 " Yes, yes. You must not let that worry you any more, 
 dearest. The money shall be paid to-day. I will send it di- 
 rectly after breakfast. By the way, I think it would be as 
 well to send Griffith to Barnstaple, or further, if you can. He 
 is always pottering about the place, and may suspect something, 
 or happen to go near the church." 
 
 " Very well," she said, with a sigh. It was hard that she 
 should have to deceive even the faithful Griffith, who had been 
 almost a second father to her, who loved her so devotedly. 
 
 " You might send him to Barnstaple for some jelly, or wine, 
 or something of that kind for your father," said Mr. Chandos. 
 "He won't refuse." 
 
 " He would not refuse, whatever I sent him for," said 
 Lyra. 
 
 Mary came into the room as she spoke, and Mr. Chandos 
 Chastened to dispose of her. 
 
 " Mary," he said, " I have persuaded Miss Lyra to take a 
 little walk with me this morning; you will remain in Mr. 
 Chester's room while we are away." 
 
 " Lawks! yes, sir," said Mary; "but what a morning for a 
 walk. But there, Miss Lyra don't mind the weather, and it's 
 tune she went out." 
 
 Mr. Chandos smiled reasaiiringly at Lyra as Mary went out 
 again. 
 
 " Everything goes well with us, dearest," he said. " There's 
 Griffith outside; suppose we send for him and start him off?" 
 and he went to the window and called Griffith. 
 
 He came in, taking off his rough fur cap, and looked from 
 one to the other; but his eyes rested with anxious gaze on 
 Lyra's pale face. 
 
 " Miss Lyra wants you to go to Barnstaple for some wine 
 and other things for Mr. Chester," said Mr. Chandos, blandly. 
 Griffith glanced at him, then looked again at Lyra, who sat 
 with downcast eyes. 
 
 " I can send m," he said. " I'm busy with the garden this 
 morning."
 
 136 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " Miss Lyra would rather you went," said Mr. Chandos, 
 still blandly. " Would you not?" 
 
 " Yes," said Lyra, her eyes still fixed on her plate. " Yes, 
 Griffith." 
 
 " Very well,'* he said, with sullen obedience. " But won't 
 you come with me, Miss Lyra? The walk would do you good." 
 
 Mr. Chandos colored. 
 
 " Miss Lyra can not leave her father; you forget, Griffith," 
 he said. 
 
 " No, I don't," said Griffith, sullenly. " Why don't you 
 go yourself? You can walk into Barnstaple this morning as 
 well as you walked in the other night. You'd be of some use 
 then." 
 
 Mr. Chandos flushed still more hotly. 
 
 " I er my ankle pains me this morning, my good Grif- 
 fith," he said. 
 
 " You must go, Griffith," said Lyra, in a low voice. 
 
 Griffith assented by a growl, and Mr. Chandos penciled a 
 list of articles required and tossed it to him. " You need not 
 hurry back, Griffith," he said. 
 
 " Hurry or no hurry, what's that to you?" growled Griffith, 
 half audibly, as he shuffled out of the room. 
 
 Mr. Chandos smiled when he had gone. 
 
 " That disposes of him," he remarked. " Really, Lyra, I 
 don't see your need of this ancient and extremely disagreeabld 
 retainer. 
 
 Lyra looked up wearily. 
 
 " Need of Griffith?" she said. " He is most faithful, de- 
 Toted " 
 
 "Oh, I know," said Mr. Chandos, airily. "But never 
 mind; we can discuss that later on. Be sure you are not late, 
 dearest," he added, as Lyra rose; " we must not keep the 
 clergyman waiting. That is a terrible breach of etiquette, you 
 know." 
 
 Lyra made no response, but went up to her father's room. 
 
 He was awake, but lay almost as still as if he were asleep. 
 
 She knelt beside the bed, and took his thin hand hi hers and 
 clasped it. 
 
 4 'Are you better, father?" she murmured; and she won- 
 dered if her voice sounded as strangely in his ears as it did in 
 hers. 
 
 " Better? Yes, yes," he said, hi his weak, listless voice. 
 
 " I I am going out for a little while with Mr. Geoffrey 
 Barle," she said, after a moment. " You won't mind being 
 left with Mary, father?"
 
 OKCE DT A LIPE. 137 
 
 " Going out going away?" he said; and a faint expression 
 of alarm and discontent came into his face. 
 
 " Not not for long," she said, feeling as if she Trere chok- 
 ing. " I shall be back before you have missed me." 
 
 " No, don't be long," he said. " However short a tune it 
 is, I shall miss you, Lyra." 
 
 He was silent a moment; then, with his eyes resting vague/y 
 on her, he said, as if to himself: 
 
 " You have grown very like your mother lately, Lyra. She 
 was a beautiful woman;" and he sighed. "If she had only 
 lived! But she was taken from me, and since I lost her" 
 he stopped and closed his eyes, but opened them a moment 
 later ' you have been a good a loving daughter to me, Lyra. 
 I I wish I could have made you happier; I wish I could have 
 done for you what other fathers do. You have been buried 
 alive here. It is my fault my selfishness " 
 
 " No, no, father," she said, chokingly; " you have nothing 
 to blame yourself for. I have been very happy. We have 
 been very happy, and we shall be happy again, now now 
 that this trouble has been removed from us. You know that 
 it has gone, father; you know that this money has been will 
 be paid. You heard what Mr. Barle said you have not 
 forgotten?" 
 
 He knit his brows as if he were striving to remember. 
 
 *' The money the money which Mr. Jarvin wanted?" he 
 said. 
 
 " Yes, father." 
 
 "Yes, I remember," he said, but vacantly. "It will be 
 paid, Mr. Barle said. It is very kind of him, but " 
 
 " But what, dear?" she asked, pressing his hand. 
 
 He looked beyond her with a troubled frown. 
 
 " Lyra, I I don't like Mr. Barle," he murmured. 
 
 Lyra shrunk back, then bent her face over the wasted hand. 
 
 " Mr. Barle has been very kind," she murmured, almost 
 inaudibly. " He has been our friend our only friend. Don't 
 don't say that, father." 
 
 " I don't like him," he repeated, with the weak querulous- 
 ness of a child. " I don't feel as if I could trust him. Why 
 should he lend give us this money? I I wish he would 
 leave the cottage." 
 
 Lyra laid her face on his head and kissed him. 
 
 " You must not say that, father," she faltered. " But for 
 him" 
 
 She did not finish the sentence; but the old man did not 
 appear to expect her to do so.
 
 138 OHCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " Yes, lie has been very kind," he said. " I I do not 
 understand it; but Will you be gone long, Lyra? I miss 
 you even if you are away five minutes. It is almost as if youi 
 mother were sitting there." 
 
 Lyra's eyes filled with tears as she got up and bent over 
 him. 
 
 " Kiss me, father, for for my mother's sake," she jpur- 
 mured. 
 
 He kissed her, then closed his eyes and sighed weariL;. 
 
 Mary came into the room. 
 
 " Mr. Barle says as you're to get your things on, Miss 
 Lyra," she said, in the audible whisper which is so aggravating 
 to the sick. 
 
 Lyra stood for a moment or two holding her father's hand.- 
 then left the room. 
 
 It was raining still, and she put on her water-proof over her 
 plain serge dress. Then she knelt beside her bed, and prayed 
 a short, feverish prayer, not for herself, but her stricken fa- 
 ther, for whom she was sacrificing herself. 
 
 Almost before the prayer had left her lips she heard Geof- 
 frey Barle's voice calling her. She went down, the palest, 
 saddest of brides, but outwardly as calm as a statue. 
 
 " It is all right," he said, taking her hand; his own trem- 
 bled. " Mary is with your father, and Griffith has started. 
 There is absolutely no one to see or interfere with us. Come. " 
 
 Lyra followed him from the cottage. As she closed the gate 
 after her she looked up at the window of her father's room. 
 
 " It is for you, for you," she murmured. 
 
 " What did you say?" asked Mr. Chandos, tenderly; but 
 she did not reply. " The question is, shall we row or walk?" 
 he said, as they went toward the beach. 
 
 " Let me row," she said. 
 
 They got into the boat and Lyra pulled down-stream. A 
 strange, unnatural numbness seemed to have taken possession 
 of her. 
 
 Mr. Chandos, with his coat collar turned up, sat shivering 
 in the stern of the boat, though the weather was anything but 
 cold. 
 
 With slow, steady strokes Lyra pulled the boat opposite St. 
 Mark's. Mr. Chandos offered her his hand, and they landed. 
 
 " I expect my friend, the clergyman, will be there waiting," 
 he said, with a dry cough. 
 
 ;< Will your cousin be there, too?" asked Lyra, listlessly. 
 
 " My cousin?" He had quite forgotten the promised 
 cousin. " Oh, yes, I hope so; she said she would."
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 139 
 
 Lyra threw out the anchor, and they walked up the beach 
 to the ruined church. As they approached it, Lyra saw a gen- 
 tleman with a pale, haggard face standing by the door. He 
 carried a small black bag. 
 
 " My friend, the clergyman," said Mr. Chandos, thickly. 
 " Dear me, how cold it is. He is a remarkably nice man, 
 my dear Lyra." 
 
 The remarkably nice man came forward at this juncture 
 and raised his hat, and Lyra instinctively shrunk back from 
 the haggard face and blear eyes. 
 
 " This is Mr. er Green," said Mr. Chandos, with a sickly 
 smile. " Is everything ready, Green?" 
 
 Eawdon, after a swift glance at the bride, a glance followed 
 by a start of surprise and admiration, nodded. 
 
 " Everything is ready," he said. 
 
 Lyra looked round wearily, not suspiciously. 
 
 " Where is the lady, your cousin?" she asked. 
 
 Mr. Chandos coughed. 
 
 " Dear me, she is not here. Tut, tut! how annoying! But 
 never mind, dearest, her presence is not necessary not at all; 
 is it, Green?" 
 
 " No," said Eawdon, in a husky voice; " not at all neces- 
 sary. " 
 
 He glanced at Lyra as he spoke; then, as her sad eyes met 
 his, he looked away across the river; but he seemed to feel her 
 eyes still on him, and eventually his own were fixed on the 
 ground. He seemed possessed by a nervousness which appeared 
 to communicate itself to Mr. Barle, for that gentleman looked 
 up and down the river with an anxious, half-f earful expression. 
 
 Of the three standing there in the mist and rain, the uncon- 
 scious victim was the calmest. 
 
 " Er shall we go in?" said Mr. Chandos, breaking the 
 silence which had fallen upon them. With trembling hand he 
 drew out the key from the ivy and opened the door, and they 
 passed into the church. 
 
 It smote chill and damp, and Eawdon shuddered visibly, 
 and seemed to pause as he looked round. Mr. Chandos saw 
 the momentary hesitation, dread, remorse, whichever it may 
 have been, and tried to assume a confident and assured air. 
 
 " You've got your surnlice in that bag, I suppose, Green?" 
 he said, pleasantly, but in the subdued voice in which on9 
 speaks in a sacred edifice. 
 
 Eawdon nodded gravely. 
 
 "I er I aeypose it really is not necessary," said ME
 
 140 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 Chandos, glancing from one to the other; " but 1 think you 
 would like Mr. Green to wear it, Lyra?" 
 
 Lyra was standing in the aisle, one hand resting on the edgo 
 of a pew, her eyes fixed with a sad, dreamy expression. At 
 that moment the voice of Dane seemed sounding in her ears. 
 She seemed to see his face in the duskiness round the altar. 
 She started slightly, and turned to Mr. Chandos, and he re- 
 j peated his question. 
 
 " As you please/' she said, with dull indifference. 
 
 " Ah, well; better, perhaps," said Mr. Chandos. " If you 
 wiL sit dovm for a moment, dearest, I will er help Mr. 
 Green." 
 
 He beckoned Eawdon into a little curtained recess and 
 gripped him by the shoulder. 
 
 " Quick, man!" he said, harshly. " Quick, and get it over; 
 we may be seen, interrupted." 
 
 Rawdon started and shook off his hand. 
 
 " Who who is she?" he asked, in a hoarse whisper. " She 
 is a a lady as well as beautiful. She looks ill, frightened. 
 By Heaven! I've half a mind " He put his hand to his 
 brow and glared round him as if fearfully. 
 
 Mr. Chandos snatched the bag from him, opened it, and 
 took out a surplice. 
 
 " Here, put it on," he said. Eawdon still stood staring 
 about him. At the bottom of the bag was a flask. 
 
 Mr. Chandos, with a low exclamation of satisfaction, took it 
 put, poured some of the contents into the cup, and pressed it 
 into Rawdon's shaking hand. 
 
 " Drink, man," he said, " and let me take a drink, too. 
 It's it's the chill of this place that upsets one." 
 
 " That and and the sight of her," murmured Rawdon, 
 after he had gulped down the neat spirit. " She looks like an 
 angel. Her face will haunt me as long as I live. God forgive 
 us, Chandos 1" 
 
 Mr. Chandos forced the surplice over Rawdon's head. 
 
 " Hush!" he said, warnmgly. " What what nonsense 
 you talk! I tell you she is here of her own free will. There 
 there has been no force. Quick, or she will wonder why we 
 are waiting." 
 
 Rawdon, though the surplice was on, still stood gazing be- 
 fore him; and Mr. Chandos, as a last resource, pulled out his 
 pocket-book, and extracting some bank-notes, held them up 
 with a sickly smile. 
 
 ' You see?" he said. " It's not bad pay for for such a 
 email piece of work. If you're sharp over it, you will have
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 141 
 
 time to catch the afternoon train to Southampton, Think of 
 it, my dear Rawdon! You will be at Havre in no tune. The 
 steamer starts to-morrow night. You are off to fresh life, 
 fresh hopes, prosperity. Come.'* 
 
 Rawdon walked up the aisle and took his place, and Chan- 
 dos, very pale, and with a strange tightening of the lips, ap- 
 proached Lyra and offered her his arm. At the sound of 
 Rawdon's voice, hollow and husky, Chandos started, and could 
 not refrain from looking round; but Lyra seemed unmoved, 
 and still possessed by the death-like calmness. 
 
 Chandos, as he put the ring on her finger, felt the hand he 
 held strike like ice. His own was now burning hot. 
 
 Rawdon' s voice died away with the last words of the service, 
 and with bent head and eyes fixed on the ground he went with 
 unsteady steps down the aisle and into the curtained recess. 
 
 Chandos followed with Lyra, and motioned her to a pew. 
 
 " Wait for a moment, dearest/' he said. " I I am going 
 to get the certificate." 
 
 Lyra sunk into the pew. She did not know that she ought 
 to sign the register; and if she had known, would not have 
 remembered. She was in a dream, in which she still heard 
 Dane's voice, saw his face. 
 
 Mr. Chandos found Rawdon leaning against a chair, trem- 
 bling and shaking. The sweat stood in great drops upon his 
 brow. 
 
 " It is horrible, horrible!" he gasped. 
 
 Mr. Chandos held the curtain tightly closed and glared at 
 him. 
 
 " Pull yourself together, man," he said, angrily. " The 
 thing's done now, your work's finished, and here are your 
 wages." He thrust the notes into Rawdon's hand. "Get 
 out of that thing and be off as quickly as you can. You must 
 come and say good-bye, of course; and and for Heaven's 
 sake try and look less like a corpse, or a man who is going to 
 be hanged. " 
 
 Rawdon shuddered. 
 
 " I I deserve to be hanged for this day's work, Chan- 
 dos," he said, gloomily. 
 
 Chandos produced the flask again and thrust it into Raw- 
 don's hand that held the notes. 
 
 " If you're so frightened, all the more reason for you mak- 
 ingyourself scarce as soon as possible," he said. 
 
 He stuffed the surplice into the bag, and, raising his voice, 
 said loud enough for Lyra to hear: 
 
 " So sorry you have' to hurry away, Green; but as it is a
 
 143 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 case of sickness we must not detain you, much as we should 
 like to do so. I know how scrupulously you do your duty, 
 my dear fellow." 
 
 He linked his arm in Eawdon's and led him out. 
 
 " Say just as little as you can, and, for goodness' sake, try 
 and smile," he added, in a whisper. 
 
 Eawdon, with downcast eyes, stood before Lyra. 
 
 " I I must wish you good-bye, Mrs. Barle," he said. " I 
 wish you every happi 
 
 His voice broke, and his face grew deathly white. 
 
 Mr. Chandos cut hi with a laugh that rang hollow and 
 ghost-like in the quiet place. 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, my dear Green," he said. " Don't 
 wait." He actually took him by the shoulder and turned him 
 toward the door. " We will excuse you; I know how exacting 
 a country parson's duties are." 
 
 Eawdon glanced over his shoulder at Lyra, then, without 
 another word, walked down the aisle and out of the door. 
 
 Mr. Chandos waited a moment, then he took up the water- 
 proof and put it over Lyra's shoulder. 
 
 " Come, dearest," he said " my own wife." 
 
 For the first tune since they had entered the place Lyra 
 shivered. 
 
 " Are you cold?" he asked, tenderly. " It is chilly in 
 here; poor Green noticed it. He he is a great invalid, and 
 was not at all well this morning." 
 
 " I am not cold," said Lyra, in the same dull, indifferent 
 voice. 
 
 Mr. Chandos locked the door and hid the key in the ivy. 
 
 " Dear old church," he murmured, sentimentally. " So full 
 of romance and er poetry. We could not have been mar- 
 ried in a sweeter place. I shall always remember it, always. 
 What are you looking at, dearest?" He broke off, for Lyra 
 was gazing at the river, at a sand-bank just showing above tide. 
 
 It was the spot on which she had been stranded the day she 
 saved Dane's life. 
 
 " Nothing," she said, turning her dreamy eyes upon him. 
 " Let us go back; my father may miss me." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he assented. " Ah, Lyra, you have a husband 
 as well as a father now;" and he drew her arm within his; 
 but he reflected that some one might see them, and dropped 
 it suddenly. 
 
 They got into the boat and Lyra rowed up-stream. It was 
 hard work, but it brought no color to her pale face. Eawdon
 
 IK A LIFE. 143 
 
 had called it the face of an angel; it was more like the face of 
 a martyr. 
 
 " I wish I could help you, dearest," murmured Mr. Chan- 
 dos, sweetly. 
 
 :e You have helped my father," she said, with a wan smile. 
 :< You will send that money away directly, will you not?" 
 
 " Directly we get home, my own," he responded. " I am 
 afraid you are getting wet." ...,jj 
 
 " It does not matter," she said, absently; *' lam used to it, 
 and I have nothing on that rain will spoil." 
 
 She stopped rowing as she spoke, and her lips quivered. 
 They were almost the same words she had spoken to Dane. 
 
 " No," said Mr. Chandos, tenderly. "It is not a very 
 suitable wedding-dress for my dear one; but you shall soon 
 ' walk in silk attire. ' Lyra, I long for the time when I shall 
 see you properly dressed, and in a sphere more worthy of your 
 beauty and grace. Directly your father is better we will go to 
 London, Paris Don't you think he is well enough for us to 
 leave him now?" 
 
 Lyra stopped rowing again, and a spasm of fear, of dread, 
 shot across her face. 
 
 " Leave him?" she breathed " leave him? Oh, no, no! 
 You said you promised " 
 
 " All right, dearest," he said, promptly; " there is no 
 hurry. I was only thinking of your happiness, pleasure " 
 
 " I should not could not be happy away from him!" 
 
 He lowered his pale-blue eyes, and an ugly smile curled his 
 thin lips for a second. 
 
 How he would pay her for every such speech presently, 
 presently! 
 
 " You shall stay with her as long as you like, dear one," 
 he murmured. " I am your humble, devoted slave, obedient 
 !*o your lightest word." 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THET reached the landing in front of the cottage. Mr. 
 Chandos looked round apprehensively, but no one was to be 
 seen. 
 
 " Thank Heaven, that ruffian hasn't got back yet!" he 
 said to himself, meaning Griffith. 
 
 Lyra put the oars back, and sat for a moment, her hands 
 folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the river. 
 
 " You are tired, dearest," he said; " let me help you out."
 
 144 OKCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 She just touched his hand with her small, cold one as she 
 got out of the boat, and they walked up to the cottage. 
 
 As they entered, Mary met them at the door. 
 
 " Why are you not with my father?" asked Lyra, reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 " Master's all right, Miss Lyra/' said Mary. " He's asleep 
 has been sleeping ever since you went, just like a chile. 
 We shall have him down again hi a day, just like old times. 
 Lor', how cold you looks, Mr. Barle!" she added, staring with 
 round eyes at Mr. Chandos, who, what with excitement and 
 the drizzling rain, was chilled to the bone. " You look as 
 pale as if you'd seen a ghost!" 
 
 " I am afraid I have taken a chill, Mary," he said. " I 
 think a glass of hot whisky and water would be a good thing." 
 
 Mary grinned. 
 
 " All right, sir; I'll get it." 
 
 She brought the hot water and whisky, and he mixed him- 
 self a pretty stiff glassful. 
 
 Lyra had gone straight to her father's room. He was, as 
 Mary had said, asleep; and Lyra knelt beside the bed and laid 
 her heavy, aching head on his arm. 
 
 She had saved him; she was married married. It all 
 seemed ghastly, unreal, and dream-like, and she could not re- 
 alize it, though she tried to do so. The church, the haggard, 
 care-worn face of the clergyman, even her husband himself, 
 appeared phantasmal and visionary, a kind of night- terror. 
 
 She rose presently, smoothed her father's pillow, and tak- 
 ing off her wet water-proof, went down-stairs. 
 
 Mr. Chandos looked warmer; there were two hectic spots on 
 his cheeks, and his pale eyes were restless and watchful. 
 
 They sat down to lunch, and though he made a pretense of 
 eating, it was a pretense only. Lyra eat nothing, but sat 
 looking out of the window, with the expression of apathetic 
 indifference which had sat upon her face all through the 
 ordeal. 
 
 Mr. Chandos eyed her covertly, and now and again a smile 
 curved his lips. He would be patient with her for a day or 
 two, a week perhaps, then he would show her that he was 
 master. 
 
 She rose without a word when the lunch was over, and went 
 upstairs again. Mr. Chester was still sleeping, and she sat be- 
 side him with her hands clasped in her lap. 
 
 Mr. Chandos helped himself to some more whisky, and the 
 spots on his cheeks grew more hectic. 
 
 As he took long draughts of the spirit and water, he began
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 145 
 
 to ask himself why he should be patient, why he should wait. 
 Why shouldn't he insist upon her leaving the cottage with him 
 that night? She was his wife, his property. 
 
 He heard her come down the stairs, and hastily hiding the 
 glass on the sideboard, forced a smile to his lips as she entered, 
 
 " How is he now, dearest?" he asked. 
 
 "He is asleep," she said. ' " I came to ask you about the 
 money." 
 
 Mr. Chandos frowned and looked down. 
 
 "Asleep still? That is good, very good. I told you that 
 he would get better directly this trouble was removed from his 
 mind. The money? Why are you so anxious, dear one? Do 
 you think suspect that I He stopped under the direct 
 gaze of her guileless eyes. 
 
 " Suspect?" she said, as if she did not understand him. 
 "It is only because I want to tell him, the moment he wakes, 
 that the money has been sent, that he has no longer need to 
 fear." 
 
 " Just so," he said; " very natural. I will send it at once. 
 If you like, you and I will go and post it. Perhaps perhaps " 
 he coughed ' ' we might you see, he is so much better 
 we might take a little trip this afternoon. What do you say 
 to going to Combe for for a day or two?" 
 
 She looked at him witji more surprise than alarm. 
 
 " And leave him? Oh, no, no; I I could not. You will 
 not ask me." 
 
 His face darkened sullenly. 
 
 " Really, my dear Lyra, I think you should er study my 
 wishes a little. Eemember that I am er your husband. " 
 
 She stood looking at him with a growing sense of fear. 
 
 " I can not leave him," she said, simply, almost inaudibly, 
 and went out. 
 
 Mr. Chandos got his glass again, swearing under his breath, 
 and Ms face grew an unwholesome red. 
 
 Lyra went into the garden and sat in the arbor seat. The 
 mist had thickened, the river was scarcely visible; and yet she 
 saw it all so plainly, saw Dane swimming, sinking in the 
 stream, felt his hair brush against her face as she lifted him 
 into the boat. 
 
 She tried to shut out the vision, to put her thoughts from 
 her; for was she not the wife of another man, the man who 
 had saved her father? 
 
 She got up after awhile and wandered down to the water s 
 edge. The tide had risen; through the mist she could see the 
 coasting vessels floating up to JBarnstaple. Some of them
 
 146 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 would be going back to sea on the ebb. A wild longing to be 
 out at sea in one of them, out on the wide sea, away from the 
 hideous nightmare that weighed like lead on her heart, took 
 possession of her. 
 
 Then suddenly she heard her name called, and turning, saw 
 Mary running down the beach. 
 
 " Miss Lyra! Miss Lyra!" she was calling wildly. 
 
 A swift fear, a nameless dread, fell upon Lyra. She ran to- 
 ward her. 
 
 " What is it, Mary? Hush! you you frighten me!" 
 
 Mary, white to the lips, and with her round eyes distended 
 with fear, clutched at Lyra's arm. 
 
 " Come come at once, Miss Lyra!" she gasped. " The 
 master " 
 
 Lyra darted past her like an arrow from a bow, and ran up 
 the stairs to her father's room. 
 
 He lay as she had left him, and there seemed no change in 
 him; he appeared to be still asleep. But as she bent over him, 
 something in the stillness of the face struck her. She bent 
 lower, then threw herself upon him, as if she would pluck him 
 from the hand of death. Mary, panting, tried to raise her. 
 
 " Don't 'ee, don't 'ee, Miss Lyra!" she cried. " It's no use. 
 It's all oyer. Oh, dear, dear!" 
 
 For a minute or so Lyra held him in her arms, then she 
 rose, and brushing the hair from her face, looked wildly, 
 vacantly round her. 
 
 " When when?" she gasped. 
 
 " I don't know, miss," said Mary, through her sobs. " I 
 was sitting here quite still and thinking he was asleep, and 
 presently I got up to draw back the curtain, and the light fell 
 on his face, and and I saw Oh, Miss Lyra, don't look so!" 
 she broke off, for the expression on Lyra's face terrified her. 
 
 Lyra sunk beside the bed and laid her face on the dead 
 man's breast. 
 
 " Don't 'ee, don't ee!" implored Mary, putting her honest 
 arm round the bereaved girl, and rocking her gently to and 
 fro. " He's at rest now, Miss Lyra. He went in his sleep 
 like a baby. He's happy now. Look at his face. " 
 
 Lyra raised her tearless eyes and looked at the face. There 
 was a peaceful smile on it; then she uttered a wailing cry. 
 Mr. Chandos heard it, and, after a moment of startled listen- 
 ing, came up the stairs. 
 
 ;< What what is the matter?" he asked; then he saw, and 
 his flushed face went white.
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 147 
 
 " Oh, take her away! take her down-stairs! She mustn't 
 stop here, or she'll go mazed!" cried Mary. 
 
 Mr. Chandos took Lyra's arm. To his surprise she offered 
 mo resistance; she was, indeed, incapable of it. He led her 
 down-stairs and into the parlor, and put her into a chair. 
 
 " My my dear Lyra, my dearest," he murmured, confused 
 and bewildered. " You you must try and bear up. You 
 must not give way. Remember that, though your father has 
 gone, you you have me." The hideous mockery of the 
 speech struck him silent for a moment. " Come, Lyra," he 
 went on after {^moment or two, " it it is all for the best." 
 
 She looked straight before her, her hands clasped. She did 
 not hear him. Suddenly, without moving her eyes, she said, 
 hoarsely: 
 
 " The the money, you have sent it?" 
 
 Mr. Chandos started, and a look of relief and satisfaction 
 passed over his face. 
 
 " No fortunately," he said, in a low voice, and with some 
 surprise at her question at such a momei? 1 
 
 She raised her wild, bewildered eyes. 
 
 " Fortunately? You you have not sent it?" 
 
 He nodded with increased satisfaction. 
 
 " No, dearest. I was just going to do so when I heard you 
 cry out. It is most fortunate. Five hundred pounds is a 
 large sum, and er worth saving." 
 
 She rose, steadying herself by the arm of the chair, her eyes 
 fixed on him as if she scarcely heard, scarcely understood. 
 
 " The money!" .fell from her lips, hoarsely. " The money 
 you you promised him !" and she extended her hand. 
 
 Mr. Chandos stared at her. 
 
 " Why why do you talk of that now, dearest?" he mur- 
 mured, soothingly. " Hush! be calm, Lyra." 
 
 He took a step toward her, but she put up her hand to keep 
 him away. 
 
 " Give give it to me!" she panted, almost inaudibly. 
 was his his! It was to save him from dishonor. He shall 
 have it. Give it to me!" 
 
 He thought she was delirious. 
 
 " Lyra, Lyra, my dear Lyra!" he whispered, trying to take 
 her hand. 
 
 She snatched it from him, and still clutching the chair, 
 confronted him. 
 
 " It was to save him it was for the money that I did it!' 
 the said, brokenly, but yet with a kind of fierce, desperate
 
 148 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 persistence. " You you shall not keep it from him. Givo 
 it to me that I may pay " 
 
 The voice failed, and she sunk against the chain 
 
 Mr. Chandos, half angry, half frightened, approached her. 
 
 "My dear girl/' he murmured, "you shall have the 
 money " 
 
 " Now, now! I want to tell him!" broke from hero 
 
 Chandos scowled. \ 
 
 " Be be reasonable, dearest," he said. '' What is the use 
 of the money to him now. Why should we throw away, sim- 
 ply throw away, a large sum " 
 
 She rose to her full height and scanned his face with a terri- 
 ble gaze. Then, as she read his treachery and perfidy in his 
 mean face and shrinking eyes, she shrunk back and uttered a 
 cry of horror and loathing. 
 
 The cry stung Mr. Chandos like the thong of a whip. He 
 caught her arm none too gently, and put his face close to hers. 
 
 " Lyra, you are half mad. But I er make excuses for 
 you. Go to your own room. Come. Do you hear? I don't 
 don't want to be angry at er such a time " 
 
 He put his arm round her as if to take her from the room. 
 She raised her hand and struck at him wildly, only half con- 
 scious, in her frenzy of grief and horror, of what she was do- 
 ing, then staggered to the door. 
 
 Mr. Chandos, his face tingling and red, darted before her 
 and locked the door. 
 
 " Wait sit down!" he gasped. 
 
 She leaned against the wall, panting and wringing her hands. 
 
 " Let me go to him," she breathed. 
 
 " Presently, when when you are calmer," he said, in a 
 sullen whisper. " You are not in a fit state to be alone. Come 
 and sit down." 
 
 He put his hand on her arm as he spoke. His touch seemed 
 to madden her. 
 
 " Let me go!" she cried, putting her hands up against the 
 door in a blind, pitiful way. 
 
 As if in answer to the appeal of her groping hands, the 
 handle of the door turned, and Griffith's voice was heard out- 
 side calling her name. 
 
 "Griffith!" she panted. 
 
 The next moment the door was forced and Griffith was in 
 the room. 
 
 She fell upon him, clutching him wildly. 
 
 " Griffith! oh, Griffith!" she cried; then she tore herself 
 from his arms and staggered up the stairs.
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 149 
 
 Griffith stood, his gnarled face distorted with rage, looking 
 more like a wild animal than a man. 
 
 " You " he snarled as if he were choking, and advanced 
 upon Chandos with his huge hairy fist raised. 
 
 Mr. Chandos looked round the room in a frenzy of terror. 
 
 " Wait stop!" he said, hoarsely. " Don't don't hit 
 me! Listen!" 
 
 Griffith edged round the table, breathing hard, and would 
 have been upon him in another moment; but with one of those 
 inspirations which come to men in moments of deadly peril 
 and despair, Mr. Chandos overturned the table between him 
 and his assailant, and with a cry of terror darted out of the 
 door. 
 
 Griffith stumbled over the table, but regained his feet, and 
 was in instant pursuit. 
 
 But by the time he had reached the garden, Mr. Chandos 
 was not to be seen; the white mist, an impenetrable vapor, 
 being over the whole scene. 
 
 Mr. Chandos, too cunning to run, and so betray his where- 
 abouts by the sound of his footsteps, crouched down behind 
 the hedge and listened to Griffith blundering about and breath- 
 ing savage imprecations; then, white and trembling, stole away 
 along the river-bank toward Barnstaple. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 MK. CHANDOS cowered behind the hedge until Griffith's 
 footsteps and voice died away in the distance; then he rose, 
 trembling and shaking like ague personified. 
 
 Most of your two-penny half -penny villains are cowards, and 
 Mr. Chandos was no exception to the rule. He was possessed 
 of one idea only the desire for flight and safety. There had 
 been murder in Griffith's eyes, murder in his voice and up- 
 lifted hand, and Mr. Chandos felt that if he fell into this 
 man's clutches whether it were now, or next week, or next 
 year there would be no hope for him. 
 
 Lyra would be sure to confide in Griffith; the vile trick by 
 which Chandos had hoped to get her into his clutches would be 
 discovered, and well, Mr. Chandos remembered Rawdon's re- 
 mark anent penal servitude, and shuddered like a half -drowned 
 terrier. His terror drove all his passion for Lyra and his de- 
 sire for revenge completely out of him. All he wanted was to 
 get away to put as great a distance between him and the mill 
 cottage as possible. 
 
 " What a fool I have been!" he muttered, with sundry
 
 150 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 oaths. " I must have been bewitched must have lost my 
 senses! Why, I may be overtaken at any moment, caught, 
 and" 
 
 He shivered and shook, and hurried on through the mist, 
 scarcely caring where he went, so that every step lengthened 
 the distance between him and the place he had suddenly grown 
 to hate. 
 
 Every now and then he stopped to listen, dreading to hear 
 Griffith's footsteps and hoarse voice; but all was still. 
 
 Presently he found himself at the beginning of Barnstaple 
 quay. The station was not very far off, and he decided to go 
 there, hide in one of the waiting-rooms, and slip into the first 
 train for London. 
 
 " Then I'll go on the Continent, America anywhere, for a 
 tune," he muttered. " Thank Heaven, I've got the money 
 still; I've saved that, anyhow;" and he tried to chuckle, but 
 the attempt was a failure. 
 
 As he felt his way along the quay for the mist was still 
 thick and heavy he heard voices near him, and suddenly two 
 men lurched up against him. 
 
 They were sailors. One was in his shirt-sleeves, and both 
 were the worse for liquor. Mr. Chandos tried to avoid them, 
 but the man without the coat caught him by the arm in a half- 
 savage, half-affectionate grip. 
 
 " Halloo, ship-mate!" he said, lurching upon him unstead- 
 ily. " Where are you bound? Without your hie lights, 
 too! You precious near run me and my mate down didn't 
 he, Jim?" 
 
 " So he did/' assented his companion. " There's a hie 
 fine for sailing without lights in a fog. Glass of grog all 
 Tound eh, Willyum?" 
 
 Willyum nodded with drunken gravity, and took hold of 
 Chandos' s other arm. 
 
 " Hear what my mate says, skipper? Eight! Come along, 
 then. There's a grog-shop round her somewhere, though 
 blarm me if I haven't lost the bearings." 
 
 Inwardly fuming, Mr. Chandos smiled a sickly smile, and 
 forced a still more sickly laugh. 
 
 " Stand a drink? certainly," he said, with mock cheerful- 
 ness. " Here's a shilling for you. I'm er I'm in a hurry, 
 or I'd join you;" and he tried to free himself, but the man 
 held him tightly. 
 
 ^ " No, you don't," he said, with playful sternness. " You 
 ttin't a-going to cut your cable ic that surly fashion. Just
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 151 
 
 you come along and see as we drink fair, or Willyum'll have 
 more nor his whack, as usual." 
 
 " What d'ye mean by that insinuation?" demanded his com- 
 panion, turning on him with drunken irritability. 
 
 " All right/' responded the first. " Keep your temper, 
 Willyum; anyways, wait till we've towed this stranger into 
 port. Come along, mate;" and he began to haul Mr. Chan- 
 dos back along the road that led to the cottage. 
 
 Mr. Chandos struggled and fumed, but he was like a child 
 in the grasp of the burly sailor. 
 
 " What's the matter with yer?" demanded his captor. 
 
 " I'm in a hurry, my good man," said Chandos, feverishly. 
 " I have to catch a train " 
 
 " Train be blowed!" retorted the sailor. " You don't want 
 to catch no train. What you want is a glass of good hot rum 
 to clear this fog out of your throat. What! would yer?" and 
 his grip tightened as Mr. Chandos tried to slip out of his hands. 
 
 Mr. Chandos groaned. They were going back to the cot- 
 tage. Griffith might appear on the scene at any moment. He 
 must try strategy. 
 
 " Very well," he said, " I'll go with you; but er don't 
 pinch my arm." 
 
 " Right you are; that's sensible," responded the man; and 
 he slid his huge hand up to Mr. Chandos' s shoulder. 
 
 The three groped their way along the quay, the two sailors 
 lurching on either side of Chandos for some yards; then 
 Chandos heard, or thought he heard, a rough, grating voice 
 shouting. A cold sweat broke out upon him, and he shook. 
 It must be Griffith, and he would be upon them in another 
 minute. 
 
 Possessed by the demon of terror, he softly and gradually 
 clipped his right arm from the sleeve of his coat his captor's 
 hand was on his left shoulder; then pretending to miss his 
 footing, lurched against his neighbor. 
 
 " Hold up, mate!" cried Jim; then he uttered an exclama- 
 tion of surprise and stared at his companion. " Why, I'm 
 blarmed if he ain't given us the go-by, after all, mate, and 
 left his coat behind him like an eel!" 
 
 Willyum swore roundly at his friend. 
 
 " He's done you like a child, you chuckle-headed lubber!" 
 
 " So he have^" admitted Jim, with a drunken voice; " but 
 he's left his coat behind him." 
 
 " His coat!" commented Willyum, sarcastically. ' ;< What's 
 he good o' that?" 
 
 " All depends on what's in it," retorted Jim.
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " Give it here,*' remarked Wfllyum. 
 
 " Not if I knows it," hiccoughed the other. " It't my 
 prize, mate." 
 
 They squabbled over the coat for a minute or two, and 
 James finished the dispute by knocking his friend into the 
 gutter, and then calmly got into the garment. 
 
 Mr. Chandos, meanwhile, ran on toward the station. He 
 was half demented with fear, and he fancied he could still hear 
 Griffith's voice. Suddenly it flashed upon him that he could 
 scarcely travel to London in his shirt-sleeves, and he stopped 
 short, panting and bewildered. As he stood, uncertain and 
 hesitating, he remembered that his pocket-book, with the five 
 hundred pounds, was in the pocket of his coat! 
 
 Yes, there was nothing for it; he must go back to the men 
 and regain possession of his coat at all risks. 
 
 He retraced his steps cautiously, and reached the men as 
 Willyum slowly picked himself out of the gutter. 
 
 " Oh, there you are, are you?" he exclaimed, confronting 
 Mr. Chandos. " I'll teach you to play tricks on your betters, 
 Jim! Come on!" 
 
 As he spoke he flung off his pea-jacket, and squaring his 
 arms, advanced threateningly. 
 
 Mr. Chandos's teeth chattered in his head. 
 
 " Stop wait!" he gasped. "It's it's a mistake! I'm 
 not your friend! I've I've come back for my coat! I'll buy 
 it of you! I'll" 
 
 A drunken laugh came from behind him, and at the sound 
 of it Willyum hurled himself forward. 
 
 Mr. Chandos sprung, with extraordinary nimbleness, out of 
 the way, and the two friends collided. 
 
 Scarcely conscious of what he was doing, Mr. Chandos 
 picked up the pea-jacket and gazed at them. There was 
 i sound of a struggle, a drunken laugh of satisfaction, and 
 then a heavy splash. Only one man stood in the mist on the 
 edge of the quay. 
 
 Mr. Chandos uttered a cry of terror and sprung forward. 
 Willyum was leaning over the quay, his hands resting on his 
 knees, sailor-fashion. 
 
 " Man overboard!" he said, with drunken gravity. 
 
 "Great Heaven!" gasped Chandos. " He'll he'll be 
 drowned!" 
 
 "Drowned!" hiccoughed Willyum. "What, Jim? Not 
 he! He can swim like a a fish!" 
 
 Mr. Chandos peered into the misty depth. He could hear
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 153 
 
 the tide washing against the stone wall, but he could see 
 nothing. 
 
 He laid a shaking hand on the sailor's shoulder. 
 
 " Are are you sure he can swim that he is quite safe?" 
 he gasped. 
 
 "Sure as eggs," responded Willyum. " Let's go down to 
 the grog-shop. I'll lay my life Jim'll be there afore us!" 
 
 Mr. Chandos seemed incapable of movement. He stood 
 and stared into the mist beneath him, his teeth chattering, his 
 hair almost on end. Suddenly he heard voices calling, from 
 a vessel, as it seemed, and the sound roused him from his 
 stupor of terror. 
 
 Without a word he turned and ran blindly toward the 
 station. 
 
 It was not until he got into the light of the gas-lamps that 
 he remembered the coat on his arm. With a shudder he put 
 the rough thing on, and turning up the collar, made his way 
 to the refreshment-room. 
 
 " Give me give me a shilling's worth of brandy," he said, 
 as cheerfully as he could. " This fog has nearly choked me." 
 
 The girl behind the bar served him with the spirit, and 
 with his back to the light, Mr. Chandos disposed of it. 
 
 On inquiring at the booking-office, he learned that a train 
 for London was due in thirteen minutes. Like a man in a 
 nightmare, he took a third-class ticket for it occurred to him 
 that in his present attire he would be conspicuous in a first- 
 class carriage and kept in a quiet corner till the train came 
 up. 
 
 What- he endured during those ten or twei/e minutes it would 
 be difficult to describe; but, still like a man under the spell of 
 a very bad dream indeed, he got into the carriage and sunk, 
 with a groan, into the furthest corner. 
 
 He let himself into his chambers with his latch-key, in the 
 gray of the summer dawn, and at once took off the hideous pea- 
 jacket. He would have liked to have burned it, but you can 
 not burn cloth without creating a smell which travels for 
 miles, and the only way of hiding it that occurred to him was 
 that of packing it at the bottom of a trunk full of old clothes. 
 
 He did this, and then threw himself upon the bed to rest 
 and think. But the latter operation was not compatible with 
 the former; for when he began to think, he realized his peril. 
 
 He had been guilty of the crime of perpetrating a mock 
 marriage; that meant, if he were discovered, penal servitude; 
 but in addition, it was not at all improbable, if the sailor was 
 drowned, that he, Chandos, might be suspected and charged
 
 154 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 with murder. Why, he had actually been seen wearing the 
 man's coat! 
 
 Mr. Chandos stifled a cry in the bed-clothes, and then sprung 
 up and changed his clothes for a traveling suit. If he were 
 quick he could catch the tidal train for Paris, and thence go 
 well, anywhere Spain, Mexico; any place where the extradi- 
 tion treaty was not in force, and he could escape his pursuers. 
 
 Leaving a penciled note on the table for his servant, to the 
 effect that he should not be back for some time, he got into a 
 cab and reached Charing Cross just in tune to catch the tidal 
 train. And it may safely be said that, of all the passengers 
 who underwent the horrors of that short but cruel ordeal be- 
 tween Dover and Calais, Mr. Chandos Armitage was the most 
 wretched. 
 
 Faint with hunger and seasickness, he hid himself for a 
 night, a night only, in an out-of-the-way hotel in Paris, and 
 left early next morning for Spain, a considerably sadder, per- 
 haps a wiser, but by no means a better man. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A ifEEK later, Lyra stood at the cottage gate. An open 
 letter was in her hand, but her eyes were fixed on the square 
 tower of Barnstaple Church, and she was thinking of the dead 
 father who lay at rest in his quiet grave. Even if she could 
 have recalled him to life, she would not have done so, for she 
 had come to know that her loss was his gain. He, at any 
 rate, had been spared the knowledge that his child was married 
 to a villain; for in that one moment when Chandos had shrunk 
 from her searching gaze, she had read his miserable soul as 
 plainly as if it had been an open book. 
 
 She had her out-door things on, and a small portmanteau 
 was at her feet. Black makes even stout people look some- 
 what thin, and in her plain black frock of merino and simple 
 bonnet, Lyra looked almost ethereal. 
 
 A man, a stranger in fact, a man hi possession lounged 
 at the cottage door, smoking a short clay, and presently Grif- 
 fith, with a growl, pushed past him and came limping down 
 the path. 
 
 Lyra turned to him with a sad smile. 
 
 " Is it nearly time, Griffith?" she said. 
 
 " Yes/' he said, his gnarled face working with suppressed 
 emotion. " It's nearly time, if you've made up your mind, 
 and nothing I can say will alter it." 
 
 Lyra shook her head and laid her hand on his bent shoulder.
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 15 
 
 *' No, Griffith/' she said, in a low but quite steady Toice, 
 " nothing. My mind is made up, and nothing can alter it. 
 I'm afraid you think me very ungrateful, Griffith;" and she 
 sighed. 
 
 " No," he said, with a catch hi his voice, " not ungrateful, 
 but stubborn stubborn, Miss Lyra. Why should you go out 
 into the world while I'm left to work for you? I ve enough 
 money saved to buy new furniture. I can earn enough to keep 
 us two " 
 
 Lyra shook her head with a gentleness which was more con- 
 vincing than any fervent refusal. 
 
 He looked up at her with mournful scrutiny. 
 
 " Sometimes, since I heard of this whim of yours for it is 
 a whim, Miss LyraI've thought that there was some other 
 reason for your going. I've wondered if that fellow, Mr. 
 Barle, had anything to do with it. I've asked myself if you 
 was af eared of him." 
 
 Lyra turned her head away and shuddered slightly. 
 
 " I am not afraid of Mr. Barle, Griffith." 
 
 He gnawed at his thumb nail, eying her sadly, anxiously. 
 
 " There's something between you and him that I can't make 
 out, Miss Lyra," he said. " What had happened that you and 
 he should be quarreling that day the master died?" His voice 
 dropped. " You've never told me, and I'm not quick enough 
 to guess. Won't you tell me Griffith Miss Lyra, dear?" 
 
 She looked straight before her for a moment, then she 
 turned her sad eyes upon him. 
 
 " No, Griffith, I can not tell you. You promised not to ask 
 me, you remember? I could not tell you or any one. He 
 has gone; he will not come back." 
 
 "If he only would," he said, between his teeth. " Miss 
 Lyra, I mistrusted him from the first. He was like one of 
 those brown adders you see in the sand-hills. I wish he'd 
 broken his neck that day he fell from the cliff." 
 
 Lyra sighed. 
 
 " Don't let us talk of him for the few moments we have to 
 spend together. You mean to stay here, Griffith?" 
 
 " Yes," he said, doggedly; " I shall stay here, Miss Lyra. 
 The rent isn't more than that of a laborer's cottage, and I can 
 earn it. I've grown fond of the place. But that isn't all. I 
 feel that some day you may well, you may want to come 
 back" he looked at her eagerly; and Lyra, feeling the 
 glance, suppressed a shudder " and if you do, why, here I 
 shall be, and here will be a shelter for you. Yes, Miss Lyra, 
 dear, I shall stay here. I've had work promised me, and I
 
 156 OKCE IN" A LIFE. 
 
 can buy a bit of furniture But all that's nothing. What 
 becomes of me doesn't matter; it's you, you, my dear mis- 
 tress " 
 
 His voice broke and he turned away. 
 
 Lyra forced a smile. 
 
 "Why, Griffith," she said, cheerfully, "I shall be all 
 right. I am a very fortunate young person. You told me 
 when I answered the advertisement that there were hundreds, 
 hundreds wanting the situation, and that I should have no 
 chance; but you see I have got it.'* 
 
 Griffith grunted discontentedly. 
 
 " Situation! The word galls me. You, a Chester, going 
 out into a situation!" 
 
 Lyra laughed. It was only the shadow and semblance of 
 her old laugh. 
 
 " Why not?" she said. " No one who is poor ought to be 
 too proud to earn their own living; and, somehow, Griffith, I 
 think I shall be happy and contented, the lady writes so 
 frankly and kindly " she glanced at the open letter in her 
 hand " and there is so very little for me to do; and that is 
 fortunate, for there is so very little I could do." She sighed. 
 " All the other people that advertised wanted me to know 
 French, and German, and mathematics, and I don't know 
 what else. But Mrs. Leslie says that I shall only be required 
 to read aloud and answer letters. Oh, I am very lucky, if 
 you would only believe it, Griffith!" 
 
 " Lucky!" he snarled. " You who are a lady, having to 
 read aloud and answer letters!" 
 
 She let her hand fall on his shoulder again, and said, sooth- 
 ingly: 
 
 " I might have had to do worse and harder work, Griffith. 
 I might have had to teach a lot of children things I didn't 
 know myself," she laughed. " That would have been very 
 bad. But I am used to reading aloud. You remember how 
 I used to read to to " her voice broke " my father; and I 
 can carry on a correspondence/' 
 
 He shook his head and growled. 
 
 " If you'll only say the word, you could stop on here at the 
 cottage " 
 
 . " And be a burden to you," finished Lyra. " No, no, Grif- 
 fith; I could not do that. But I am glad you are going to 
 stay." 
 
 " And you promise, if anything happens if you don't like 
 thid place " he stumbled over the word as if it were a nau-
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 157 
 
 seous draught " that you'll come back any time, without 
 notice? I shall be here, glad and joyful to welcome you." 
 
 " Yes, yes," she said. " But isn't it time we started, Grif- 
 fith? Wait a moment for me." 
 
 She went into the house and passed through the untidy 
 rooms, in which the furniture was already marked with the 
 odious labels, " Lot " so-and-so, and up to her father's room. 
 
 She knelt beside the bed for a few moments, then went out 
 again, the man in possession staring at her hi a wooden, un- 
 sympathetic fashion. 
 
 Griffith stood by the gate, with the portmanteau on his 
 shoulder, and, almost in silence, they walked along the river- 
 side to the station. 
 
 There a surprise awaited Lyra, for on the platform was 
 Mary, who had been dismissed with a month's wages in lieu of 
 notice. 
 
 The tears were in her eyes as Lyra approached, and the 
 honest, tender-hearted girl threw her arms round Lyra's neck 
 and gulped out her farewell. 
 
 "If I could only go with you, Miss Lyra, dear!" she 
 sobbed. " You were always so kind and good to me!" 
 
 Griffith would have shouldered her away jealously, but Lyra 
 retained the girl's hand until the train was on the point of 
 starting. 
 
 However, Griffith had the last word. 
 
 "Remember, Miss Lyra," he said, hoarsely, "there's a 
 home for you at the mill cottage whenever you want it. And 
 and you'll write to me?" 
 
 Lyra's eyes were blinded with tears the first she had shed 
 since her father's death as the train puffed out of Barnstaple 
 Station, and she cried gently and silently in her corner for a 
 greater part of the journey. The West of England Express is 
 a good train, and a little time after five ic steamed into Water- 
 loo. 
 
 Lyra got out, and was making her way through the crowd, 
 when a footman in rich but subdued livery approached her and 
 touched his hat. 
 
 " Miss Chester?" he said. 
 
 " Yes," said Lyra; " I am Miss Chester." 
 
 " The carriage is waiting if you will follow me, miss, please. 
 I will see to your luggage." 
 
 " There is no luggage but this," said Lyra, indicating the 
 portmanteau, at which he tried not to look surprised. 
 
 She followed him to a landau drawn by a pair of magnificent
 
 158 ONCE IK A LIFE. 
 
 horses, and the footman opened the door for her and uhut hei 
 in with grave respect. 
 
 The carriage made its way over Waterloo Bridge and 
 through the crowded Strand to the West End, and stopped at 
 one of the houses in Garden Square. Lyra, like most persons, 
 had read a great deal about London, but never hi her dreams 
 had she been able to imagine anything like the reality. The 
 endless rows of houses, the handsome, richly dressed shops, 
 the interminable line of vehicles, the throngs of human beings 
 of all ranks of life crowding the pavements amazed and be- 
 wildered her. 
 
 Suddenly, to find herself hi a quiet square, and in the large 
 and richly appointed hall of this huge palace, was like an un- 
 expected shock, the falling over a cataract into the still depth 
 beneath. 
 
 The footman ushered her upstairs into at what she at first 
 thought must be the drawing-room, so richly was it decorated 
 and furnished, but which, as she learned afterward, was only 
 a boudoir. 
 
 She sunk with a feeling of strangeness and solitude into one 
 of the softly padded seats and waited an interminable tune, 
 as it seemed to her; then the door opened, and a lady entered 
 the room. 
 
 She was a middle-aged lady with a very pleasant counte- 
 nance, which wore an apologetic smile as she came forward 
 with extended hand. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Chester I" she said. " I am sorry to have kept 
 you waiting." 
 
 After much consideration and painf ul self -questioning, Lyra 
 had decided to retain her maiden name. 
 
 Lyra rose and murmured something inaudibly, and the lady 
 scanned her face with gentle and kindly interest. 
 
 " Of course you know who I am?" she said. " I am the 
 Mrs. Leslie with whom you have been corresponding." 
 
 " Yes," said Lyra. 
 
 At the sound of her voice a faint look of satisfaction shone 
 in Mrs. Leslie's eyes, and she drew a little breatli of relief. 
 
 " I am afraid you have had a long and wearisome journey," 
 she said. " Will you go to your room and take off your 
 things? It is only on the first floor. Come, I'll show it to 
 you, and then we will have some tea." 
 
 She led Lyra to what was really one of the small rooms in 
 the large house, but one that looked to her, used to the tiny 
 eottage, a spacious apartment exquisitely furnished.
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. 159 
 
 ** Ring the bell for anything you want. My maid mil wait 
 upon you. You are sure you can find your way down?" 
 
 Lyra took off her hat and jacket and enjoyed a good wash, 
 then went down to the boudoir. The rose-tinted blinds were 
 drawn to exclude the fierce rays of the evening sun, and a 
 dainty tea-service was on one of the marquetry tables, with 
 Mrs. Leslie reclining in an easy-chair before it. 
 
 " How quick you have been!" she said, giving Lyra one of 
 those swift glances of approval of which only women are capa- 
 ble. 
 
 "Have I been so quick?" said Lyra, ingenuously. "I 
 thought I had been a long while." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie laughed. 
 
 " Why, my dear Miss Chester, most girls take at least half 
 an hour to get their hats and cloaks off, and you have not been 
 ten minutes. It is easy to see that you have lived in the 
 country." 
 
 " Yes," said Lyra, " I have lived in the country all my 
 life. I have never seen London until to-day." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie smiled her surprise. 
 
 " Really? But you must not think you have seen it even 
 now," she said; " for you have not seen the best of it; nearly 
 the worst, indeed. Do you think you shall like it? But don't 
 be alarmed. I may as well tell you before you answer the 
 question that we do not live in London for very long, and that 
 we are just on the point of leaving it. We go to Castle Towers 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " To Castle Towers?" said Lyra, vaguely. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie nodded, then paused in the act of filling Lyra's 
 cup. 
 
 " How stupid of me!" she said. " I haven't yet explained 
 the real facts of the case. I suppose you think that I am 
 well, your employer?" 
 
 Lyra colored faintly. 
 
 " I yes, I thought so," she said. " You are Mrs. Leslie?'' 
 
 " Oh, yes," said that lady; " but I am only a servant like 
 yourself, if you don't mind the word. I don't." 
 
 " Nor I," said Lyra, but rather wonderingly. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie laughed approvingly. 
 
 " It is an honorable term enough," she said. " We are all 
 servants of some one. Why, even the Prince of Wales is not 
 fcoo proud to wear as his motto ' Ich Dien ' ' I serve.' 3 
 
 Lyra smiled. 
 
 " I am not proud," she said.
 
 160 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie glanced at the pale, beautiful face rather doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 I am glad of that. But I think you are. You have 
 proud eyebrows. We are all proud, really; only we deny it 
 most eagerly. But you are wondering who your shall I say 
 employer is. She is a lady of much greater importance than 
 I am. Have you ever heard of Lady Hainault?" 
 
 Lyra shok her head. 
 
 " No," she said. " But that goes for nothing. I have 
 heard of no one. All my life I have lived hi a country place 
 far away from anywhere, and I know, have heard of no one." 
 Mrs. Leslie looked at her thoughtfully. 
 
 " I was going to say f poor child!' but I will alter it to 
 ' fortunate? " she said, with a smile and a sigh. " I envy 
 you your quiet life. I am sure it must have been a happy " 
 she paused, as Lyra winced. " Oh, I beg pardon, my dear! 
 I did not know I forgot;" and she glanced at the black 
 dress. 
 
 Lyra fought with her tears and mastered them. 
 
 " I have been very happy till lately/' she said, simply, 
 " until I I lost my father." 
 
 " Poor girl!" murmured Mrs. Leslie. "I understand. 
 Forgive me, I know what that means. I am not too old to 
 remember my own loss. I, too, was left alone hi the world." 
 She paused. " But I have suffered more even than you, my 
 dear; for I lost a dearly loved husband." 
 
 Lyra's face went white for a moment. Fortunately, Mrs. 
 Leslie's eyes were cast down, and she did not notice the spasm 
 of terror that passed across the beautiful face. 
 
 " But about our ' mistress;' " and she laughed. " The 
 lady to whom you have engaged yourself is Lady Hainault, the 
 late Lord Hainault' s daughter and heiress. I am an old friend 
 of hers, as well as her servant, and until now have been her 
 companion and amanuensis that is, reading and writing ma- 
 chine. How fond we all are of long words, especially if we 
 think they conceal something derogatory to our dignity; but 
 my eyes have been rather weak of late or I fancy they have, 
 which is quite the same thing and Lady Hainault, instead of 
 getting rid of me, and exchanging me for a more serviceable 
 person, chooses to consider me indispensable, and engages 
 some one to help me. There it is in a nut-shell. Your duties 
 will consist in reading aloud whenever you are required and 
 you will be required to do so very often, and to read most 
 abominably dry stuff, too, my poor child! and you will have 
 to write Lady Hainault' s business letters,"
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 161 
 
 " Business letters?" said Lyra, with faint surprise. 
 
 Going by her knowledge of titled ladies knowledge derived 
 from three- volume novels she thought they did no business 
 whatever. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie laughed. 
 
 " Oh, yes. Lady Hainault does an immense amount of 
 business," she said. " I don't mean that she keeps a bonnet 
 shop and millinery establishment, like some of the ladies of 
 the nobility." 
 
 " Do they do they keep a shop?" said Lyra, with surprise. 
 
 " Oh, dear, yes!" said Mrs. Leslie, coolly; " a number of 
 them; and very good businesses they have." She mentioned 
 some titled dames. " Poor things! they have lost their fort- 
 unes, what with bad speculations, defaulting trustees, and the 
 drop in the value of land, and they are obliged to do some- 
 thing. Dig they can not, to beg they are ashamed, and so 
 they take to bonnet-building. But Lady Hainault hasn't come 
 to that yet. All her business is of a philanthropic kind. She 
 is a great social reformer wants to make the working-man 
 give up drinking beer and beating his wife, and tries to per- 
 suade the wife to keep the home cleaner, learn cooking, and 
 wash the children." 
 
 " And does she succeed?" asked Lyra, greatly interested. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " Well, partly. At Castle Towers the people are supernat- 
 urally good. But then they all pay less than their proper 
 rent, and are mostly coddled like children in arms. Here, in 
 London" Mrs. Leslie laughed "well, that's a different 
 matter." 
 
 " And is Lord Hainault as philanthropic?" asked Lyra, 
 after a pause. 
 
 " Lord Hainault is dead." 
 
 " She is a widow, then?" said Lyra. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie stared at her, then laughed rather ruefully. 
 
 " Oh, I see; you meant her husband. I'm sorry to say 
 Lady Hainault isn't married. I wish she were. She would 
 have plenty to do in reforming her husband, and it wouldn't 
 be so disappointing, perhaps," she added, naively. " But you 
 must not jump to the conclusion, from what I have said, that 
 Lady Hainault is well, a foolish and credulous person. She 
 is really very bright and clever, and very lovable. The only 
 fault with her is,, as I have told " she stopped " told a 
 friend of hers, that she is too good." 
 
 Lyra smiled. 
 
 "I did not think any one could be too good," she said. 
 6
 
 163 ONCE HST A LIFE. 
 
 " No. Wait until you know Lady Hainault, my dear. Ton 
 will see her to-morrow that is, if you are not too tired to 
 travel." 
 
 " To-morrow not to-night? Oh, I shall not be too tired. 
 I am very strong." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie looked at her. 
 
 " You do not look too strong, my dear," she said, gently. 
 " But we will try and plant some roses in those lily cheeks of 
 yours when we go into the country. Yes, we will go to-mor- 
 row. Did you think Lady Hainault was here? How stupid 
 of me not to tell you! She is at Castle Towers. She only 
 comes up occasionally, though this, the town house, is kept 
 going till quite the end of the season." 
 
 Lyra looKed round. 
 
 " Lady Hainault must be very rich," she said, more to her- 
 self than to Mrs. Leslie. 
 
 " She is," assented that lady. " More's the pity. And 
 now, my dear, you shall go and lie down till dinner-time. We 
 will dine here instead of in the great room down-stairs, and to- 
 morrow we will go to Castle Towers. That is, if you are well 
 enough." 
 
 That night Lyra lay awake till the great London clocks 
 boomed the small hours, wondering if she were herself, and if 
 the great house and the new life she had entered upon were 
 not a dream instead of a reality. 
 
 After breakfast a luxurious breakfast, served in the bou- 
 doir the carriage came round, and the two ladies started. 
 
 The footman engaged a first-class compartment for them, 
 purchased a bundle of magazines, pulled down the blinds, and 
 carefully arranged the small bags and wraps, and touched his 
 hat hi response to Mrs. Leslie's " Thank you, James." The 
 guard came up and touched his cap, and in deferential, re- 
 spectful tones asked if they were comfortable and had all they 
 wanted. It was difficult for Lyra to realize that only yester- 
 day she had come up to the same station in a third-class car- 
 riage, seated between a farmer who eat sandwiches noisily and 
 a girl who sucked oranges. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie, in a hundred little ways, showed the kindness 
 of her disposition, and insisted upon Lyra lying down for the 
 greater part of the journey. 
 
 " You look tired, my dear," she said, " and no wonderl 
 Now, just do as I tell you; and you must try and drink a little 
 of this wine. You don't like it? I know; most girls don't. 
 But you must try it, all the same take it as medicine. Why, 
 if you arrived at Castle Towers looking jagged and worn out,
 
 ST A LIFE. 165 
 
 Lady Hainault would never forgive me! You hare no idea 
 how kind she is." 
 
 (l She can not be kinder than you/' said Lyra, with moist 
 eyes; and as she lay back and closed them, she was conscious 
 of a guilty pang of self-reproach. 
 
 What would this warm-hearted woman say or think if she 
 knew the truth knew that the girl whom she was treating as 
 a child was deceiving her was not " Miss Chester," but a 
 married woman? 
 
 When Lyra and Mrs. Leslie reached the station, a carriage 
 and pair as handsome as those which had awaited them at 
 Waterloo stood at the station; a footman was in attendance, 
 and treated them with the profound respect which his fellow 
 in London had accorded them; and they drove through the 
 country lanes to Castle Towers. 
 
 Lyra had never seen a nobleman's mansion before, and she 
 gazed with frank amazement and admiration at the great 
 house, with its wide-stretching terrace and flower-spangled 
 lawns. 
 
 " How beautiful it is!" she said, almost unconsciously. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie smiled. 
 
 " Isn't it? I'm glad to hear you say that, for I am almost 
 as fond and proud of it as if it were my own. Whereas, Lady 
 Hainault doesn't value it at a pin's point; in fact, she thinks, 
 I believe, that it is almost wicked to own it while there are so 
 many poor people living in hovels. This is the avenue- 
 planted by Eichard, Earl of Hainault, in 1443. This property 
 was not entailed, and Lord Hainault, the late earl, left it to 
 his daughter. But if you think the exterior beautiful, I don't 
 know what you will say of the interior. We " she laughed 
 " you see, I talk as if I were part owner we have some of the 
 finest and oldest oak carving in England." 
 
 The carriage stopped at the grand entrance; a footman 
 helped them to alight, and they entered the hall. A small 
 and girlish figure came out of one of the rooms, and a soft, 
 low, but grave voice exclaimed, as the owner kissed Mrs. 
 Leslie: 
 
 " You have got back, then, dear?" Then she turned to 
 Lyra, who stood, rather pale and timid, a little apart. " How 
 do you do^iiss Chester? I hope you are not tired;" and she 
 held out her hand. 
 
 " Of course she is tired," said Mrs. Leslie, with a kindly 
 smile. " She has spent the last two days in the horrid trams, 
 my dear Theodosia."
 
 164 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 At the sound of the name Lyra started, and the faint flush 
 which had risen to her face faded away, and left it pale again. 
 
 Theodosia! The name brought back the remembrance of 
 Lord Dane with the suddenness and keenness of a knife 
 thrust. 
 
 Lady Theodosia looked at her with grave but gentle alarm. 
 
 " I can see that you are tired," she said, in her low, sweet 
 voice. 
 
 Lyra tried to s^eak, but no word would come. The great 
 hall, the two gracious ladies, had faded from her sight; she 
 saw only the stream up the valley, and the tall, stalwart figure 
 of Lord Dane. 
 
 Lady Theodosia signaled to a maid standing under the gal- 
 lery. 
 
 " Take Miss Chester to her room," she said. Then as Lyra, 
 with bent head and still dazed eyes, followed the maid, Lady 
 Theodosia said: 
 
 " What a lovely girl, Fanny! but how pale and fragile she 
 looks." 
 
 " Yes, poor child!" said Mrs. Leslie. " Her beauty startled 
 me quite as much as it has startled you. I don't think I ever 
 saw a lovelier face; and she is grace itself, isn't she? I think 
 I have secured a treasure for you. But we must be very care- 
 ful of her. The poor child has just lost her father only a 
 week ago. Think of it!" 
 
 " Oh, dear!" murmured Lady Theodosia, compassionately. 
 
 " And I fancy there was trouble money trouble before 
 that, though she has said nothing. Indeed, she is very re- 
 served and reticent, like all who have suffered. I don't think, 
 from what I can glean, that she has a friend in the world." 
 
 " She will have two now/' said Lady Theodosia, simply. 
 
 " That's like you, dear," said Mrs. Leslie, kissing her. " I 
 think you will get very fond of her. I have taken to her 
 tremendously already, though there is nothing brilliant about 
 her, thank Heaven! It is wonderful how innocent of the 
 world she is. She had never seen London till yesterday. In 
 fact, she is just an unsophisticated, unaffected child, with the 
 sorrowful heart of a woman." 
 
 " A woman with a history?" said Lady Theodosia. 
 
 " I I don't know. No, I don't think so. How should 
 she have ' a history '? She is too young. No, %think her 
 only trouble is the death of her father and her terrible loneli- 
 
 ness. 
 tt 
 
 At any rate, she shall be lonely no longer," said Lady 
 Theodosia, very quietly.
 
 O2ICE rsr A LIFE. 165 
 
 The footman brought the tea into the drawing-room where 
 they were standing. Lady Theodosia filled a cup and left the 
 room with it, saying over her shoulder: 
 
 " You can pour out your own, dear." 
 
 The maid had offered to help Lyra remove her things and 
 unpack her portmanteau, but Lyra had gently declined, and, 
 left alone, had gone to the window and looked out dreamily, 
 thinking of the name she had heard Theodosia. 
 
 A knock came to the door and she opened it, to find Lady 
 Theodosia standing there with the cup of tea in her hand. 
 
 " May I come in?" she said, as if she were the newly en- 
 gaged companion, and Lyra the mistress. 
 
 Lyra opened the door wide, and Lady Theodosia entered. 
 
 " I have brought you a cup of tea/' she said, lifting her 
 clear brown eyes almost timidly to Lyra's large, sad orbs. 
 " Will you let me stay while you drink it? I know what it is 
 to arrive in a strange house and feel lonely. Let me help you 
 take your hat off. Why, how tall you are!" 
 
 Lyra looked at her, and as she looked the tears welled into 
 her eyes and fell on Lady Theodosia' s sleeve. 
 
 Lady Theodosia took no notice, even when a sob escaped 
 Lyra's lips. 
 
 " Drink your tea. I wonder why a hat always makes one's 
 head ache? There, now." 
 
 She smoothed Lyra's beautiful hair from her forehead, and 
 
 fently forced her into a chair. " Sit down and finish the cup. 
 will fetch you another, if you like." 
 
 Lyra tried to drink the tea. 
 
 "Oh! no, no!" she said; then she broke down and hid her 
 face in her hands. The outburst lasted only for a moment, 
 and relieved her overstrained nerves; and presently she looked 
 up at Lady Theodosia with a world of self-reproach. 
 
 " I I am ashamed," she faltered. 
 
 " Ashamed of being tired?" said Lady Theodosia, with a 
 smile. " Then we should, all of us, be very often ashamed of 
 ourselves. I know exactly how you feel, and I ventured to 
 come up to you because I knew. But I will go now, and you 
 must rest. You need not come down to dinner unless you 
 like." 
 
 " Thank you, my lady," said Lyra. 
 
 Lady Theo^osia made a little grimace. 
 
 "Oh! please no!" she said. " Call me Lady Theodosia. 
 What is the matter?" she asked, for Lyra's face had paled 
 again suddenly. *' I want you to understand at once it ii 
 always best, is it not? that I desire that we should be friends, 
 
 , - ; ,-rt.
 
 166 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 You hare come to help Mrs. Leslie, who is my dearest friend. 
 Will you tell me your name I mean, your Christian name?" 
 
 " Lyra/' said Lyra, in a low voice. Her heart was throb- 
 bing under this unexpected kindness. 
 
 "Lyra," repeated Theodosia; " it is a musical name in two 
 senses of the word. I wish mine were as pretty; not that one 
 should be discontented," she added, with a touch of her nat- 
 ural gravity. " Well, you shall stay upstairs to dinner, but 
 you must come down afterward, for I think it will be better for 
 you than remaining here all alone. You would feel solitary 
 and neglected." 
 
 " You are very kind," was all Lyra could say. 
 
 Lady Theodosia smiled up at her as she rose. ** You aro 
 very tall," she said again, and added, mentally, " very grace- 
 ful. You must make haste and get strong again. You havo 
 been ill, have you not?" 
 
 " N-o," said Lyra. " Yes, I think so." 
 
 Lady Theodosia understood. 
 
 " We must teach you to forget your trouble," she said, in 
 a low voice. " Good-bye. I will send for you after dinner. 
 We shall be quite alone. If there is anything you want, ring 
 that bell by the book-case; it communicates with my maid's 
 room, and she will answer it." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie was still in the drawing-room when Lady Theo- 
 dosia returned. 
 
 " Well?" she said. 
 
 Lady Theodosia was silent a moment. 
 
 " I am not surprised at your ' taking to her/ as you call 
 it," she said, thoughtfully. " She has fascinated me. It is 
 absurd, of course," she added, quickly. " One should guard 
 against such sudden prepossessions and prejudices, I know; 
 but well, one can not always help them. I suppose it is her 
 beauty and that mournful look hi her eyes. What color are 
 they?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Mrs. Leslie, with a laugh. " If you 
 were a man, I should say you had fallen in love with Lyra 
 Chester, Theo." 
 
 Lady Theodosia echoed the laugh; then she said, gravely: 
 
 " He would be a very insensible man who would not fall in 
 love with her." 
 
 Lyra changed her black serge traveling-dress for one of soft 
 cashmere, which she had provided for evening wear; and 
 shortly after she had done so, the maid appeared with a dainty 
 dinner on an antique silver salver, which a footman had car- 
 ried to the door lor her. There was a glass of burgundy
 
 OtfCE IN JL LIFE. 167 
 
 among the other things, and the maid said, as she put it be- 
 side the plate: 
 
 11 Her ladyship says you are to be sure and drink the wine. 
 You are to take it as medicine, miss. You will ring for any- 
 thing else you want, miss." 
 
 She put Lyra's things in the wardrobe, and " tidied up " 
 the room with deft noiselessness before leaving, and Lyra felt 
 that the kindly spirit of the mistress had imparted itself to the 
 servants. 
 
 She tried to eat the dinner and drink half the glass of wine, 
 then went to the window and looked at the sunset, which was 
 throwing red gleams over the ancient park and broad meadows, 
 her heart almost aching with its sense of the kindness of these 
 new friends Providence had raised up for her. 
 
 Then she made a tour of the room, viewing the luxurious 
 furniture and appointments with a kind of wonder. Like most 
 of the guest-chambers in Castle Towers, this they had given 
 her was furnished half as a bedroom and half as a sitting-room. 
 There was a dainty little writing-table, a well-stocked book- 
 case of rosewood, a great bowl of flowers, easy-chairs, and a 
 couch; a combination of comfort and luxury common enough 
 in the houses of the rich, but strange and wonderful in Lyra's 
 eyes. 
 
 While she was looking over the titles of the books, the maid 
 knocked. 
 
 " Her ladyship says that if you are quite rested, will you 
 come down? I am to show you the way, miss." 
 
 " I am quite ready," said Lyra; and she followed the girl 
 down the great stairs and across the hall into the drawing-room. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie was seated by the window, and Lady Theodosia, 
 who was at the piano, playing softly, motioned Lyra to a seat 
 near her. 
 
 " Are you fond of music?" she asked, continuing to play. f 
 " But I am sure you are. Do you sing?" v 
 
 Lyra hesitated, and Lady Theodosia went on, with a laugh: 
 
 ' '"Everybody says ' No ' to that, as a matter of course." 
 
 " I have had no lessons; I'm afraid I don't sing," said 
 Lyra. " But I will try, if you wish. " 
 
 " Not to-night, certainly," she said, with a smile. You 
 are too tired. I will sing to you instead." 
 
 " Will yo*have the lights?" asked Mrs. Leslie. 
 
 Instinctively, Lyra rose to ring the bell, but Lady Theo- 
 dosia stretched out her hand and kept her hi her seat. 
 
 " No, dear. It is pleasant in the gloaming, and I know the 
 gong. We will have lights when the tea comes in. "
 
 168 ONCE IK A LITE. 
 
 She began to sing " The Star of Bethlehem " in a sweet 
 though not powerful voice, and Lyra leaned back with half- 
 closed eyes, and listened with a grateful sense of rest and 
 peace. 
 
 Lady Theodosia paused after the first part. 
 
 " You like it?" she said. 
 
 " Yes/' said Lyra. 
 
 " It is a great favorite of mine, but it wants a man's voice." 
 
 " It wants Dane's," said Mrs. Leslie, with a half laugh, 
 and so quietly that Lyra did not hear her. 
 
 Lady Theodosia blushed slightly and frowned a little, then 
 went on with the song. Suddenly she stopped and looked 
 round. 
 
 " Who is that?" she asked. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie looked up listeningly. 
 
 " Well, I thought I heard a man's voice," she said. 
 
 As she spoke the door opened and a footman announced: 
 
 " Lord Arniitage!" 
 
 Lyra, looking like one in a dream, saw a tall figure in even- 
 ing-dress enter, and heard a voice Iris voice say: 
 
 " Halloo, Dosie! I thought you eschewed the ways of dark- 
 ness. Where are you and which are you?" 
 
 And he looked round the dim room, with a laugh. 
 
 Lady Theodosia rose and glided toward him. 
 
 " Is that you, Dane? Why did you not come to dinner?" 
 
 " Yes, why didn't you? We had lobster cutlets," remarked 
 Mrs. Leslie. 
 
 " Eeally?" he said. " Perhaps there are some left." 
 
 Was she asleep and dreaming? It was his voice, and yet 
 yet there was a difference. The words were light enough, but 
 the light-hearted ring in the tones were absent. Oh, surely 
 she must be dreaming! As she gazed at him, her lips apart, 
 her heart seemed breaking with its wild throbbing, the room 
 spun round with her. 
 
 He came toward her, walking by Lady Theodosia's side, and 
 presently he saw her. 
 
 He stopped short. 
 
 " Why who is this?" he said, in a low voice of faint sur- 
 prise. 
 
 Lyra rose unsteadily and grasped the back of the chair. 
 
 "It is Miss Chester," said Lady Theodosia, in her even 
 Toice. " Miss Chester, this is Lord Dane Armitage." 
 
 Dane started, then took a step forward. 
 
 "Merciful Heaven!" broke from his lips; then, as she 
 staggered, he caught her in his arms.
 
 OKCE IK A LIFE. 169 
 
 Mrs. Leslie hurried forward at his wild exclamation. 
 
 " Oh, poor child, poor child! she has fainted," she said. 
 " Give her to me, Dane. Help me with her to the sofa there." 
 
 He held her for a moment, gazing wildly at the white, 
 lovely face lying against his breast, then raised his eyes to the 
 other women with a fierce refusal. 
 
 "Leave her to me!" he said, hoarsely; then he mastered 
 himself, and carrying her to the sofa, laid her down. 
 
 There was not light enough to see his face, or it would have 
 told its story to Mrs. Leslie, at any rate. 
 
 " Poor girl!" she said. " Ring for the lights, Lord Dane, 
 please; and I think you had better go and have a cigar in the 
 library." 
 
 He did as he was told, and went out like a man walking in 
 his sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIH. 
 
 LYRA came to in a very little while, and looked up at the 
 two women and around the room with a dazed expression, 
 which gave place to one of fear as she remembered Lord 
 Dane's presence. 
 
 Neither Lady Theodosia nor Mrs. Leslie had the least sus- 
 picion of the cause of her sudden swoon, and both were full of 
 sympathy for her. 
 
 " Are you better?" asked Lady Theodosia, putting her arm 
 round Lyra to support her. 
 
 " My dear child, you have almost frightened us out of our 
 lives," said Mrs. Leslie. " Are you given to fainting in this 
 way?" 
 
 Lyra shook her head. 
 
 " I have never faulted before in my life that I remember," 
 she said; then she looked round the room and sighed deeply. 
 Was it a dream, or had she really seen and heard him? 
 
 " It was the long journey and the excitement of novelty," 
 said Lady Theodosia, pityingly. " We ought to have sent you 
 to bed directly you came; but I thought it would be better for 
 you, less lonely, to spend the first evening with us." 
 
 " You have given Lord Dane as bad a fright as you have 
 given us," remarked Mrs. Leslie, with a smile. " I never saw 
 him so startled; but men are always such babies in the pres- 
 ence of a fainting woman. It was fortunate that he happened 
 to be standing near you, or you would have fallen." 
 v Lyra hung her head. It seemed to her that she had em-
 
 170 ONCE IN A 
 
 barked upon a course of deceit and concealment from which 
 there was no escape. 
 
 " I must go," sne said, almost to herself; " yes, I must go." 
 
 "Tobsd?" said Lady Theodosia. "Of course you shall. 
 Do you think you are able to walk yet?" 
 
 Lyra rose, trembling. 
 
 '* Oh, yes," she replied, " I am all right now." 
 
 " Give me your arm," said Lady Theodosia, in her quietly 
 commanding way. " I shall never forgive myself for letting 
 you overtask yourself BO much." 
 
 They passed out into the hall, and there stood Lord Dane. 
 His handsome face looked grave and troubled, and his hands 
 were plunged in his pockets, as is the way with men when they 
 are anxious and disturbed. He took them out, and after a 
 momentary hesitation, approached them. 
 
 " I hope you are better," he said, in a low voice. 
 
 Her eyes met his for a moment, then fell. 
 
 " Yes," she said, almost inaudibly. 
 
 " Miss Chester has been traveling for two days and is not 
 strong," said Mrs. Leslie. 
 
 " I I am sorry to have given so much trouble," murmured 
 Lyra, and her lips quivered. 
 
 Mon 
 rs. Leslie following, they went up the 
 stairs. 
 
 " I will get some sal volatile," said the latter lady. " I 
 have some in my room;" and she hurried along the corridor. 
 A moment afterward she called out: " I can not find it. Have 
 you any, Dosie?" 
 
 " One moment," said Lady Theodosia; and she ran to her 
 room, and left Lyra and Dane alone. 
 
 He stood looking at her downcast face in silence for a mo- 
 ment, then he spoke. 
 
 " I can not ask you now one of the questions that are 
 troubling me," he said, in a low, hurried voice. " I can 
 scarcely believe that it is you who are standing here. For 
 God's sake, do not tremble so; it is it is as if you were afraid 
 of me." 
 
 [ am not afraid," she said, without lifting her eyes. 
 
 " Heaven knows you have no cause to be," he responded, 
 
 sadly. ' They are coming. I will be here to-morrow. I 
 
 must see you have some talk with you. Meet me will you 
 
 meet me " his voice grew imploring " in the rose garden?" 
 
 " No, nol" she said. " I must go I must leave here."
 
 ONCE Itf A LIFE. 171 
 
 "You must not!" he retorted, almost sternly. "The 
 door at the back of the hall leads to the rose garden; I will be 
 there at eleven." 
 
 " I can not I can not!" she said, almost inaudibly. 
 
 The two ladies came down the corridor, and Mrs. Leslie 
 took Lyra's arm. 
 
 " I will take charge of her. But I think she is quite well 
 now. Are you not, dearf" 
 
 " Quite," said Lyra. " Good-night "she looked at Lady 
 Theodosia, not at Lord Dane " and and thank you." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie was kindness itself, and dismissing the maid, 
 herself helped Lyra to undress. 
 
 ' You will be all right in the morning, my dear," she said, 
 " and we shall all be laughing at your sudden collapse." 
 
 Lyra scarcely spoke a word if she had, it would have been 
 to say, " I must go!" and Mrs. Leslie soon left her and went 
 down-stairs. 
 
 Lord Dane and Theodosia had gone into the library, and he 
 was smoking vigorously as he leaned against the mantel-shelf, 
 his head bent, his eyes fixed on the carpet. 
 
 " Poor Lord Dane!" said Mrs. Leslie, with a laugh. 
 " Well, you can't say that we often make a scene for you. I 
 am sorry for her. Think what it must be to find one's self 
 among strangers " 
 
 Dane bit Ms cigar. Should he confess at once that he was 
 no stranger, that he and Lyra Chester had met before? He 
 opened his lips, then hesitated. After all, it was her secret. 
 He had no right to speak. 
 
 " She is the nicest girl I ever met," went on Mrs. Leslie. 
 " As I told Dosie, I think we have got a treasure. Poor child! 
 she has had a great trouble lately." 
 
 Dane looked up. 
 
 " She has lost her father." 
 
 Dane turned his face away. Lost her father! Poor Lyra! 
 His heart ached, ached with love and pity. 
 
 " I know I shall grow quite fond of her," went on Mrs. 
 Leslie. 
 
 " Don't you think she is very beautiful?" said Lady Theo- 
 dosia, in her grave, thoughtful way, as she leaned back in the 
 rocking-chair. 
 
 Dane puffed at his cigar. He felt mean and deceitful. 
 
 " I I scarcely saw her," he said. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie laughed. 
 
 " A woman never looks at her best when she is fainting, 
 Whatever the novelists may sav< Dosie; wait until Miss Chester
 
 172 ONCE IN A LI1HZ. 
 
 gets some color in her cheeks, and a brighter light in her 
 eyes/' 
 
 "Oh! I think her very heautiful now," said Theodosia, 
 simply. 
 
 Dane flung the end of his cigar into the fire-place. 
 
 " Anyway," he said, " she has fallen among friends.*' 
 
 " Yes," said Theodosia; " I am sure I shall like her. Are 
 you going?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " Yes; I rode over with a message from the guv'nor; I'd 
 almost forgotten it." 
 
 " And little wonder," laughed Mrs. Leslie. 
 
 " He wants you both to come and dine with us the day after 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, thanks; we shall be delighted," said Lady Theodosia. 
 ** I suppose we may bring Miss Chester; that is, if she is well 
 enough?" 
 
 " Oh, certainly," he said. He rang the bell he was almost 
 master at Castle Towers and ordered his dog-cart, shook 
 hands with the ladies, and strode out. 
 
 " I may be over to-morrow," he said, over his shoulder. 
 
 " Lord Dane behaved very well," said Mrs. Leslie. " But, 
 then, he always behaves well." 
 
 " Does he?" said Lady Theodosia, with an absent smile. 
 " Yes, I suppose it was rather trying for him; to be intro- 
 duced to a strange girl one moment, and have to catch her in 
 his arms the next. What was it he said as he caught her; did 
 you hear?" 
 
 "No, I didn't," replied Mrs. Leslie. "I dare say he 
 swore; most men would have under the circumstance;" and 
 she laughed. 
 
 Lyra lay awake a greater part of the night. Fate had been 
 against her, and thrown her and Lord Dane together again. 
 
 There was only one thing to do: to go away as quickly and 
 quietly as possible. As she lay tossing from side to side, she 
 reminded herself again and again, a hundred, a thousand 
 times, that she was married; that even if Lord Dane had not 
 been engaged to Lady Theodosia, she, Lyra, was not a free 
 woman. She was married to a man, base and vile, mean and 
 despicable, but still irrevocably married. It was hard, it was 
 cruel of Fate, but she must bow to the inevitable. 
 
 She fell asleep at last, a dream-haunted sleep from which 
 she woke pale and weary. 
 
 And as she woke she remembered the appointment Lord 
 Dane had made. Should she keep it? She decided she would
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 173 
 
 not. What good could come of it? A gulf, a dark golf 
 yawned between her and him, and nothing but death or dis- 
 honor could bridge it. She would make some excuse and leave 
 that day. But where should she go? 
 
 "When the breakfast-bell rang the maid brought in a daintily 
 laid tray, and soon afterward Mrs. Leslie entered the room. 
 
 " I see you are better without asking," she said. " There 
 is nothing like a good night's rest. Now, mind, you are to 
 keep quite quiet all day. Lady Theodosia and I are off almost 
 directly to a meeting; my poor child, you will learn all about 
 these meetings presently;" and she laughed. " Lie in bed if 
 you can, but if you can't, just wander about the house till we 
 come back." 
 
 Lyra sighed. 
 
 " I I was going to ask Lady Theodosia to let me go," she 
 said. 
 
 '' Let you go? Go where?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Lyra, simply. " But I feel, I know, 
 that I" 
 
 " Oh, nonsense!" broke in Mrs. Leslie, in her outspoken 
 way. " You mustn't talk of going. Do you think because 
 you are weak and ill that Lady Theodosia, or I, for that mat- 
 ter, want to get rid of you? My dear child, you will be all 
 right in a few hours. There, don't talk nonsense; but take 
 care of yourself till we come back. We shall be in to lunch. I 
 should get out into the garden and just wander or sit about in 
 the shade; it is a lovely garden." 
 
 Lyra sat for an hour with her head bowed on her hand, try- 
 ing to decide what she should do. If Lady Theodosia had not 
 turned out to be the " Theodosia," if Lord Dane had not ap- 
 peared on the scene, how happy well, if not happy, for hap- 
 piness seemed to have fled from her forever how contented 
 and at peace she could have been! 
 
 Still undecided for the question " Where should she go?" 
 could not be answered she at last went down-stairs. 
 
 The sun was shining brightly through the hall, with its 
 family portraits and great porcelain vases, men in armor, 
 oaken chests, and subdued velvet hangings, and she saw the 
 glass door leading to the rose garden. It was open, and the 
 scent of the flowers came in, accompanied by the humming of 
 " innumerable bees " and the music of the birds. 
 
 She went into the drawing-room, but she could not remain 
 there. She seemed to still see him as he came across the 
 room, hear his voice. Yes, oh, yes! she must go! 
 
 She was making her way back to her room to pack up her
 
 174 . ONCE IN A LIFB. 
 
 things, when she heard a step his step on the terrace, and 
 he came into the hall. 
 
 He was dressed almost as she had seen him first, his stalwart 
 figure looking more than its height in the suit of Harris tweed 
 and doeskin gaiters. 
 
 He did not see her for a moment where she stood, almost 
 hidden behind a vase, and she saw him look round with an ex- 
 pression of constrained eagerness. Then he caught sight of 
 ner, and came to her, with his hat in his hand. 
 
 " Are you better?" he asked, in a low, anxious voice. 
 
 " I am quite well, Lord Dane," she said, very slowly, and 
 as steadily as she could. 
 
 She was resolved that there should be no more weakness on 
 her part. Whatever she might suffer, she would show no sign 
 of it. 
 
 " I am glad very glad," he said. " I was afraid that you 
 would be Ul this morning. You still look pale and and weak. 
 Where are you going?' 7 for she had moved toward the stairs. 
 
 " To my room," she said. " I I am going away, Lord 
 Dane. Lady Theodosia and Mrs. Leslie are out." 
 
 He took no notice of this piece of information. 
 
 " Wait," he said, gently enough; but there was a tone of 
 command, the man's masterful ring, under the gentleness, 
 which stayed her steps. " Do not go away until I have spoken 
 to you. I ask it earnestly, humbly. I know you have no 
 reason^far otherwise to listen to any request of mine; I 
 know how you must regard me; but I ask I humbly ask you 
 to listen to me, Ly Miss Chester." 
 
 She hesitated, and he caught at his advantage. 
 
 " Come into the garden," he said. " We may be overheard 
 here. Come; I will not keep you many minutes, and after 
 our talk, if you still want to go, well " 
 
 He sighed. 
 
 He opened the garden door for her, and they passed out. 
 He glanced at the brilliant sun, and took a Japanese sun-shade 
 from the stand to shelter her. The little act spoke volumes. 
 
 The rose garden, now in its glory, was the loveliest spot 
 Lyra had ever seen, even in her dreams. She stood looking 
 round her a moment, taking in the beauty of the flowers, the 
 sense of her own misery. Dane pointed to a seat, and she 
 sunk into it. He gave her the sun-shade. 
 
 " The sun is hot," she said; and she tried to thank him. 
 
 He stood beside her looking down at her. In his eyes, in 
 his heart, uhe wao the loveliest, the one woman hi all the
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 174 
 
 world; and yet he could not take her by the hand and draw 
 
 her to his heart and claim her. 
 
 " Tell me how you come to be here," he said, at last. 
 
 She nerved herself to answer steadily, almost coldly: 
 
 " I saw an advertisement and I answered it. I did not 
 
 &now." She paused. " It was Mrs. Leslie who wrote to me 
 
 and whom I saw. I did not know that it was Lady Theodosia 
 
 to whom I was engaged." 
 
 " I understand/' he said, hi a low voice. " But but why 
 was it necessary?" 
 
 Her lips quivered, but she answered bravely: 
 
 " My father" 
 
 " I know," he said. " They told me last night I had not 
 heard of it." 
 
 " It was not likely that you would," she said, simply. 
 " When he died, I was all alone in the world, and poor. There 
 was nothing left." 
 
 " No friends?" he said. 
 
 "None," she replied, quietly, "except Griffith. He is 
 staying on at the cottage; he will live there. No, there was 
 no friend. I was all alone and had to work * : 
 
 She stopped suddenly as she remembered Geoffrey Barle, 
 stopped and shuddered slightly; and yet she had spoken the 
 truth, for the vile wretch had gone. She had been alone in 
 the world. 
 
 His heart ached for her. He turned his face away. 
 
 *' I answered the advertisement, and the clergyman the 
 Vicar of Barnstaple, who who buried my father gave me a 
 testimonial. He was very kind. He said I was very fortunate 
 in obtaining a situation, and I should have been if " 
 
 " If I had not appeared," he said, gravely. 
 
 " Perhaps I shall be able to get another," she said, calmly. 
 " I will go back to the cottage and wait." 
 
 " No," he said; "you must not go back. Listen to me, 
 Lyra." He stopped and bit his lip. " I beg your pardon. 
 Miss Chester, I do not ask you to forgive me for for what 
 has passed between us. I I was mad that day up in the val- 
 ley there " His voice dropped sadly. The vision of those 
 few happy hours rose before him as they rose before her. 
 " Knowing that that I was not a free man, I should have 
 kept silence. I had no right to say what I did. Miss Chester, 
 I am engaged to marry Lady Theodosia." 
 
 " I know that. I think I knew it the moment I heard her 
 name, saw her," she said, her eyes fixed on the rose-tree in
 
 1T<5 ONCE IN A IJFE. 
 
 front of her, a magnificent Gloire, bowed down with its weight 
 of blossoms. 
 
 " We were betrothed almost in our cradles," he went on, 
 like a man who has a bitter, bad task before him, but means 
 to get through with it at any cost; " our fathers arranged it; 
 we ratified it, but I I forgot it God forgive me! that day 
 up the valley. I behaved like a coward, a cur, but " he 
 looked at her, at the lovely eyes, with their sad, intent gaze at 
 the roses " but I was sorely tempted. Until that day that 
 moment I did not know what love meant; I did not know 
 that I had a heart in my bosom." 
 
 Lyra's lips trembled. 
 
 " I L can not listen," she said, with a little pant. 
 
 " You are right. Do not go," for she had made as if to 
 rise. " I will not say anything of that sort again. I will try 
 and not be selfish, though I am a man. I don't want to think 
 of myself, but of you." 
 
 He was silent a moment, gnawing at his mustache; then he 
 went on: 
 
 " You say that you are all alone in the world, without 
 friends?" 
 
 For one second one only Lyra was conscious of an im- 
 pulse, a desire, to tell him of Geoffrey Barle her husband. 
 But this impulse lasted only for a moment. She could not 
 bring herself to tell him of that mean, base bargain, which 
 Geoffrey Barle had broken directly she had sacrificed herself. 
 Indeed, why should she tell Lord Dane rather than any other 
 stranger? He was nothing, could be nothing, to her. 
 
 " Yes," she said, almost inaudibly. 
 
 " But you have found friends both Theodosia and Mrs. 
 Leslie like you; I don't wonder at that. They would have 
 hearts of stone if they did not. Why should you go?" 
 
 " Ah, yes; 1 must go," she murmured. 
 
 " No, he said; " I do not see that. I have done you quite 
 injury enough. Why should I be the cause of further suffer- 
 ing? You want to go because I have turned up here, because 
 you think we must meet frequently. " 
 , She turned her face away. 
 
 " That is it, is it not?" he said. " Merciful Heaven!" he 
 broke out, losing his self-possession for a moment. " Why 
 was I I who lov was I fated to bring you uuhappiness? 
 Ly Miss Chester, you must not go. You have found a home; 
 f-ieiids. You must not add to my misery, my remorse, by 
 leaving them. See, now " he grasped the arm of the seat; 
 it cost him something to refrain from touching her, from put-
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 177 
 
 ting his arm round her. " You must not fear me. Great 
 Heaven! you are not afraid of me, are you?'* 
 
 " Afraid? 'No/' she said, in a low voice. 
 
 " Well, then, why should you go? You will see very little 
 of me. I can go away, I can go abroad " 
 
 He saw by her face that this argument was a bad one. 
 
 " Oh, no, no!" she said, still in the same sad murmur. 
 " You would leave her because I am here. I should be keep- 
 ing you from her, from Lady Theodosia." 
 
 He gnawed at bis mustache and strode up and down the 
 narrow path. 
 
 " You are right," he said. " I I am a coward and an 
 idiot. You are quicker than I am, see further than I do. 
 Well, then, I will not go abroad. But I will not come here 
 often. Theodosia is used to long spells of absence," he smiled 
 bitterly. " But when I am here we you and I need see very 
 little of each other. I say this for my sake. I am not such 
 a conceited fool as to imagine that you you bestow a thought 
 on me, after after now that you know I belong to another 
 woman/' 
 
 He looked straight before him; but if he had looked into 
 her face he would not have been able to read anything there. 
 She was schooling herself, and was learning to keep her eyes 
 from showing her heart. 
 
 " I am nothing to you, I know that," he went on, after a 
 pause. " Why should I drive you away. Lyra Miss Chester, 
 don't go, don't add to my misery. As it is, my punishment 
 is almost more than I can bear. I won't answer for myself if 
 you leave here, and I have to go about knowing that I have 
 driven you into the cruel world without a friend." 
 
 She was silent, but her lips trembled. 
 
 " See here," he said, and his voice grew hoarse and husky. 
 
 " You and I can never be anything more to each other; Fate 
 has been one too many for us; but" his voice broke for a 
 moment, then he continued with a fierce eagerness " but we 
 can be friends. Great Heaven! there can be such a thing as 
 friendship between men and women, though the world laughs 
 at the idea and makes a mock of it. Lyra, you forgive me?" 
 he demanded, suddenly, and he bent over her. 
 
 She raised her eyes to his almost for the first time. 
 
 " Forgive?" she said, sadly. " There is nothing to forgive, 
 Lord Dane." 
 
 " Nothing!" he said, with a bitter laugh. " There has been 
 enough to keep me awake night after night, enough to make 
 me wish myself dead, Lyra, they say if you save a man's life
 
 178 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 you will live to rue it; that sooner or later you will come to 
 wish that you had let him die. You saved my life " 
 
 " Oh, no!" 
 
 " Yes, and yes! Do you think I forget? And a pretty re- 
 turn I made for that life! Nothing to forgive! I wishyoa 
 had let me sink in the Taw that day!" 
 
 She shuddered. 
 
 " Do do not go back to that!" she faltered, piteously. 
 
 He mastered his emotion. 
 
 " You are right," he said, sadly. " I must not go back; I 
 have to forget it. It is a devil of a hard lesson, but I've got 
 to learn it. But you say you forgive me? Well, then, grant 
 my request, my prayer. Let me think that you really mean 
 what you say; prove it by staying on here." 
 
 " Will nothing less satisfy you?" she said, in a tremulous 
 voice. " Better let me go." 
 
 " No, no!" he said. " If if you go " he stopped for a 
 moment, then went on vehemently " then, by Heaven, I go, 
 too! If you go, I will follow you. I will break my word, my 
 Vow; I will cast honor to the winds; I will 
 
 He had drawn closer to her, and let his hand fall on her 
 shoulder. Lyra shrunk back and looked up at him. 
 
 " No, no!" she breathed. "You must not, you cannotl 
 I I" 
 
 Her face grew white. 
 
 " Well, then," he said, with suppressed passion, " make up 
 your mind. Stay here, and let us be friends. I will never 
 say one word to remind you to to offend you. I will let the 
 past go as if it had never been. To the world the outside 
 world we will be as strangers; only you and I shall know that 
 a tie a tie of the warmest, closest friendship that ever existed 
 between man and woman binds us. Never by word or look 
 will I remind you of the past or offend you. Stay, Lyra 
 Miss Chester don't add to my punishment. Stay " for she 
 had opened her lips " stay!" and his face grew white. " It 
 is not for your forgiveness alone that I plead, but for my 
 honor." 
 
 "Your honor?" 
 
 " Yes. I swear that if you leave here, I will break off my 
 engagement with Theodosia!" 
 
 She looked at him with, white face and alarmed eyes. 
 
 " Oh, no, no!" she breathed. " It it would be of no use." 
 
 " I know that," he said, bitterly " I kndw that you do 
 not care for me, that you do not love me. If ever you might 
 have learned to do so, the knowledge of my treachery God
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 179 
 
 forgive me! would have crushed out any fondness you might 
 have had for me. I know all that; but all the same I would 
 break my vow, I would break off this engagement " 
 
 " Oh, stop, stop!" she panted, her head sinking on her 
 bosom. " If you only knew! It is I who ought to ask your 
 forgiveness. It is I I!" The tears started in her eyes and 
 blinded her for a moment. Then she looked up at him, 
 though she could scarcely see him. " It it shall be as you 
 wish, Lord Dane," she said. " I I will stay. But but 
 remember that the past is dead and buried. You do not know 
 all you can not guessr^ii-rSer^yoice broke and she was silent 
 a moment. " If yeti did, youtKmld know that we never 
 could, never, never, be anything mor^'-ihan friends/' 
 
 " I am content/' he said, with a land ^f suppressed passion. 
 
 " Let me call you friend. Let me klaow that the past is 
 wiped out, that I have your forgiveness, that I am not in your 
 eyes the beastly coward and traitor I am in my own 
 
 " In the garden, did you say?" said a grave, clear voice at 
 this moment. 
 
 Dane started and looked^ round. 
 
 " It is the parson," he salft^aai-gfi'awing his mustache, he 
 stood upright as an arrow. 
 
 Lyra looked up. A tall, thin young man in clerical garb 
 was coming up the path. 
 
 " Good -morning, Lord Dane," he said; then he stopped 
 and raised his hat to Lyra. 
 
 Dane eyed him rather grimly and sulkily. 
 
 " This is Mr. Martin Fanshawe, Miss Chester," he said. 
 
 The Reverend Martin glanced from one to the other in his 
 grave, almost stern fashion. 
 
 " How do you do?" he said. " Lady Theodosia sent me to 
 look for you, Miss Chester. I don't think she knows you are 
 here, Lord Dane." 
 
 Dane lugged a cigar from his pocket and lighted it. 
 
 " Been to some meeting, I suppose?" he said, rather gruffly. 
 
 " The committee meeting of the Society of Clear-Starchers," 
 said Mr. Fanshawe, gravely. 
 
 Lyra got up and went toward the house, and Dane kept Mr. 
 Fanshawe talking for a few minutes, then followed with him. 
 
 . CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 BOTH men stayed to lunch. Mr. Fanshawe and Lady 
 Theodosia did nearly all the talking. Lyra sat silent, scarcely 
 listening, and Dane was "Uent also. He eat his lunch there
 
 180 ' ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 were lobster cutlets in a preoccupied fashion, and now and 
 again he glanced at the beautiful face opposite him. 
 
 What a cross-purposed jade Fate was! There sat the woman 
 he loved, and who, he thought and felt, might have loved 
 him there she sat, silent and sad, perhaps thinking of him. 
 And there, near her, was the little woman he was going to 
 marry; and though she might love him, she certainly was not 
 thinking of him, for all her attention was given to the tall, 
 thin young clergyman who talked glibly and gravely of clear- 
 starchers, Dorcas societies, mothers' meetings, cottage-garden 
 clubs, and the parish Sunday-schools. She appeared so ab- 
 sorbed hi all those important topics as to have forgotten Lord 
 Dane's existence. 
 
 After lunch she rose. 
 
 " I think we might make out those lists/' she said. 
 "Lyra" she looked at Lyra hesitatingly "do you feel 
 well enough to help us? Are you sure?" For Lyra had an- 
 swered "Yes," with quiet promptitude. " At any rate, you 
 might sit in an easy-chair and listen. You could pick up a 
 great deal of the work that way. You are going to smoke a 
 cigar on the terrace, I suppose, Dane?" she said to him, over 
 her shoulder, as she left the room. 
 
 " I don't know," he said, carelessly. " I've got a kind of 
 an idea that I'm interested in the work, also. I fancy I'll 
 come that is, if I may do the easy-chair part likewise." 
 
 " Oh, come, if you like!" she said, indifferently; but Mr. 
 Fanahawe frowned slightly. 
 
 They went into the library, and Lady Theodosia took her 
 seat at the table. Mr. Fanshawe produced a bag of books, and 
 they fell to. 
 
 Lyra stood near the window for a time; but presently Dane, 
 who had been staring at the book-shelves, pushed a chair to- 
 ward her. 
 
 " Sit down," he said, in a low voice. 
 
 At the same moment Lady Theodosia looked up. Her face 
 was eager, and her eyes wore an expression of concentration. 
 It was evident that she was wrapped in her work. 
 
 " Miss Chester, will you copy this for me? That is, if you 
 are sure you are well enough," she added, kindly enough. 
 
 " Yes," said Lyra; and gladly she took the paper to a side 
 table. 
 
 She had not been writing many minutes before a shadow 
 fell on her paper. Lord Daoe was standing over her. 
 
 " Can you make it out?" he said, in a low voice, though
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. Ibl 
 
 there was no occasion for it, for the other two were too ab- 
 sorbed to notice him. 
 
 " Oh, yes," she said. 
 
 He picked up the copy. 
 
 " I'll read it out to you," he said. " You'll get on faster 
 that way." 
 
 " No, thanks," she said, a faint color coming into her face; 
 but he ignored her refusal. 
 
 " Ready? Right; off we go. What is it? Report of the 
 "Visiting Committee? Humph! Ready? 
 
 " * The committee have distributed two thousand four hun- 
 dred and sixty-one tracts during the last six months, and vis- 
 ited one hundred and sixty-four homes. They regret that in 
 many cases they were received with anything but a warm wel- 
 come, and that their attempts to brighten the homes of the 
 poor were often met with repugnance and discourtesy. ' Some 
 of 'em got a brick at their heads, I suppose. Not surprised. 
 Wonder how they'd like Bill Stumps to march into their 
 houses while they were at dinner, and ask them how much 
 wine they drank, and how often they washed their babies? 
 Some of these days that's what will happen when the ' work- 
 ing-man ' gets the upper hand, and, by George! it can't be long 
 first." 
 
 He had raised his voice and disturbed the other two. 
 
 " What are you talking about, Dane?" demanded Lady 
 Theodosia, a delicate line on her smooth forehead. 
 
 " I am dictating the report to Miss Chester," he replied, 
 blandly. " Endeavoring to make myself useful, am I not, 
 Miss Chester?" 
 
 His eyes forced hers to rise to them. There was a light in 
 them, a boyish joyousness which had been absent since well, 
 since he had left her that morning weeks ago. 
 
 " I I can do it without the dictation, my lord," she said, 
 Cjuietly. 
 
 " There you are, you see!" he exclaimed, laying down the 
 report. " If I try to be good, I don't get any encouragement. 
 I might just as well have been outside with a cigar." 
 
 Yes, there was a touch of the old boyish and light-hearted 
 eayetv in his voice. The line in Lady Theodosia's forehead 
 j i 
 
 deepened. 
 
 " Why do you make a jest of it, Dane?" she said, in her 
 low, grave voice. " Life is real; life is earnest," she quoted. 
 
 He looked at her gravely; the smile had vaniihed from his 
 lace.
 
 183 OITCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " Yes, it's real and earnest enough," he said; and his eyes 
 rested for a moment on Lyra's head as she bent over her task. 
 
 He opened the French window as he spoke, and went out on 
 to the terrace. 
 
 Lady Theodosia sighed. 
 
 " I am afraid you will think Lord Dane very frivolous, Miss 
 Chester," she said, hi a tone of regret and apology. Lyra 
 looked up, but said nothing, which was just as well, perhaps, 
 for he came sauntering back to the window, a cigar in hit. 
 mouth. 
 
 " Mr. Fanshawe," he said. 
 
 That gentleman looked up with knit brows. 
 
 " What is it now, Dane?" asked Lady Theodosia. " Mr. 
 Fanshawe is very busy." 
 
 " So I see. I won't interrupt him for long,' : he said, with 
 mock meekness. " I was only going to ask him if he will come 
 over and dine with us to-morrow. " 
 
 Lady Theodosia looked surprised and well, yes, rather 
 pleased. Mr. Fanshawe only looked surprised. 
 
 " Thank you, Lord Dane," he said, coldly. " To-morrow?" 
 He thought for a moment. " I have a young woman's cate- 
 chism class to-morrow, otherwise I should 
 
 " Bring 'em with you," said the irrepressible Dane. 
 
 Lady Theodosia frowned outright. 
 , " My dear Dane, if you would only be serious!" 
 
 " Never more serious hi my life," he said. "Nothing 
 would give the guv'nor more pleasure." 
 
 " You might put off the class for once," suggested Lady 
 Theodosia to Mr. Fanshawe, in a confidential, business kind of 
 way. 
 
 Do you think so, Lady Theodosia?" he hesitated. 
 
 "Oh, you'd better come," said Dane. "Look here; if 
 you're all good, I'll drive over and fetch you in the break and 
 drive you home again. It will be a lovely night. There will 
 be just enough of you. Mrs. Leslie, you, Dosie, Miss Chester, 
 and Mr. Fanshawe." 
 
 Lyra looked up, a faint color on her face. 
 
 " I need not go. I will stay at home," she said, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 Dane was on the point of bursting out with a remonstrance, 
 but wisely held his tongue. 
 
 " Oh, but you must go!" said Lady Theodosia. " I think 
 the drive would do you good. You are feeling quite well now, 
 are you not?" 
 u Lyra still hesitated. She could feel Dane's eyes were watch'
 
 rs A im isa 
 
 ing hr, though he appeared to be engaged in closely examin- 
 ing his cigar. 
 
 " Better come, Miss Chester/' he said, at last; and with an 
 affectation of polite indifference. " My father expects you all, 
 and does not like to be disappointed."' 
 
 " Very well; thank you/' she said, and bent over her work 
 again. 
 
 " All right," he said, as if the matter wero settled, " I'm 
 off now. Don't disturb yourselves, any of you." 
 
 He nodded to them all generally, but his eyes lingered 
 longest on Lyra. 
 
 Lady Theodosia sighed. 
 
 " Poor Dane! He is just like a great school-boy/' she said, 
 almost to herself. 
 
 And Mr. Fanshawe, with his earnest eyes fixed on her, 
 echoed the sigh. 
 
 Perhaps she would not have called him a school-boy if she 
 had seen him as he went down the drive on his big chestnut; 
 for there were the heavy lines of doubt, perplexity, and a 
 man's restless, unsatisfied longing in his handsome face. 
 
 " So near, and yet so far! he muttered, with something 
 like a groan. " Oh, my love that never can be mine!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 LYRA would willingly have avoided the visit to Stanninster. 
 What right had she to join the pleasures of her mistress? Why 
 should she, the companion, the amanuensis, be invited to dine 
 with the Earl of Starminster? 
 
 But when she ventured, the next morning, as she was writing 
 letters at Lady Theodosia' s dictation, to say that she was quite 
 willing to stay at home, Lady Theodosia put aside the sugges- 
 tion with a wave of the hand. 
 
 " Why should you not go?" she said. * You seem quite 
 well and strong again." 
 
 "Yes; I am quite quite well," said Lyra; "and I am 
 very strong." 
 
 " Very well, then," said Lady Theodosia, as if that settled 
 the matter. " I know what your objection is based upon. 
 You think that Lord Dane only asked you out of politeness, as 
 a matter of courtesy, and that because well, because you are 
 acting as my shall we say secretary? you would bede trop." 
 
 " Yes," said Lyra. 
 
 " Well, that is all nonsense. Forgive me, if I speak plainly, 
 but I Mrs. Leslie would not have asked you t<? come and
 
 184 OUCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 help me, if yon had not been a lady; and I count you as one 
 of us. I know that at one time some persons treated those ia 
 their well, employ as if they were made of quite inferior 
 clay; but those persons are not very numerous now, and those 
 times have passed away. By all means, accept Lord Star- 
 minster's invitation. The little outing, the small excitement, 
 will do you good. Here is another letter. It is to the secre- 
 tary of the Home for Helpless Sweeps." 
 
 And she dictated the letter. 
 
 Lyra said no more, but went on with hti* work, and in the 
 afternoon put on her plain black cashmere, and awaited Lord 
 Dane's arrival. 
 
 He turned up at six o'clock, with a pair of handsome chest- 
 nuts in a light wagonette. He had not brought a groom, and 
 called out through the open door into the hall where the 
 ladies stood: 
 
 " I won't get down. Don't keep me longer than half an 
 hour, unless you want the horses to make mince-pie of your 
 gravel, Dosie." 
 
 " I call that base ingratitude, seeing that we are ready and 
 waiting," said Mrs. Leslie. 
 
 He looked down at them with a smile on his handsome face, 
 and tried to keep the light of admiration, and, alas! love, out 
 of his eyes as they rested on Lyra. 
 
 " Now, who is going to ride up here?" he said. " Do you 
 care about it, Fanshawe?" 
 
 " Perhaps one of the ladies would like to," said Mr. Fan- 
 shawe. 
 
 " All right," assented Dane, with alacrity. 
 
 " Not for me thanks," remarked Mrs. Leslie, promptly. 
 " I know those horses, and while I can see them I am always 
 wondering whether they are going to run away or climb the 
 trees. " 
 
 " That doesn't say much for my driving," said Dane. 
 " Coming, Dosie?" 
 
 But Lady Theodosia wanted to talk parish matters with Mr. 
 Fanshawe. 
 
 " Do you mind, Lyra?" she said. 
 
 " I'll promise not to let them run away or climb the trees, 
 Miss Chester," said Dane. " Here, give me your hand;" and 
 he bent down and helped her up to the seat beside him. " Got 
 plenty of wraps? It may be chilly coming home. That's all 
 right. Off we are!" and the chestnuts bounded forward as if 
 they had been released by a spring.
 
 OKCE IN A LIFE. 185 
 
 Dane kept his attention on them for a few minutes, then he 
 got the dust-wrap and put it over Lyra's knees. 
 
 " Hope you are not nervous?" he said. " But I needn't 
 ask that/' he added, as he glanced at her face, upon which a 
 faint rose color had dawned, but certainly no shadow of fright. 
 
 " I am not afraid, if that is what you mean," she said. 
 " How beautiful and shiny they are!" 
 
 " You are fond of horses?" 
 
 " Yes, though I know nothing about them. I did not see 
 many horses in the val " 
 
 She stopped suddenly, and the rose in her cheeks turned to 
 carnation which faded and left them pale. 
 
 He looked straight ahead, as if he did not hear her; then, 
 after a moment, he began to point out the objects of interest 
 as the chestnuts went swiftly along the road. 
 
 " That's Fernley Hollow; the fairies dance there on All- 
 hallows Eve. Fernley Parish Church all the church towers 
 are alike in this county. I'm not up in architecture, but I 
 conclude that they must either have all been built by one man, 
 or the other fellows copied him, and so on;" and he carefully 
 avoided looking in her direction. 
 
 So presently the color stole back into Lyra's cheeks; the 
 beauty of the evening, the swift, sure trot of the horses, and, 
 alas and alas! his near presence, brought peace and a sem- 
 blance of happiness to her weary heart. 
 
 After awhile they turned off the main road and passed be- 
 tween some open gates of white wood. 
 
 " We're on our own land now," he said. 
 
 Lyra started slightly and sighed. 
 
 " Why that sigh?" he asked. "Has Theodosia, who is 
 almost a communist, already begun to teach you that it is 
 wicked to own land or, indeed, anything else beyond sixpence 
 and a suit of clothes?" 
 
 Lyra smiled. 
 
 " I suppose we shall soon be there?" she said, ingenuously. 
 
 " Oh, that's it!" he remarked. " You mean that the drive 
 is too short. Why didn't you say so before we turned in at 
 the gates? I could have made a longer round of it." 
 
 "Oh! no, no," she murmured. 
 
 " But we've some distance to go yet," he said. " Didn't 
 you bring a sun-shade? Never mind, we shall be in the 
 shadow of the trees directly." 
 
 The sun was shining between the leaves, throwing a red 
 glow on the chestnuts and the well-kept road; the birds were 
 ringing their evensongj a rabbit, fat and white of tail, scurried
 
 186 OKCE IN A UFE. 
 
 across the glades now and again, and a squirrel ran up a tree 
 and sat watching them with twinkling eyes. 
 
 Lord Dane and Lyra were silent for awhile, and scraps of the 
 Conversation being earned on behind them reached them. 
 
 " An evening school for the boys, and a Scripture class for 
 the girls, say twice a week," they heard Lady Theodosia say 
 earnestly; and the Reverend Martin Fanshawe's grave, reso- 
 nant voice answering her: " Yes, it would be a good thing; 
 but you must not undertake too much. It is well to labor in 
 the vineyard, but I we" he corrected himself " must not 
 overtask your strength." 
 
 Dane smiled grimly. 
 
 " Are you going to teach in the Sunday school, Miss Ches- 
 ter?" he asked. 
 
 "I? No, I I don't think so. I am not capable of it. 
 Besides, Lady Theodosia has not asked me." 
 
 " You may be sure she will do so," he responded. " I 
 rather think she asked me." He laughed, and Lyra could 
 not help a soft echo of the laugh. There was always some- 
 thing infectious in Dane's light-heartedness. " I offered to 
 go down on a week night and teach 'em boxing and fencing, 
 or to give some of them a wrinkle in the art of throwing the 
 fly-'* 
 
 He pulled himself up, but not before the crimson had 
 flooded Lyra's face again. Were they doomed to remind each, 
 other, every five minutes, of the past? 
 
 He flicked the off horse, and the surprised animal, who had 
 been behaving like an angel with four legs, jumped and fid- 
 geted. 
 
 " Do they ever run away?" asked Lyra, quietly. 
 
 " They try it on sometimes," he said. They managed to 
 get then* heads one day when the coachman was driving, and 
 ran for a couple of miles. They don't get enough work; my 
 father objects to going fast excepting in a train and I am 
 not often here. But you need not be anxious. They won't 
 get away with us this evening. Would you like to see them 
 stretch themselves? Would you like to go fast?" 
 
 Before she had considered her answer she had said yes. 
 
 He nodded with a glance of approval. 
 
 " I had an idea you would," he said. He touched them 
 with the extreme end of the whip and let them have their 
 heads a little, and away they went. 
 
 The color rose to Lyra's face, the light danced in her eyes. 
 Then she remembered the other two ladies behind.
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 187 
 
 " Will they mind, be frightened?" she said, looking at him 
 apologetically. " I did not think 
 
 " Not they," he said; " and just think of yourself, will 
 you?" he added, rather grimly, " for have you not sold your- 
 self into slavery " 
 
 " Have those wretched horses bolted, Lord Dane?" broke 
 in Mrs. Leslie's voice, but without much alarm in it. 
 
 " No, mum," he replied, in coachman fashion; "only a 
 bit fresh, mum." 
 
 " Please don't drive so recklessly, Dane/' came Lady The- 
 odosia's calm, grave voice. 
 
 He bit his lip softly, but pulled up the horses. 
 
 " I wonder whether the parson looked afraid?" he mut- 
 tered; then, a little louder: " I wish you and I had been alone; 
 we'd have spun them for a couple of miles, at any rate." 
 
 Lyra turned her face away. They had been alone once, but 
 it was very unlikely that they would be alone again for more 
 than a few minutes as long as their lives lasted. 
 
 " There's the house," he said, presently, as he took the 
 horses round a curve in masterly fashion. 
 
 Lyra raised her eyes from the horses and uttered an excla- 
 mation of amazed admiration. 
 
 Castle Towers had seemed grand to her, but this was a pal- 
 ace which she had never pictured even in imagination. The 
 sun was shining obliquely across its immense facade, and bring- 
 ing out all its strong points in the most striking and effective 
 manner. The great elms cast long shadows over the velvet 
 turf; the water in the basins of the fountains glittered crimson 
 and yellow; a peacock perched on the rail of the terrace spread 
 its tail, as if prompted by a desire to vie with the colors around 
 him. 
 
 " How lovely! how lovely!" Lyra murmured. 
 
 He looked at her rapt eyes and then at the house at the 
 latter indifferently enough. 
 
 " It's a huge barrack of a place," he said, carelessly, almost 
 apologetically. 
 
 " A barrack!" said Lyra, reproachfully. 
 
 " Well, that's what I call it," he said. ' We are not often 
 here. You see, there are only two of us, and it's fearfully dull. 
 We're lost in it. My father I hope you will like my fa- 
 ther," he broke off. 
 
 Lyra smiled faintly. 
 
 "It is of more importance that Lord Starmmster should 
 like me," she said, quietly. 
 
 " I'll answer for his liking you/' he said. He eouldn t
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 help it. But I was saying that my father, when he is here, 
 practically lives in the library. I believe when he is alone he 
 has his meals there. They send him in a chop he fancies 
 that chops are the only safe things for the gout or a chicken; 
 anything, he is quite content. He sits there all day reading 
 or writing, and at night hobbles up to bed. That makes two, 
 or at most three or four rooms; and there are all the rest. I 
 forget how many bedrooms there are, over a hundred, I believe; 
 and there aren't even ghosts to occupy them, for, somehow, 
 the ghosts have shamefully neglected us, and we haven't a 
 haunted chamber in the whole place." 
 
 " But you have friends, visitors?" said Lyra, absently; she 
 was still looking with amazement at the vast pile of white stone. 
 
 " Oh, yes; a lot come down for a fortnight in the autumn. 
 Some of 'em come for the shooting; but there is always a 
 batch of political people. My father is a Cabinet minister, you 
 know. I told you, you remember ' he checked himself and 
 colored. Back to the past again! He would be making some 
 such speech, some allusion to their former acquaintanceship, 
 before Theodosia presently, he thought. 
 
 Lyra looked down. 
 
 " Are you a Cabinet minister, too?" she asked, innocently. 
 " But, oh, no; I remember " 
 
 He stared at her, then laughed. 
 
 " I! Good heavens, no! I am, well, I am just nothing. 
 And always shall be. Fve no more brains than that peacock. 
 Here we are." Then with a sudden recollection of his man- 
 ners, he looked round. 
 
 " Hope you've enjoyed the drive?" he said. 
 
 " I do not see why there should be any difficulty in a sur- 
 pliced choir " Lady Theodosia was saying to Mr. Fanshawe. 
 *' I beg your pardon, Dane; what did you say? Oh, yes; 
 very much, indeed, thank you. I hope you have not frightened 
 Miss Chester out of her wits." 
 
 " Miss Chester's inside her wits all right," he said, flinging 
 the reins to a groom. He held out his arms as if he expected 
 Lyra to leap into them, but she drew back. 
 
 " Give me your hands, then," he said. " Now jump." 
 
 They went up the broad steps flanked by a couple of huge 
 lions rampant, and entered the hall. The vastness, though 
 she had seen that of Castle Towers, struck Lyra. The sun 
 streamed in through a large stained window at the back, a 
 round table, with a tea-service, stood in the center, surrounded 
 by palms. Flowers in Oriental vases lined the stairs, and, in-
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. 189 
 
 deed, seemed everywhere, so that the figures of warriors in 
 armor appeared as if in a bower. 
 
 " Have some tea before you take your hats off," said Dane, 
 in his downright fashion. 
 
 " How good of you to think of it," exclaimed Mrs. Leslie. 
 " Really, Lord Dane, you are growing most considerate." 
 
 "Ain't I?" he said. "Here's a chair, Miss Chester. 
 Rather stand, all of you? Right. Dosie, pour out the tea. 
 Mr. Fanshawe, if you'd prefer a soda and whisky we don't 
 dine till eight." 
 
 The Reverend Martin Fanshawe looked at him solemnly. 
 
 " I am a total abstainer, Lord Dane/' he said, gravely. 
 
 " Right/' said Dane. " So am I when I can't get any- 
 thing to drink," he added, in a whisper, to Lyra. He was 
 evidently in the best, the highest spirits. 
 
 While Lady Theodosia was pouring out the tea, the earl 
 came out of the library. 
 
 He was in evening-dress, and approached them with a 
 pleasant smile on his worn face. 
 
 " Well, my dear Dosie," he said, and he bent and kissed 
 her forehead. It was evident to Lyra that he was fond of 
 Lady Theodosia. "How do you do, Mrs. Leslie?" That 
 lady was a favorite of his, and his smile deepened as he took 
 her hand. He exchanged greetings cordially enough with 
 Martin Fanshawe. " I am very glad to see you, Mr. Fan- 
 shawe," he said; and as he spoke Lyra noticed the resem- 
 blance in the voices of the father and the son, though there 
 was only the shadow of Dane's brightness in the earl's, 
 is very good of you to spare an hour or two from the work 
 which I hear so completely absorbs you." Then he looked 
 at Lyra with a calm, expectant expression in the grave eyes 
 weary with the burden of modern politics. 
 
 " This is Miss Chester," said Lady Theodosia. ' You re- 
 member I told you" she added, in a lower voice. 
 
 " Yes, yes," he said, and he bowed to Lyra, his eyes fixed 
 on her face; then he held out his hand. " I am very glad to 
 see you, Miss Chester," he said, in the tone which, though 
 it was husky with much public speaking, struck Lyra as pe- 
 culiarly musical and pleasant, perhaps because it had the echo 
 of Lord Dane's in it. With the perfection of courtesy, he 
 seated himself beside her. " No one offers me a cup of tea, 
 he said, plaintively. 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon," said Lady Theodosia; and she 
 poured one out for him. Lyra rose to pass it to him, and he 
 put out his hand to stop her, but drew it back.
 
 190 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " Why should I not avail myself of the privilege of aid age?'" 
 he said, with a smile. "Alas! Miss Chester, we soon learn 
 that we are old when ladies insist upon waiting upon us. Your 
 name seems familiar to me," he remarked, his eyes dwelling 
 on her face with the admiration which an old man may permit 
 himself without fear of giving off ense. " I used to know some 
 Chesters of Lowickshire; are you of that branch?" 
 
 " Yes; I think so. I have heard my father mention them, 
 my lord," Lyra replied. 
 
 He nodded thoughtfully, and stirred his tea with his spoon 
 hi the old-fashioned way. 
 
 " Then we may almost count ourselves old friends,*' he 
 said, with his pleasant smile. " The Chester property runs 
 parallel with some of the Starminster land in Lowickshire. Do 
 you like these parts?" 
 
 " I have only been here, with Lady Theodosia, a few days," 
 said Lyra; " and at present I have not seen much of the coun- 
 try; but we drove through some very beautiful scenery." 
 
 " Ah, yes!" he said, absently; but his eyes were still fixed 
 on her. " Dane drove you, did he not?" He looked across 
 at his stalwart son, with a proud and affectionate glance. 
 " Dane, had you not better go and dress?" 
 
 " All right, sir," said Dane. " I can change in ten min- 
 utes;" and he sprung up the stairs, two steps at a time. 
 
 A maid came to show the ladies to some rooms, where they 
 could put themselves straight after their drive, and Lyra, fol- 
 lowing the others, got a glimpse of the famous picture-gallery, 
 through which they passed, and the great organ, which was 
 said to be the finest in any private house in England. 
 
 She was shown into a large room, with damask-covered 
 walls and furniture, almost as old as the house itself, but so 
 carefully preserved that it looked as if it had just come out of 
 a modern upholsterer's. 
 
 As she brushed her hair, which the wind had ruffled, she 
 could not help wondering at the freak of fate which had or- 
 dained that she should be here in Lord Dane's ancestral home 
 she who had never expected to see him again. 
 
 A maid hovered about, vainly attempting to help her, and 
 almost piteously offering to take down her hair and rearrange 
 it; but at last, in a kind of despair, she disappeared, and Lyra 
 went to the window and looked out upon the wide-stretching 
 lawns, waiting for the bell which she expected to ring. 
 
 Presently she heard it, a deep, solemn-toned gong, and she 
 went into the hall. But there was no one there, excepting 
 Lord Dane. He was standing with his back to the flower-
 
 IH A LIFE. 191 
 
 filled fire-place, his head dropped thoughtfully, and at the 
 sound of her footsteps he straightened himself and came for- 
 ward to meet her. 
 
 " Am I the first down?" she said, for the sake of saying 
 something. 
 
 " Yes; and I am glad of it. Oh! they never appear until 
 five or ten minutes after the dinner-bell." 
 
 " I did not know that; you ought to have told me," she 
 said, with a smile. 
 
 "lam glad I didn't," he said. "It gives me an oppor- 
 tunity of showing you round. But perhaps you don't care 
 to be ' shown round '?" 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 " All right," he said, hi his boyish fashion. " Come on, 
 then. I'll try and do my duty." He caught up a walking- 
 stick, and with a burlesque imitation of the professional guide, 
 began to point to the various objects of interest in the hall. 
 
 ' Portrait of the first Starminster, commonly known as 
 * Woodhead/ so called because no battle-ax had any effect 
 upon his cranium. I've got the same kind of skull. That's 
 his armor hanging above the picture. See the dents in the 
 helmet? He died of eating too many mackerel his favorite 
 dish. Portrait of Catherine Third, Countess of Starminster. 
 Observe her smile. Two of those smiles were warranted to 
 kill of policeman of the period. She was called Catherine the 
 Amiable; she was the last amiable person in the family. That 
 red-headed gentleman, with the squint and the big fur muff, 
 was a privy councillor in the reign of Elizabeth. He was 
 called Starminster the Wise. I regret to say that he absorbed 
 all the wisdom of the family. That lady with the eyebrows 
 and the large mouth was called Maude the Beautiful. I 
 have spent many weary years in the attempt to discover the 
 feature or features which warranted the appellation. In the 
 glass case beneath the portrait you will observe her fan. She 
 was, I believe, great in the matter of fans and scented hand- 
 kerchiefs. She died of vanity in the year 1509. That 
 solemn individual, with the long nose, is Wilford Starminster, 
 the Preacher. I don't know what he preached, but I be- 
 lieve he monopolized nearly all the jaw of the family. I say 
 nearly all, because, as you know " he stopped and colored 
 " because my father is a dab at public speaking. In the glass 
 case to the right of the portrait is the dagger with which Ade- 
 laide Tenth, Countess of Starminster, stabbed her husband. 
 In those happy days the dagger was a fond and familiar weap- 
 on; now we stab with our tongues. Want any more?"
 
 192 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " Yes, please," said Lyra. 
 
 " Portrait of Edmund, Earl of Starminster, in his peer's 
 robes. That's the guv'nor. What a jolly life he could have 
 led if he had been a laborer on the estate with fifteen dol I 
 beg your pardon shillings a week. Portrait of your humble 
 servant on his favorite pony pony's leg out of drawing, as 
 you not doubt perceive. Portrait of the same unworthy in- 
 dividual at the age of twenty-one; staring at nothing and try- 
 ing with all his might not to look bored. Flags they look 
 like read rags, don't they? carried by Starminsters at various 
 battles duly chronicled in Mrs. Monkham's ' History of Eng- 
 land.' Sword worn by Reginald, Earl of Starminster, at the 
 battle of Salamanca. Uniform and eye-glass worn by Philip 
 Starminster, Admiral of the Fleet, at the battle of the Kile. 
 That hole in the coat is where the bullet entered which put an 
 end to the gallant admiral. Have any more?" 
 
 Lyra nodded. 
 
 " Eight. Portrait of Queen Elizabeth, taken while she was 
 a guest at Starminster. We keep the room she slept in unoc- 
 cupied and sacred in case any royalties should happen to pay 
 us a visit; and they do so occasionally. Portrait of Her Maj- 
 esty the Queen, ' presented by Victoria Regina to the Most 
 Honorable the Earl of Starminster.' That's the guv'nor, you 
 know." 
 
 He went through the whole in the lightest and highest of 
 spirits, and had the stick still in liis hand pointing to different 
 objects when the other ladies came down the stairs. Lyra had 
 stood in front of each picture and curio, her hands clasped be- 
 hind her, her head thrown back, unconscious of the intent 
 gaze of his eyes which sought her face as often as they could ; 
 unconscious, alas! of the hungry look in them the expres- 
 sion of Love's hunger which dwells in the eyes of the man who 
 looks at the woman he loves. 
 
 " What a number of famous persons!" she said, dreamily. 
 
 "Aren't they?" he assented. "It's true that most of 
 them are more famous for their vices than their virtues; for 
 instance, that gentleman in the suit of armor was a robber; 
 the lady next him well, perhaps I'd better pass her over; but 
 the next gentleman that one in the satin tunic spent most 
 of his days and all his nights in gambling; that one the 
 dueling Starminster had a private graveyard of his own; 
 that pretty little sword ran through six friends in private 
 quarrels; the lady to the left of him bolted with her dearest 
 friend's husband; and the youth next her turned pirate and
 
 ONCE I1T A LIFE. 193 
 
 was, I believe, called the scourge of the ocean. Take us all 
 together, we are a nice and eminently immoral family.'* 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE earl, coming down the stairs, heard the last word. 
 
 " Dane has been going through the portraits, I perceive, 
 Miss Chester/' he said, with a smile. " I am afraid you 
 haven't formed a very high estimate of us; but Dane is a biased 
 cicerone. He always contrives to pass over the respectable 
 members of the race." 
 
 " It doesn't give me much trouble," said Dane, cheerfully. 
 " There are so few." 
 
 The second bell rang and the earl gave his arm to Mrs. 
 Leslie. 
 
 " Will you take charge of Lady Theodosia, Mr. Fanshawe," 
 he said; and so Lyra fell to Lord Dane. 
 
 The dining-room at Starminster was, so said the authorities 
 on decoration, rather heavy, but if so, it owed its somberness 
 to carved oak, which had scarcely it equal in England. Lady 
 Theodosia was proud of her oak at Castle Towers, but even 
 she was fain to admit that the Starminster paneling carried 
 the palm. A soft light from delicately shaded candles fell 
 upon the glistening wood and the massive plate and embroid- 
 ered sixteenth-century hangings. A butler, stately and sol- 
 emn as a bishop, officered three gigantic footmen in the claret 
 and yellow livery; huge palms, like those in the hall, stood on 
 the hearth before the great mantel-piece, built up tier upon 
 tier of carven oak; a dozen priceless old masters hung on the 
 walls, the deep yet vivid coloring of the pictures contrasting 
 finely with the mellow brown of the oak. 
 
 It seemed to Lyra, as she entered the room on Lord Dane's 
 arm, that modern persons in their modern costumes were 
 out of place in such an apartment, in which only powdered 
 hair, satin doublets and silk stockings would be appropriate. 
 
 The footmen moved to and fro with noiseless deftness, the 
 butler's voice never rose above a respectful whisper, but Lord 
 Dane seemed as light-hearted and boyish in the midst of the 
 patrician somberness as if he were up the valley fishing or eat- 
 ing his lunch behind a clump of rock. 
 
 He did most of the talking, bu/; though he said very little 
 directly to her, Lyra felt that he was not forgetting her. 
 Once or twice she declined the dishes the footman brought 
 her, and on the second occasion Lord Dane held up his hand 
 
 and signed the man to stop 
 1
 
 194 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " Better try this/' he said, quietly. "It is better than it 
 looks; and, it's an entree we are rather good at. Here, let me 
 help you; may I?" and he helped her with his own hand. 
 
 Every now and then the earl addressed a remark to her a 
 remark of the simplest character, and his deep, thoughtful 
 eyes rested upon her with a kindly regard while he spoke and 
 she answered. It was the first " great " man Lyra had met, 
 and she was deeply interested in watching and listening tc 
 him. To the ladies, one and all, his manner was delight; c 
 perfect. He seemed to tender them a willing, respectful hom- 
 age of which this generation is apparently incapable. If Lady 
 Theodosia or Mrs. Leslie spoke, he bent forward with an ex- 
 pression of profound attention on his face and in his eyes, 
 which never wandered while they were speaking. To Mr. 
 Fanshawe he had not much to say, but he listened to that 
 gentleman with evident interest. 
 
 " You and Lady Theodosia must be making Castle Towers 
 into a laborers' ' earthly paradise,' " he said. " I hope they 
 will be satisfied." He smiled gravely, doubtfully. "They 
 tell me that the more prosperous the working-man becomes, 
 the more radical he grows." 
 
 " That's human nature," said Lord Dane; " the more we 
 have the more we want. Some of these days Dosie will find 
 the house besieged by a mob of her petted peasantry. ' Petted 
 peasantry ' wouldn't be a bad phrase on a platform, would it, 
 sir?" 
 
 The earl smiled indulgently. 
 
 " You know that I have long been impressed by the convio- 
 tion that you are a born orator, Dane," he said. 
 
 Lord Dane made a grimace. 
 
 " Not I, sir; I couldn't utter three consecutive sentences. I 
 should get stage-fright and break down. But what was I say- 
 ing? Oh! that some day Dosie will find herself surrounded by 
 a mob clamoring for a division of the property. Then she'! 7 
 be sorry she has been so generous. " 
 
 Lady Theodosia smiled. 
 
 " When that day comes, we shall know how to protect our- 
 selves/' she said. " Mrs. Leslie and Lyra and I will take the 
 weapons from the armory and make a good fight of it, won't 
 we, Lyra?" 
 
 " Trust you!" said Dane. " You good people are always 
 ready for a fight. Do you think you could fire off a gun 
 through one of the port-holes of the castle, Miss Chester?" 
 
 It was all nonsense they were talking, but it was pleasant
 
 OSTCE Itf A LIFE. 195 
 
 for Lyra to feel herself included in and taking a share of the 
 nonsense. 
 
 When the ladies left the room, the earl signed to the two 
 gentlemen to draw nearer to him, and the butler brought in 
 the famous Starminster port, which, however, had grown 
 famous in vain, so far as Mr. Fanshawe was concerned. 
 
 " No? 5fou don't drink wine?" said the earl. " So many 
 persons are total abstainers nowadays. I dare say it is all 
 right; indeed, from several points of view, I am sure it is all 
 right. I suppose, for instance, that if our forefathers had 
 drunk less port, we, their children, should have less gout." 
 
 He sipped as he spoke. 
 
 Dane laughed. 
 
 " The worst of it is that it's the wrong people who abstain," 
 he said. " Mr. Fanshawe, for instance there is not the re- 
 motest chance of his drinking to excess." 
 
 " Who knows?" said the Reverend Martin, gravely. 
 " Every one might say that he was safe every one was at the 
 beginning/' 
 
 Dane finished his glass the earl smiled blandly. If a guest 
 had advocated cannibalism he, the host, would not have con- 
 tradicted him. 
 
 " The world is growing very good," he said, softly. 
 
 " It is time it did, my lord," responded the Reverend Mar- 
 tin, uncompromisingly. Dane laughed. 
 
 " We shall all bud wings presently," he said, " like old 
 bottled port." 
 
 The Reverend Martin frowned and opened his lips as if 
 about to rebuke such ill-timed levity, but the earl rose at the 
 moment. 
 
 " Let us join the ladies," he said. 
 
 Dane went to the window opening on to the terrace. 
 
 " I'll go round by the terrace and snatch a cigarette on the 
 way," he said. He stepped out on the ten-ace and lighted his 
 cigarette, and drew a long breath, as an actor does who has 
 just left the stage after playing a difficult part; and, indeed, 
 it had been a difficult part for him. He had been compelled 
 to sit at the same table with two women, one of whom he 
 loved with a love beyond words to describe, the other his fut- 
 
 11TG Wife. 
 
 The very touch of Lyra's dress thrilled him, the regard of 
 her lovely eyes went tLrough. him; every time she spoke her 
 voice seemed to touch a sympathetic chord in his heart, 
 was the one woman in the world for him and he was engaged 
 to Lady Theodosia!
 
 196 ONCE 1ST A LIFE. 
 
 He strode up and down the terrace, gnawing at his cigarette 
 rather than smoking it, then he flung it away with a kind of 
 groan, and went toward the drawing-room window. It was 
 open, and a slim figure in a dark dress stood beside it. His 
 heart leaped, for he recognized Lyra. 
 
 " I promised you a moon to drive home by, and there it is, 
 you see," he said. 
 
 She started slightly, for she had not heard his step. Lady 
 Theodosia was at the piano, and the music floated out to 
 them. He stood and listened for a moment. 
 
 " How well Lady Theodosia plays!" said Lyra, warmly. 
 
 " Yes," he said, absently; " she does everything well." He 
 took out his cigar-case. " May I? Won't you come out a 
 little further? You can see the river from the edge of the 
 terrace. There are trout in it " 
 
 He stopped and bit his cigar viciously. 
 
 Lyra leaned on the stone balustrade and looked dreamily on 
 the moonlit plain. 
 
 " Tell me," he said, after awhile, " are you quite happy 
 comfortable?" 
 
 " At Castle Towers?" she said. " Quite oh, quite. Both 
 Lady Theodosia and Mrs. Leslie are very, very kind to me." 
 
 " Kind!" he echoed, almost gruffly. "Of course they 
 would be kind. But but are you sure you are happy?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, gently; "as happy as I should be any- 
 where. I I have had trouble lately." 
 
 " I know," he said. 
 
 "Ah, no!" she thought, "you do not know, can not 
 guess;" but she remained silent. 
 
 " If you were not happy," he went on, smoking furiously, 
 " I would well, I would find some other place for you 
 He stopped and flung the cigar into the shadow with a desper- 
 ate violence. "What sports of fate we are!" he said, half 
 inaudibly. " Here are you and I " 
 
 She turned her pale face to him, with a sad look of reproach 
 hi it, and he bit his lip. 
 
 "I I beg your pardon. I forgot." 
 
 "Yes," she said, in a low voice; "you forgot. But will 
 you I ask you very earnestly, Lord Dane will you remem- 
 ber that I am just a stranger who happens to be Lady Theo- 
 dosia's companion, and that you need only be just civil to her?" 
 
 " I'll try and remember," he said, audibly; but, inaudibly, 
 he added: " But it will be darned hard!" 
 
 Mrs. Leslie stepped through the open window. 
 
 " Are you there, Lord Done?" she said. " Please to re-
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE, 197 
 
 member that you are going to drive us home, and that the 
 moon will not last very long." 
 
 " Oh, yes, it will!" he said, confidently. 
 
 " Oh, no, it won't!" she retorted. " I know that kind of 
 moon. It will drop down in an hour or two and leave a Cim- 
 merian darkness behind it. I think we should like to start 
 now." 
 
 " All right," he said, promptly; and he took a whistle from 
 his pocket and blew it. 
 
 " Bring round the drag," he said to the groom who ap- 
 peared. 
 
 " I shall not see the moon from Starminster terrace again 
 for some time," he said to Lyra. 
 
 " No?" she said, with faint surprise. 
 
 " No," he said, almost sullenly. " I am going north 
 shortly. I shall spend the Christmas in Africa, the Easter in 
 Lord knows where!" 
 
 He glanced down at her face, upon which the moonlight 
 was falling. It was sad, but resigned. 
 
 " But who cares?" he said, recklessly. 
 
 " Lady Theodosia," Lyra murmured. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " Dosie! She care? Not while she has her parish, and her 
 missionaries, and the Reverend Martin " 
 
 " Oh, hush!" said Lyra. 
 
 He laughed again. 
 
 "It's true," he said. " Lord, what a game of cross-pur- 
 poses life is." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie, clad in her out-door things, came out again, 
 and Lyra went into the house. 
 
 When she came down-stairs the break was at the door, and 
 Lord Dane was in his driver's perch. The earl stood on the 
 terrace, bareheaded, taking leave of them with his old-world 
 courtesy. 
 
 " Gently, Dane, this drive," he said. " Dosie, are you sure 
 you are well wrapped up? Mr. Fanshawe, it is useless to offer 
 you a cigar, I know. Mrs. Leslie, I trust you will not catch 
 cold. Where are you going to sit, my dear?" 
 
 This query was addressed to Lyra, who stood a little apart, 
 her eyes fixed on the moon. 
 
 " Anywhere, my lord," she said. 
 
 " Give Miss Chester a hand up here, father," said Lord 
 Dane, in a determined voice. 
 
 " She will be warmer inside,' said Mrs. Leslie.
 
 198 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " Oh, there are plenty of wraps up here," said Dane, in a 
 would-be careless tone. 
 
 Lyra hung back, the earl stood waiting, and Lord Dane's 
 hand was extended. 
 
 " I believe you are afraid," said Lady Theodosia, with a 
 laugh. 
 
 Lyra put her foot on the step, and disregarding Lord Dane's 
 hand, sprung up. 
 
 " That's right," he murmured. " Hold on a minute," to 
 the groom, who literally seemed to hang on to the fretting, 
 impatient horses. " Now, just get quite comfortable," he 
 said to Lyra, and he folded a wrap across her knees. " Eight? 
 All right, Parkins, let them go." 
 
 The horses sprung forward, and in a moment or two Star- 
 minster, with all its gleaming lights, was left behind. 
 
 I$ra drew a long breath, and looked round her. 
 
 " It is even more beautiful in the moonlight," she said, 
 softly. 
 
 " Is it?" he responded. " I wish we were going to drive 
 for a week, a month." 
 
 As he spoke a deer the woods were full of them darted 
 from the shadow of the trees right across the road. 
 
 The near horse started and rose on its hind legs, then, as the 
 whip cut it, darted forward. Its mate, as much alarmed by 
 its companion's conduct as by the deer, followed suit, the 
 wagonette swayed to and fro, then seemed to rush forward as 
 if drawn by an express. 
 
 Dane got a good grip of the reins, and leaned far back in 
 the effort to pull up the frightened horses. Then, as the effort 
 jbiled and the wagonette began to sway again, he leaned for- 
 ward and looked down. 
 
 " Is anything the matter?" asked Lyra, quietly. 
 
 He glanced at the beautiful face uplifted to his. 
 
 " Are you afraid?" he asked. 
 
 " No, not in the least," she answered as quietly as before. 
 
 " That's all right," he said, between his teeth, " because 
 the off trace has broken and these beasts have bolted. Aren't 
 you going to scream?" 
 
 "No; I shall not scream," she said. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THERE is not, probably, a better horseman, a cooler and 
 more expert whip in England than Dane. He has a hand that 
 can be, as occasion requires, as soft as velvet or as hard as
 
 OKCE IN A LIFE. ^99 
 
 gteel; and his nerves are completely under control. Given a 
 goodish road, with no nasty turns or corners, a pan- of bolting 
 horses, well and strongly harnessed, would not ordinarily 
 trouble him in the least; but to-night the conditions are 
 scarcely fair. 
 
 He has a pair of young, high-fettled, underworked horses, a 
 light wagonette with three women in it and a broken trace. 
 
 The road, though straight for a mile, is narrow and edged 
 with trees, and there is the not too broad gate-way at the bot- 
 tom of the hiltt 
 
 Dane has a great belief in the influence of the human voice 
 over the equine temper, and when he is out riding or driving 
 alone, is wont to converse pretty freely with his horse. 
 
 Sometimes a quiet " Now, then, old lady!" will do more 
 in the way of correction or soothing than any amount of 
 whip; so now, as he gets a tight grip of the reins and brings a 
 steady, iron-like pressure to bear upon the horses, he speaks a 
 few words quietly and remonstratingly. 
 
 " Gently, my dears gently! What's the matter, old man? 
 No, hurry, Peter. Steady!" 
 
 But while he is talking, the broken trace is skipping along 
 the ground and slapping like a thick-thonged whip against 
 Peter's side, and Peter declines to listen to reason, and he and 
 his companion race madly along, the trees flying by as they fly 
 by the windows of the Scotch express. 
 
 For a moment or two there is a dead silence; then Mrs. 
 Leslie utters a faint cry and rises, clutching the back of the 
 wagonette. 
 
 " Oh, Lord Dane, they have run away!" she gasps, 
 
 Though Dane does not turn his head, he sees her. 
 
 " I know that," he says. " Sit down at once, and keep 
 quiet." 
 
 And there is the grim sternness in his voice which comes 
 into that of the man who holds the lives of others and women 
 in his hands. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie sinks into her seat, and grips Lady Theodosia's 
 arm. 
 
 " We shall be killed!" she says, in a tone of despair. 
 
 Lady Theodosia, very pale, but with her lips tightly closed, 
 as if she would rather die than call out, glances at her, and 
 then at Martin Fanshawe. 
 
 "We shall be all right; Dane will stop them presently," 
 she says, in a low voice. " He is very strong." 
 
 " A trace has broken," says Martin Fanshawe,
 
 300 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 He, too, is rather pale, but there is no look of fear in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Can you help him?" suggested Lady Theodosia. 
 
 Martin Fanshawe leans forward to Dane. 
 
 " Can I do any tiling, Lord Dane?" he asks, quietly. 
 
 " Yes/' replies Dane. " Keep the ladies in their seats; 
 keep them there whatever happens. But we shall be all right 
 directly." 
 
 Lyra says not a word. She is pale also; but she looks down 
 at the mad, tearing horses with a bright and steady eye. Faith 
 will move mountains, and her faith in Dane is strong enough 
 to dispel all fear. Now and again she glances at his face, 
 with its set lips and stern eyes, with its jowl squared by the 
 tightly set teeth; and as she looks almost loses sense of their 
 common peril. Strength, courage, these are the qualities 
 women love in men; and strength and courage are personified 
 in the man who sits beside her, keeping the grip of a Hercu- 
 les on the terror-stricken horses. 
 
 Down the hill they rush, the gravel flying from under their 
 hoofs, their breath rising, like steam in the moonlight, from 
 their distended nostrils. How much longer will he be able to 
 keep them straight? she asks herself, not in a paroxysm of 
 terror, but with a strange sense of calmness almost amounting 
 to indifference. 
 
 What will happen? Will the carriage, which is swaying like 
 a ship anchored in a heavy sea, strike the trunk of one of the 
 trees, or will the horses fall? It is almost as if she had lost 
 all sense of her own share in the common risk, as if she were 
 merely playing the part of a safe though interested spectator. 
 
 As they approach the narrow gate- way and that awkward 
 bend in the road, he glances at her, a swift, sudden glance, 
 and says: 
 
 " Are you holding on tight?" 
 
 "Yes," she replies quietly, and, as he notices, without ? 
 quiver or tremor in her voice. 
 
 " That's right. Stick on, whatever happens, unless I tell 
 you to jump." 
 
 " Yes," she responds, obediently. 
 
 " This is almost as bad as the Taw at spring flood," he 
 murmurs. " Do you remember?" 
 
 The color comes into her face, but she does not reply. Does 
 she remember? Is it likely that she has forgotten, will ever 
 forget?" 
 
 " Look round and tell me if they are all sitting down," he 
 says, presently.
 
 0*TCE m A LIFE. 201 
 
 She looks over her shoulder. Mrs. Leslie is gripping the 
 seat, Lady Theodosia is holding on with one hand, and, yes, 
 Mr. Martin Fanshawe has hold of the other. 
 
 " They are quite still and sitting down." 
 
 " That's all right/' he says, with his favorite formula. 
 " Now, if I can keep them straight through this gate if 
 they don't shy. Can you do something if I want you to, 
 Lyra?" 
 
 Even in that moment of deadly peril she notices that he calls 
 her by her Christian name, and it makes her heart bound. 
 
 " I will try," she answers, quietly. 
 
 " Right. Take the whip out from the socket behind me; I 
 can't spare a hand. When I say ' Now/ give the off horse 
 the right-hand one, you know " 
 
 " I know." 
 
 " Give him a good cut from the outside. I want to keep 
 him close to the other, so that he may clear the gate-posts 
 see?" 
 
 " I see," she says, as calmly as even he could desire, and 
 she raises the whip in readiness. 
 
 They near the gate, and Mrs. Leslie utters a faint moan. 
 
 " The gate!" she gasps. " We shall overturn there!" 
 
 Dane sets his lips tightly, and gets a renewed grip of the 
 reins. 
 
 " Ready?" he asks between his teeth. " Now, then!" 
 
 Lyra has been mentally rehearsing since she received her 
 orders, and, with a very fair imitation of her master, she 
 swings the whip and swipes the off horse across the back from 
 right to left. The terrified animal instinctively sweeps on to 
 the pole, and the pair carry the carriage clear of the posts. 
 
 " Bravo!" he says, almost inaudibly. " What pluck you've 
 got! You've saved us that time. Hold on tight, and I'll 
 have them in hand in another minute or two. Don't be 
 afraid. n 
 
 The few simple words of praise make her heart throb with 
 happiness and pride. As far as she is concerned, the horses 
 may run on till this time to-morrow night, may race on for- 
 ever. Danger, death may be near, but all sense of it is swal- 
 lowed up in the thrill those words of his have sent through 
 her veins. 
 
 " I am not afraid," she says; then, in justice, she adds, 
 " nor are the others, excepting, perhaps, Mrs. Leslie, and she 
 is only a little Oh, look there!" she breaks off.^ 
 
 Right ahead of them, some way across the road, is an empty
 
 202 ONCE IH A LIFE. 
 
 wagon. The horse is out, and grazing by the hedge. The 
 driver has either left the cart or is asleep inside. 
 
 " That floors it/' he says, between his teeth. " There is 
 only just room to pass, if the horses were going quietly, with 
 the harness all sound. Now listen," he goes on, quickly but 
 quietly: " I sha'n't try to pass. I'm going to turn 'em if I 
 can up that bank, in the hope that the pole will break. Sit 
 tight unless I tell you to jump." Then he says, loud enough 
 to be heard by the others: " Sit still, and don't be afraid." 
 
 They near the wagon. At the sound of the tearing horses, 
 a man, evidently startled from sleep, opens the tilt cover and 
 stares at them, then leaps out, but stands, hesitating, con- 
 fused, and afraid. 
 
 "Don't touch them!" shouts Dane, quite unnecessarily; 
 and as he speaks, with a tremendous tug and pressure he 
 turns the horses toward the bank. 
 
 If the reins hold they must go! The reins do hold, and, 
 blundering, they rush and stumble up the slope and fall in a 
 confused heap of horses and harness into the ditch. The 
 carriage sways. If the pole will only break, it will keep up- 
 right after all; but, unfortunately, the pole is a good one, 
 and stands the strain, and the next moment the wagonette, 
 which seems like an empty match-box, for lightness, topples 
 over. 
 
 Just as it goes, Dane says, swiftly, sharply: "Jump!" and 
 Lyra, as if every muscle were waiting on his command, obeys. 
 
 She stumbles forward on her knees, but instantly regains her 
 feet and looks round. Lord Dane has already unstrapped the 
 other trace, and is getting the horses clear of the pole. He 
 glances at her with a quick, apprehensive look; then, seeing 
 that she is unhurt, nods and resumes his task. 
 
 Then Lyra looks for the rest. 
 
 Still in the wagonette, and clinging like grim death, is Mrs. 
 Leslie, evidently safe and uninjured; but a few yards off, on 
 the road, lies Mr. Martin Fanshawe, and he lies very still and 
 quiet. Beside him, on one knee, is Lady Theodosia, bending 
 over him with frightened face. 
 
 Lyra goes quickly down the bank to them. 
 
 "Oh! is he hurt?" she asks, anxiously. 
 
 But Lady Theodosia does not seem to hear her, does not 
 even remove her eyes from the clergyman's white face. 
 
 Lyra kneels down on th^ other side of him. 
 
 ""Is he hurt?" she sayt, again. " Did he faU out? What 
 shall we do?" and she looks round helplessly. 
 
 Lord Dane, with language quite unfit for publication, but
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 203 
 
 with a certain coolness, is endeavoring to make the alarmed 
 and conscience-stricken carter of some use, and between them 
 they have got the horses on their feet. 
 
 " Now hold 'em tight, and lead them out of sight of the 
 carriage. Don't look like a boiled turnip, you blockhead! Do 
 you think they are going to eat you? Whoa, Peter!'' 
 
 Then he lifts Mrs. Leslie out of the wagonette, and sets her 
 on her feet as he has done the horses. 
 
 " You're all right," he says, cheerfully; " you are indeed; 
 but I'm afraid they've come to grief over there. Don't you 
 come; you sit still for a few minutes. What is the matter?" 
 he asks, bending over the prostrate man. " Here, let me un- 
 fasten his collar," and he, too, kneels. 
 
 But with a sharp, sudden gesture Lady Theodosia appears 
 to be conscious of their presence. With one hand she lifts the 
 head of the unconscious man, and with the other wards off 
 Dane's proffered assistance. 
 
 " No, no!" she says, in a dry, trembling voice. " Don't 
 touch him! I will do it! I will do it!" 
 
 Then as she unfastens his collar, and she sees a splash of 
 blood on her hand where it has touched the back of his head, 
 she utters a low cry of terror and anguish. 
 
 " He is killed! he is killed!" she wails; " he is dead! Oh, 
 Martin, Martin!" 
 
 Lord Dane starts and draws back, gazing at her sternly. 
 
 " Dosie!" he says, warningly. 
 
 " Is he dead? Tell me!" she pants, disregarding his tone 
 and manner, and seeming utterly reckless in her terror and 
 grief. "Tell me the truth! See, he doesn't breathe!" 
 
 " Hush! hush!" he says, his lips tightly set. " He is not 
 dead. Collect yourself." 
 
 " Are you sure?" she demands, still with her eyes fixed on 
 the face that rests on her arm is pressed, indeed, to her pal- 
 pitating bosom. " You are not deceiving me? Oh, Dane, 
 tell me the truth! I I love him!" 
 
 Dane's face grows white; he lays his hand on her shoulder 
 and grasps it, not cruelly, but firmly. 
 
 " There is no need to tell us that," he says, sternly, with 
 grim irony. " Control yourself." 
 
 Then he turns to Lyra without looking at her. 
 
 " Soak this handkerchief in the ditch," lie says, grimly, in 
 the tone of a man who knows that he will meet with prompt 
 obedience. 
 
 She takes the handkerchief and springs to the ditch; but
 
 204 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 when she comes back, Lady Theodosia takes it from her hand, 
 and herself bathes Martin Fanshawe's forehead. 
 
 Dane has got him upon his knee, and has examined the 
 wound at the back of his head. 
 
 " He struck a stone," he says, more to himself than the 
 others. 
 
 " Yes," wails Lady Theodosia; " it was in trying to save 
 me! It is my fault! I have killed him! Oh, Martin, Mar- 
 tin!" 
 
 Lord Dane puts his hand on her shoulder again. 
 
 " Be silent!" he says, in a low, stern voice. " You are not 
 alone, Theodosia." 
 
 But she does not heed him seems, indeed, scarcely to hear 
 him, or, at any rate, understand. 
 
 " He tried to hold me, to keep me from falling out," she 
 says, hi the same half -unconscious moan. "It is always of 
 others that he thinks first, never of himself. There is no one 
 in the world like him Ah!" 
 
 She breaks off with a long, trembling breath of joy and 
 hope as Martin Fanshawe opens his eyes. 
 
 Lord Dane nods at Lyra, who stands pale and aghast, simply 
 overwhelmed by the revelation of Lady Theodosia s secret. 
 
 " Take her away," he says, huskily. 
 
 " Come with me, Lady Theodosia," she says, bending over 
 her. " He is all right see?" 
 
 Lady Theodosia looks up at her with wild eyes, as if she 
 does not recognize her for a moment; then she puts her hand 
 to her brow, looks at Dane a strange, questioning gaze, then 
 rises, and, resting on Lyra's arm, withdraws a few paces, but 
 still looking over her shoulder at the injured man. 
 
 " Are you sure he is recovering?" .she asks demands, 
 rather. " He opened his eyes, did he not? It was not my 
 fancy? Did he speak?" 
 
 " Not yet,' r says Lyra; " but I don't think he is much 
 hurt, Lady Theodosia/ 
 
 " How do you know? How can you tell?" retorts Lady 
 Theodosia, in a tone and manner so unlike her ordinary ones 
 that Lyra, even in that moment, asks herself if this can really 
 be the same woman, the calm, self-possessed Lady Theodosia 
 of a few hours, minutes ago. 
 
 " Lord Dane is helping him up; he is standing quite well, 5 ' 
 she says. 
 
 Lady Theodosia by a glance assures herself of the truth of 
 this statement, then allows Lyra to lead her to the bank. She 
 cits down and holds her hand over her face for a moment or
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 205 
 
 two, and Lyra sees her lips move as if in prayer; then she looks 
 up. 
 
 ' What what have I said?" she asks, in a whisper. 
 
 Lyra averts her eyes. 
 
 " Never mind now/' she replies, soothingly. " You you 
 were upset and frightened. You did not know what you were 
 saying." 
 
 A faint flush comes into Lady Theodosia's face. 
 
 " Tell me what I said," she demands. 
 
 Lyra's face grows hot. 
 
 " Oh, I can not!" she murmurs. 
 
 Lady Theodosia looks down at the ground. 
 
 " Did did he hear me?" she asks. 
 
 Lyra is silent for a moment. 
 
 " Yes. I I am afraid so." 
 
 Lady Theodosia's face grows almost as red as Lyra's, and 
 she sighs. 
 
 " I I thought he was dead/' she says. " I I did not know 
 he could hear; but but it it would have been all the same." 
 
 " I I thought you meant Lord Dane," says Lyra. " Mr. 
 Fanshawe did not hear. He was unconscious." 
 
 Lady Theodosia draws a breath of relief. 
 
 " I meant Mar Mr. Fanshawe," she says, in a low voice. 
 " Go and see if he is hurt, and come and tell me. Be quick, 
 please." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 LOED DANE and Martin Fanshawe are standing a little 
 apart, the former leaning against a tree, the latter, with his 
 hands thrust deep in his pockets, looking straight before him. 
 
 The first word that leaves Martin Fanshawe's lips, when he 
 can speak, is Lady Theodosia's name. 
 
 " Lady Theodosia!" he says. "Is she hurt? Where IF 
 she?" 
 
 " She is all right. Neither she nor the other ladies are 
 hurt," replies Dane, with a slight emphasis on " the other 
 ladies." 
 
 Martin Fanshawe draws a breath of relief, very much as 
 Lady Theodosia had done. 
 
 " Thank you/' he says, in a low voice. " I thought she 
 fell. I remember " 
 
 " She says you saved her, somehow or other," remark^ 
 Dane, briefly.
 
 206 ONCE Itf A LIFE. 
 
 " Did I? I can not be too thankful if I did/' murmurs 
 Martin Fanshawe. " You are not hurt, I hope, Lord Dane?" 
 
 " Oh, I'm all right," says Dane. " We should have got 
 through the performance without an upset if it had not been 
 for that confouned wagon." 
 
 As he speaks Lyra comes up. 
 
 "Lady Theodosia wishes to know if Mr. Fanshawe is bet 
 ter," she says, with downcast eyes. 
 
 Martin Fanshawe colors. 
 
 " Yes, yes; thank you. I will come to her;" and he goes 
 toward her as quickly as he can. 
 
 Dane stands for a moment, still looking before him in 
 silence; then he says: 
 
 " Nobody has asked if you are hurt," he says, with a side 
 glance at her. 
 
 It seems as if he dared not look her straight in the face, lest 
 she should read the deep joy of freedom that glows in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " There is no need," she says, avoiding his eyes as he avoids 
 hers, " it is so evident that I am quite sound." 
 
 He looks over his shoulder at the group behind them. 
 
 " They have to be got home somehow," he says. 
 
 " Why should we not drive?" she suggests. " The horses 
 are quite quiet now, are they not?" 
 
 He laughs grimly. 
 
 " Quiet as two dead mice," he says; " but nothing would 
 induce Mrs. Leslie to get into that wagonette again, even if 
 there were no horses to it." 
 
 " Can I not walk on to Castle Towers and send a carriage?" 
 
 " No, you can not," he retorts, curtly. " As you appear 
 to be the only one who has not lost her head, you must stay 
 and look after them; I will go back to Star mi aster. " He 
 takes a step or two, then stops, and for a moment looks her 
 full in the eyes. " Lyra Miss Chester, I must speak to yon 
 to-night." 
 
 She does not answer, and, as if he can not trust himself to 
 say another word, he walks toward the horses. 
 
 She sees him remove all the harness, excepting the head-stall 
 and bearing reins, from one of them, and the next moment he 
 is riding it barebacked in the direction of the Hall. 
 
 "Good gracious!" exclaims Mrs. Leslie, "what is Lord 
 Dane doing?" 
 
 " Going for a carriage," explains Lyra. 
 
 " Oh, not forme! I could not enter anything on wheels 
 again to-night. I had a presentiment something was going to
 
 OKCE IN A LIFE. 207 
 
 happen when those dreadful horses plunged so at starting. Is 
 my bonnet straight? I feel as if I were standing on my head! 
 How provokingly cool and tidy you look, my dear! Poor Mr. 
 Fanshawe I wonder whether he has broken any bones!" 
 Lyra glances over to the bank where Lady Theodosia and he 
 are sitting, and says nothing. " I'll walk on; I've told Theo- 
 dosia I would do so," says Mrs. Leslie. " No, you must not 
 come; you must stay with Lady Theodosia. I shall be quite 
 safe. Indeed, I would rather meet fifty tramps and footpads 
 than ride behind anything on four legs again to-night. Oh, 
 dear! why is it people take a delight in driving wild horses?" 
 and, vainly endeavoring to " settle " her crushed bonnet, she 
 walks off down the road. 
 
 Lyra does not join the other two, but seats herself at the 
 foot of a big fir-tree and tries to think. She is still endeavor- 
 ing to realize what has happened. Lady Theodosia's frenzied, 
 passionate " I love him! I love him!" is still ringing in her 
 ears, when she sees a carriage and pair coming quickly, but 
 steadily enough, down the road, and in another moment Lord 
 Dane is at her side. 
 
 " Get them in," he says, gravely, as if she and he were in 
 charge of a pair of children or lunatics; and while the rest 
 are entering the carriage, he superintends the two grooms 
 whom he has brought in the work of setting the overturned 
 carriage on its wheels and reharnessing the horses. Then he 
 gets on the box of the carriage, and the coachman drives off. 
 
 Scarcely a word is spoken by the three inside on the way to 
 Castle Towers. Lady Theodosia leans far back in her corner, 
 her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes either closed or fixed 
 before her with a far-away look. Martin Fanshawe, his im- 
 pressive face still rather pale, his usually immaculate collar 
 crushed and blood-stained, gazes out of the window with a 
 grave, perturbed regard; and Lyra leans back in her corner as 
 far as sne can go, and still tries to realize the tremendous pur- 
 port of the scene she has participated in. 
 
 When they reach Castle Towers, Lady Theodosia alights, 
 and without a word to the others, walks into the hall. There 
 she stops, and addressing Lyra, says: 
 
 " Will you ask Lord Dane if he will come to me in the 
 library?" 
 
 At the library door she pauses and looks at Martin Fan- 
 shawe, opens her lips as if about to speak, but says nothing, 
 and passes in. 
 
 " In the library? All right," says Dane, in response to 
 Lyra, and with an obviously forced carelessness. " Fanshawe,
 
 208 ONCE I1T A LIFE. 
 
 you had better get a wash and something to drink. I will 
 join you presently/' 
 
 " Thank you, no," says Martin Fanshawe; " but I will wait 
 A little while. I should like to speak I have something I 
 wish to say to you, Lord Dane." 
 
 Dane nods and enters the library. As he closes the door 
 behind him, Lady Theodosia rises from the chair into which 
 she had sunk, and stands before him. She is very pale, and 
 her usually firm lips quiver, but the grave eyes meet his with 
 a steadfast, unflinching courage, the courage of a good, true 
 woman who has made the discovery that her heart has played 
 her false. 
 
 " Dane," she says, and her voice, though low and tremu- 
 lous, is clear and distinct enough, " I I think you know what 
 it is I have to say, to confess." 
 
 He stands regarding her silently, with something like pity, 
 something still more like sympathy, in his handsome eyes, and 
 with a kind of admiration. Yes, this little woman who was 
 to have been his wife is as brave as a red Indian, he thinks. 
 
 " Dane/' she goes on, '* you you heard what I said out in 
 the road?" 
 
 He inclines his head. 
 
 She put her hands to her lips to steady them. 
 
 " I I was scarcely conscious of what I was saying." 
 
 " I know that," he says, very grimly. 
 
 She looks up at him. 
 
 " Yes; but but it was true/' 
 
 " I know that, too," he says, with a nod. 
 
 " It was true. It is shameful, it is terrible, but it is true. 
 Dane, I have broken faith with you. I have been false to you. 
 I " she bites her lips " I do love him. But " she goes on 
 quickly, desperately, before he can speak "but I did not 
 know it till to-night. You will believe that, Dane? You will 
 not think me so base, so unworthy, so treacherous, as I should 
 be if I had known what what his danger and my terror re- 
 vealed to me/' 
 
 " I believe you, Dosie," he says, gently. 
 
 She regards him with faint, sad surprise. She had expected 
 to have to meet his reproaches, perhaps his fury. 
 
 " And and you forgive me? she whispers, almost inaudi- 
 bly. 
 
 He crosses the room and puts his arm round her, and looks 
 down into her sad, ' ' good ' ' eyes, into which her gentleness 
 has brought the sudden tears. 
 
 " My poor Dosie!" ho says; and he kisses her on the fore-
 
 OKCE IN A LIFE. 209 
 
 head a brother's, u father's kiss " my poor little Dosie! Do 
 you think I wanted you to say all this, to eat humble pie and 
 make full confession? Why, no. I saw it all, understood it 
 all, in a moment, and and I forgave you then. Forgive I" 
 and his voice is full of sad reproach. " For God's sake, don't 
 use that word! I need your forgiveness quite as much ever 
 so much more than you need mine. If you knew all " 
 
 She stops him with a gesture. 
 
 " I I think I have long guessed, known that you did not 
 love me, Dane," she says. 
 
 He bites his lip, and looks down quite as penitently as she 
 had done. It was his turn now. 
 
 " Yes; I felt it. But I did not know that that there was 
 some one else. There is some one else, Dane?" she asks, as- 
 serts, rather, in a very low voice. 
 
 He colors swiftly and nods. 
 
 " There is Dosie," he says. " Don't ask who it is don't 
 ask anything. I can't tell you yet; but I will presently 
 soon, please God ! I I think you will be surprised. But that's 
 enough. All is said and understood between us, isn't it?" 
 
 " Yes," she says, rather sadly for what woman likes to 
 yield up the man who has been counted as her lover, though 
 she loves him not, nor he her? " yes. I'm afraid the earl 
 
 He laughs. 
 
 " The guv'nor will have to put up with it," he says. " Any- 
 way, he won't expect you to marry me when you are in love 
 
 Don't!" she murmurs, hanging her head. 'You you 
 forget that he " of course, she means Martin Fanshawe; he 
 is the "he" for the rest of her life " he does not may 
 not" 
 
 Dane laughs again. 
 
 " My dear Dosie, the poor fellow loves the very ground you 
 tread upon. Why, the very first words he said, when he came 
 to, were: ' Lady Theodosia!' There!" and he pats her on the 
 shoulder, " make your mind easy. It will all come right, 
 please God! Now, you get off to bed, and I'll get something 
 to drink, and make for home. Good-night, Dosie." He kisses 
 her again, then laughs. " I say, you've forgotten one thing, 
 he says. 
 
 " Yes? What is that?" she says, lifting her still shame- 
 dimmed eyes to his. 
 
 " You haven't offered to be a sister to me. It a the usual 
 request on these occasions, isn't it?" 
 
 She puts her arms round him now, and standing on tiptoe, 
 puts her trembling lips against his cheek.
 
 210 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 ei Ah, Dane, dear," she murmurs, " it is not necessary! 
 Dane, you you have been very good to me." Her eyes filled 
 with tears. " I I thought you would be sure to to swear 
 at me, at the very least." 
 
 " All right," he says, cheerfully. " I'll do it still, if it will 
 make you feel easier in your conscience. But if I do, you must 
 swear at me back again, for I deserve it quite as much as you 
 do." 
 
 At Dane's half-comical words, Theodosia shakes her head, 
 slips from his arms, and goes out by the opposite door, and he 
 draws himself up, gives himself a shake, and, with a long 
 breath, returns to the hall. 
 
 The Reverend Martin Fanshawe is pacing up and down the 
 hall, his thin, "intellectual" hands lightly clasped behind 
 his back, his face pale and set. 
 
 " Come in here," says Dane. " Or let us go outside, eh?" 
 
 They go on to the terrace, and Dane links his arm in the 
 thin but muscular one of the young parson; but Martin Fan- 
 shawe releases himself. 
 
 " If if you knew what I have to say, Lord Dan'e, I am 
 afraid you would not be so friendly." 
 
 " Oh!" says Dane, cheerily, " think so?" 
 
 " Lord Dane," says Martin, facing him as bravely as Theo- 
 dosia had done, " I have to make a confession to you. I will 
 do so in the fewest possible words; and then then I will 
 leave myself in your hands." 
 
 Dane smiles grimly. 
 
 " No, thanks. You would be too large a baby to carry. Or 
 do you mean that you want to cross over to France and fight 
 a duel with me? Beg pardon, though; I forgot that's a lux- 
 ury you are debarred from. My dear fellow, you can spare 
 yourself your confession. You love Lady Theodosia?" 
 
 Martin Fanshawe starts and crimsons; but he meets his com- 
 panion's eyes steadily for a moment, then his head droops. 
 
 " Yes, Lord Dane, I love her. I have loved her " 
 
 Dane nods. 
 
 " Ever since you first saw her I know." 
 
 " You know? Ah! But, Lord Dane, you must know that 
 that I would rather have died than reveal that love. I was 
 going away from here, lest some unwary look or word of mine 
 should betray it. I had wished to do so to leave here as 
 Boon as possible; but but to-night I learned " He stops; 
 then he looks Dane straight in the face. " Lord Dane, was I 
 still unconscious did I dream that that I heard her say " 
 
 Dane puts his hand upon his shoulder.
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 211 
 
 " You had better ask her that question, my dear fellow," 
 he says. 
 
 A light, a joyous light, flashes into the young man's grave 
 eyes and his breath comes fast. 
 
 " Then it was true," he murmurs. Then, aloud, he says: 
 " And and you bid me go to her you give ms permission? 
 Lord Dane, I I do not understand!" 
 
 Dane takes out his cigar-case and lights a cigar. 
 " Sounds rather generous and Quixotic, doesn't it?" h 
 says, slowly. " Make your mind easy, my dear fellow; I am 
 neither the one nor the other. I don't, as a rule worse luck 
 forme! yield what I want myself." He pauses, and then 
 goes on, in a low voice and slowly: " If I wanted Dosie as 
 badly as you do, I should be quite ready to go over to France 
 with you, or have it out here on the terrace, with or without 
 pistols. Have I said enough?" 
 
 Martin Fanshawe gasps in silence for a moment, then he 
 holds out his hand. 
 
 " I I think I understand," he says; " but I want to think 
 it over, to realize it. It seems too good to be true. " 
 
 " Good luck always does," remarks Dane, laconically. 
 " Yes, you go home and bathe your head; I haven't asked yet 
 whether you've broken it or not, but I don't think you have. 
 You go home and think it over, and to-morrow well, take 
 my advice, and ask Lady Theodosia whether you are still off 
 your head, or really heard what you fancied you heard her say. 
 There, off with you! Good-night." 
 
 He stands and watches the young parson as he strides across 
 the lawn, then he begins to pace up and down, smoking furi- 
 ously. 
 
 Is it true that he is free, that the shackles have fallen from 
 his long-fettered hands? Free to to tell Lyra that he still 
 loves her, to make her his wife? His wife! the word sendjs 
 the blood, never very sluggish, rushing madly through his 
 veins. His wife! He laughs a laugh of half-wild exultation, 
 and stretches out his arms as might a prisoner from whom the 
 jailer has just knocked off the chains. Lyra his Lyra! 
 
 He leans over the marble rail of the terrace and looks put 
 on to the moonlit gardens, but seeing them not. It is a slim, 
 graceful figure, he sees, standing, rod in hand, beside the 
 stream in the Taw valley. 
 
 A shadow falling beside him startles him from dream-It ad. 
 and turning, he sees a figure for figure passing the draw- 
 ing-room window. He turns and strides to it, and calls to
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 her. She starts and utters a faint cry of alarm, then stands 
 still, but as if ready to fly. 
 
 " Lyra," he says; and quiet as his voice is, there is a subtle 
 ring of joy in it. "Lyra." 
 
 She does not move; indeed, she seems to shrink from him, 
 and he takes her hand and draws her, gently but irresistibly, 
 out on to the terrace beside him. He holds her thus for a mo- 
 ment, looking into her face, waiting for her downcast eyes to 
 rise, that he may look into them, into the soul beneath. 
 
 " Lyra/' he says at last, " I am free free! But you 
 know that; you heard what she said. You know it all. You 
 know how I love you. By Heaven!" his voice trembles, " I 
 scarcely know whether I am awake or dreaming. As he said, 
 it seems too good to be true. Free! Lyra, do you love me a 
 little? Do you love me well enough to be my wife?" 
 
 She stands as far off as she can from him, her heart beating 
 wildly with indescribable joy, with indescribable misery. 
 
 He looks at her, his eyes " hungry with love," half amazed, 
 half confused by her coldness. Then, as if unable to restrain 
 himself longer, he takes her other hand and draws her to him 
 so close to him that her face rests against his, and she can 
 feel the tumultuous beating of his heart. 
 
 " My dearest! my love!" he murmurs, huskily, for in such 
 passion as his the voice makes no soft music; "at last, at 
 last! Oh, my darling, if you knew how I have suffered! if you 
 knew what it has cost me to be true and honorable! But it 
 has all come right at last. Forgive me, and try and love me 
 a little, Lyra. Speak to me, dear, speak to me. Let me hear 
 you whisper, * I love you. ' Just that. Let me take that 
 home with me, that I may be sure I am awake, and that it 
 has all really happened. Lyra!" he breaks off, with a swift 
 change of voice, the change from passionate pleading, avowal, 
 to sudden fear, dread. 
 
 For, instead of raising her face to his, and murmuring her 
 confession of responsive love, she has shrunk away from 
 him, has somehow or other drawn at arm's-length, and with 
 her palms pressed against his breast, keeps him away from her. 
 
 "Lyra, what is it? Come to me, dearest." 
 
 " No, no!" she pants, white to the lips, her eyes full of an 
 intense agony, an intense despair. " No, no! I I can not 
 I I dare not, must not! Let me go! Oh, don't speak 
 again not a word! If if you love me " her voice breaks 
 
 let me go without another word! It ip more than I can 
 bear! Oh, I can not bear it!"
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. 213 
 
 He still holds her hands and looks down at her, his face as 
 white as hers, his eyes full of stern questioning. 
 
 " Lyra/' he says, hoarsely, " have I been living in a fool's 
 paradise? Have I been deceiving myself? I God help me! 
 I thought you loved me. That day you remember I 
 could have been sure. Do you mean that that I was mis- 
 taken, that you did not care for me?" 
 
 She turns her eyes away; she can not lie to that extent, can 
 not foreswear sacred love so basely. 
 
 " You did love me," he says, with a sudden, swift return 
 of hope. " Why, then ah!" He stops, and draws a long 
 breath of doubt and pain. " Do you mean me to understand 
 that that you do so no longer? Is that the reason of your 
 coolness? Speak out. For God's sake, don't beat about the 
 bush! Do you love me no longer, Lyra?" 
 
 She looks round piteously, and up at the placid moon, that 
 seems to smile at her misery. 
 
 " Is that it?" he demands, almost fiercely. 
 
 She does not reply, but her silence is answer enough. 
 
 He drops her hands and turns away, that she may not see 
 his agony. Then, with still averted face, he says: 
 
 " It it serves me right. Yes, I'm rightly punished. I 
 don't wonder at it. How could any woman go on loving the 
 man who behaved as I behaved? God! what a cur I must 
 have seemed that day! For you did love me till till you 
 heard that I belonged to some one else. And now " he 
 laughs bitterly " I am free, and it is too late." 
 Too latef" breaks from her white lips. 
 
 But it is of her own mad deed, of her own fetters, she is 
 thinking of that vile marriage in the ruined church. 
 
 more to himself than 
 to her. " Well, I deserve it.'" 
 
 She moves away from him, with weak, uncertain steps, to 
 the open window. 
 
 " Good-bye," he says, hoarsely. " Say good-bye, Lyra." 
 
 She turns her face to him it is well for her that he is not 
 looking, or she would not have been allowed to go and her 
 lips move, but no sound comes. 
 
 When he turns, she is there no longer. 
 
 She pauses for a moment in the drawing-room, clutching a 
 chair to steady herself, to wait for sufficient strength; then she 
 goes up to her own room, locks the door, and flings herself 
 face downward on the bed. 
 
 How long she lies there, Tvith the words " Too later nng-
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 ing through her aching brain, she knows not; but after awhile 
 she rises^ and with trembling hands begins to undress. 
 
 As she does so, she sees a letter and a paper lying on th 
 table. 
 
 Mechanically she takes them up, as mechanically opens the 
 letter and reads it. 
 
 It is in a crabbed, half-taught handwriting; it is from 
 Griffith. 
 
 She reads it through once, twice, before its meaning, its full 
 significance, reaches her benumbed brain; then, with a cry, 
 she drops the letter, and, throwing her arms up, falls prone on 
 the thick Turkey carpet, the letter fluttering down like a 
 wounded bird and resting on her bosom. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Lyra came to, her eyes fell upon the letter lying on 
 her bosom. She staggered to her feet, and, as one who is 
 eager to convince herself of the reality of a message whose im- 
 port is life or death, reread it eagerly. 
 
 It was in the crabbed and half-taught handwriting of Grif- 
 fith, and ran thus: 
 
 " DEAR Miss LYRA, This comes saying how glad I was to 
 hear that you were safe and happy, and that the people are 
 kind to you. And why shouldn't they be? 
 
 " All is the same here as when you left; but I have noose 
 for you, which you must not be fri'tened at, though it is quite 
 troo. 
 
 " Yesterday I was down by the lite-house fishing, and I 
 sor a crowd of men by the rocks. I rowed over, and sor them 
 bending round a man that had been drowned and washed up 
 by the tide. There had bin a storm for three night, and he 
 had bin knocking about the rocks. Nearly all his clothes was 
 torn off, and no one could know him. They said that he must 
 have been a sailor washed overboard one of the coasters, and 
 that he had been in the water three or four days. I helped to 
 carry him into the lite-house. Now, while I was carrying 
 him, I noticed that, on a little bit of the coat that was left, 
 there was a button that 1 seemed to remember. It was one of 
 those shiny buttons, cut like a star; it was like the buttons on 
 the coat of that man Geoffrey Barle." 
 
 Lyra held the letter away from her and shuddered. 
 
 " I have never seen any other buttons like it, and it startled 
 me. When we had got him into uL-c room in the lite-house,
 
 ONCE IN A. LIFE. 215 
 
 the men examined him, and one of them pulled a pocket-book 
 out of the rags of the coat. I'd seen a pocket-hook like that 
 in Mister Barle's hands, and I asked them to let me look at it. 
 They opened it, and there was money it a great lot of bank- 
 notes. They said there was five hundred pounds. They was 
 all wet, and had to be dried before the fire before they could 
 be counted. I suppose I looked a bit scared, for they asked 
 me if I knew him. I looked at him; but no one could know 
 him not his own mother as he lie there. I sed, ' No, I did 
 not know him ;' but I sor that he had got the same light-col- 
 ored 'air like Mister Barle. Then I went home. I went to 
 Barnstaple and quietly made inquiries. I found that he was 
 not in Barnstaple not at any of the hotels. I went to a por- 
 ter I knew at the station, and asked him if he'd seen the sort 
 of man Mister Barle is on the nite he left the cottage and I 
 chased him, and the porter said no, and that he was sure no 
 one like that went up to London that night; because he was 
 seeing his sweetheart off, and noticed everybody on the plat- 
 form. So, dear Miss Lyra, I am sure that the man I sor lying 
 ded at the lite-house was that Mr. Barle. He must have 
 fallen into the river. I don't know what passed between you 
 that nite; but I know that you 'ated him and was afeard of 
 him. So, now you need not be afeard of him any more, becos 
 he is dead. I send you the noosepaper where you can rede all 
 about the body. They are all agreed that it was a sea-captain 
 coming home with his money, and there is no fuss you know 
 there are so many captains and sailors washed up on our shore. 
 
 " So, now you know that he is ded, and I am glad, for I 
 hated him. 
 
 " And now, dear Miss Lyra, I must say what I said when 
 you went away: if you are not happy, you will come back. It 
 is quite different here without you. All of us Carlo and the 
 pigeons and the fowls, all miss you. So, come back when you 
 feel like, and soon. No more from your survant, 
 
 "GBIFFITH." 
 
 With feverish hands Lyra tore the wrapper from the paper, 
 and read the account of the finding of the body and 
 quest. It minutely described the appearance of the body, the 
 coat, the pocket-book and its contents, and it drew the conclu- 
 sion that the unknown was some passenger or captain in one 
 of the coasters, who had fallen overboard. 
 
 She read and reread this until every word seemed graven a 
 her brain; then, with her hands pressed to her brow, a 
 paced the room, trying to realize the fact that death had i
 
 216 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 her free from the bonds which Geoffrey Barle had cast round 
 her. 
 
 Not for one moment did any doubt of the identity of the 
 body occur to her. The coat button, the pocket-book, were 
 irrefutable evidence. 
 
 She remembered the thick white fog on that awful night. 
 She knew that nothing was easier than for a man, a stranger, 
 to slip on the steep river-bank and fall into the tide. In the 
 event of his not Deing able to swim, he would inevitably be 
 drowned. The outgoing tide would wash him out to the bar, 
 and the body, beaten against the rocks by the wild waves, 
 would soon be rendered unrecognizable. 
 
 A shuddering horror took possession of her as she pictured 
 the unhappy man's fate a horror that for a time almost pre- 
 vented her realizing that his tragic death had brought her 
 freedom. 
 
 "Geoffrey Barle is dead Geoffrey Barle is dead!" seemed 
 to ring in her ears, accompanied by the swish of the tide 
 against the rocks. 
 
 Not for one moment did she think of Lord Dane. All her 
 thoughts were concentrated on the tragedy set forth in the 
 letter and paper which were clinched in her hands. 
 
 She, who had been wife only in name, wedded by stealth 
 and cunning, was now a wife no longer, a slave no longer, 
 but free. 
 
 For the rest of the night she lay quite still, but with her 
 eyes fixed on the window, in which the moonlight passed to 
 darkness, and the darkness to the bright and glorious dawn. 
 
 When the dressing-bell rang, she knew that she could not 
 rise and go down and face the other two women. She knew 
 that the reflection of the tragedy was still in her face, in her 
 eyes. An hour later there came a knock at the door, and 
 Lady Theodosia's maid entered. 
 
 " My lady sent to ask how you are, miss," she said. " Oh, 
 dear!" she broke off, looking pityingly at Lyra's white face 
 and startled eyes. " Then you were hurt, too, last night, 
 miss, after all?" 
 
 Lyra shook her head. 
 
 " No," she said; " I was not hurt; but I have been awake 
 all night. Please say that I will come down presently. No, 
 \o not bring me any tea. I could not take anything." 
 
 The maid softly lowered the blinds, and departed, and 
 Lyra closed her eyes, and at last fell asleep. 
 
 She woke with the consciousness of some one's presence, and
 
 ' 
 
 ONCE IN" A LIFE. 217 
 
 found Mrs] Leslie standing beside her. She started up on her 
 elbow and put her hand to her head. 
 
 " I I have been dreaming!*' she cried. 
 
 Then her eyes fell upon the letter and paper on the pillow, 
 and she fell back with a sigh. 
 
 " My dear child/' said Mrs. Leslie, " you are sure you were 
 not hurt last night? Mary quite frightened me by her de- 
 scription of you. but you are not looking so white now as she 
 said she found you." 
 
 " No, no. I am quite well," said Lyra, " and I will get 
 up at once. I am afraid it is very late." 
 
 " It is one o'clock, but it doesn't matter in the very least 
 You must not get up unless you are quite well, though " 
 
 Lyra sat up and looked at her. 
 
 " Though what?" she asked. " What is the matter?" 
 
 For she saw by Mrs. Leslie's face that something had hap- 
 pened. Had they discovered her secret? Had they heard of 
 the tragedy of Geoffrey Barle's death? 
 
 Mrs. Leslie sunk into a chair. 
 
 " Something happened?" she echoed, with a rueful laugh. 
 " Indeed there has! Last night's business has brought about 
 a catastrophe. Don't look so frightened, my dear. After 
 all, I suppose, it is not so very terrible. It is only that Lord 
 Dane and Lady Theodosia's engagement is broken off." 
 
 " Lord Dane Lady Theodosia broken off !" faltered Lyra. 
 
 " Yes," Mrs. Leslie sighed; then laughed, but still rather 
 ruefully. " Something must have occurred between them in 
 connection with that upset last night. Do you know what it 
 was, my dear?" 
 
 Lyra hung her head. 
 
 "Ah! I see you do. Well, I won't ask you any questions. 
 Anyway, the result is that Lady Theodosia is to marry Martin 
 Fanshawe instead of Lord Dane. " 
 
 " Marry Mr. Fanshawe!" was all Lyra could say. 
 
 " Yes. He hai been over here this morning and proposed 
 to her, and she has accepted him. They have gone out to- 
 gether as as coolly as if there was no such person as Lord 
 Dane in the world. It's all right, of course; no woman ought 
 to marry one man while she is in love with another; but it is 
 a sad blow to the earl. Though," she added, with a slightly 
 puzzled expression, " he does not seem so cut up by the break- 
 ing off of the. match as on Lord Dane's account. He is here, 
 my dear." 
 
 " Here? Lord Dane?" said Lyra, the color coming into 
 the white face.
 
 218 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " No; the earl," said Mrs. Leslie. " He has been here for 
 the last two hours." She paused a moment; then, from the 
 window where she stood with her back to Lyra, she added: 
 " He is waiting to see you." 
 
 The crimson flooded Lyra's face, and her heart seemed to 
 stand still. 
 
 " To see me? Oh, no! You must be mistaken, Mrs. 
 Leslie." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie came up to the bed and smiled gravely. 
 
 " I have seen the earl; he is waiting to see you." 
 
 " But but why? Oh! do you know?" 
 
 " No," replied Mrs. Leslie, " I do not know; but I think I 
 can guess." She drew the beautiful head to her bosom. 
 "Why are you so frightened, my dear?" 
 
 " Why? If you only knew!" faltered Lyra. " Ah, I can 
 not see him ! I can not tell why he should wish to see me. 
 Help me, Mrs. Leslie! Tell him " 
 
 Mrs. Leslie shook her head. 
 
 " You must see him, Lyra," she said, quietly. " If not to- 
 day, to-morrow. I know nothing. All is so confused and 
 sudden that I am bewildered; but I can form half a guess, 
 and Yes, you must see him; I will tell him that he may 
 come to-morrow?" 
 
 Lyra shook her head. 
 
 " No," she said; " I will come down now. It will soon be 
 over." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie insisted on helping her to dress, and then ac- 
 companied her down-stairs. 
 
 " He is in Theodosia's boudoir," she said. " You will not 
 be interrupted." Then she opened the door and said: "I 
 have brought Miss Chester, Lord Starininster," and closed the 
 door softly upon them. 
 
 The earl rose from a chair and came across the room, and 
 took Lyra's hand and bent over it. 
 
 " You are very kind to see me, my dear young lady," he 
 said. " I fear " she could feel his grave eyes on her face 
 " that the effort has caused yon inconvenience? I trust you 
 were not hurt in last night's accident?" 
 
 Lyra's lips formed, " No." 
 
 The earl Jed her to a chair, and seated himself beside her. 
 
 " Dane assured mu that you were not," he said. " Miss 
 Chester, there shall be no beating abor.t the bush between us. 
 There is some 'thing in your IV .mi ages me to be 
 
 frank and direct. I have come to speak to you of my son."
 
 ONCE Df A LIFE. 219 
 
 Lyra raised her eyes with a troubled wonder and question- 
 ing. 
 
 " Of of Lord Dane?" she said. 
 
 The earl inclined his head, his white hands clasped over the 
 top of his common but serviceable oak walking-stick. 
 
 "Yes, my dear. When Dane came home last night, he 
 told me all that had passed." 
 
 Lyra began to tremble. 
 
 " He does not usually make me his confidant. Indeed, 
 Dane, with all his boyishness, is somewhat reserved. But I 
 found him well, very much upset, and heard that he had 
 given orders to his servant to make preparations for a long 
 journey and absence from England. I saw that something 
 had happened that something which makes a wreck of a 
 man's life and I am his father, my dear I forced his secret 
 from him. I learned that his engagement with Lady Theo- 
 dosia had ended, and that " the old man's voice grew low 
 " he loved you!" 
 
 Lyra turned her head away, her bosom rose and fell. 
 
 " Do not be so distressed, my dear," he went on, " or you 
 will make my task, a sufficiently hard one now, much harder, 
 and well-nigh impossible; for I have come to plead for my 
 son, Miss Chester." 
 
 " To plead for him?" Lyra breathed. 
 
 The earl bowed his head. 
 
 "Yes. He kept nothing back from me last night laid 
 bare his heart I was going to say his hopes but indeed there 
 was only despair. My dear, I know that he loves you. I 
 know that he once thought you loved him, and that now he 
 knows you love him no longer. ' ' 
 
 Lyra" half rose, as if she could not endure any more. 
 
 "'Bear with me for a little longer," said the old man, in the 
 voice which, when he used it, no man or woman could resist. 
 " I know what you are thinking of me that I am guilty of 
 impertinence presumption, in thus coming to you. That 
 your refusal of my son should be accepted by both him and 
 me as irrevocable; but, my dear child, it is not possible that 
 you can realize how much that refusal means to him, to me, 
 and "he paused a moment" to his house. You know but 
 little of Dane, he tells me, my dear; you can not realize the 
 strength, the force of his character. He is the soul of honor 
 ves, I will say that though I and you know that in a mo- 
 ment of passion he forgot his honor. But it was for a moment 
 onlv. But he is now free. It is Theodosia who has broken 
 their engagement; he loves you loves you with that fierce
 
 220 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 yet enduring love which is characteristic of his temperament 
 and his race. " 
 
 He paused and looked straight before him. 
 
 " If you refuse to marry him, he will never marry." 
 
 A pause again. 
 
 " That means you see how frank I have resolved to be 
 with you, Miss Chester, that the title will go to a man well, 
 I will say no ill of him, excepting that I have learned that he 
 is unworthy of it. But it means more that my son's life will 
 be wrecked and ruined. He will leave me, will leave England, 
 will take to the roving, reckless life which can only have but 
 one end. I know Dane. I know what it all means for him. 
 I " his voice broke for a moment " I am an old man; he 
 is all I have in the world. After he parts from me to-day, I 
 I shall see him no more!" 
 
 "Oh! no, no!" Lyra breathed, with a sob in her voice. 
 
 " But yes," said the earl, very quietly but very sadly. te His 
 love for you will last till death. It is a way we Starminsters 
 have;" he smiled mournfully. " Dane will not be the first 
 whose life has gone to pieces upon the rocks of an unrequited 
 love." He paused, and Lyra remained silent, her hands 
 tightly clasped in her lap. 
 
 " I had great hopes, great ambitions for Dane," the earl 
 went on, in a low voice. " I had hoped that he would have 
 stepped into my place, that he would have endeavored to serve 
 his country and his queen as I have humbly endeavored to do; 
 and though I have long abandoned those hopes, still I looked 
 forward to seeing him fill his place in the world worthily. I 
 have looked forward to the time when I might have his chil- 
 dren at my knee to cheer my last days, and give me assurance 
 that my race would be worthily perpetuated. You can not 
 guess what all this meant to me. But these hopes must all 
 be shattered, unless " he paused " unless my pleading with 
 you be successful. Miss Chester, it does not become a father 
 to praise his son. I will not tell you that Dane is worthy of 
 you. No man, however good, however noble, can be worthy 
 of a good woman. But I will dare to say this, that Dane will 
 make the woman he loves, whose love he can gain, a happy 
 woman. Now, my dear, I have finished my prayer, for it is a 
 prayer. I come to you to-day and ask you, beg you, to re- 
 consider your decision. Will you refuse my prayer? Will 
 you not try and love my son? Will you not be his wife?" 
 
 Lyra raised her head. 
 
 " You ask me to marry Lord Dane?" she said, almost iu- 
 aucubly.
 
 OtfCE m A LIFE. 221 
 
 The earl bowed his head. 
 
 " I do, my dear child/' he said, gravely, almost solemnly. 
 
 Lyra's hands writhed. 
 
 " You you know nothing of me," she said. " You speak 
 of worthiness, my lord. How do you know that I am worthy 
 to be Lord Dane's wife, to be your daughter-in-law?" 
 
 The earl smiled. 
 
 "My dear, I know enough of you to feel assured on that 
 score. I have seen the letter of the clergyman at Barnstaple, 
 and know from that how fond and devoted a daughter you 
 were to the father who has passed away. A good daughter 
 makes a good and loving wife." 
 
 " He knew nothing, nothing of me," Lyra said, huskily. 
 
 " No? I think you are mistaken. Besides, you forget that 
 I have seen you; and forgive an old man's vanity, my dear 
 but I have learned, during my long sojourn in Vanity Fair, 
 to read faces, ay, and voices. Your face must be a very clever 
 mask if it hide a false heart and base nature. My dear, I 
 trust to Dane's judgment and my own. We both think you 
 more than worthy. The doubt is on the other side; but I will 
 not affect a doubt I do not feel. Dane loves you; he will 
 make you a good husband." 
 
 " He, too, knows nothing," she said, almost incoherently. 
 " If he knew" 
 
 The earl smiled. 
 
 te Tell him not me if there is anything to be told, my 
 dear," he said, with gentle dignity. 
 
 " I can not," said Lyra; " I can not marry him, my lord." 
 
 The earl took her hand and looked into her eyes. 
 
 " Do you mean that you do not love him?" he asked, his 
 eyes watching her keenly. 
 
 The blood rushed to Lyra's face, her lips quivered as if with 
 physical pain. 
 
 " I I oh, it is cruel! I can not bear it!" she broke out. 
 
 The earl pressed her hands. 
 
 " My dear, you have answered me," he said, slowly, grave- 
 ly. " Why do you hesitate? Why are you so reluctant to let 
 your heart answer me as it desires to do? Are you thinking of 
 the difference in rank? But no, that would be a vulgarity of 
 which I know you can not be guilty. Besides "he smiled- 
 " I have a shrewd suspicion that you come of a family as old 
 as his. But it is not that you are thinking of. What is it, 
 ihen?" 
 
 Lyra rose and turned from him. 
 
 " I can not tell you," she said, hoarsely.
 
 222 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " You shall not," he said. " I am satisfied with the knowl- 
 edge that you love my son. I think, my dear " he rose and 
 took her hand " that you will not refuse an old man's 
 prayer, that you will be his wife." 
 
 As he spoke, the door opened, and Lord Dane entered. He 
 stopped short, with the door in his hand. 
 
 "Father, you here!" he said. " Miss Chester, I came to 
 say good-bye to Dosie." 
 
 " Yes, I am here, Dane," said the earl, still holding Lyra's 
 hand. " I have come to plead for you." 
 
 A wave of color passed over Dane's haggard face. 
 
 " You you should not have done that, sir," he said. " You 
 only trouble Miss Chester. " 
 
 " Do you think so?" said the earl. " Then you shall plead 
 with her for forgiveness. Tell him, my dear, that you pardon 
 the impertinence of an old man anxious for his son's happi- 
 ness." 
 
 He raised Lyra's hand to his lips with the last word and, 
 went out. 
 
 Dane stood gnawing at his mustache and gazing at Lyra. 
 
 " Will you say good-bye to Dosie for me?" he said, at last. 
 
 Lyra made a gesture of assent; her face turned from him. 
 
 " I am sorry my father has worried you," he said. " You 
 see, he thinks my happiness the most important thing in the 
 world; it's a way fathers have; forgive him; forgive us both. 
 Miss Chester, good-bye. It's not likely you will be worried by 
 either of us again; at any rate, not by me. I leave by the 
 afternoon train, and " he stopped " won't you say good- 
 Dye, Lyra " his voice grew husky " shake hands?" 
 
 Half turning, she held out her hand. He took it, and as if 
 ts contact had scattered his self-possession and restraint to the 
 vinds, he gripped it hard and drew her to him. 
 
 "Lyra, I can't let you go I can't! Oh, my dear, have 
 pity on me! Try and love me a little! Be my wife, and let 
 me try and win back the old love!" 
 
 " No, no!" she faltered. 
 
 But she made a great mistake in letting him see her eyes. 
 He must have read something of the love that was burning in 
 her heart, for, with a cry of half-doubting joy, he caught her 
 to him and held her locked in his arms. 
 
 " Lyra, my love! My dear, dear love!"' 
 
 She hid her face on his shoulder with an irresistible sur- 
 render, but he raised it, and holding it in his hands, looked 
 into her eyes.
 
 OXCE I3T A LIFE. 223 
 
 " Lyra, you consent? Why, my darling, how cruel you 
 have been!" 
 
 " No, no wait!" she panted, trying to escape, but vainly, 
 for he laughed at the denial of her lips, reading the avowal in 
 her eyes" wait! You do not know! Oh, Dane, you do not 
 know! I have something to tell you. I tried to tell him. It 
 is something you must hear before " her voice died away 
 " before you ask me to be your wife!" 
 
 He laughed again. 
 
 " What is it?" he asked. " What is troubling that pure 
 soul of yours? Is it something that I must know?" 
 
 " Yes," she breathed; " you must know, and when you 
 know, you will not ask me any longer to be your wife. You 
 will send me away." 
 
 " Really?" he said, with a smile on his lips, in his eyes. 
 " I don't think so. What have you been doing? Murder 
 forgery?" He laughed aloud. " My poor Lyra, I'm afraid if 
 you'd been guilty of breaking all the ten commandments, it 
 wouldn't make any difference to me! It's one of those des- 
 perate cases, mine is, in which things of that kind don't count. " 
 
 She shook her head and sighed, almost moaned. Oh, if he 
 could but learn of her folly, her wickedness, from other lips 
 than her own! 
 
 " But what nonsense this is!" he said, after a pause, dur- 
 ing which he smoothed her hair and kissed the silken locks on 
 her forehead. " My dear child, I know what's worrying you. 
 You want to tell me about about some other man?" lor all 
 his declared indifference, his voice hesitated. " That's it, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 She hid her face on his shoulder, then tried to draw away 
 from him. 
 
 " Let it rest there, dearest," he said, putting her head on 
 its pillow again; " and first you listen to me, as you're bound 
 to do ' love, honor, and obey,' don't you know? Now, look 
 here, Lyra, if it's the sort of thing I've hinted at, don't you 
 say any more about it that is " he broke off with a touch of 
 gravity " that is, if you are sure it is all past and done with. 
 That he whoever he was, confound him! has quite gone off 
 the scene and won't appear again." 
 She shuddered slightly. 
 
 'Oh, yes, yes!" 
 
 Now 
 
 I want ^expect "you to confess all your pas*, well, flirtations?'
 
 224 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 A low cry escaped her. 
 
 " Ah, if it were only that!" 
 
 " Well, love affairs, if you will have it so," he said. " I 
 say, if you expect me to listen to 'em, even you expect too 
 much. I couldn't doit; it would drive me mad!" A mo- 
 mentary sternness rang in his voice, which grew gentle as he 
 went on. " My dear, I'm as jealous as what's his name in 
 the play? Othello. I should be miserable every time I 
 thought of of what you want to tell me. Besides " his tone 
 became grave and even penitent " don't you see, dear, that- 
 that well, 1 should have something to confess, and 
 He stopped; then broke out, almost fiercely: " For God's 
 sake, let the past bury its dead, and don't let us drag its 
 ghosts about with us. I'm content, Lyra, if you are. Tell 
 me that you are, dear one! Tell me that you are mine from 
 to-day, as I am yes, I am yours ah! yours only, my dearest, 
 from the first moment I saw you, when you pulled me out of 
 the Taw." 
 
 Lyra wrung her hands. What could she do? His words, 
 " I could not bear it!" sounded like a stem warning in her 
 heart. He had said that " if it were past and done with." 
 Well, it was past past and buried gone forever. If she 
 told him, he might would put her away from him, and she 
 would lose him. His love made her weak as water guiltily 
 weak, if you like to have it so; his arms round her, his lips 
 upon hers, robbed her of all strength of purpose. Yet, she 
 tried to obey the stern dictates of her conscience. 
 
 She raised her eyes to his so full of love, so piteous in their 
 imploration but before she could speak, the door opened, and 
 Lady Theodosia and Martin Fanshawe entered. They tried to 
 draw back, but Dane held Lyra's arm as she endeavored to 
 spring from him, and stopped them with a word. 
 
 " You have just come in time, Dosie. How do you do, 
 Fanshawe?" he said; and his handsome face flushed with a 
 man's joy and triumph in the woman he has won. " Dosie, 
 Miss Chester has just promised to be my wife." 
 
 Lady Theodosia changed color. There is always a little of 
 the dog-in-the-manger temperament even in the best of women; 
 but Lady Theodosia was one of the best of best women, and 
 the feeling did not last longer than a moment or two. 
 
 " Dane!" she faltered. 
 
 Then Martin Fanshawe proved himself of the right metal. 
 Suppressing all signs of astonishment from his clean-cut, as- 
 eetic countenance, he strode forward and held out his hand. 
 
 " I congratulate you, Lord Dane," he said, " I congratulate
 
 OKCE IN" A LIFE. 235 
 
 you most heartily; and I wish you every happiness, my dear 
 Miss Chester." 
 
 Dane wrung his hand. 
 
 " Thanks, old fellow. I'm not good at speech-making, but 
 I say" he glanced at Dosie rather whimsically "I gav 
 'Ditto/' 
 
 Lady Theodosia came forward and kissed Lyra with sweet 
 gravity. 
 
 " I am so glad!" she said. " But but isn't it rather sud- 
 den? I don't mean that," she added quickly, and flushing, 
 for Lyra's head drooped; but Dane burst into a laugh, then 
 grew suddenly grave. 
 
 " Look here, Dosie, I've got to confess confession is good 
 for the soul, eh, Fanshawe? Lyra and I are not ahem! 
 total strangers; we had met before. Now hold on!" for Lady 
 Theodosia's eyes opened wide. " It was my fault; I asked her 
 not to tell; I told her to hold her tongue. Blame me if there 
 is any blame going about." He stopped and looked queerly 
 at Lady Theodosia, who colored. " That's all right. We 
 met well, not exactly in a crowd some time ago, and but 
 that's a matter of detail, as you'd say, Dosie, and 
 
 The earl and Mrs. Leslie came into the room, and Dane 
 turned to his father. 
 
 " I've got her forgiveness, sir," he said. " It's all right;" 
 and he laid his hand affectionately on the old man's bent 
 shoulders. 
 
 The earl smiled and went up to Lyra and drew her arm 
 within his. 
 
 " Let us go into the garden, my dear," he said, with the 
 tact for which he was famous, " and you shall tell me all 
 about it." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie looked from one to the other with a smile. 
 
 " No wonder she fainted the night you appeared," she said 
 to Dane. 
 
 " Yes; I had a good mind to faint myself," he retorted, 
 dryly. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXX. 
 
 THE ill-natured philosopher who asserted that happiness was 
 impossible in this sublunary world would have been equally dis- 
 gusted and surprised if he could have known these two pairs of 
 lovers, who, at any rate for the four following months, drank 
 deeply of the divine c" of human joy, which, as we all know, 
 is anticipation. 
 
 8
 
 226 ONCE IK A LIFE. 
 
 Persons in high places can, we are told, do anything, and 
 Martin Fanshawe and Lady Theodosia were desirous of being 
 made one as quickly as possible; but Lady Theodosia was also 
 desirous that there should be a double wedding, " just to show 
 that there was no ill-feeling/' perhaps; and no persuasion, 
 even of Dane's, would induce Lyra to become Viscountess 
 Armitage before six months had elapsed. Dane, who would 
 have liked to carry her off to church the following morning, 
 and the earl, who also ardently desired the marriage, fought 
 against her determination in vain. 
 
 Seeing that she was " Geoffrey Barle's " wife only in name, 
 her refusal may seem strange and unreasonable; but she held 
 by it even against Lady Theodosia' s prayers and Martin Fan- 
 shawe's gravely just arguments; and so it was arranged that 
 the double wedding should take place in January. 
 
 Dane declared that the delay was wicked, and even cruel, 
 but he was not unhappy, though he growled and grumbled at 
 intervals. 
 
 It was a lovely autumn, and, refusing all the shooting invi- 
 tations, he stayed on at Starminster much to the earl's de- 
 light and spent his time, pendulum fashion, between there 
 and Castle Towers. 
 
 Lyra would have left Lady Theodosia, but that demure lit- 
 tle lady insisted upon her remaining; but as a friend, a close 
 and loving friend, rather than " companion." 
 
 " You see, my dear," she said, " I owe you such a big debt 
 of gratitude. If Dane had gone off to the wilds of Africa, or 
 wherever it is he wanted to go, I should have been rendered 
 miserable by the reflection that I had ruined his life, and 
 made him and the dear earl most wretched. You just saved 
 me from that, and every time I look at you I feel relieved 
 and grateful." 
 
 " And not at all jealous?" put in Mrs. Leslie, archly. 
 
 " No," responded Lady Theodosia, gravely. " Not jealous, 
 though I've every excuse. I can quite see how impossible it 
 was for Dane to go on caring for me after he had seen Lyra." 
 
 "Oh, come; I don't think you are altogether a freak of 
 nature, my dear," remarked Mrs. Leslie. " Neither does 
 Martin." 
 
 Notwithstanding the impatience of the two men, the months 
 that followed were very happy ones. There was plenty of 
 game at Starminster, and the earl, eager to keep Dane by his 
 side, filled the huge house with a party of shooting men and 
 pleasant women. 
 
 At first Lyra shrunk from th'e ordeal of meeting this sample
 
 OtfCE IK A LIFE. 227 
 
 of the fashionable world, but to her unbounded surprise, she 
 found not only that it was a very pleasant and amiable sample, 
 but that it was unanimous in accepting her and making much 
 of her. In fact, Lyra Chester, the solitary maid of the Taw 
 Valley, became extremely popular. The men raved about her 
 beauty, and the women, who are much harder to please 
 praised her modesty. 
 
 ' Ton my soul, Dane is a devilish lucky fellow!" declared 
 Wally Vavasour, who was supposed to be the supreme judge 
 of feminine worth. " Miss Chester is not only the most beau- 
 tiful girl I know, but she is the only girl I ever met who 
 doesn't know that she is pretty. I wonder why she always 
 dresses in black, or half mourning? I know it suits her but 
 there! anything would suit her, donchaknow." 
 
 To^ adequately describe Dane's pride and glory in his lovely 
 fiancee would be impossible. As Mrs. Leslie remarked, he 
 went about like a conquering hero, or like a man who had 
 discovered the biggest diamond on earth, or the Philosopher's 
 Stone. It was, she declared, a perfect treat to watch him as 
 he danced with her, or, at a distance, looked on while she 
 danced with some one else. 
 
 " If ever a marriage was made in heaven and I am told 
 that some of them are made elsewhere theirs will be. It is 
 a revival of the Arcadian period, when all lovers were true 
 and love reigned triumphant." 
 
 And through it all, under the admiring gaze of the men, 
 and the sometimes envious glances of the women, Lyra bore 
 herself perfectly. Her secret the awful secret that in the 
 silent watches of the night hovered like a loathsome specter 
 over her dreams, kept her humble in her elevation. 
 
 For the balls and other splendid functions she cared little, 
 though she was the acknowledged queen of them, and she was 
 never so happy as when she was seated by Dane's side on the 
 box of the drag and behind the chestnuts that ran away that 
 never-to-be-forgotten night, or when she was with the old earl 
 in the library, reading aloud to him or copying one of his 
 speeches for the press. 
 
 Between Lyra and the old nobleman a very warm affection 
 had sprung up and flourished, and once, after dinner, he 
 remarked to Dane: 
 
 " Dane, if I had married a woman like Lyra, I should have 
 been Prime Minister before this." 
 
 And Dane had laughed with proud satisfaction. 
 
 The months, enlivened by picnics, balls, and shooting-par- 
 ties, slid away, and one morning in January, when the sun 
 
 . /
 
 238 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 shone on the snow and turned the frost on the hedge-rows to 
 diamonds, which outshone even the famous Starminster tiara, 
 Dane and Lyra, and Lady Theodosia and Martin Fanshawe 
 stood before the altar of the small, ivy-grown church in the 
 Starminster grounds, and were respectively made man and 
 wife. 
 
 With a smile of joy and triumph, Dane pressed Lyra's arm 
 to his heart, as he led her to the vestry to sign the register. 
 
 " Mine at last, dearest!" he murmured. 
 
 Quiet as the double wedding was, for Lady Theodosia and 
 Lyra had stipulated for a really private ceremony, there was 
 a large crowd in the vestry, and Wally Vavasour, who acted 
 as best man, was only heard by Lyra when, as he led her to 
 the clerk who sat beside the register, he said: 
 
 " He wants to know whether he is to put ' spinster ' or 
 ' widow/ Miss Chester. Good! isn't it? I suppose the poor 
 beggar is obliged to put the question." 
 
 A smile rose to Lyra's face. Her great happiness had wiped 
 out, for a time, the memory of that other wedding in the 
 ruined church of St. Mark's by the Taw. Then the smile 
 faded and she turned white. 
 
 Dane saw the change; his bridegroom's eyes were constantly 
 on her face. 
 
 " What is it, dearest?" he murmured. " Are you faint? 
 It's this awful crowd. Why don't some of you get outside?" 
 
 " No, no!" she said; and, setting her face into a semblance 
 of composure, she signed the register. 
 
 Then she dropped the pen and turned to him with a strange 
 look in her eyes, 
 
 " Remember," she panted, in a whisper, " you would not 
 let me tell you!" 
 
 He scarcely heard her; every one was chattering as they 
 pressed forward to sign their names as witnesses. 
 
 " What did you say, dear?" he asked. 
 
 She drew a deep sigh as she looked up at him. 
 
 " Nothing," she breathed" nothing." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 " DON'T tell me there is no such thing as happiness in the 
 world! Do you think I have forgotten my honey-moon?" ex- 
 claims the heroine of a modern French comedy; and Lyra 
 might have echoed the retort. 
 
 It would indeed have been strange if she had not been 
 happy, for the gods had lavished their choicest gifts upon her
 
 OtfCE IN A LIFE. $29 
 
 youth, beauty, rank, wealth, and the love of a man who 
 carried her heart on his bosom! 
 
 At times her great happiness almost made her tremble, for 
 it seemed to her that no human being had a right to so full a 
 cup of joy as that which the Fates had filled for her. She 
 forgot that she had had a fair share of trouble and sorrow, and 
 that it was time the wheel of fortune turned her way. 
 
 Like a couple of school-children out for a holiday, she and 
 Dane wandered about the sunny south which, by the way, 
 does not always earn its complimentary title making a short 
 stay in some places, a long one in others, just as then- fancies 
 prompted. 
 
 To Lyra, who had only read of the beautiful places and no- 
 ble cities of the Continent, the days seemed to pass in an end- 
 less series of delicious dreams, and in her intense enjoyment 
 Dane found a pleasure so new as to be almost startling. 
 
 If some ingenious chemist could put up Happiness in bottles 
 and retail it at one shilling and three half -pence, like their pat- 
 ent medicines, what an immense fortune he would make! 
 
 Happiness brought the color to Lyra's cheek, the light to 
 her eyes, the smile to her lips; so transformed her that Dane, 
 who was absurdly proud of his wife's beauty, occasionally asked 
 himself whether this radiantly happy girl could be the same 
 pale, weary-looking woman who had fallen fainting into his 
 arms that night at Castle Towers. 
 
 Though they had resolved to travel about with all the sim- 
 plicity and privacy of say, a city clerk and his bride their 
 presence in the large cities was speedily known to the English 
 colony which may be found hi every continental town, large 
 or small, and very soon after their arrival at a hotel cards 
 fluttered down upon them, conveying invitations to dinners 
 and " At Homes." Most of these hospitalities she and Dane 
 declined, but sometimes the invitations came from old friends 
 of his or the earl, and a refusal was impossible; and they 
 would, with mutual bewailings and sympathy, go to Lady So- 
 and-so's dinner-party or " small and early;" and wherever 
 they went, Lyra, to quote Dane, "scored heavily." Her 
 loveliness would have made her remarkable and welcome, but 
 that mixture of sweet, womanly dignity and gentleness which 
 had won Dane's heart the first time he had seen her, con- 
 quered all with whom she came hi contact; and wherever she 
 went she made friends and created a sensation which was not 
 long hi finding expression in the modern society journals. 
 
 Dane laughed at the complimentary paragraphs which Gal- 
 ignani, the continental newspaper, copied from the English
 
 $30 ONCE IK A LIFE. 
 
 journals; but I have a shrewd suspicion that he was not alto- 
 gether displeased at the fame into which his beautiful wife was 
 all unconsciously stepping. 
 
 " I don't know whether you are very keenly set upon being 
 one of the ' leading women ' I think that's the proper term, 
 but I'm open to correction but I'm afraid you're in for it, 
 whether you like it or not, my dear,'* he said one morning as 
 he lolled back hi a deck-chair on a balcony hi Eome, smoking 
 the after-breakfast cigarette, and looking through Oalignani 
 with that perfect enjoyment of sheer laziness which only the 
 happy can experience. 
 
 Lyra, leaning over the rail, gazing at the great dome, to- 
 ward which one's eyes are constantly drawn wherever in Rome 
 one may happen to be, looked at him with a smile of interro- 
 gation. 
 
 " What is a * leading woman,' and why am I in danger of 
 becoming anything so dreadful as it sounds?" she asked. 
 
 He laughed and regarded her through half -closed eyes, with 
 the expression which a man's face wears when he is looking at 
 the woman he loves and which is a very different thing ad- 
 mires. " You'll soon know, I fancy," he replied. " A 
 leading woman is well, the Duchess of Torchester is one of 
 'em. You've heard of her?" 
 
 " Of course; everybody seems to know her and talk of her. 
 One would think she was the greatest lady in the world, with 
 one exception." 
 
 " Oh, no," said Dane; " there are three or four as great as 
 she is. They lead the fashion; then* word, in their little 
 world, is absolute law. To be admitted to their friendship is 
 to be stamped with the ha 1 ! mark of society. In short, they 
 are the rulers of the ' hupper sircle,' as Thackeray calls it." 
 
 Lyra laughed. 
 
 " How terrible! As if such an humble and insignificant in- 
 dividual as I should ever become so powerful a despot! My 
 lord the king is pleased to chaff his servant." 
 
 " Oh, no; listen to this," he said: 
 
 " ' The Viscount and Viscountess Armitage are enjoying a 
 long honey-moon in the south. We hear that her ladyship is 
 winning golden opinions wherever she goes, and that London 
 may prepare itself for a surprise which will prove an absolute 
 conquest. Lady Dane, as those who enjoy the inestimable 
 privilege of her friendship are fond of calling her, is not only 
 
 ie of the most beautiful, but one of the most fascinating of 
 English women, and her wedding-trp with her popular hus- 
 band partakes, in no small measure, of # triumphal progress.
 
 ONCE IHT A LIFE. 231 
 
 We prophesy tliat this coming and, strange to say, her first 
 London season will be an immense success. The viscount 
 and viscountess are at present in Borne, and Rome is raving 
 about her.' 
 
 " What do you think of that?" 
 
 " I think it is very impertinent," said Lyra, with height- 
 ened color. " How dare they print such nonsense about any 
 one?" 
 
 Dane laughed and seated himself more comfortably. 
 
 " My sweetly innocent child, they mean it as a compliment; 
 they mean to be pleasant. If I were to go and kick the fellow 
 who writes it, he would be a great deal more astonished than 
 aggrieved. Why, half the women we know would be jerked 
 into the seventh heaven of delight if such a paragraph were 
 written about them!" 
 
 Lyra looked slightly incredulous. 
 
 " Oh, Dane, I can't think you are right! But it is all 
 nonsense. It isn't there at all, and you are inventing it to 
 tease me." 
 
 Dane laughed outright 
 
 " My poor girl," he said, with mock gravity. " There is 
 something appalling in your lack of women's chief attribute 
 vanity. Some of these days I shall wake up to find I haven't 
 married a human woman, but one of those unnatural what 
 d'ye call it? water-sprites angels, don't you know, and I 
 shall see you spread your wings and vanish from my sight." 
 
 " I shall vanish from your sight without any wings, sir, if 
 you talk such terrible nonsense," she remarked; but added, in 
 the woman's undertone, which is so significant: " But I am 
 glad if you think me pretty, Dane." She leaned toward 
 him and let her finger-tip touch his short, wavy hah\ " I 
 suppose every woman must like to seem well favored in one 
 man's sight." 
 
 Dane laughed. 
 
 " Be comforted, my dear," he said. " I think you are tol- 
 erably good-looking; but as to one man's " he smiled with 
 affected ruefulness" that is coming it a bit strong, seeing 
 that all the men are, as this newspaper cad says, raving about 
 you. I suppose there is safety in numbers, otherwise I should 
 be jealous. As it is, I am only well, amused and flattered. 
 Only yesterday that handsome boy, Clarence Hoare, almost 
 went so far as to ask me what the devil I had done to deserve 
 such a peerless creature." 
 
 Lyra smiled and colored.
 
 ONCE IN A IISB. 
 
 " He is a very foolish boy," she said. "I will tell him go 
 if you like, Dane." 
 
 " My dear girl, he would not be a bit abashed, and for good- 
 ness' sake, don't hurt his feelings on my account. Besides, if 
 you send away all the men who admire you, and are perfectly 
 convinced that they are in love with you, I sha'n't have a 
 friend left." 
 
 Lyra laughed. 
 
 " Keally, you don't deserve any kindness at my hands, Dane; 
 and I've half a mind not to let you read Dosie's letter; it came 
 this morning. " 
 
 " Have a whole mind, my dear," he retorted, blandly. " I 
 know Dosie's letters of old " he pulled himself up and bit 
 his mustache, but Lyra did not appear to notice his moment- 
 ary embarrassment. " What does she say? I could bear a 
 few elegant Detracts." 
 
 Lyra pulled the letter out of her pocket. 
 
 " Well, they've got back. They were obliged to cut the 
 honey-moon short, because the bishop has given Martin the 
 living at Castle Towers." 
 
 " Oh!" grunted Dane, as if he had not had a great deal to 
 do with the presentation. " That's all right." 
 
 " And they're very happy awfully happy and she has dis- 
 covered that Martin is even better than she thought him." 
 
 " Poor man! Humph! you won't be able to say that of 
 me, my dear." 
 
 " No, indeed! And here is a message from the earl. Shall 
 I read it? No; I won't. It's it's too complimentary. But, 
 oh, Dane, how good and kind he is to me!" and there was a 
 tremor in her voice. 
 
 " 'Bead! Read!' as they shout in the House of Com- 
 mons," he said, with indolent insistence. 
 
 " Must I? Well, here it is: ' Tell Lyra, that though I do 
 not wish to curtail their honey-moon, I shall be 'rejoiced to see 
 them back, for it is very lonely here without her. In truth, I 
 miss her badly. You may say that I am having Highfield got 
 Teady for them. ' ' 
 
 Dane looked up. 
 
 "Phew!" he murmured. "Highfield! That's good of 
 the guv'nor." 
 
 "What is it, Dane?" 
 
 " Well, it's the largest of the country places, excepting 
 Starminster, and just near enough to the Hall to be conven- 
 ient. That's just like him! He never does things by halves. 
 You'll like the place, I think. Lyra. It is not so large as
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 233 
 
 Starmrnster, but it's ' mighty pretty/ as the Irishman said 
 of his favorite pig. But go on." 
 
 Lyra went on with the extract from the letter. 
 
 " ' But tell her that I will not let them go and live there, 
 unless they promise to keep a room for an old man, who will 
 crave for a quiet corner in the house of his daughter, when, 
 weary with the turmoil and clatter of noisy politics, he longs 
 for rest and the companionship of those he loves.' " 
 
 The tears came into Lyra's eyes as she read. 
 
 Dane nodded with intense satisfaction. 
 
 " Poor old guv'nor! Tell him we'll keep an attic for him, 
 and that he shall always have a chop in the library. Any- 
 thing else?" 
 
 Lyra ran down the closely written lines. 
 
 " Oh, yes; this, Dane: 'Please tell Dane that we are all 
 rather anxious about Chandos. ' ' 
 
 " They don't say so!" remarked Dane, ironically. " What's 
 the matter with him?" 
 
 " * Dane will remember,' Lyra went on reading, ' that 
 he sent no reply to the invitation to the wedding, nor any 
 present, which seemed strange at the time.' " 
 
 " Humph! it didn't to me, nor the non-appearance of the 
 present," growled Dane. 
 
 " ' And the other day Martin called at Chandos's rooms, 
 and was surprised to find that he had not been seen there for 
 months. The landlady showed him a pile of letters the in- 
 vitation was among them which had come for Chandos, and 
 said that she had not heard from him for months, and did 
 not know his address. The earl thinks that something may 
 have happened to him.' ' 
 
 " No cause for alarm; the devil takes care of his own," 
 muttered Dane. 
 
 " What did you say?" asked Lyra. 
 
 " Nothing of any consequence. ' 
 
 " Who is Chandos?" she asked, as she put the letter away. 
 
 " Chandos is my cousin Chandos Armitage," said Dane. 
 " Don't happen to have a match in your pocket, my dear, do 
 you?" 
 
 As a matter of course, Lyra fetched a box from the room, 
 lighted a match and held it to his cigarette, and then, equally 
 as a matter of course, held her cheek for payment. 
 
 " Your cousin? I never heard of him." 
 
 heard 
 
 I dare say. No end of aunts and cousins you haven't 
 il of yet, thank your stars; though most of ''cm, I'm
 
 334 
 
 bound to say, are better worth knowing than Master Onau- 
 dos." 
 
 " What is the matter with him?" Lyra asked. 
 
 She was leaning over the balcony, looking dreamily again at 
 the great dome, which stood out from the clear blue of the 
 Italian sky. A distant bell was ringing; the sun, the Koman 
 sun, which turns grim winter into bright summer, shone on 
 the crowd beneath; on the market women in their white caps 
 and scarlet skirts; on the grave priests and monks and black- 
 robed Sisters of Mercy going " about their Father's business;" 
 on the street boys yelling then* papers and fruit and flowers. 
 She asked the question with but faint interest. 
 
 " A great deal is the matter with him, morally. He is not 
 a nice man by any means, though I'm afraid a great many 
 persons, especially women, think otherwise. He is supposed 
 to be very clever, literary, musical, and all the rest of it; but 
 well, he isn't an honor or credit to the family, and if it is 
 true that he has disappeared from civilization well, civiliza- 
 tion is to be congratulated." 
 
 " Poor fellow!" said Lyra. 
 
 Dane took the cigarette from his mouth and stared at her. 
 
 "Beg pardon?"' 
 
 " I said * Poor fellow!' " said Lyra, softly. " Don't you 
 pity anybody who is like your cousin Chandos, Dane? It must 
 Be so bad to be wicked; one must be so unhappy; to feel that 
 you have spent your life, the dear, sweet life which God has 
 blessed you with, in doing harm to others oh, Dane, ono 
 must be wretched!" 
 
 Dane smiled, but gravely. 
 
 " That's like one of Dosie's speeches," he said. " After 
 all, one good woman's like another, I suppose." 
 
 Lyra laughed, but gravely, also. 
 
 " You mustn't compare me with Dosie," she said. " Dosie 
 is an angel, and I am only " 
 
 " A rather prepossessing young woman," he put in. " Yes, 
 that was a very nice bit of moral sentiment of yours, my child, 
 but I'm afraid it won't wash. I'm afraid Chandos isn't at all 
 wretched. He thinks he is making a jolly good thing out of 
 his life, though it isn't particularly sweet, and certainly isn't 
 blessed. It's a mistake to imagine that the wicked are un- 
 happy at any rate, while they're young, and are * a-going of 
 it.' They flourish as the bay- tree, don't you know, and 
 Chandos flourishes particularly. Bless your innocence, he is 
 worshiped by no end of people who don't know him. As to 
 anything having happened to him, don't you believe it. He's
 
 OSTCE IN A LIFE. 235 
 
 all right, and up to mischief somewhere. He'll torn up fresh 
 and smiling like Hamlet's idea of a villain and laugh at 
 'em for thinking he was drowned or hanged." 
 
 "Dane!" murmured Lyra, rebukingly. "Perhaps he is 
 not so bad as you have painted him." 
 
 " Perhaps not," he assented, laconically; " but to do his 
 portrait correctly, you'd want a heap of lampblack, I can tell 
 you. But don't let's talk about him; he spoils my cigarette: 
 bad taste in the mouth. Long may he stay away, wherever 
 he is. Well, I suppose I ought to get up" and go out. It's 
 about the time young Clarence drops in, isn't it? And the poor 
 boy looks so aggrieved if I'm at home that I feel quite guilty 
 like an interloper." 
 
 Lyra laughed. 
 
 " We'll both go," she said. 
 
 " Better not; or if he finds you're out, he'll pitch himself 
 over the balcony. Heartless coquette as you are, I imagine 
 you wouldn't care to have the lad's blood on your head." 
 
 " You deserve to have my hands on your ears," she re- 
 torted; and she bent toward him, to be caught, kissed, and 
 held until she freed herself. 
 
 " Eeally, Dane, your behavior is outrageous! You forget 
 that those windows in the palace opposite rake this balcony." 
 
 " Let 'em; who cares?" he retorted, as he rose and 
 stretched himself. 
 
 His yawn was cut short by an exclamation from Lyra. She 
 had returned to the railing, and was looking down at some- 
 thing or some one below. 
 
 ' ' 'What's the matter? Fire?" 
 
 " Oh, Dane, there is such a I was going to say handsome 
 man standing on the pavement opposite! But he is not so 
 handsome as as singular and distinguished-looking. See?" 
 
 He leaned over beside her and looked lazily across the street 
 Then he said: 
 
 " By George! it's yes, it is St. Aubyn!" 
 
 "You know him?"' 
 
 " Rather; was at college with him. Best fellow alive. Poor 
 devil!" 
 
 " Why do you say that?" she asked. 
 
 As she spoke, the man raised his head and looked up at 
 them. His face was a handsome one, but was spoiled by a 
 weary, listless look which impressed one by its intense sad- 
 ness. He was dark, and the hair at his temples was touched 
 with silver, though he was still a young man. The air of dis- 
 tinction which had attracted Lyra's attention struck a keen
 
 23 6 ONCE IK A LIFE. 
 
 note for the most casual observer. Few men, and fewer worn* 
 en, ever passed him with a single glance. 
 
 His listless, melancholy eye wandered along the house 
 fronts till it reached the balcony; then, as he recognized Dane, 
 his face was lighted up by a singularly sweet smile; but as he 
 saw the lovely woman by his side, it disappeared, and, 
 slightly raising" his hat, he walked on. 
 
 "Confound it! he's gone," exclaimed Dane. "He saw 
 you." 
 
 "Saw me!" said Lyra, open-eyed. "Why should I 
 frighten him away? What do you mean, Dane?" 
 
 He laughed, but with a touch of disappointment. 
 
 " Oh, St. Aubyn is a woman-hater!" he said. 
 
 " A woman-hater?" echoed Lyra, who had never met nor 
 heard of this phenomenon., 
 
 Dane nodded and sighed. 
 
 " Yes poor old chap! That man's history is a sad one. 
 He is one of the best fellows that ever walked the earth. Fact. 
 He and I were the closest friends." 
 
 " Then I am sure he must have been a good fellow, Dane," 
 murmured Lyra. 
 
 " Thank you, dear. Well, he was one of those men who 
 would lay down their lives for a friend. No end of scrapes 
 scrapes that would have floored me he has got me out of. 
 Always stood by me like a like a brick!" 
 
 He smoked in silence for a moment or two, evidently recall- 
 ing old college days; then he went on: 
 
 " After he left college he fell in love. She was a handsome 
 girl enough, but well, everybody but poor St. Aubyn could 
 see what sort of a girl she was. At that time he was a long 
 way off the title." 
 
 '' What is he?" asked Lyra. 
 
 " The Earl of St. Aubyn. There were two, if not three, 
 between him and the title, and she refused him. She was as 
 pretty as paint one of those fair girls, with hair like gold, 
 don't you know gold hair and blue eyes, innocent as a child, 
 but in appearance only. He was terribly cut up when she 
 refused him, and when the two or three lives between him and 
 the title gave out, he was as indifferent about it as if he'd only 
 come into a couple of hundred pounds. I think it was I my- 
 self who plucked up cheek enough to advise him to try his 
 luck with the fair Lilian again and well, of course she ac- 
 cepted him swore she'd loved him all the time." 
 
 " Oh, Dane!" 
 
 " My dear " he smiled " all women are not so single-
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 337 
 
 minded and unmercenary as you. "Well, they were married. 
 It was all love red-hot live on his aide. There was no wom- 
 an like her. He only lived while he was with her. He was 
 in the clouds, all abroad, when he was away from her. He 
 used to talk about her to me and to other fellows, I dare say 
 just like a boy over his first love. Then one day well, one 
 day she left him. He discovered that she had not only 
 deceived him after, but before his marriage. "What is the 
 matter, dear?" he broke off to ask, for Lyra was trembling, 
 and her face had gone white. 
 
 It was a moment or two before she could answer: 
 
 " Nothing, Dane. Go on." 
 
 " It was the old story/' he continued, as he lighted another 
 cigarette. " There had been a lover before their marriage; 
 he had reappeared afterward, and the fair, golden-haired 
 Lilian who was simply a goddess in the eyes of her husband, 
 a type of perfect womanhood had chucked up everything 
 a devoted husband, her good name, rankj wealth oh! every- 
 thing, for the sake of a dirty scoundrel ^ 
 
 He stopped and smoked fiercely. 
 
 Lyra's hand slid along the rail of the balcony until it 
 reached his arm and fastened on it timidly. 
 
 " Oh, poor man, poor man!" 
 
 " Yes, you may well say that. Poor devil, he was like a 
 madman. In fact, I think he was out of his mind for a time. 
 He followed the man and thrashed him, almost under her eyes. 
 Served him right pity he didn't shoot Tier. Then he disap- 
 peared for a long time. When he came back well, he was 
 as you see him, no more like the old St. Aubyn than I'm like 
 that carved water-spout. She'd broke him, body and soul- 
 stone-broke him. He told me that there was only one thing 
 he regretted, and that was that the scoundrel hadn't shot 
 him. He's the last of the St. Aubyns; the title dies with 
 him; and he's not at all likely to marry again. Likely! Well, 
 he hates women simply hates them, poor old chap!" 
 
 Lyra was silent a moment. 
 
 " No wonder!" she said; and there was a depth of feeling, 
 of tender, forgiving sympathy in her voice. " Oh, poor man, 
 poor man! How wicked, how vile she must have been! 
 
 Dane nodded. 
 
 "Yes; when you women are bad well, you are bad; and 
 when you are good "he put his arm around her and pressed 
 her to him "you are good! Halloo!' there he is, coming 
 back again. Just dra^ -ut of sight, dear just for a mo- 
 ment."
 
 238 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 Lyra sunk into the deck-chair and pressed her hands over 
 her eyes. She heard Dane call out: 
 
 " Halloo! St. Aubyn! Come up, old chap!" 
 
 " Will he come?" she asked in a whisper, as if the man of 
 whom she was speaking could hear her. 
 
 " Yes; I think so, if you keep out of sight. Yes; he nods; 
 he is coming." 
 
 " I will go," said Lyra, after a moment or two; but as she 
 rose to make her escape, footsteps were heard on the stairs, 
 and the valet appearing at the glass door of the room behind 
 the balcony announced Lord St. Aubyn. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 LORD ST. ATJBYN responded to Dane's greeting with the 
 same warmth with which it wa/jSfcorded, and the two men 
 held each other's hands and \oo$m into each other's eyes as 
 only old and tried friends can. >JF 
 
 " My dear old man," Dane exclaimed, " I'm delighted to 
 see you! What a rum thing that you should have been pass- 
 ing just as I happened to be sitting here! Lyra, this is a very 
 old chum of mine, Lord St. Aubyn." 
 
 In an instant the warmth disappeared from St. Aubyn's 
 face, and in a cold, reserved manner he bowed to Lyra. For 
 a moment or two his sad, weary eyes rested on her face; but 
 though he could not have failed to note her beauty, it did not 
 strike a spark of admiration out of him. 
 
 " I did not know you were married, Dane," he said, coldly. 
 
 Dane laughed. 
 
 " Scarcely aware of it myself, old chap. Honey-moon, you 
 know." 
 
 Lord St. Aubyn inclined his head and took the chair which 
 Dane put for him. 
 
 " I congratulate you," he said, simply, seriously, without a 
 trace of the 'conventional smile. 
 
 Lyra would have taken flight, but that she feared that by 
 doing so she would convey to Lord St. Aubyn the knowledge 
 that she and Dane had been discussing him; but she withdrew 
 as far as the balcony would allow, and returned to her con- 
 templation of the street. 
 
 Dane started on the usual series of questions: How long 
 had he been in Rome? How long was he going to remain? 
 What hotel was he staying at? And Lord St. Aubyn made 
 his replies in his grave but musical voice which had impressed 
 Lyra rather favorably.
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. 839 
 
 " I am oaly passing through, and may go to-morrow. I 
 am staying at the Hotel Coronna." 
 
 " Oh, you can't go to-morrow!" said Dane, in his down- 
 right fashion. " Why, it's ages since I saw you, and I'm not 
 going to let you bolt off like that. You've nowhere in par- 
 ticular to go, I suppose?" 
 
 Lord St. Aubyn made a slight gesture in the negative. 
 
 " Very well, then. You just stay on, for a bit, at any rate. 
 There are a heap of people here there always are but there 
 is no one I know particularly, and I was just wishing tkat I 
 could just run across a chum." 
 
 Lord St. Anbyn glanced at Lyra, and Dane laughed. 
 
 " You think that I'm not very complimentary to my wife?" 
 he said. " Oh, but that's all right. We haven't begun to 
 bore each other yet, but, all the same, an old chum is wel- 
 come. Ask him to dine with us to-night, Lyra. " 
 
 Lyra turned her head. 
 
 " We shall be very pleased if you will, Lord St. Aubyn," 
 she said. 
 
 " Thank you, Lady Armitage, but I am sorry to say I am 
 engaged," he said, quietly but promptly, and in a tone that 
 settled the matter. 
 
 " What a nuisance!" said Dane. " Never mind; we'll book 
 you for to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow I" began St. Aubyn; but Dane interrupted 
 him quickly. 
 
 " Well, well, we won't bother you. What do you say to a 
 stroll? Lyra, get your hat on, and come with us." 
 
 Lyra glanced at the sad, somber face. 
 
 " I have some letters to write," she said. ; ' You must go 
 without me this morning." 
 
 And as she spoke she fancied that Lord St. Aubyn looked 
 Sieved. But Dane declined to accept the excuse. 
 
 "Oh, nonsense! Write 'em this afternoon. The post 
 doesn't go out until the evening. Run away and put your 
 pinafore on, there's a good girl." 
 
 There was a silence between the two men for a moment or 
 two after Lyra had left them. Then St. Aubyn said: 
 
 " And so you are married, Dane?" 
 
 Dane nodded. 
 
 " Yes, to the best, the dearest- 
 Then he stopped. St. Aubyn was scarcely the man t 
 appreciate marital rhapsodies. No doubt he, too, J 
 thought his wife " the best, the dearest," etc.
 
 240 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " She is very beautiful," he said, slowly. "I wish you 
 every happiness, Dane/' 
 
 " Thanks, old man," responded Dane, and quickly got 
 away from the subject. 
 
 They chatted over old times and mutual acquaintances until 
 Lyra reappeared. Then Dane went off to put on his boots 
 and oyercoat, and she and St. Aubyn were left to entertain 
 each other. 
 
 It seemed for a time as if he intended to maintain a pro- 
 found silence; and Lyra, who felt well, rather nervous in the 
 presence of this strange animal for it was the first professed 
 
 woman-hater " she had met was longing for Dane's re- 
 turn, when Lord St. Aubyn said: 
 
 " Your husband and I are very old friends; but I dare say 
 he has already told you that, Lady Armitage?" 
 
 " Yes," said Lyra. 
 
 Then she colored, for the dark-gray eyes fixed upon her 
 seemed to add: 
 
 " And has told you everything else about me?" 
 
 He noticed the flush, and appeared to take it as an answer 
 to his unspoken question. 
 
 " He is looking remarkably well and happy/' he said. 
 " Will you let me say that he deserves to be both, for he is the 
 very best of good fellows." 
 
 Lyra flushed again, but with pride this time. 
 
 " I will let you sing Dane's praises as long as you please," 
 she said, hi her sweet, frank way. 
 
 The shadow of a smile crossed his face. 
 
 " No one coulc 1 do it with better excuse," he said, " for 1 
 have no closer friend." 
 
 Then he leaned over the balcony-rail and appeared to com- 
 pletely forget her presence. 
 
 Dane shouted to them from one of the lower windows, and 
 they found him in the street, and went for their stroll. 
 
 The two men talked together, almost to the exclusion of 
 Lyra, who was quite content to listen, and declined to accept 
 'the attempts which one or the other of them now and again 
 made to include her hi the conversation. 
 
 Dane was delighted at meeting with his old friend, and she 
 was delighted in his delight, and so was perfectly happy. 
 
 It was evident that Lord St. Aubyn was not only a great 
 traveler, but that he did not do his " globe-trotting " with his 
 eyes closed or his brain asleep, and Lyra was intensely inter- 
 ested in the short but graphic accounts of his wanderings. 
 Borne he seemed to know as well as if he had been bom there;
 
 OtfCE iy A LIFE. 241 
 
 and once when Lyra stopped to look at an old church, and 
 asked Dane its name, and he replied, with a laugh, " Good- 
 ness only knows! Where is your precious Baedeker?'* Lord 
 St. Aubyn volunteered the information, and supplemented it 
 by a brief epitome of its history. 
 
 And gradually, as they strolled along, he grew more com- 
 municative to her, and pointed out and explained the various 
 " lions " with which almost every street of the Eternal City 
 is blessed. 
 
 But his eyes scarcely ever rested on her face, and his man- 
 ner was marked with the reserve with which he had first 
 greeted her. They lunched together in one of the restaurants, 
 and when Lord St. Aubyn rose to take his leave, Dane at- 
 tacked him with another invitation to dinner. 
 
 " It's all nonsense that excuse of yours of a previous en- 
 gagement, St. Aubyn. Don't be disagreeable, but dine with 
 us to-night there's a good fellow! If you really are engaged, 
 chuck the other people over." 
 
 " I was not engaged, and I will dine with you," said St. 
 Aubyn, quietly; and raising his hat, he walked off. 
 
 " Well, what do you think of him?" asked Dane, as he and 
 Lyra sauntered home. 
 
 Lyra reflected a moment. 
 
 " I rather think I like him, though he is so anxious to show 
 that he hates me and all my sex;" and she smiled. 
 
 Dane laughed, then sighed. 
 
 " Poor old chap! Just think what cause he has, and don't 
 be hard on him, dear." 
 
 " I won't be hard on him," she said. " But I should like 
 to remind him tha&all women are not wicked." 
 
 Lord St. Aubyn came to dinner. He looked very tall and 
 still more distinguished in his evening-dress, and with Dane he 
 was genial enough, but to Lyra his manner, though the per- 
 fection of courtesy, was marked by a cold reserve. 
 
 Most women would have resented it, but Lyra, though she 
 was accustomed to the pnftnpt homage and lavish admiration 
 of her husband's male friends, bore it with a meekness and 
 amiability which touched Dane to the core and filled him with 
 gratitude. 
 
 After dinner Dane and Lord St. Aubyn. adjourned to the 
 balcony, and Lyra curled herself up in a corner, with a novel. 
 She was so engrossed in it that she did not hear Lord bt. 
 Aubyn approach until he was standing in front of her. ^ 
 
 " I have come to say good-night and to thank you, he
 
 343 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 gald " to thank you not only for * the pleasant evening/ but 
 for your gracious self-sacrifi*. " 
 
 " What do you mean?" Lyra asked, with a smile. 
 
 He looked down at her innocently wide-opened eyes, with a 
 guhdued sadness in his smile. 
 
 " Do you think that I do not appreciate the fact that you 
 have surrendered your husband to me for a whole evening, 
 Lady Dane?" 
 
 " Oh, but Dane is so glad to see you, to have you with 
 him/* she said, naively. 
 
 He smiled outright. 
 
 " I am properly rebuked/' he said, gravely. " I forgot, in 
 my own pleasure at meeting him, that your sacrifice was en- 
 tirely on his account as it should be/' he added. 
 
 " What are you two discussing?" said Dane, coming up to 
 them. " Look here, Lyra, Lord St. Aubyn insists upon clear- 
 ing out of Rome to-morrow, because he says he is afraid that 
 he is de trop, and might spoil our honey-moon. I tell him 
 that he won't do anything of the sort; but he is, and always 
 was, as obstinate as a donkey. Just see what you can do with 
 him. Tell him that when we find him in the way, we'll in- 
 form him of the fact. Or, look here, you might threaten that 
 we'll go with him, wherever it is he's going. It's all one to 
 us." 
 
 Lyra looked from one to the other with a smile, from 
 Dane's handsome, happy, debonair face to Lord St. Aubyn's 
 grave one. 
 
 " I will tell Lord St. Aubyn anything you please, Dane," 
 she said. 
 
 " There you are!" he exclaimed, as if that settled the mat- 
 ter. " You can't go after that, my dear fellow." 
 
 " No," said Lord St. Aubyn, quietly. 
 
 He did not go, and after three or four days he ceased to talk 
 of going, much to Dane's delight. For the first two or three 
 days Lyra saw little of him, he and Dane going off for walks 
 upon which she declined, quite pleasantly, to accompany them. 
 On the fourth, St. Aubyn himself asked her. 
 
 "It is a question of your coming or my going. I did not 
 remain that I might rob you of your husband's society, Lady 
 Dane," for he, too, had dropped into the habit of calling her 
 by Dane's Christian name. 
 
 " Very well," she said, and ran to put her hat on. 
 
 On the fifth day, St. Aubyn, after a long spell of silence 
 the two men were smoking their uf ter-dinner cigars in the 
 balcony said;
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. 243 
 
 " Done, you ought to be a happy man!" 
 
 " I is," said Dane, laconically. 
 
 "Yes." St. Aubyn sighed. "She is a good woman, 
 Dane." 
 
 Dane nodded. 
 
 " Just found it out, old man?" 
 
 " Yes," said St. Aubyn. " This morning I wandered into 
 that old church by the second bridge. I thought I was all 
 alone " he paused " then I saw your wife. She was kneel- 
 ing with her face hidden in her hands." 
 
 Dane nodded. 
 
 " Yes; Lyra is fond of dropping into the quiet old churches," 
 he said, his voice soft and tender. " Well?" 
 
 " Presently," went on St. Aubyn, in a low voice, " a wom- 
 an came in with a child in her arms. It was a poor, dirty 
 little wretch, and in pain, most likely, for it cried and wailed. 
 The woman tried to quiet it, but I suppose the poor little 
 thing wanted food, for it wouldn't be soothed. Your wife 
 heard it." He paused. " She got up and went to the mother, 
 and asked her to let her have the child, and nursed it dirt 
 and all. Money passed, no doubt, for from where I stood be- 
 hind a pillar I heard the woman blessing her. But it wasn't 
 the gift of the money. Any one could have played the Lady 
 Bountiful. It was " he smoked fiercely " it was the look 
 on your wife's face, as she pressed the little one to her bosom, 
 that went home to me. It was the face of an angel a pitiful, 
 child-loving angel, Dane!" 
 
 There was silence for a moment, for Dane said nothing. 
 That Lyra Ms Lyra was an angel was no news to him. 
 
 " It made me think," Lord St. Aubyn went on, in a low 
 voice, " of that other woman the woman who had taught rate 
 to hate her sex, and for one moment God forgive me! I 
 envied you, Dane yes, I envied you!" 
 
 Dane put out his hand and let it fall gently upon his 
 friend's. 
 
 " Take care of her," said St. Aubyn, almost sternly. " She 
 is worth cherishing." Then he took his hat and walked out. 
 
 From that day his manner toward Lyra changed. :t was 
 cold and repellent no longer, but eloquent of a tender, re- 
 spectful, almost reverential devotion. But it was a devotion 
 that was never obtrusive. When others were with her and 
 the English colony was particularly attentive to Lady Dane, 
 and made much of her he disappeared or kept hi the back- 
 ground, But when he was alone with her and Dane he
 
 244 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 seemed to slip more naturally and easily into the position of 
 watch-dog and constant friend. 
 
 Dane, as has been remarked, was well, of a somewhat in- 
 dolent disposition. Your truly healthy, happy man is apt to 
 be lazy. Why should he be otherwise? The world was made 
 for him- So it happened that when Lyra wanted a book from 
 the library, it was Lord St. Aubyn who fetched it for her, and 
 selected it. It was he who, when she was going out, consulted 
 the skies and found the sun-shade or umbrella. It was he who 
 appeared on the balcony with a fleecy wrap on his arm, and 
 the remark that the night air was chilly; but he always gave 
 the wrap to Dane to put round her. 
 
 All the stores of his remarkable memory were placed at her 
 service. If the three walked out together, it was he who was 
 ready to answer her questions as to this statue or that ruin. 
 He planned drives and moonlight excursions, and wherever 
 they went he was always thoughtful of her comfort and con- 
 venience. 
 
 Dane noticed the change in him, and one day " chaffed " 
 Lyra upon it. 
 
 "It is Una and the lion over again," he said. " Really, 
 you ought to be very proud, my dear. I've never seen him 
 even decently civil to a woman since since his great trouble. 
 But I don't suppose you are even grateful. You women think 
 it only the proper thing for a man to chain himself to your 
 chariot wheels." 
 
 To his surprise, the eyes she lifted to him were tearful and 
 almost reproachful. 
 
 " Don't say that, Dane," she said, in a low voice. " Do 
 you think I haven't noticed Lord St. Aubyn's kindness? Oh, 
 yes, yes! and I am grateful, indeed I am. It makes me so 
 happy, ah, so happy, to think that my husband's friend should 
 be mine also!" 
 
 " Well, you needn't cry, if you are happy," he said, gently, 
 penitently. " What a tender heart it is!" and he drew her 
 face down and kissed her. 
 
 " Fa not crying," she said, mendaciously, as she covertly 
 wiped ner eyes. " But I do pity him so much, Dane. Think 
 what he must feel every time he sees us so happy. You are 
 happy, Dane?" 
 
 " Slightly." 
 
 " Think, when he sees us, how it must remind him of his 
 own past happiness, lost forever! Dane, he must be a good 
 man, or he would hate us$ he could not bear to see us." 
 
 " Well, he doesn't hate YOU, at any rate," said Dane,
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 245 
 
 " Poor old chap! he has looked something like his old self 
 this last week or two. I teU you what: we'll take him back 
 with us to Highfield, if I have to drag him there!" 
 
 St. Aubyn came in almost at the moment. 
 
 " I thought Lady Dane wanted to go to the Gallery this 
 morning/' he said, eying Dane's recumbent figure and slipper- 
 shod feet. 
 
 " Did she? Did you? Oh, yes; I heard you two talking of 
 it. All right; give me five minutes." 
 
 He was not longer than fifteen; but when they had started, 
 he pulled up suddenly. 
 
 " I've left a letter I wanted to post," he said. " I'll catch 
 you up in a minute or two. 
 
 " I'll go back for it," said Lyra, at once, and as a matter of 
 course. 
 
 " No, no; I'll go," said St. Aubyn, equally as a matter of 
 course. 
 
 Dane laughed. 
 
 " You should both, or either of you, go; but I've forgotten 
 where I've left it," he said. " Walk on and I'll catch you." 
 
 They strolled on. It was a lovely morning, and the streets 
 were crowded. They waited at the turning to the Gallery, and 
 St. Aubyn seized the opportunity to open her sun-shade for 
 her. 
 
 " Shall we go in?" he said. " Dane will go straight to the 
 Gallery." 
 
 They went down the narrow street, and had almost reached 
 the massive entrance when a small crowd came from the 
 mouth of one of the alleys. 
 
 It was the usual street crowd, a policeman towering in the 
 midst. St. Aubyn took Lyra's arm and drew her into a door- 
 way to let them pass. As he did so, Lyra saw that the police- 
 man had hold of a man. He was a disreputable-looking ob- 
 ject, and apparently tipsy. His face was cut and bleeding, 
 and his seedy clothes muddy. 
 
 "Oh! what has he done?" she said to St. Aubyn. 
 
 Before he could answer, the man, who had heard her voice, 
 stopped and struggled in a feeble kind of way with his captor. 
 
 " There's there's an Englishman there, with that lady!" 
 he said, hoarsely. " Let me speak to them; they'll answer 
 for me. Let me speak to them, I tell you!" 
 
 The policeman took a firmer grip, and, with a shrug of the 
 shoulders, was pushing him. irast, when Lyra, always swift to 
 pity, said:
 
 246 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " Oh, let him stop! Lord St. Aubyn, let him speak to us. 
 He is an Englishman, and and in trouble!" 
 
 St. Aubyn frowned, not from hardness of heart, but from 
 annoyance that she should be brought in contact with this dis- 
 reputable business. 
 
 " Oh, see, he is so helpless!'* she pleaded. 
 
 The man heard her, and made another struggle, only desir- 
 ous of getting clear of the affair as soon as possible. 
 
 St. Aubyn stepped before her, as if to shut her from the 
 crowd, and asked the policeman what was the matter. 
 
 Volubly he informed him that the man had been unable to 
 pay his lodgings, and defrauded an honest landlady, and in 
 resisting ejectment had cut his head. He added that the man 
 was " full of wine." 
 
 " What does he say? What has the man done?" asked 
 Lyra. 
 
 St. Aubyn told her in a few rapid sentences, and instantly 
 her hand went for her purse. 
 
 In doing so, she inadvertently stepped slightly forward. The 
 man saw her, stared for a moment, then uttered a strange cry, 
 and, to the not unnatural amazement of the policeman, began 
 to drag him away. 
 
 St. Aubyn put Lyra's purse aside. 
 
 " Go into the Gallery!" he said, in the quiet tone of com- 
 mand which few women can resist. 
 
 With a pitying glance at the prisoner whose face was now 
 turned away from her she obeyed. 
 
 St. Aubyn inquired the amount of the debt, and placed 
 some money in the man's hand. The man took it, with a 
 strange look of bewilderment, tried to mutter some words of 
 thanks, then, as the policeman released him, staggered back to 
 the alley and disappeared. 
 
 St. Aubyn entered the Gallery and found Lyra. 
 
 " Is it all right?" she said. " Have they let him go?" 
 
 :< Why do you distress yourself on account of a wretch who 
 doesn't deserve a moment's thought of yours?" he said, al- 
 most rebukingly. 
 
 She smiled, her eyes still moist and pitying. 
 
 " He looked so miserable and unhappy, and " she lauj 
 softly, apologetically " I, too, have been miserable and un- 
 happy 1'^ 
 
 laughed
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE,' 247 
 
 CHAPTER XXXni. 
 
 LOED DANE and his charming viscountess, as the Roman 
 papers were given to calling Lyra, came to London hi May, 
 and, as if it were a matter of course, St. Aubyn accompanied 
 them. They did not intend to remain throughout the season, 
 for neither Dane nor Lyra would have bartered the meadows 
 of sweet, soft June for the garish gayeties of London ball- 
 rooms; and it was arranged that, after a stay in town of some 
 six or eight weeks, they should go down to Highfield. During 
 their short London season the earl had offered them house- 
 room at the huge family mansion at Lancaster Gate; and in 
 anticipation of their acceptance, he had prepared a suite of 
 rooms for Lyra, which, by the costliness of their luxury, ab- 
 solutely appalled her. 
 
 Dane laughed as she sunk into an easy-chair covered with 
 priceless Oriental brocade, and gazed round the exquisitely 
 decorated and appointed apartments bedroom, dressing- 
 room, boudoir, all adjoining. 
 
 " Rather gorgeous and impressive, isn't it?" he said. 
 
 "Oh, Dane!" she could only gasp, "how beautiful, how 
 lovely! And how good he is to me! Think of him and all he 
 has to worry him thinking of me, and taking so much trou- 
 ble; for Dosie says that he chose the things and saw to it all 
 himself." 
 
 Dane smiled. He was pleased, of course. 
 
 "That's the guv'nor all over,," he said; "he never does 
 things by halves. It is his little way of showing you that he 
 likes you. ' ' 
 
 " Little way!*' murmured Lyra, as she looked round the 
 rooms, at the rare furniture, the rich hangings, the inlaid 
 cabinets of unique curios, the hundred and one knickknacks of 
 bric-a-brac which are so dear to the heart of every true wom- 
 an, and looking at them, remembered the costly presents of 
 gems which the old man had made her. 
 
 Dane laughed again. 
 
 "Goodness only knows what he has done with Highneld. 
 Dosie hinted that he had transformed it into a miniature Star- 
 minster. But I accept it all as my due as a slight acknowl- 
 edgment of iny wisdom in choosing the dearest little girl m 
 the world;" and he put his ami round her head and pressed it 
 against his heart. " is ow rouse yourself and get your war-
 
 248 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 paint on, or you'll be late for dinner, and shock the always 
 punctual Mrs. Fanshawe. You've been sitting there like a 
 wax figure at Madame Tussaud's for the last ten minutes." 
 
 Five minutes afterward, he called out from the adjoining 
 room, where he was vigorously brushing his hair: 
 
 " St. Aubyn dines with us to-night, I suppose?" 
 
 " Oh, I suppose so! Of course," she replied; and she 
 laughed. " Didn't you ask him?" 
 
 "No," he said; " I left that to you. I took it that you 
 would be certain to do so. Never mind. I'll look him up at 
 the club and bring him home." 
 
 " Oh, do!" she said. " He would feel so solitary, dining 
 alone the first night." 
 
 Dane smiled. 
 
 " I dare say he would find one or two other fellows at the 
 club," he said. " But I'll tell him you asked him out of 
 pity. He won't be offended, perhaps." 
 
 Lyra smiled. 
 
 " I can't imagine Lord St Aubyn offended with me." 
 
 " In-deed!" 
 
 He laughed with intense enjoyment of her naivett. 
 
 St. Aubyn was apparently not offended, and came home 
 with Dane to what was just a little family party, including 
 Dosie and Martin, Mrs. Leslie and the earl. 
 
 The meeting between the old man, who was the first to ar- 
 rive, and Lyra was a very warm one. 
 
 " Well, my dear," he said, as he kissed her forehead, " so 
 you have been very happy. I didn't ask, you see. I could 
 read it in your face." 
 
 " Very, very happy!" she murmured, giving him a kiss. 
 " I am glad you have come before the others, because I wanted 
 to thank you for all you have done for me my pretty rooms!" 
 
 He patted her shoulder, and smiled down at her with fa- 
 therly affection. 
 
 " Not a word of thanks, my dear. I wish you knew how 
 pleasant an amusement it has been to me." 
 
 " Have you seen Dane yet?" she asked. "I I think he 
 has been happy." 
 
 He laughed softly. 
 
 ! " " Yes; 1 met him sauntering along Pall Mall just now as if 
 the world were the j oiliest of all possible places and had been 
 specially constructed for him. I didn't ask him, either, if he 
 were happy. It was just as unnecessary as it was in your 
 <aise. And so you are going down to Highfield in June?" 
 
 '* Yes," she said. " We are both so fond of the country,
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 249 
 
 and that is, we will stay in London, if you wish it/' she broke 
 off gently, and looking up at him. 
 
 " Heaven forbid, my dear!" he said at once. " I wouldn't 
 have you risk those rose-tinted cheeks and bright eyes for the 
 best season ever held. No no; you are quite right. We 
 miserable politicians are bound to sacrifice the summer, but 
 there is no need for you and Dane to do it. And so you met 
 St. Aubyn, and have brought him back with you. I am glad 
 of that. He is a good fellow. Poor man!" Dane has told 
 you something of his great trouble, I suppose, my dear?" 
 
 " Yes," she said, softly, pityingly. 
 
 The old man nodded. 
 
 " A good woman is beyond rubies," he murmured, " a bad 
 one is the devil's counterfeit of an angel! After that epigram 
 I'll go and dress;" and he limped off. " I hear Dosie s voice 
 in the hall, and I should be de trop;" and he laughed. 
 
 The two women, after the first embrace, regarded each 
 other critically, as is the manner of brides on meeting after 
 the honey-moon. 
 
 " My dear Lyra, how well you look!" Lady Theodosia said. 
 
 " Why, that is what I was going to say to you!" exclaimed 
 Lyra, as she drew her to a seat beside her. 
 
 Lady Theodosia smiled. 
 
 " I am very well," she said. " But you look more than 
 well. You are" she hunted for a word "radiant! I'm 
 not surprised at the fuss they made of you abroad, and 1 
 think the papers are quite correct in prophesying a brilliant 
 triumph for you here in London. I see it hasn't spoiled you, 
 Lyra, dear," she added, as Lyra blushed. " Martin and I were 
 sure you would not be changed, that all the admiration and 
 flattery in the world could not make you vain." 
 
 " Oh, I hope not!" laughed Lyra. ' But I won't say as 
 much for your and Martin's praises. And you are quite 
 happy? But, as the earl says, I need not ask that." 
 
 " Yes," said Dosie, in her grave way, " we are quite happy; 
 but indeed we haven't time to be miserable, even if we were 
 hiclined. Since Martin took the living the work has been 
 ever so much harder than it was before. You know that 1 
 have always felt that a parson's wife should really be her hus- 
 band's helpmate, and I am trying to do my duty, 
 think of letting Castle Towers and going to live in the old 
 vicarage; but Martin would not consent, 
 enough to say that though he should prefer it, he would not 
 let me deprive myself of the luxuries I have been accustomed 
 to. As if I cared one jot whether I lived in a large house or
 
 350 ONCE IN A LIFE." 
 
 a small one, or had two servants or twenty, a pony-phaeton or 
 a carriage and pair. No; I should like to lead the life of an 
 ordinary clergyman's wife, hut " she sighed " Martin will 
 not hear of it. " 
 
 " I always thought Mr. Fanshawe as wise as he is good," 
 said Lyra. 
 
 Lady Theodosia's face lighted up. 
 
 " Oh, if you only knew how good he is, my dear!" she 
 murmured. " But how selfish I am! Tell me about Dane." 
 
 " Oh, Dane is quite well, and as wicked as ever," said Lyra, 
 laughing. 
 
 Dosie looked into her eye and nodded apprehendingly; then 
 taking her hand and kissing her, she whispered: 
 
 " My dear, what a terrible mistake you and I nearly made! 
 Think if I had gone on and and robbed you of him!" 
 
 Lyra flushed and pressed her hand. 
 
 " Yes, and robbed Martin of yourself!" she whispered back. 
 
 It was a very pleasant, happy little reunion, and Lord St. 
 Aubyn was not allowed to consider himself in the way. He 
 and the old earl had a good deal to say to each other, and St. 
 Aubyn spoke scarcely half a dozen times to Lyra; but every 
 now and then his eyes rested on her with the grave regard 
 which, often as she met it, never caused her any embarrass- 
 ment; and once, when telling Dosie of some incident that had 
 occurred during their travels, she forgot the name of the 
 place, and turned to ask Dane, who, engaged with Mrs. Les- 
 lie, did not hear her, St. Aubyn quickly supplied the required 
 information, as if he had been listening; and when on leaving 
 the room she said, "Oh! I have forgotten my fan," he held 
 it out to her, just as her maid might have done. 
 
 Lady Theodosia remarked on the change in him. 
 
 " You and Dane have quite reformed Lord St. Aubyn," 
 she said, with a smile. " He has become positively attentive 
 and polite. He used to be " 
 
 " A perfect bear!" put in Mrs. Leslie, laughing. " The 
 last time we met him he stalked away from us as if we were 
 plague-stricken. " 
 
 Lyra looked from one to the other. 
 
 "Is he so changed? He has always been so kind and 
 thoughtful since I have known him," she said. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie laughed again. 
 
 "So you take the credit of his reformation, my dear," she 
 Baid. 
 "I?" exclaimed Lyra, opening her eyes. " Why, what
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 251 
 
 have I to do with it? He is Dane's friend. If he is changed. 
 it must be through Dane." 
 
 " Yes/' said Mrs. Leslie, with her old, pleasant irony; 
 '* the force of example. We all know what a Chesterfield of 
 attention and courtesy Lord Dane is." 
 
 There was a general laugh at this sally, and then the three 
 women began to talk of the coming season. 
 
 " You have a terrible business before you, my dear," said 
 Mrs. Leslie. " You will be overwhelmed with invitations, 
 and will have to work like a slave the slave of fashion while 
 you are here. No more free-and-easy wanderings about con- 
 tinental towns, no more tete-a-tete dinners at restaurants with 
 Lord Dane. 
 
 Lyra laughed. 
 
 " Oh, it was nearly always a trio!" she said, naively. 
 " Lord St. Aubyn generally dined with us " then she sighed 
 " and we were so happy! I am I am almost sorry we came 
 to London at all, if it is to be altogether different. Dosie, you 
 will have to stay and help me. I know nothing about society 
 ways absolutely nothing and I shall make the most dread- 
 ful mistakes." 
 
 Lady Theodosia looked horrified at the proposal 
 
 " My dear Lyra," she said, gravely, " I should be very 
 pleased to stay with you, but "her voice grew almost solemn 
 " it is impossible for me to leave my parish quite impossi- 
 ble." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie smiled. 
 
 " Quite impossible!" she echoed, with a capital imitation 
 of Lady Theodosia's solemnity. "Don't you know, Lady 
 Dane, that if she left the parish the church roof would fall m, 
 the old women would die, the school children play truant, 
 and, in fact, the whole place rush headlong to rum.-' But 1 
 don't think you need be afraid of making mistakes, 
 you made them, the world would deem them delightful, ai 
 pronounce them the fashion. My dear, famous persons are 
 incapable of mistakes; their faults become virtues, then 
 crimes little blemishes which prove human and not quit 
 vine. Would you like me to stay with you? I will, if you 
 like." 
 
 Lyra jumped at the proposal. v*^i w 
 
 "Why, will you, really?" she exclaimed, delightedly. 
 
 " Yes, if Dosie will spare me, and I'm sure she will," 
 
 Whyfof course," said Lady Theodosia. " But the ide
 
 252 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 that Lyra should make ' mistakes,' as she calls it, is ridicu- 
 lous." 
 
 So it was arranged that Mrs. Leslie should remain at Lan- 
 caster Gate, and Lyra commenced " the campaign," as Dane 
 called it, with that experienced woman of the world at her 
 side. 
 
 From the very commencement the campaign proved a tri- 
 umph. For once the heralds of fame had not exaggerated, 
 and at Lyra's first ball, the Duchess of Torchester's, the first 
 notes of victory were sounded with no uncertain tones. That 
 great lady, the duchess herself, expressed an emphatic ap- 
 proval of Lord Dane's wife. 
 
 " She is as lovely as they said, and twice as sweet," she de- 
 clared; and during the evening she took an opportunity of 
 congratulating Dane. 
 
 ' You are a most fortunate man, Lord Dane," she said. 
 " Your wife is the dearest little woman " Lyra was every 
 inch as tall as her grace, by the way " and perfectly irresis- 
 tible. I see she has already got all the best men round her, but 
 I don't think she will be spoiled." 
 
 " Thank you, duchess," said Dane, in his outright fashion. 
 " No, I don't think she will be spoiled. I've given her a 
 good trial canter." 
 
 Her grace laughed. 
 
 " Oh, any one can see that you are absurdly fond of her," 
 she retorted. " And they tell me " She stopped and 
 laughed again. 
 
 " Don't mind my feelings, duchess. Pray, go on." 
 
 " Well, they say that it is six of one and half a dozen of the 
 other." 
 
 " Yes," said Dane, with mock gravity " yes, I think she 
 is fond of me. But you mustn't be hard upon her. It is the 
 only instance of bad taste of which she has been guilty." 
 
 The duchess smiled. She and Dane were old friends, and 
 she enjoyed his mock cynicism. 
 
 " She is too good for you, Dane," she said. 
 
 " So one or two other persons have remarked to me," he 
 said, placidly; " but I shall think it's true, impossible as it 
 sounds, if you say so." 
 
 The duchess's ball was followed by a whole string of others, 
 and Lyra was plunged into the whirlpool of London fashioii- 
 able life. Concerts, dinners, receptions, all the diversions 
 which go to make up Vanity Fair in full swing seemed to ab- 
 sorb all her time.
 
 ONCE IN A LIFB. 353 
 
 " Why, it is hard work/' she remarked, smilingly, to Mrs. 
 Leslie " very hard work!" 
 
 "Yes," assented that lady, "and not particularly good 
 pay. My dear, some of these days the upper classes will 
 strike for an eight-hours' day and won't be happy till they 
 get it." 
 
 Dane, after a tune, did not always accompany the ladies, 
 but he generally " dropped in " at the small hours, and per- 
 haps remained to bring them home. Lord St. Aubyn, how- 
 ever, was present at nearly every fashionable function. He 
 never danced, but it always happened that when Lyra discov- 
 ered she was tired and wanted to rest, she also found that 
 Lord St. Aubyn was near her, and ready to take her to some 
 comparatively quiet and cool spot, and it was he who generally 
 had her fan, her bouquet, her wrap, when they were missing. 
 
 His face had lost something of its sadness, though the expres- 
 sion of weariness was still observable in his eyes, and he was 
 still very silent and reserved. Even with Lyra herself he was 
 not talkative, and it was not unusual for them to sit out a 
 dance in perfect silence. But if she spoke, his dreamy, ab- 
 stracted manner vanished in a moment, and he was all attention 
 to her lightest word, and on the alert to gratify her smallest 
 wish. 
 
 For a tune there was a little whisper, not of scandal, but of 
 gossip and curiosity, but the most inveterate slanderer could 
 find nothing in Lyra's manner or conduct to excuse calumny. 
 Her obvious affection for her husband would have rendered 
 any aspersions ridiculous. 
 
 To all her admirers and their name was legion her man- 
 ner was the same. She was kindness, sweetness itself; was 
 grateful for their attention, patient with their flattery and 
 that was all. 
 
 Poor young Clarence Hoare declared, with something sus- 
 piciously like tears in his eyes, that if she would only be angry 
 with him, he could bear it better than her unvarying kind- 
 ness, her smiling unbelief of his devotion. 
 
 " She is such an angel of modesty, so so humble, don't 
 you know dash it! no, that's not the word, but I can't get 
 the right one that she can't see that she's the loveliest and 
 best woman in the world; and she only smiles when when 
 you try and tell her so." 
 
 Lord St. Aubyn paid no compliments. He had never on< 
 hinted at her beauty, or praised a dress or an ornament. All 
 the world might have heard every word he had ever said 1 
 her; and yet Lyra could always tell when he liked a new
 
 254 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 dress, and unconsciously she got into, the habit of consulting 
 his eyes when she was doubtful of some new costume or ar- 
 rangement of jewelry. She had long ago discovered the fu- 
 tility of asking Dane's opinion on such matters. In his eyes 
 she was just perfect in whatever she wore, and there was an 
 end of it. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 DANE had sent down to Starminster for a couple of hack? 
 for her, and Lyra now rode in the park each morning. She 
 had learned very quickly, nominally under the tutorship of a 
 riding-master, but really under Dane and St. Aubyn's teach- 
 ing. Dane generally accompanied her in the morning gallop, 
 but not seldom St. Aubyn rode on the other side; and it was 
 more often than not he, instead of Dane, who examined her 
 horse's girths and bit, and put her into the saddle. 
 
 One day St. Aubyn bought a pair of ponies and phaeton 
 outbidding a Russian princess, by the way; but he did not 
 present them to Lyra, and took Dane's check. Who was he 
 that he should presume to offer her a gift? But Lyra was as 
 grateful as if they had indeed been a present. 
 
 " That you should think of me!" she said. " Is it true 
 that the princess cried with disappointment?" 
 
 " I dare say," he said, in his grave way. 
 
 " Oh, Lord St. Aubyn wouldn't care if all the other women 
 in the world were dissolved in tears if he could make you 
 smile, Lady Armitage; neither would I," blurted out young 
 Clarence, who happened to be present. 
 
 Lyra looked rather startled, and glanced from the boy's 
 flushed face to the grave one of St. Aubyn; but St. Aubyn 
 did not flinch. 
 
 " Mr. Hoare thinks that he has a pretty talent for epigram, 
 Lady Dane," he said. " He is not the first man who has made 
 a similar mistake." 
 
 The boy saw in a moment that he had said something more 
 than usually foolish, and colored; but he was scarcely pre- 
 pared for the severe reprimand which he received when Lyra 
 had left him and St. Aubyn alone. 
 
 " No one, I suppose, can prevent you talking silly nonsense 
 to Lady Dane, Clarence," St. Aubyn said, with a sternness of 
 tone and eye that made the boy wince, " but let me ask you 
 not to include me in your folly. There, my boy," he added, 
 rather more kindly, as he laid his hand on the lad's shoulder, 
 " don't look so heart-broken. It was only a silly speech, and
 
 ON"CTR 1ST A LIFE. 265 
 
 silly speeches of that nature appear to be the vogue. But don't 
 you think, Clarence, that you take a mean advantage of Lady 
 Dane?" 
 
 " Mean advantage! I?" exclaimed the lad, half indignant, 
 half remorseful. 
 
 " Yes," said St. Aubyn. " Most of the women you talk to 
 in that fashion either laugh at or snub you. But Lady Dane 
 never laughs; at most, she only smiles, and she is always pa- 
 tient and forbearing. Respect her forbearance and patience." 
 
 " If if I thought I'd ever said anything to offend give pain 
 to Lady Dane, I'd I'd cut my tongue out!" stammered the 
 lad. 
 
 St. Aubyn smiled down at him, not contemptuously, but 
 with a kindly pity. 
 
 " My dear Clarence, I think Lady Dane scarcely hears you; 
 I am sure that she does not remember one of your pretty 
 speeches two minutes after it is delivered. Keep your tongue 
 you'd miss it too much." Then, as the lad turned away, 
 St. Aubyn's hand fell on his shoulder again and gripped it 
 tightly. " There, there!" he said, still more kindly. " You 
 think me a brute, I dare say. Well, so I am; but I am not 
 such a fool as to fail to see that Lady Dane is too good for the 
 nonsense you offer her. My boy, you and I should approach 
 such a woman on our knees, and not with empty flattery on 
 our lips;" and he strode off, leaving Clarence with something 
 of the sensation which a man feels when he has been severely 
 though kindly whipped. 
 
 The days sped by, the spring was dawning into summer, 
 and the time came when, by all the rules of etiquette, Lady 
 Dane should give her principal ball. There had, of course, 
 been many dinners and " At Homes," but this was a special 
 affair. For this tremendous function even Dosie had consented 
 to tear herself from her beloved parish and its manifold duties. 
 
 Lyra had by this time become one of those important per- 
 sonages, " a leader of fashion," and this dance naturally cre- 
 ated a flutter of excitement. Large as was the ball-room in 
 the house at Lancaster Gate, it could not accommodate half 
 the persons who were anxious to be present, and the usual 
 scrimmage for cards took place the usual exultation in the 
 hearts ofthe successful, and more than the usual heart-burn- 
 ings of those that failed. 
 
 A royal personage had not only promised but requested 
 permission " to be present, and as Dane, who took the whole 
 thing in his usual indolent fashion, remarked, the affair threat- 
 ened to be the " biggest show " of the season.
 
 256 OKCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 For this ball, Lyra, who was given to dressing very quietly, 
 was persuaded to depart from her usual rule, and a magnificent 
 costume had been ordered from Worth. She was to wear 
 for the first time since her presentation the famous Star- 
 minster diamonds, and hi the society papers some say before 
 *he ball appeared paragraphs descriptive of this dress and 
 the famous gems, much to Dane's amusement and Lyra's an- 
 noyance. 
 
 " I have a very great mind not to wear them/' she said to 
 Mrs. Leslie, who laughingly remarked that Lyra was too eco- 
 nomically minded to waste a dress that had cost a small fort- 
 une. 
 
 The night, in the first week in June, was a superb one, and 
 a large concourse of sightseers had collected as near the en- 
 trance of the house as possible, eager to see the guests as they 
 alighted from their carriages and passed under the scarlet 
 awning to the ball-room. 
 
 Lyra, as she stood at the door, receiving the brilliant and 
 seemingly endless line, might be excused if now and again she 
 asked herself the question: 
 
 " Is this I I, Lyra Chester of the Mill Cottage by the Taw, 
 or is it some great lady masquerading in my name and like-, 
 ness?" 
 
 But whenever the strangeness of the change struck upon her 
 senses, she had only to turn to Dane, who stood, a few feet 
 from her, with her bouquet in his hand, and his cheery smile 
 on his happy face, to realize that she was the same person, 
 though Lyra Chester no longer, but Lyra, Viscountess Armi- 
 tage. 
 
 At a little distance St. Aubyn hovered about, in case Lyra 
 should " want " him, and when, now and again, she would 
 beckon him with a smile or a wave of the hand, he would 
 stride forward like a soldier at the command of his officer, ex- 
 ecute her order, and be back again in silent, almost grim at- 
 tendance. 
 
 " Getting tired about the wrist?" asked Dane, in a break of 
 the long line of arrivals. " What a pity they don't have a 
 dummy hostess, a sort of effigy, with clock-work arms and a 
 mechanical voice, which, whenever its hand was shook, would 
 squeak out: ' Oh! how do you do? So good of you to come!' ' 
 
 Lyra shook her head. She was strong and not at all tired, 
 but St. Aubyn came forward with a chair. 
 
 " You can sit down for a few moments, at any rate," he 
 said. " What a mass of people there are! You don't expect 
 them to dance, poor wretches, do you?"
 
 ONCE itf A LIFE. 257 
 
 Lyra smiled. 
 
 " Everybody seems to have come who was asked," she said 
 And a great many who were not," remarked Mrs. Leslie, 
 laughing. I only hope that the ' prince ' will be able to 
 } make his way through the rooms." 
 
 " How hot it is getting!" said Dane. " I'll just go and 
 see if we can take off the roof, or knock out one of the walls. 
 Just look after her, St. Aubyn, will you?" 
 
 St. Aubyn took the bouquet as a matter of course, and his 
 place just behind Lyra. The rooms were hot, as Dane had 
 said, and the music seemed to throb through the heat waves 
 and the voices like the pulsations of a steam engine. 
 
 " Will you not be glad to get into the country?" St. Aubyn 
 said, in his low voice. " Think of the green fields with to- 
 night's moon on them, and the thrushes singing in the 
 trees!" 
 
 Lyra sighed and laughed. 
 
 "Don't, please!" she said, wistfully. " Oh, how do you 
 do, Lady Sutcliffe? How good of you to come!" etc., etc. 
 
 Presently there rose the sound of a cheer from the small 
 crowd outside, followed by the usual stir and flutter of excite- 
 ment on the stairs, the stir that communicates itself to the 
 ball-rooms themselves, and Lyra knew that the prince had ar- 
 rived, to set by his presence the seal of absolute success on her 
 ball. 
 
 Gracious, genial, not " affable," but genuinely amiable and 
 desirous to please, he made a longer stay than usual; and with 
 perfect sincerity, and the smile and bow for which he is fa- 
 mous, congratulated Lyra upon the success of her party. 
 Then when he had taken his departure, and the hour had be- 
 come too advanced for many fresh arrivals, she was free to 
 leave her post and move about the rooms. 
 
 " Yes," said the Duchess of Torchester, watching her as* 
 with a step light and graceful as that with which she had gone 
 up the valley, trout-rod in hand, Lyra moved among her 
 guests " yes, I don't know that I remember a lovelier and 
 more fascinating woman. She is as full of dignity as an em- 
 press, and yet as simple-minded and modest as a girl more, 
 indeed, than some," she added. " See how she wears that 
 dress and the Starminster diamonds. They might be glass 
 beads for any sign of consciousness she shows. And she is 
 unconscious. There is not a woman here who could wear 
 them with a better air than she does. No wonder Lord Dane 
 looks Droud and happy. See! he has just gone to speak to
 
 258 OKCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 her. Notice the way he looks at her, the smile in his eyes, 
 and hers." 
 
 Her grace turned away and sighed. 
 
 " Why can't one always keep young?" she murmured. 
 
 There was a crush in the supper-rooms, and Lyra hoped 
 that after supper some of the guests would go; but no one was 
 anxious to leave what was evidently to prove the ball of the 
 season, and the crowd was as great after the festive meal as 
 before. 
 
 Lyra, of course, did not dance every inch of room was 
 needed for her guests and she and St. Aubyn were sitting at 
 the entrance to the fernery, not talking, but looking on, just 
 when the ball was at its height; and Lyra was gazing at the 
 faces as they passed, with rather an absent air, when suddenly 
 she became conscious of one of those shocks which are caused 
 by the sight of a person closely connected with a painful inci- 
 dent in one's past life. 
 
 The man or was it a woman? she could not tell had 
 passed in a moment and been swallowed up in the crowd of 
 dancers and promenaders; but in that moment back rushed 
 upon Lyra's mind the memory of that awful day when she 
 stood face to face with Geoffrey Barle her husband and de- 
 manded the price of her sacrifice. 
 
 It came back with a rush that sent the blood to her face. 
 Why, she had almost forgotten the existence of the man, had 
 almost learned, in her great happiness, to doubt the reality of 
 that awful past, and now 
 
 " It is dreadfully hot," said St. Aubyn' s voice in her ear. 
 " Will you come out on the balcony, quite into the air?" 
 
 " No, no," she said. " I may be wanted. Here is Dane 
 coming even now. What is it, Dane?" 
 
 He came up, wiping his forehead, and looking, as she 
 thought, rather annoyed. 
 
 " Has he been here?" he asked. 
 
 "He! Who?" 
 
 "He insisted upon my bringing him to you. Confound 
 him!" he went on. " I gave him the slip, but I shouldn't be 
 surprised if he turns up by himself. Eh? Oh, I beg pardon! 
 Of course, this is my dance;" and away he whirled. 
 
 " What was it Dane meant?" she asked St. Aubyn. 
 
 " I don't know. I'll go and find him;" and he rose. 
 
 " No, no," she said. " Stay, please." 
 
 He sat down again. 
 
 " I wish you would come into the air," he said. " I am 
 sure you are tired, Lady Dane."
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 359 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Not in the least. I'd dance with Dane, if I might; but 
 I suppose I dare not." 
 
 " I suppose not," he said, with a smile. " I wish I could 
 beg for one, but I am only fit to dance by myself, and at the 
 end of a chain, like other bears. Oh, here is Dane, and he 
 has some one with him!" 
 
 Dane came up. A man walked beside him, but Lyra scarcely 
 glanced at the latter, until Dane said, with a certain grim re- 
 luctance: 
 
 " Lyra, let me introduce my cousin Chandos to you. Htj 
 has only just come back from Where is it you've been 
 skul k staying ?' ' 
 
 He turned as he put the question, or he must have seen and 
 remarked his wife's face. With a smile she had risen to greet 
 Dane's relation; her eyes rested with natural interest on his 
 face for a moment, then she seemed turned to stone. She did 
 not fall, did not scream, but stood with every muscle rigid, as 
 Lot's wife might have stood one moment before her transfor- 
 mation into senseless salt. The blood slowly ebbed from her 
 face, the light faded from her eyes. 
 
 " I have fainted," she thought; " yes, that is it. I ought 
 to have gone with Lord St. Aubyn into the fresh air. He is 
 always wise. I have fainted, and I am dreaming, deliriously 
 dreaming, that this man, Dane's cousin, is Geoffrey Barle." 
 
 Then slowly, slowly the color came back to her face, the 
 light to her eyes. She looked at him, looked him full in the 
 face, then round the room, and knew God help her! that 
 she was awake and conscious, that this man standing with 
 bowed head before her was none other than Geoffrey Barle, 
 her husband. Her husband I 
 
 She stretched out her hand mechanically. Her fan was in 
 it, and the fan dropped. 
 
 St. Aubyn stooped and picked it up, and unobtrusively 
 fanned her. 
 
 " Your cousin Chandos?" she felt herself saying. 
 
 " Yes," said Dane, grimly; " just back, like the Prodigal. 
 
 " Spare me, my dear Dane," she heard the voice say the 
 soft, sleek voice she remembered so well and hated so unspeak- 
 ably; "spare me! Why is it that every man who returns 
 from a holiday that is a little longer than usual is so promptly 
 dubbed by that very trite and hackneyed title, the Prodigal f 
 But Prodigal or not, I am very glad to see you, Lady Armi 
 
 Then he stopped; and she felt rather than saw that he rec- 
 ognized her.
 
 260 OKCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 He went white to the lips, a greenish, unwholesome white, 
 and his jaw dropped for a moment; then the color flooded his 
 face, and his pale eyes grew red and hot, as if the blood had 
 rushed to his head, and he stood looking at her. 
 
 " Here, come on and I'll find you a partner," said Dane. 
 
 " No, thanks," said Chandos. " It would be cruel to ask 
 me in such a crowd. Perhaps Lady Dane will permit me to 
 introduce myself more fully. We are er " he smiled 
 " relations, and should know each other." 
 
 " All right," said Dane, and he went off. 
 
 St. Aubyn handed Lyra her fan. 
 
 " I still advise you to go outside," he said, in a low voice. 
 
 She looked at him as if she did not hear him, or did not 
 understand. 
 
 He moved away, but not out of sight. He had seen the 
 change that had come over her. It was his duty to watch over 
 her. 
 
 Chandos drew near and seated himself beside her. Instinct- 
 ively she rose, but, with a long breath and a shudder, sunk 
 down again. 
 
 " Lyra!" He bent his head toward her, like a loathsome 
 snake, as it seemed to her. " Lyra!" 
 
 She did not turn her head. 
 
 He whispered her name once more: 
 
 " Lyra, you know me?" 
 
 Half unconsciously her lips opened, and she formed his 
 name: 
 
 " Geoffrey Barle!" 
 
 He smiled and passed liis hand across his thin lips a trick 
 she remembered and loathed. 
 
 " Yes, I am Geoffrey Barle, your husband," he whispered 
 behind his hand; then he laughed. 
 
 She rose and looked round wildly. St. Aubyn was by her 
 side in a moment, as it seemed. 
 
 " Take take me into the air!" she gasped. 
 
 " Permit me," he said to Chandos; and, drawing Lyra's 
 arm within his so far that he literally supported her, he led 
 her away. 
 
 Mr. Chandos looked after them, and then up at the ceiling, 
 and then at Dane, whose head towered above a group at the 
 other end of the room, and softly, reflectively gnawed liis lips. 
 
 " Dane'e wife!" he muttered. " Dane's wife!"
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 261 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 GEOFFREY BARLE her husband! 
 
 Lyra leaned against the balcony and looked at the sky, in 
 which the stars were beginning to pale before the approaching 
 dawn, and tried to realize, to cope with this awful fact, this 
 terrible calamity. 
 
 For a time it seemed to her that she must be the victim of 
 some hideous nightmare or hallucination. It could not could 
 not be true, that Geoffrey Barle had come to life again. Why, 
 if it was true, then thea she, Lyra, was not Dane's wife! she 
 who loved him so, loved him far better than her own life, 
 who would be the mother of his child not his wife! She put 
 her hands to the sides of her head and rocked to and fro in her 
 agony. 
 
 St. Aubyn picked up the shawl of Indian silk which her 
 gesture had displaced, and put it over her shoulders. 
 
 " You are tired out, Lady Dane/' he said. " Shall I get 
 you a glass of wine? I wish to Heaven those people would 
 go. " And he glanced angrily toward the ball-room. 
 
 " No, no/' she said; then she changed her mind. " Yes, 
 get me some wine." 
 
 He went and brought her a glass of champagne and almost 
 held it to her lips, for her hands were snaking as if with 
 ague; and as he ministered to her with all a man's gentleness 
 and a woman's patience, he asked himself what had hap- 
 pened to her. She had seemed to break down during her in- 
 troduction to Chandos. Surely the man's presence had not 
 upset her; why should it do so? 
 
 " I think you should be in bed, Lady Dane/' he said. 
 " Why not go. I will fetch Dane 
 
 " No, no/' she said, quickly. " Give me a little time to 
 think, to breathe do not fetch him yet." And her voice 
 grew almost pleading. 
 
 St. Aubyn was puzzled as well as anxious. Her exhaustion 
 appeared to be as much mental as physical. 
 
 " You have been doing too much," he said. You were 
 not used to this confounded life, this endless round of toil, 
 which some of us call pleasure this turning of night into day 
 and day into night. You are too good to be sacrificed to such 
 a life." 
 
 There was an angry, impatient rmg in his low voice which 
 
 roused her.
 
 262 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " Yes, that is it; it is the late hours/' she said. " And I 
 am not used to it. It was all new to me." She made no effort 
 to compose herself, to rally from the awful shock which the 
 sight of Geoffrey Barle had inflicted, and partially succeeded. 
 " Take me back now," she said. " How good and patient 
 you are always with me. Lord St. Aubyn," she added. " Oh, 
 what it is to have a friend!" And she turned her tearless, 
 burning eyes upon him for a moment with sad gratitude. 
 
 " I don't know anything about my goodness and patience, 
 Lady Dane," he said; " but you are quite right when you say 
 I am your friend. That goes without saying; and as a friend, 
 I wish you were out of this and in the quietude of your own 
 room. I can see that you are ill." 
 
 " 111! Do you think so? Do I look ill?" she asked. 
 
 " I am compelled to answer yes," he said, gravely. " You 
 want rest, immediate rest, and you must have it. I am glad 
 to say that the people are clearing out. " 
 
 They were going rapidly. He stood beside her, ready to 
 catch her if she should fall, and indeed it seemed to him not 
 unlikely that she would, as she speeded the parting guests; 
 and presently, very quickly, though it appeared to be hours to 
 him, the great crowd had melted away. Dane came bounding 
 up the stairs he had been saying good-night in the hall came 
 up with a smile on his lips to congratulate his darling on the 
 great success of the evening, but at sight of her white, haggard 
 face stopped short, aghast. 
 
 " Lyra!" 
 
 She tried to smile. 
 
 " I am all right, Dane," she said. " I am only tired, that 
 is all, is it not, Lord St. Aubyn?" and she turned to him with 
 a feverish eagerness. 
 
 Lord Aubyn nodded, his grave eyes resting anxiously on the 
 lovely but drawn and weary face. 
 
 " I am afraid Lady Dane is knocked up," he said. " Will 
 you let me send in the doctor, Dane?" 
 
 " No, no!" exclaimed Lyra; but Dane answered in the 
 affirmative with a glance; and St. Aubyn passed down the 
 stairs. 
 
 Dane took her in his arms. 
 
 " My dear girl, what is it?" he murmured, with loving so- 
 licitude. " You are worn out. What a blind, selfish idiot I 
 am not to have thought of it, not to have taken better care of 
 you." 
 
 She resigned herself to his embrace, and lay in his arms for 
 a moment or two, like a weary child; her head resting against
 
 OKCE IK A LIFE. 263 
 
 his heart, her white arms round his neck; then suddenly the 
 thought smote her, " Geoffrey Barle, my husband, is alive," 
 and with a convulsive shudder she tore herself from his arms 
 and shrunk away from him. 
 
 Greatly alarmed, he tried to take her to him again, but she 
 shrunk still further back. 
 
 " No no!" she panted. " Don't don't touch me don't 
 come near me!" 
 
 He went white. 
 
 " Lyra!" 
 
 " My dear, what is the matter?" exclaimed Mrs. Leslie, 
 coming up to them. 
 
 Lyra turned to her and grasped her arm. 
 
 " Take me away at once!" she panted, huskily. " I I 
 am ill. It it may be some fever. Don't don't let him come 
 near me!" 
 
 Mrs. Leslie put her arm round her, and signed to Dane not 
 to approach. 
 
 " Come with me, my dear. Yes, you look ill." 
 
 Lyra paused after a few steps and looked back at Dane, 
 standing like stone where she had thrust him. 
 
 " Don't don't mind me, Dane," she said, with a piteous 
 attempt at a smile. " I I am not well. I scarcely know 
 what I am saying." 
 
 " My darling!" and he took a half step toward her. 
 
 " No, no!" she breathed, with a shudder; " you must not 
 come near me. But, Dane " she put her hand to her throat 
 " Dane, you you know I I love you." 
 
 " Lyra!"" 
 
 She panted as if for breath. 
 
 " And and you love me, Dane? You will will not hate 
 me, whatever whatever happens?" 
 
 He would have taken her in his arms again, but Mrs. Leslie 
 shook her head warningly. 
 
 "Do not excite her," she said, gravely. "Let her go 
 alone with me. And get the doctor," she added, in a whisper. 
 
 Dane met St. Aubyn and the famous physician, Sir Andrew 
 Starke, a few yards from the house, and Dane and St. Aubyn 
 paced the empty ball-room, waiting for his report. 
 
 " I can not understand it," poor Dane said over and over 
 again. " She was all right when I left her, about an hour be- 
 fore the ball broke up. I thought she looked rather pale and 
 tired when I introduced Chandos to her, but but I did not 
 think she was so dreadfully ill, Why why, she talked quite
 
 64 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 wildly, you know;" and he looked piteously at St. Aubyn, wha 
 walked "beside him grave and silent. 
 
 Sir Andrew came back to them at last. 
 
 " There is no cause for alarm, Lord Armitage," he said, 
 answering Dane's look. " Her ladyship is overtired. Nerv- 
 ous exhaustion has produced some fever. She will need rest, 
 complete rest and quiet." He looked down at the polished 
 floor which had so recently been pressed by hundreds of danc- 
 ing feet, and thought for a moment. " There has been no 
 mental shock, no unusual excitement of late, I suppose?" 
 
 Dane stared at him with surprise. 
 
 " Shock?" he repeated. " No, certainly not. What could 
 there be?" 
 
 " Just so," assented the courtly physician. " I asked be- 
 cause Lady Armitage's condition answered to that produced 
 by some sudden mental disturbance. There has been none, 
 you say?" 
 
 Dane shook his head emphatically. 
 
 " No, none whatever. You have been near Lyra all the 
 evening, St. Aubyn. You know of nothing to upset her, do 
 you?" 
 
 St. Aubyn shook his head. 
 
 " Nothing," he said, gravely. " Lady Dane appeared quite 
 well a little tired, perhaps until just before the close of the 
 ball." 
 
 " Just so," said Sir Andrew. " It is possible she may have 
 taken a chill, but I think that the feverish condition is attrib- 
 utable to nervous prostration. She must be kept quiet. I 
 should leave her to her maid, and, yes, one other person 
 Mrs. Leslie, say for the next few days." 
 
 " Do you mean that I am not to see her?" demanded Dane, 
 aghast. 
 
 Sir Andrew inclined his head. 
 
 " I am afraid I must lay an embargo on you of all others," 
 he said. " There must be no risk of excitement, and your 
 presence would be dangerous. She, herself, seems anxious 
 that you should not see her. It is, of course, a symptom of 
 her peculiar condition. The ne-rves the nerves, my dear 
 Lord Armitage, are our great trouble nowadays. As soon as 
 she is well enough to be moved, we must take her into the 
 country. I think I will come in again in the morning that 
 is, a little later on for it is morning now. Pray, do not be 
 alarmed," he added, in his well-known, kindly fashion. 
 *' There is no cause for apprehension. Rest, quiet, and
 
 OtfCE IN A LIFE. 265 
 
 change, and above all, the absence of all excitement, will re- 
 store her ladyship." 
 
 Dane sunk on to a settee and looked up at St. Aubyn. 
 
 " Is he speaking the truth or or only deceiving me?" he 
 said, fearfully. " I love her so that that that " 
 
 St. Aubyn laid his hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " Don't give way," he said, in his grave voice. " That's 
 not like you, Dane." 
 
 Dane sighed, and tried to smile. 
 
 ;< Why, man, you are as white as a ghost yourself," he said. 
 
 St. Aubyn colored and winced. 
 
 " She must go away,-'' Dane went on, "as soon as she can 
 be moved," he said. " I will take her to Highfield directly 
 the very first moment it is possible. I say, old fellow, I wish 
 you'd go down and see that it is all ready, will you? I can't 
 leave her, though I mustn't see her." 
 
 " Certainly," responded St. Aubyn, and as a matter of 
 course. 
 
 Chandos had sat where Lyra had left him for a quarter of 
 an hour; then he had left the house and gone home. 
 
 The first tiling he did on reaching his chambers was to mix 
 himself a stiff glass of brandy and water, and it was not until 
 he had consumed this, and " one to follow," that he could 
 pull himself together and realize the situation. 
 
 It was so astounding, so melodramatic a one, that it had 
 overwhelmed and confused him. It seemed incredible, during 
 the months he had been skulking about the least-frequented 
 parts of the Continent, sometimes in Spain, sometimes in Mex- 
 ico, then, as he grew bolder, hi Switzerland and France, he 
 had scarcely thought of Lyra. The whole incident had ended 
 so disastrously for him, that, as is the fashion with weak- 
 minded men, he had tried to forget it. He had had anything 
 but a pleasant time of it; had missed those little luxuries 
 which are necessities to men of his temperament; had missed 
 his club, his saunter down Pall Mall, his little circle of ad- 
 miring acquaintances; in short, had been as uncomfortable as 
 a fish out of water, lie longed and pined for home, as many 
 an exile before him had done, and the day he chanced upon 
 an old London paper and read in the " provincial " column of 
 the finding of the dead body in the Taw and its supposed iden- 
 tification, he started for London. On his way thither he read, 
 in Galignani, of the great social success of the Viscountess 
 Armitage, and so was informed of Dane's marriage. 
 With a curse, he flung the paper from him. 
 " No chance of my coming into the title now," he muttered;
 
 266 ONCE Iff A LIFE. 
 
 " there's sure to be a whole pack of children!" and he arrived 
 in London in anything but a pleasant frame of mind, glad as 
 he was to find himself there. 
 
 The first thing he heard of was Lady Armitage's great ball, 
 and it seemed to him that it would be a good opportunity for 
 his re-entry into London society. Besides, he was rather curi- 
 ous to see Dane's wife, though it didn't matter to him in the 
 slightest whom Dane had married. Whoever she was, she 
 would, no doubt, effectually cut him Chandos out of all 
 chance of the Starminster peerage. 
 
 And Dane had married Lyra Chester! Over his brandy an^ 
 water he managed at last to realize the fact. Then he began 
 to ask himself a series of questions, and first of all came this 
 one: Did she believe him Chandos to be dead? Yes; there 
 could be no doubt of that. Her face, the look of horror and 
 amazed incredulity in her lovely eyes as they rested on him, 
 evidenced that. She had looked as if she had seen a ghost. 
 
 Mr. Chandos chuckled. 
 
 " Oh, yes," he muttered, " she thought she had got rid of 
 me, that's certain! And now, has she told Dane? No," he 
 muttered. " Dane would not have received me even as amia- 
 bly as he did. He would have chucked me out, instead of 
 introducing me to his wife. She hasn't told him, and she be- 
 lieves in that that marriage. She thinks I am her husband. 
 And now the question is, what will she do? Will she tell 
 Dane?" 
 
 He pondered over this for hours, while the gray dawn 
 changed to rosy sunrise, and shone through the chink of his 
 blind upon his flushed face, and came to the conclusion that 
 whether she confessed to Dane or not depended very much 
 upon him, Chandos. 
 
 " I must be careful," he muttered " very careful. I don't 
 quite see my way yet; but it seems to me that I have a decent 
 hand, and that if I can play it properly I may win the game. 
 Here's Dane's wife under the impression thai. I am her hus- 
 band turned up again, and afraid to say a wo*d. If I could 
 only bring about a separation, there's only Dane between me 
 and the title. By Jove! if I could only see my way!" He 
 mixed himself another glass and lighted a fresh cigarette. 
 Sneaking about the by-ways of the Continent had not im- 
 proved Mr. Chandos's habits, and he drank and smoked a 
 great deal more than he had been wont to do. " If I could 
 only see my way! At any rate, the first tiling I must do is to 
 persuade her to keep her own counsel. I wonder, now, 
 whether I could frighten her into leaving Dane?"
 
 OKCE IK A LIFE. 26? 
 
 He turned this suggestion over in his mind, and tried to 
 beat it into definite shape. 
 
 " If I could manage it, it wouldn't be a bad move. Dane 
 isn't the man to marry again; he's very fond of her; I saw 
 that this evening. Ah!" he drew a long breath, " there's a 
 chance for me if I could only see what cards to play. "Well, 
 I'll wait and watch. >5 And with a chuckle he staggered to 
 bed. 
 
 The next week was an anxious, an indescribably anxious one 
 for all who loved Lyra. During the seven days she lay appar- 
 ently in utter prostration, and almost unconscious of every- 
 thing around her. Sir Andrew, who was in constant attend- 
 ance, was very grave, but by no means despairing; and Mrs. 
 Leslie and Theodosia, who scarcely left her, assured Dane, 
 almost beside himself with fear, that there was no danger, and 
 that she would live. And on the eighth day there came a 
 change for the better. 
 
 But though she was now fully conscious, and his name was 
 the first to leave her lips, Lyra expressed no desire to see 
 Dane ; and when he was permitted to enter the room, his 
 presence seemed to disturb and excite her so much that Sir 
 Andrew ordered him out again. 
 
 " I I can't understand it," poor Dane remarked to St. 
 Aubyn, who was, as he had hitherto been, his constant com- 
 panion. " That my darling should be upset by the sight of 
 me! Why, she it seemed to me that she absolutely shrunk 
 from me!" 
 
 " When people are in her state, their minds run by the rule 
 of contrary," said St. Aubyn. " She will be all right when 
 she gets away from London and down at Highfield." 
 
 " I hope so," said Dane, gloomily, " or I shall go out of 
 my mind." 
 
 Lyra's recovery was more rapid than they had ventured to 
 hope, and after a fortnight Sir Andrew pronounced her well 
 enough to take the journey; but he enjoined perfect quiet, 
 and warned them against permitting the patient to become ex- 
 cited. 
 
 Dane or, rather, St. Aubyn for Dane was scarcely capa- 
 ble' of anything but pacing up and down next his darling s 
 room and waiting for news of her made the most careful 
 arrangements for the journey, and, at Dane's earnest solicita- 
 tion, accompanied them. 
 
 " You'd better come," Dane said. " She has been so used 
 to you that she might miss you, and "he paused and gnawed 
 at his mustache" and, somehow, though she seems to avow
 
 268 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 seeing me or having anything to do with me, she doesn't mind 
 you. She has asked after you several times." 
 
 " It is symptomatic of hysteria to shun those we really care 
 most about," said St. Aubyn. " I will go down with you, in 
 case I should be of any use. Anyhow, I shall be company for 
 you." 
 
 ' Yes; I don't know what I should do without you," said 
 Dane. 
 
 They reached Highfield, the two men traveling in a smok- 
 ing-compartment. At almost every station Dane had gone to 
 the Pullman car in which the ladies were and asked after 
 Lyra, and once or twice she stretched out her hand to him 
 and smiled at him a strange smile, full of wistful tenderness 
 but she did not speak. 
 
 Highfield was an extremely beautiful place, and Dane had 
 looiced forward to showing it to her, and promised himself 
 much enjoyment in her delight and admiration, but she viewed 
 it with sad, melancholy indifference. 
 
 The whole place had been redecorated and refurnished, and 
 the earl had indeed made a palace of it; but instead of the 
 hearty and noisy welcome with which the tenants and servants 
 had intended receiving their master -and mistress, a subdued 
 air of unnatural quietude brooded over the house. 
 
 The weather was lovely, the gardens all aglow with flowers, 
 and for days Dane and St. Aubyn wandered about anxious and 
 distrait, for though Lyra was " getting better," she was still 
 confined to her room, and saw no one but Mrs. Leslie. Lady 
 Theodosia, at Lyra's insistence, had gone back to Marti7i and 
 " her parish " again. But one morning Mrs. Leslie came to 
 Dane with better news. 
 
 " I think she might go out to-day," she said. 
 
 Dane brightened up at once. 
 
 " I'll get the carriage," he said. " No; I'll drive her in 
 the pony-carriage. It runs very easily, and we can go softly. 
 It will seem like old times," he added, with a little shake in 
 his voice that touched Mrs. Leslie. 
 
 " You will be patient with her, Lord Dane?" she said. 
 
 " Patient?" He stared at her. " Why, of course I will. 
 How do you mean?" 
 
 Mrs. Leslie hesitated. 
 
 " She is still very unlike her old self," she said. " She is 
 not quite well yet, and and has all sorts of fancies. Don't 
 take any notice if if she should not want to talk to you. " 
 
 Dane nodded, and turned his head away. 
 
 "I understand," he said. " Perhaps I'd better not go?"
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 265 
 
 " Yes, yes/'' said Mrs. Leslie, quickly. " I want you to go; 
 I want to try the experiment, to see if the hysteria has left 
 her, or, at any rate, is leaving her." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 HE had the pony-phaeton brought round, and presently 
 Lyra came down leaning on Mrs. Leslie's arm. A spasm of 
 pain and apprehension shot through Dane's heart as he saw 
 her. Was this his bright, light-hearted Lyra, whose very pres- 
 ence seemed to breathe joy and happiness; this pale, thin 
 woman, who looked like a broken lily? 
 
 A fault color came into her lovely face; she saw him, and 
 her eyes met his with a look of love, of deep tenderness; but 
 it was only momentary, and her eyes dropped, and her face 
 was averted almost instantly. 
 
 He did not offer to touch or kiss her though he had not 
 seen her for days but put on a brusque air to hide his emo- 
 tion. 
 
 " Here you are, then," he said. 
 
 He helped her into the carriage, and carefully arranged her 
 cushions and wraps, and drove off slowly in a matter-of-fact 
 fashion; but Lyra saw through his affectation of brusqueness, 
 saw the hand that held the reins tremble. 
 
 " Now we'll go very quietly," he said; " and you needn't 
 talk. I'll do that that is, if you want me to." 
 
 " Yes, talk to me," she said, in a low, sad voice. 
 
 " All right," he said, with a touch of his old brightness. 
 And as they drove along he pointed out the various note- 
 worthy objects, explained the " lay " of the country, and di- 
 lated upon the happy summer he intended they should have. 
 " I had a letter from the guv'nor this morning," he said. 
 " Poor old guv'nor, he has been as cut up as any of us by your 
 illness. But we ain't to talk of by-gones, are we? you are not 
 ill any longer?" 
 
 " No," she murmured, almost to herself, 
 getting better and stronger everyday." And it almost seemed 
 as if her tone indicated regret. 
 
 It smote him to the heart, but he wisely took no notice. 
 
 " He talks of coming down to stay with us when you are 
 quite strong again," he said. 
 
 He felt her start. 
 
 " No, no," she said. 
 
 He touched her shawl soothingly. 
 
 " AH right, dear; he shall not come if you do not want him
 
 270 ONCE IK A LIFE. 
 
 We will just ' keep to ourselves,' as the children say. Shall 
 I send St. Aubyn away? He is here, you know. He has gone 
 up to town to-day." 
 
 " No, no," she said. " I should like him to stay." She 
 sighed, and her lips quivered. " Who am I that I should rob 
 you of your friend? You will want him soon." 
 
 Dane glided from the topic of visitors to less exciting ones, 
 and she lay back and listened to him, but with an absent, 
 brooding look in her beautiful eyes which tortured him. She, 
 herself, was undergoing torture beyond all power of words to 
 describe. For was she not riding by his side, permitting him 
 to lavish his love and tenderness upon her, she who was de- 
 ceiving him? Not once, but a score of times, she tried to sum- 
 mon up courage to tell him all, but the knowledge of his 
 great, absorbing love for her, and the mental weakness inher- 
 ent to her illness, rendered her incapable. She was too weak 
 to do anything but drift drift toward the edge of the cata- 
 ract over which she must sooner or later plunge to ruin and 
 destruction. 
 
 " If I could have died!" was her one thought, for in death 
 seemed her only chance of escape. They left the park which 
 surrounded Highfield, and approached the village. It was a 
 picturesque little place, with a church, a cluster of cottages, 
 and the usual inn, and Lyra was eying it with listless interest, 
 when suddenly the faint color that had crept into her face fled 
 from it, and her eyes dilated. A man had sauntered out of 
 the inn. It was Chandos Armitage. Dane had seen him too, 
 and was too engrossed in his own annoyance to notice Lyra's 
 agitation. 
 
 " Here's Chandos, of all people in the world!" he said, 
 under his breath, " I wonder what the deuce he is doing 
 down here?" 
 
 Mr. Chandos took his hands from the pockets of his velvet 
 lounge coat and came up to the carriage, raising his hat and 
 smiling sympathetically. 
 
 " Halloo, Chandos!" said Dane, with a mixture of coldness 
 and irritation. " What are you doing down here?" 
 
 " How do you do, Lady Dane?" he said, ignoring Dane for 
 the moment, and fixing his light eyes on Lyra's face. " I am 
 so grieved to hear of your illness, but trust that you are on the 
 road to recovery." 
 
 Lyra opened her lips, but no words would come, and she 
 lay back and eyed him in silent horror, in the stupor with 
 which the doomed bird eyes the snake. 
 
 " What am I doing here?" he went on, smiling at Dane,
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. 271 
 
 but avoiding his rather stern gaze. " My reply must be the 
 usual one. I am wandering about in search of impressions. I 
 am writing a book 
 
 " Oh! ah, yes; I know/' said Dane, cutting in rather ab- 
 ruptly. " Did you know we were down here? 
 
 "No," lied Mr. Chandos, blandly. " I thought you had 
 gone to Starminster. It is an unexpected pleasure." 
 
 " And you are staying at the inn?" said Dane. " I'm 
 sorry we can't ask you to the house, but Lady Dane is still too 
 unwell to receive visitors." 
 
 He stooped to pick up a wrap as he spoke, and Lyra felt 
 Chandos's eyes fixed upon her with a significant frown which 
 she fully understood. It conveyed a threat. Moistening her 
 lips, she said, in a hollow voice : 
 
 " I I am all right now, Dane. Ask ask Mr." she had 
 almost said Barle " Chandos to dine with us." 
 
 A faint smile of triumph curved Chandos's thin lips. In 
 those few words she had acknowledged herself his slave. 
 
 " I should very much like to come," he said, softly, defer- 
 entially " that is, when Lady Dane is really strong enough 
 to have me." 
 
 " I am quite strong," she faltered. 
 
 " Well, let it stand over for the present," said Dane. " You 
 won't think us inhospitable, Chandos? I'll send you a line 
 when Lady Dane is really well enough that is, if you are still 
 staying here. But I suppose you'll be off soon; you don't stay 
 long in one place, do you?" 
 
 <? Not long, usually," said Chandos, blandly; " but "ho 
 looked at Lyra, who seemed incapable of withdrawing her eyes 
 from his " this place has special attractions for me." 
 
 " I see," said Dane, gathering the reins together. 
 
 " All right; I'll write to you. Send me a copy of your book 
 when it comes out;" and he drove on. 
 
 " Confound the fellow!" he said, as he glanced at Lyra, 
 and noticed her increased pallor. " Why couldn't he have 
 kept out of the way? The meeting has upset you, dearest, 
 hasn't it?" 
 
 " No," she said, avoiding the tender consideration of his 
 eyes. " No. Why why were you so cold to him?" 
 
 She could scarcely frame the question. 
 
 "Oh, I don't like him!" he said. "I think I told you 
 something about his character, didn't I? I can't go into par- 
 ticulars; but Chandcs is well, is not a very desirable ac- 
 quaintance, though I suppose v^ must show him decent civil- 
 ity. But there isr>' f arv ~* QC d ^ ask nim to Highfield.
 
 272 ONCE IIT A LIFE. 
 
 She breathed hard. The threat conveyed by Chandos's 
 frown drove her on desperately. 
 
 " I I should like him to come," she said. 
 
 He stared at her. 
 
 " Oh, you only say that because he is a relation a cousin," 
 he said. 
 
 Her hands writhed together under the sable rug. 
 
 " No," she said. " Why should he not come? I am quite 
 well now, and I should not like him, or any one, to tliink that 
 we were inhospitable. Ask him to come to-morrow night, 
 Dane." 
 
 He gnawed at his mustache. 
 
 "Ask him!" she repeated, with a kind of feverish impa- 
 tience which at once frightened him into acquiescence. 
 
 " Very well, dearest," he said, soothingly; " I will drop 
 him a line. After all, you need not come down or see him, if 
 you do not feel up to it. St. Aubyn will be down to-morrow, 
 and he and I can entertain him. Confound him!" he added, 
 under his breath. 
 
 Lyra sunk back and closed her eyes. When and how would 
 it end, this horror which hung over them both like a thick, 
 suffocating cloud? 
 
 As he helped her out of the phaeton and up the stairs to her 
 room, she put her hand on his arm. 
 
 " You will write to your cousin?" she said, in a low voice. 
 
 " Yes, yes," he said. Then he put his arm round her and 
 looked wistfully into her eyes. " Give me a kiss, Lyra. It 
 it is a long time since you kissed me, dearest." 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears and she held her face to him; then 
 withdrawing herself from his arms, went into her room. 
 
 The crisis was at hand; she felt it in every nerve; but in- 
 stead of crushing her to the earth, as it would have done a 
 fortnight ago, the conviction seemed to sting her into a kind 
 of fictitious strength. The gentle stag, when brought to bay, 
 will turn upon its pursuers; weak woman, in her dire ex- 
 tremity, will often display more than a giant's courage. She 
 would gather up all her strength, would face this awful 
 trouble, would end it one way or the other. 
 
 To Mrs. Leslie's great surprise and delight, Lyra seemed 
 much stronger and more like herself that evening. 
 
 " It is the drive, my dear," she said, joyfully. " Please 
 God, we shall have you quite well and strong again in a day or 
 two." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Lyra, absently. 
 
 Beluctantiy enough, Dane scut the invitation to Chandos.
 
 OKCE IN A LIFE. 273 
 
 "That cousin of mine, Chandos Armitage, is staying at the 
 inn here, and nothing would satisfy Lyra but that I must ask 
 him to dmner to-night," he said to St. Aubyn when he came 
 down to Highfield that same evening. " We met him loung- 
 ing outside the inn, and Lyra fancied that we ought to be 
 hospitable. " 
 
 " I don't know much about him," said St. Aubyn. " But 
 will Lady Dane be well enough to receive him?" 
 
 " I don't know; but it doesn't matter; you will help me 
 through with him. I can't say much in his favor. Hang 
 the fellow! he's no credit to us. A shady customer with a 
 plausible manner that gets over people. I suppose he made 
 an agreeable impression upon Lyra." 
 
 " Lady Dane is too clever to be taken in by any one, how- 
 ever plausible he may be," said St. Aubyn, quietly. 
 
 ' You'd think so," said Dane, " and yet she insisted in- 
 sisted is the word upon my asking him. ' ' 
 
 " Lady Dane is kindness itself," said St. Aubyn, laconically. 
 " But she need not come down. She is better, you say?" 
 and he proceeded to ask Dane particulars of the drive, just as 
 a brother might have done. 
 
 Chandos was walking on bayonets, and he knew it. One 
 false step and he would be ruined. But he sent an acceptation, 
 and at half past seven appeared at Highfield, apparently as 
 cool as a cucumber, esthetically at his ease as a man could be. 
 Dane received him rather coldly, and St. Aubyn, after a 
 " How do you do?" simply ignored him. He read the man's 
 character at a glance. 
 
 " I'm afraid Lady Dane won't be able to put in an appear- 
 ance," Dane was saying, as they lounged about the drawing- 
 room in the " terrible fifteen minutes before dinner; but as 
 he spoke Lyra and Mrs. Leslie entered the room. 
 
 Lyra wore a dress of some soft black material covered with 
 lace, against which her pale face and large, sad eyes contrasted, 
 with an effect which struck a chord that Mr. Chandos fully 
 appreciated. 
 
 She did not shake hands with him dinner was announced 
 as she entered the room and only bowed coldly, and St 
 Aubyn took her in. 
 
 The dinner passed pleasantly enough. Mrs. Leslie and 
 Chandos got into an argument anent modern fiction and poe- 
 try, and kept it up during the whole of the meal, Dane and 
 St. Aubyn listening, and Lyra sitting silent and preoccupied. 
 After "the ladies had left the drawing-room Dane tried to 
 make himself agreeable, though he disliked and distrusted his
 
 274 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 cousin; but St. Aubyn sat and smoked in a grim silence that 
 would have been creditable to a North American Indian. 
 
 Mr. Chandos watched them both under his half-closed eyes, 
 and carefully avoided the pitfall which the old port and rare 
 claret presented; and when Dane proposed that they should 
 join the ladies, Mr. Chandos was for a wonder clear-headed 
 
 Mrs. Leslie was at the piano when they entered the drawing- 
 room, and Lyra was half recumbent on a couch near the win- 
 dow. 
 
 St. Aubyn went up to her, and hi the most natural manner 
 rearranged the cushions. 
 
 " Lord Aubyn is quite the tame cat of your household," 
 Chandos said, with a sleek smile. 
 
 Dane turned upon him with mingled dislike and surprise. 
 
 " What do you mean?" he asked, coldly. 
 
 Chandos smiled enigmatically. 
 
 " He and Lady Dane are great friends, evidently," he said. 
 
 " Yes, they are," said Dane, simply. " St. Aubyn is the 
 best friend I have got." 
 
 " Just so," said Chandos, and he sauntered to the piano. 
 A very little persuasion from Mrs. Leslie induced him to play 
 and sing, and his thin but " artful " voice floated through the 
 room not disagreeably. 
 
 Lyra lay back and listened with half -closed eyes. She was 
 back at the cottage, on the river once more, and the voice 
 filled her with loathing. It became unendurable after a time, 
 and she rose and moved toward the open window. St. Aubyn 
 took up the Indian shawl and put it round her. 
 
 " Beware of a chill, Lady Dane," he said; " an invalid can 
 not be too careful." 
 
 " Oh, but I am not an invalid now," she said, listlessly; 
 and she went through the open window on to the terrace. A 
 moment or two afterward a shadow fell across the marble 
 pavement, and Chandos Armitage, " Geoffrey Barle," stood 
 beside her. 
 
 " Lyra!" he said, in a low voice. 
 
 She turned, clutching the stone coping, and faced him. 
 Her heart was beating thickly, but there was no fear in her 
 eyes, only a dull despair, a determination to know the worst 
 and meet it. 
 
 His pale eyes flickered and fell before her direct gaze. 
 
 " Lyra," he said, in a low voice, and with a glance over his 
 shoulder, "what do you mean to do?" 
 
 She put her hand to her bosom as if to still the beating of 
 her tortwred heart.
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 275 
 
 "You can't we can't go on like this," he continued. 
 " You are my wife, you know/' 
 
 " Your wife?" she echoed, dully. 
 
 " Yes," he said, watching her intently. " You are my wife 
 right enough. You don't deny that you can not " 
 
 " No," she breathed. " I I can not!" 
 
 He drew a breath of relief, and smiled. 
 
 " How did you come to marry my cousin Dane?" he asked. 
 "You thought I was dead, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, in a dull, stupefied way; "I thought 
 you were dead." 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 " Well, I'm not surprised. It did look like it, didn't it? 
 But it was mistake, you see. Mistakes will happen. The 
 man who was drowned was a common sailor. We exchanged 
 coats. He fell over the quay that that afternoon we were 
 married. I am your husband, and alive. " 
 
 She shuddered and gripped the edge of the balcony. 
 
 " I am your husband in the sight of Heaven, and what is 
 more important the law. I could claim you here and now." 
 
 She shrunk from him, and put out her hand as if to repudi- 
 ate his claim. 
 
 " That is the fact, the plain statement of the case, my dear 
 Lyra/' he said. " I could go to that stuck-up cousin of 
 mine, Dane, and say ' this woman is my wife. ' 3 
 
 She breathed hard and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 " No, no!" she panted. 
 
 " Exactly," he said. " You shrink from that, and so do I. 
 I'm one of the family, and I don't want to make a scandal. 
 I'll do anything to avoid it. Why, bless my soul, the world 
 would never forget it. It would be called the ' Starminster 
 Scandal,' and it would ruin us forever. Fancy the poor old 
 earl thrown out of place and power; fancy Dane dishonored 
 and despised!" 
 
 She put out her hand again pleadingly. 
 
 " Yes, of course, you see all that it means," he said, 
 how are you going to avoid it?" 
 
 Her only response was a gesture of despair. 
 
 " How are you going to avoid it? There is only one way. 
 Lyra, my dear "she shuddered at the familiarity- 
 must disappear!" 
 
 " Disappear?" 
 
 She echoed the word as if it conveyed no meaning to I 
 
 11 Yes," he said, drawing nearer and whispering in her ear. 
 " You must leave here must leave Dane 1"
 
 S76 ONCE 1ST A LIFE. 
 
 " Leave Dane?" she panted, in a tone of agony. 
 
 He nodded, glancing over his shoulder. 
 
 " Yes. What else can you do? You don't propose to re- 
 main on here, I suppose? No " he smiled sardonically " 1 
 j don't think I could stand that. And you don't propose to 
 ; blurt out the truth and make a scandal. That would be rathej 
 rough on Dane, who, after all, isn't to blame, for I imagine 
 he is ignorant of our marriage." 
 
 " Yes, yes!" she breathed. " He knows nothing noth- 
 ing! Oh, if I had only told him!" 
 
 " Ah, ' these vain regrets/ as the poet says!" said Mr. 
 Chandos. " If you had done this, or left undone the other 
 well, this muddle wouldn't have occurred. ' There's much 
 virtue in an if,' as Shakespeare says. But what is the use of 
 looking back or considering possibilities? You have to face 
 the present facts. Here you are, married to two men to me 
 and Dane. It's true you thought yourself a widow; though, 
 by the way, you might have waited a year or two." 
 
 She pressed her hands to her face. 
 
 " I I was never your wife!" she panted. " You tricked, 
 betrayed me into a marriage. I was your wife in name only!" 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 " And in law, my dear Lyra," he said. " Don't forget 
 that. As I said, I could claim you and take you away at this 
 moment. I could force you to come with me." 
 
 " No, no!" she panted, shudderingly, and shrinking from 
 him and his pale eyes, which were glittering threateningly. 
 
 " Don't be afraid," he said, " and don't speak so loudly. 
 One of them, Dane or that man St. Aubyn, will hear you and 
 come out, and the fat will be in the fire." Certainly, Chandos 
 had not been improved by his continental wanderings. " Ono 
 word from me, and you are ruined, and Dane is the laughing- 
 stock of the world. " 
 
 " No, no! spare him!" she moaned. 
 
 " I propose doing so," said Chandos. " See here." 
 
 He took her hand, but she shook him off. 
 
 " Don't touch me," she said, with a shudder. " I I will 
 listen to you, I may do what you tell me, but but don't 
 touch me." 
 
 " You must leave Dane," he said, in a low, impressive 
 voice; " you must leave him to-morrow. You have money, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 She made a gesture of assent. Dane had opened a banking 
 account for her. The income of her settlement money, a 
 fairly large amount, stood to her credit. 
 
 r
 
 OffCE IK A LIFE. 277 
 
 " Very well; nothing is easier for you than to disappear. 
 You can go to London and lie by there quietly until the fuse 
 and excitement have cooled down. Then you can cross to the 
 Continent. In one of the small towns in Normandy or Brit- 
 tany you can live very cheaply and quietly." 
 
 She turned upon him suddenly with a kind of fierce deter- 
 mination. 
 
 " And you? You you will not persecute me, will not fol- 
 low me?" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and smiled the cynical, self-satis- 
 fied smile which is so hateful in a man. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed, my dear Lyra. My shall I call it 
 fancy? has evaporated long ago. I shall not persecute you, 
 as you phrase it. I shall simply let you go your own way; 
 and I give you my solemn promise that while you keep out 
 of the way and hold your tongue, I will hold mine." 
 
 She laid her forehead on her hands and tried to think. 
 After all, beat her weary brain as she might, was there any 
 alternative course to that which he proposed? She could not 
 stay longer with Dane, unless she were utterly reckless and 
 abandoned. She could not tell him the truth, and so cover 
 him with the shame of her own disgrace and dishonor. No; 
 there was only one thing possible flight. 
 
 Dane's voice was heard behind them; he was coming on to 
 the terrace with St. Aubyn. She raised her head and looked, 
 like a hunted animal, from side to side. 
 
 "Quick!" whispered Chandos, thickly. ; ' Which is it to 
 be yes, or no?" 
 
 " Yes, yes; I will go," she panted; then staggered away 
 from him and entered the house by a lower window. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 LYKA lay awake all that night, a prey to the despair which 
 nerves one to action. 
 
 Whichever way she looked, no course seemed open to her 
 but that which Chandos had suggested, and which, ever since 
 his reappearance, had again and again, though vaguely, oc- 
 curred to her. 
 
 She must leave Dane, must leave him in ignorance of 
 cause of her flight. Let him think what he would of her 
 the worst, if it must be but the truth he must never 
 The least she could do was to spare his honored name from 
 such a scandal as the disclosure of iier double marru.-c could 
 bring down upon him. If the world remained ignorant
 
 278 OHCE IN A 
 
 cause of her Sight, it would blame her alone, and have only 
 pity for him; but if it were known that he had been 66 tricked " 
 into a bigamous marriage, it would treat him with scorn and 
 contempt, the mere thought of which almost drove her mad as 
 she lay in the silence and solitude of the night. 
 j Yes, there was nothing else for her. It was impossible for 
 I her to confess, impossible for her to remain, even though 
 Dane should forgive her; for was she not Chandos Armitage's 
 wife? 
 
 To doubt of the legality of the marriage that had taken 
 place in the old church never occurred to her; and even if it 
 had done so, she would not have dared to question it. To 
 whom could she go with her story? 
 
 Toward morning she fell into an uneasy, dream-haunted 
 sleep, and awoke to find Mrs. Leslie, who slept in an adjoin- 
 ing room, standing beside her bed. 
 
 Lyra started the start of the guilty and raised herself on 
 her elbow, with a look of terror in her eyes. 
 
 " What what is it?" she breathed, looking at a letter 
 which Mrs. Leslie held in her hand. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, I have startled you!" said Mrs. Leslie, with 
 self-reproach. " Don't be frightened. I came in to show 
 you a letter that I have just had from Theodosia." 
 
 Lyra fell back with a sigh of relief. 
 
 "'is it bad newi?" she asked, in a low voice. 
 
 " Well, it is,'* replied Mra. Leslie, anxiously. *' She has 
 sprained her ankle coming down the stairs of one of those 
 wretched cottages." 
 
 " I am sorry," said Lyra. " You must go to her at once." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie looked troubled and uncertain. 
 
 " Well, she does not ask me to go, indeed she says I am on 
 
 no account to leave you; but I know she would like me with 
 
 her. But I won't leave you, Lyra, dear." 
 
 I " You must go by the first train," Lyra said, hi a tone of 
 
 , quiet decision which rather surprised Mrs. Leslie. " Of course 
 
 I you must go. I am much better, quite well now, and I would 
 
 not have you stay. I will get up at once. Poor Theodosia! 
 
 Why can not I go?" Then she turned her face away and 
 
 stifled a moan. She would never see Theodosia again! -"I 
 
 will get up at once. It is late." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie looked at her watch. 
 
 " It is, rather; you have had a long sleep, I am glad to say, 
 my dear. And you are sure that you are well enough for me 
 to leave you?" 
 
 Lyra, by way of reply got out of bed.
 
 OtfCE Itf A LIFE. 
 
 "I should scarcely leave you then; but I am dad to say 
 that you are very far from death's door now, dear," Mrs 
 .Leslie said, with a smile; and she kissed her. 
 
 Lyra was about to return the kiss, but checked herself, and 
 turned away with a sigh. 
 
 " I am not fit to kiss her," was her reflection. 
 Mrs. Leslie had only time to snatch a hasty breakfast, and 
 Dane drove her to the station before Lyra came down. 
 Breakfast was a " go-as-you-please " meal at Highfield, and 
 St. Aubyn was seated at the table with his coffee and toast. 
 He rose and laid down the paper as Lyra entered, his grave 
 eyes scanning her face. Something in it awakened his anxiety, 
 an indefinable expression which he remembered later on. 
 
 " Ought you to get up so early, Lady Dane?" he said, ear- 
 nestly, as he put a chair for her. " I think you must have 
 been tired last night; wouldn't it have been wiser to have 
 taken a long rest this morning?" 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "No; I am quite well and strong now," she said; and her 
 voice struck him as the expression of her face had done. 
 
 " You can't be too careful," he said. While they had been 
 speaking he had got a warm plate for her, and her cup; Dane 
 did not like servants about the breakfast-table. " What shall 
 I give you? An omelet? some fish?" 
 
 She accepted some fish, but scarcely made a pretense of eat- 
 ing it. He adjusted the blind so that the sunlight should not 
 fall in her eyes, poured out her tea, and put a footstool for 
 her, all in his usual quiet, matter-of-course, and unobtrusive 
 fashion. 
 
 " I hope we did not disturb you as we came up last night," 
 he said. 
 
 " No," she said, absently. " Were you late?" 
 " Well, we were, rather," he said. He paused a moment. 
 " Mr. Chandos Armitage engaged in an argument in the 
 smoking-room. " 
 
 She shuddered slightly at the sound of his name. 
 " Yes?" she said, faintly. " What was it about?" 
 " Oh, I happened to mention the trouble those poaching 
 fellows are giving my people at my place, and Mr. Chandos 
 maintained that I was not doing my duty, because I hail not 
 given orders to my keepers to shoot the poacners. I've always 
 noticed that your gentle poet is generally a most blood- ihirsty 
 individual."
 
 860 ONCE LN A LIFE. 
 
 " You don't like him?" she said, in a low voice, and hall 
 mechanically. 
 
 St. Aubyn colored and laughed shortly. 
 
 " How did you discover that?" he asked, with some sur- 
 prise. " I had flattered myself that I had concealed my feel- 
 nigs quite cleverly. Well, no; to be candid, I don't like him. 
 I hope you'll forgive me for disliking so near a relation of 
 yours." 
 
 Lyra started. 
 
 " Near relation?" she breathed. " Ah, yes, he he is 
 Dane's cousin. I forgot." 
 
 "Yes," said St. Aubyn, "and I wish he were not. If I 
 might venture, I should say that he has not found much 
 favor in your sight, Lady Dane?" 
 
 Lyra knit her hands together. 
 
 " I I don't know. Why do you say that?" she demanded, 
 with a kind of repressed fear. 
 
 St. Aubyn smiled. 
 
 " For the same reason that you said the same of me. You 
 see, I know you so well that I have learned to read your face," 
 he replied, quite naturally. " I think, with you, that Chan- 
 dos is a particularly disagreeable person, the sort of man " 
 he stopped. 
 
 " Go on," she said, in a low voice. 
 
 He laughed apologetically. 
 
 " Well, I was going to say that I should be sorry to put 
 any trust in Mr. Chandos, and I should be still more sorry to 
 have to depend on him. There are some men " he went on, 
 reflectively " who are always trying to wear a mask, always 
 endeavoring to keep then- character from showing itself in 
 then- face, but who never succeed. Mr. Chandos is one of 
 them. He is a most amusing, accomplished person with the 
 mask on. Last night, in the smoking-room" he paused. 
 If Lyra had been a man he would have added, " and with the 
 whisky in " " he dropped the mask and allowed Dane and 
 me to catch a glimpse of his real self, and well, we both 
 agreed that Mr. Chandos's professions of sentiment and noble 
 feeling were mere shams, and that there was a very nice mixt- 
 ure of the monkey and the tiger in him, cunning and cruelty. 
 But " and he colored " I ought not to say that to you, 
 Lady Dane. " 
 
 " Yes, it is quite true," she said, more to herself than to 
 him. 
 
 St. Aubyn looked at her with surprise. 
 
 " You speak as if you knew him had heard him talk, as
 
 OtfCE IN A LIFE. 281 
 
 we heard him talk last night, when he was off his guard " he 
 said. 
 
 She rose, then sunk down again. 
 
 '' What are you reading in the paper?" she asked. He 
 nnderstood that she wished to change the conversation. 
 
 :< The Landcross case," he said. " I suppose you have not 
 seen anything of it, though?" 
 She shook her head absently. 
 ft No. What is it?" 
 
 " A very unhappy and melancholy one," he said. " Lady 
 Landcross has left her husband." He did not want to con- 
 tinue the subject, which he was sorry he had commenced. 
 ; Left her husband?" she repeated. 
 
 ' Yes; it is a singular case. I don't think it would interest 
 you. The melancholy part of it is that she fled from him 
 owing to a misunderstanding." 
 Lyra bent her eyes upon her cup. 
 " A misunderstanding?" 
 
 " Yes; ^the unfortunate woman had concealed from him an 
 incident in her life that had occurred before their marriage, 
 and, under the impression that she had brought dishonor upon 
 him, she left her home. She caught cold during her flight, 
 poor woman, and died." 
 
 " Unfortunate?" she breathed. " You pity her?" 
 St. Aubyn looked at her with surprise. 
 ' Why, yes! Do not you?" 
 
 " No," she said, in a low voice; " you forget. She died! 
 She was happy in that." 
 St. Aubyn stared at her. 
 
 " But it was all a misconception," he said. " If she had 
 but confided in him and told him everything, all would have 
 been set right, and she might be living still, and as happy as 
 a woman could be. I knew her both of them very well," 
 he went on, musingly. " They were devoted to each other, 
 apparently, hadn't a thought that wasn't common to them. 
 They were as fond of each other as as you and Dane are. 
 Poor Landcross is almost beside himself with grief." 
 
 The color rose to Lyra's pale face, then died away, all but 
 two hectic spots on her cheeks, which made her large, sad 
 yes appear unnaturally bright. 
 
 " She only thought she was bringing dishonor upon her hus- 
 band," she said, after a pause, and with her eyes still down- 
 cast. "But suppose she had been right suppose that by 
 flight she could have spared him would she not have been 
 right in leaving him, in disappearing? Should not " she
 
 283 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 raised her eyes, but he had risen and was standing, looking out 
 of the window, and did not meet them " should not a wom- 
 an's first thought and care be the honor of her husband 
 the man she loves?" 
 
 He was thinking of the woman his own wife who had 
 brought dishonor to him, had darkened his whole life, and his 
 voice sounded cold and almost stern as he answered: 
 
 "Yes; her husband's honor his good name before the 
 world should be dearer than her own lif e, and it is so in the 
 heart of every true wife." 
 
 Lyra rose and stood with her back turned to him, her hand 
 grasping the back of her chair, her bosom heaving with sup- 
 pressed emotion. It was as if she had heard the sentence of 
 death pronounced upon her. 
 
 As she moved toward the door the dog-cart drove up, and 
 Dane entered the hall and came into the room. 
 
 His face lighted up with a smile at sight of her. 
 
 "You up?" he said; then as he saw her white face and 
 anguished eyes, the smile died away. " What is the matter, 
 dearest?" he asked, putting his arm round her as St. Aubyn 
 walked out through the open window. 
 
 She suffered Dane's embrace for a moment, then put his 
 arm gently from her. 
 
 " I I am tired this morning," she faltered. 
 
 " Why did you get up?" he said, at once. " Go and lie 
 down. I wish I had not let Mrs. Leslie go; shall I wire for 
 her to come back? Will you have the doctor?" 
 
 " No, no," she said; and she forced a smile. " I will go 
 to my room and rest. I will not come down again." 
 
 His face fell; but he assented tenderly, unselfishly. 
 
 " Do not. I will see that the house is kept quiet, and that 
 no one shall disturb you. I was going to ride over to Star- 
 minster, getting back to dinner there is something the stew- 
 ard wants to see me about but I won't go now." 
 
 " Yes," she said, laying her hand on his arm, the two spots 
 burning in her cheeks again " yes, I wish you to go. I wish 
 you to; and and " her voice faltered " I will come down 
 to dinner if I can." 
 
 The last words were almost inaudible. 
 
 " Will you?" he said, wistfully. " But you must not over- 
 exert yourself, dearest. I will come up and see how you are 
 when I come back." 
 
 He kissed her and held her to him, and suddenly she raised 
 her head, looked him full in the eyes, and put her lips to his. 
 The poor fellow's face flushed like a boy's and his heart leaped.
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 2S3 
 
 fle was as much in love with her more, if that were possible 
 than on the day before their marriage. 
 
 The flush was still on his face when he went out in search 
 of St. Aubyn. He found him seated on a bench, his head 
 bowed, a dark frown on his face. He looked up with an absent 
 expression as Dane approached. 
 
 " Lyra has gone to her room; she is not strong yet. But 
 she is coming down to dinner." He paused a moment, then 
 added, in a low voice that thrilled with gratitude: " Do you 
 know, old fellow, that though she is still weak, I think that 
 hysteria is leaving her." He could feel Lyra's kiss still on his 
 lips. ' Yes, thank God, we shall have her like her old self 
 again! Will you come over to Starminster with me?" 
 
 St. Aubyn shook his head. He was trying to cast off the 
 black fit which the memory of his great trouble had caused, 
 but had not yet succeeded. He wanted to be alone for au 
 hour or two. 
 
 " I think not," he said. " I have some letters to write;" 
 and he walked away. 
 
 " Poor old chap!" murmured Dane, as he went off to the 
 stables. 
 
 A quarter of an hour afterward he rode off in a brighter and 
 more hopeful mood than he had been in since Lyra's illness. 
 
 Lyra went up to her room. The weakness which had almost 
 brought her to the ground in the breakfast-room had left her, 
 and the strength of despair had again come to her aid. St. 
 Aubyn was right a woman's first thought should be for her 
 husband's good name. His honor should be dearer to her 
 than life. The only way of saving Dane was by flight. She 
 must go. She threw herself on her knees beside the bed and 
 tried to plan out her course; but alas! alas! for some time 
 she could only recall the happy past. 
 
 " A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happy things." 
 
 It seemed that every loving word Dane had ever spoken to 
 her came hurrying across her brain. What would he do when 
 he learned that she had left him? 
 
 The day passed slowly; the maid brought her some lunch, 
 but Lyra was lying on the bed apparently asleep, and the 
 ruaid, afraid of waking her, set the tray on the table, and stole 
 out on tiptoe. Toward the afternoon some clouds came up in 
 the sky from the west, and the summer's brightness grew dull 
 and overcast. A soft drizzle set in. She rose about five 
 o'clock and packed a few things in a hand-bag, then ex- 
 changed the simple but bright and costly morning frock for a
 
 284 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 dark serge gown, and put a thick veil over her hat. She was 
 feeling faint, and the sight of the luncheon tray reminded her 
 that she had eaten nothing since breakfast, and that she could 
 not carry out her resolve without food. She forced herself to 
 eat something, though every mouthful threatened to choke 
 her; then sat down to nerve herself for flight. 
 
 She knew that a train left Highfield at six, and she knew 
 that, in all probability, she could reach the station by the pri- 
 vate path through the park unseen. Her plan if the con- 
 fused, nebulous idea that surged through her brain deserved 
 such a title was to go to London. She had money some of 
 her own was still left. In London she could hide until well, 
 until she could find some situation abroad. 
 
 She meant to go without a word, but at the last moment 
 this resolution broke down before the remembrance of Dane's 
 love. She wrote a few words, inclosed them in an envelope 
 addressed to him, and laid it on the top of the jewel case on 
 the dressing-table. In this case she had put all the jewelry 
 she usually wore (the diamonds and pearls were at the bank), 
 and she tried to take the wedding-ring from her finger, but 
 she could not; with a heart-broken cry, she put her hand, with 
 the ring still on, behind her. 
 
 The rain increased, the dullness grew almost into darkness; 
 but she did not notice the weather. As usual, the house was 
 very still and quiet, but she crept down the broad stairs as if 
 a crowd of detectives were listening for her footsteps, and 
 when she had crossed the hall and passed out at the wide-open 
 door, she ran unsteadily to the shelter of the shrubbery, and 
 stood there, looking back at the house with eyes that were 
 blinded with unshed tears. 
 
 The private path through the park was seldom used, and 
 she made her way along it without meeting any one. Just as 
 she reached the end of it, and was entering upon the road, she 
 thought she heard footsteps in the wood on her left. She 
 stopped and put her hand to her bosom; her heart was thump- 
 ing; but the footsteps, if the sound proceeded from them, 
 ceased; and after a minute's hesitation, during which she felt 
 like a thief, she went rapidly on. 
 
 As she passed through the wicket gate, with its inscription, 
 " private," Mr. Chandos stepped out on to the path and stole 
 rapidly after her. He stopped at the gate and watched her, 
 then drew back with a flickering smile of satisfaction. 
 
 " By Heaven, she has gone!" he muttered.
 
 OtfCE IN A LIFE. 285 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 Now, strange to say, Mr. Chandos was on his way to the 
 house to see her and to beg her to remain. Chandos Armi- 
 tage, it need not be said, was a coward at heart. He had 
 spent a bad night, the result of too much whisky and new 
 whisky consumed after he had reached the inn, and had woke 
 with that feeling of oppression and depression which copious 
 draughts of bad spirits usually produce. He fell to thinking 
 as he rolled his hot head on the pillow, and he came to the 
 conclusion that, to use his own words, he " was playing a dev- 
 ilish dangerous game." 
 
 Mr. Chandos valued his own skin even above the chance of 
 coming into the title; and it flashed upon him, in the waking 
 hours, that Dane was not the sort of man to let Lyra go with- 
 out following her; that in all probability he would come up 
 with her; then an explanation a full explanation of the 
 cause of her flight would fall from Lyra; and then Well, 
 Chandos had a wholesome dread of both Dane and the law. 
 
 So far as the latter was concerned, he might, it was true, 
 try bluster, and assert that the marriage in the old church was 
 a legal one; but even if he escaped the law, there was Dane to 
 deal with; and Chandos shuddered as he reflected upon Dane's 
 strength, and the readiness with which Dane, when his passion 
 was aroused, was accustomed to use it. Dane had once given 
 him a severe thrashing when they were lads, and Chaudos re- 
 membered it with an extraordinary vividness. 
 
 Yes, he had concluded, it would be better to let matters 
 slide, and leave Lyra in peace. Perhaps she or Dane might 
 die, perhaps there might not be any son and heir born to come 
 between Mr. Chandos and the title. Anyway, it was too dan- 
 gerous a game to play. 
 
 He had not risen till late, and had strolled about all the 
 morning to get rid of his headache, and when his nerves were 
 a little steadier, and his hand not quite so shaky, he had made 
 his way through the wood, in the hope of reaching the house 
 and seeing Lyra without being seen by any one else. 
 
 And now she was gone! Her dark dress, thick veil, and the 
 small bag were evidences that it was indeed a flight. 
 
 He leaned against a tree and wiped the sweat from his brow, 
 as he tried to decide what course to adopt. Should he follow 
 her to the station and persuade her to return to the house, on 
 the assurance of his secrecy? But would she be persuaded;'
 
 386 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 He knew that it was not selfish fear that had prompted her to 
 consent to his proposition. He knew that she was "disap- 
 pearing/' because she believed that by so doing she should 
 spare Dane. 
 
 " No," he thought; " she won't come back. There'll be a 
 scene at the station. She'll faint or go into hysterics at the 
 sight of me, and then But, curse it! I must chance it!" 
 
 He went quickly through the gate, and was hurrying along 
 the road to the station when he heard the rat ile of the train. 
 He must have remained in the wood, considering matters, 
 longer than he thought. With an oath he pulled up and stared 
 at the tram as it dashed by on the embankment before him. 
 
 " Should he follow her to London?" he asked himself. 
 Anyway, whether he tried to find her or not, he was off by the 
 next train. 
 
 He turned, and was speeding to the inn to pack his port- 
 manteau, when a tall figure came striding out of a lane before 
 him. It was St. Aubyn. 
 
 Mr. Chandos started guiltily and bit his lip nervously. Of 
 course, Lyra's flight was already discovered, and here was 
 " that fellow " on the trail! 
 
 He forced a sickly smile as St. Aubyn approached, and 
 greeted him as blandly and carelessly as he could. 
 
 St. Aubyn nodded, and seemed as if he were going to pass 
 on; but he stopped, as if by an afterthought. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Armitage? Are you going to the 
 house?" 
 
 His tone was grave and preoccupied, and Chandos noticed 
 that he looked serious and thoughtful. 
 
 "No that is yes!" said Chaudos, with an involuntary 
 stammer. 
 
 St. Aubyn looked at him uncertainly, as if hesitating and 
 doubtful as to some course of action depending on Chandos's 
 reply. 
 
 " You are?" he said. 
 
 " Yes," said Chandos, more boldly. " I was going to in- 
 quire after Lady Dane. I trust that she is none the worse for 
 her kind exertion last night?" 
 
 He fixed his pale eyes keenly on St. Aubyn's lace. 
 
 St. Aubyn hesitated a moment. 
 
 " Lady Dane is not to talk to-day, and is confined to her 
 Toom," he said. " I am afraid she will not be able to see you." 
 
 He wanted to save Lyra from even the chance of meeting 
 w;th the precious Mr. Cbaudos.
 
 ONCE IX A LIFE. 287 
 
 " Oh, I am sorry very sorry!" said Chandos, in his sleek- 
 est, most sympathetic tones. 
 
 " Yes," said St. Aubyn, absently. He looked toward the 
 
 station. " Was that the London train just passed?" he asked. 
 
 Mr. Chandos shot a keen glance at him. He did know, then'. 
 
 " Yes," he said. " It has just gone. I suppose you didn't 
 want to travel by it?" and he looked at St. Aubyn's tweed suit 
 of knickerbockers and gaiters. 
 
 " Yes, I did," said St. Aubyn. 
 
 Mr. Chandos started and stared at him. 
 
 " Well, that's cool, at any rate," he thought. 
 
 St. Aubyn noticed neither the start nor stare. 
 
 " I have just had a telegram calling me home," he said. 
 " You may remember my telling Dane and you about the 
 poachers at my place?" 
 
 " Yes," said Chandos, still staring. 
 
 " It seems that there was an affray last night between my 
 men and the poachers, and some rough work between them 
 bloodshed, I'm afraid. I met the telegraph boy in the lane 
 just now, and I think I ought to go at once." 
 
 " Well," thought Mr. Chandos, with a kind of contempt, 
 " you are about the poorest hand at a plausible lie I have ever 
 met." But aloud he said in a sympathetic tone: " Of course 
 . of course; but the train has just gone." 
 
 " The London one," said St. Aubyn. " But I can catch 
 the next that goes to Howford Junction, and get across to my 
 place by a train from there." 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Chandos; " I suppose|you can." 
 
 " I trouble you with all this," went on St. Aubyn, " be- 
 cause I thought, if you were going to the house, you would 
 kindly take a message to Dane, and tell him about the tele- 
 gram, and that I have caught the next train. He needn't send 
 my things on, as I will come back as soon as I can." 
 
 Mr. Chandos could have laughed outright, but he kept a 
 perfectly serious countenance. 
 
 " Certainly," he said; " I will explain the whole matter to 
 him. I'm very sorry you should have to rush off, and on 
 such unpleasant business." 
 
 St. Aubyn didn't want Mr. Chandos Armitage's sympathy. 
 
 " Thanks," he said, coldly; and with a nod, but with r 
 offer of his hand, he strode on. 
 
 Mr. Chandos turned into the road and stood up under a tree, 
 and indulged in a free, unrestrained chuckle. 
 
 It all seemed so plain to him as he recalled St Aubyn * un
 
 28$ OKCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 concealed devotion to Lyra. She had decided to fly from Dane, 
 but not alone. No; she was going to take St. Aubyn with her. 
 
 To any other man or woman who knew Lyra, the idea would 
 at once have appeared preposterous; but the evil are only too 
 ready to believe the existence of evil in others; and Mr. 
 Chandos would have been quite ready, if required, to stake 
 his life on ,the correctness of his hypothesis. 
 
 Yes, that was it. Lyra, seeing that she must leave Dane, 
 had bolted with Lord St. Aubyn. 
 
 tc And I thought last night that she was so terribly cut up 
 that I almost pitied her! Lord! what deceitful creatures 
 women are!" 
 
 Then, as he pondered over the situation, his brain bega^ to 
 glow. Lyra fled, Dane would not be likely to marry again. 
 He, Chandos, would be Earl of Starininster, after all. 
 
 He forgot the time as he paced up and down, his face flushed, 
 his eyes blinking with pleasant satisfaction. Eeally, Fate was 
 dealing very kindly with him, very. 
 
 He lighted a cigarette with some difficulty, and enjoyed 
 himself amazingly for a quarter of an hour; then he brought 
 himself back to business. He must go to the house and see 
 the drama played out, that was certain. Putting on his usual 
 soft, sleek, contemplative smile, the smile which always sug- 
 gested sonnets and verses to his female admirers, he walked 
 through the park and entered the hall. 
 
 " Is Lord Dane in?" he was asking, blandly, when he 
 heard the clatter of horse-hoofs, and Dane rode up. 
 
 " Halloo, Chandos!" he said, very much more pleasantly 
 than he had greeted him a few days ago. " Turned out wet, 
 hasn't it? I've had a soaker;" and he stood on the steps and 
 shook himself, as he had shaken himself that day by the 
 stream up the Taw valley. " You look wet, too." 
 
 " Yes; I have been walking, and looked in on my way 
 back to ask after Lady Dane." 
 
 Dane nodded. He forgot his dislike for Chandos in his ap- ' 
 preciation of the little attention. Through Lyra was always 
 the nearest way to Dane's heart. 
 
 " Thanks. I hope to find her much better. She was rather 
 tired this morning. Come in." 
 
 " I am so sorry," said Mr. Chandos, sleekly, as he followed 
 Dane into his own den. " I'm afraid the presence of a vis- 
 itor" 
 
 " Oh, that's all right!" said Dane, pulling off his bootn. 
 " I've been away all day. Just wait, will you? If she is not
 
 OtfCE Itf A LIFE. 289 
 
 able to dine with us, Fll ask you to stay, and we'll have a 
 bachelor's dinner." 
 
 " Oh! will you?" thought Mr. Chandos; but he looked very 
 grateful and pleased. 
 
 " I must go and change/' he said. 
 
 Dane, humming a line that kiss of Lyra's was not yet for- 
 gotten! tossed him a box of cigarettes. 
 
 " Wait a moment or two/' he said. " I'll go and inquire." 
 
 Mr. Chandos lighted a cigarette with rather a tremulous 
 hand. Was the storm going to break already? Would there 
 be time for St. Aubyn to get off by that train before Dane was 
 on his track? 
 
 Dane went up the stairs, and met Lyra's maid in the corri- 
 dor which ran round the upper portion of the hall. 
 
 " How is your mistress?" he asked, eagerly. 
 
 " I've not seen her ladyship since lunch, my lord," she re- 
 plied. " She was asleep then, and I think she has fallen 
 asleep again, for she did not answer when I knocked just now. 
 I trust that she is asleep, my lord." 
 
 Dane nodded and went on. He stopped at Lyra's room and 
 knocked at the door softly, then receiving no answer, opened 
 it. The light was fading, but he saw Lyra's gown where she 
 had thrown it on the bed, and thought that she was lying 
 there. 
 
 He took a step into the room, then stopped. Of late Lyra 
 had started at Ms approach. He would not awake her sud- 
 denly and startle her. He closed the door after him, and went 
 down -stairs to Chandos. 
 
 " She is asleep, I am glad to say. I don't think I shall let 
 her come down to dinner to-night. You'd better stay. I'll 
 send to the inn for your things." 
 
 And taking Chandos's acceptation as a matter of course, he 
 gave directions to a footman to show Mr. Chandos to a room, 
 and to send to the inn. 
 
 The dress clothes came in due course, and Mr. Chandos ex- 
 ; changed his wet walking suit for them. He felt chilled and 
 apprehensive, and longed with a longing beyond words for a 
 good stiff glass of neat brandy. The dinner-bell rang and 1 
 went down, and a few moments afterward Dane entered the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 "Halloo!" he said; "where is St. Aubyn? &t. 
 
 Aubyn down yet?" he inquired of the butler. 
 
 " Lord St. Aubyn is not in the house, my lord, was tM 
 reply. " His lordship has not been in all day." 
 
 Dane orew momentaritv serious: then his face cleared. 
 
 10
 
 290 ONCE IH A LIFE. 
 
 " We won't wait/' he, said. " He will be in directly, and 
 he hates to have dinner kept waiting for him." 
 
 Dane and Chandos went into the dining-room, and the meal 
 commenced. Dane was in the best of spirits for the first time 
 since her illness his darling had given him back kiss for kiss 
 and listened with wonderful patience to Mr. Chandos's ac- 
 count of the pictures in the gallery at Madrid. 
 
 " What the deuce made you go there?" he said once; and 
 Mr. Chandos colored and started. " And why didn't you 
 write to some one? We all thought you were dead." 
 
 Mr. Chandos took a long draught of wine and laughed 
 feebly. All the time he had been talking, he had been listen- 
 ing " with his third ear," as the Italians say, waiting for the 
 moment of the discovery of Lyra's flight; and when Dane rose 
 and said, " Excuse me a moment," he set his wine-glass down 
 so suddenly that it snapped at the stem. 
 
 Dane laughed as he left the room. 
 
 " I wouldn't give much for your nerves," he said. 
 
 He would have given less if he could have seen Mr. Chan- 
 dos's face during the suspense of the next few minutes, in the 
 interval between Dane's exit and his re-entrance with the let- 
 ter in his hand. 
 
 White to the lips, with an awful look in his face, Dane stood 
 with his back to the door looking, not at Chandos, but be- 
 yond him, into vacancy. 
 
 " My God! what is the matter?" Chandos faltered out. 
 
 Dane did not seem to hear him, but still stood, his back to 
 the door, as if to prevent any one entering. The servant had 
 left the room after the placing of the dessert, and the two gen- 
 tlemen were alone. 
 
 " What is it?" gasped Chandos, his terror passing very 
 well for surprise. 
 
 Dane put his hand to his brow and staggered to the table. 
 
 " She has gone," he said, more to himself than to Chandos, 
 " Gone!" 
 
 " Gone!" stammered Chandos. " Who who?" 
 
 Dane let his head fall upon his breast and groaned. Great 
 drops of sweat stood on his brow, his lips writhed, his face WHS 
 convulsed. Mr. Chandos thought that the stricken man would 
 have a fit, and with a trembling hand poured out some wine 
 and held the glass to him. 
 
 Dane took it mechanically and as mechanically set it on the 
 table. Then he rose from the chair and confronted Chandos. 
 
 " Da do you know of anything do you? Oh, my God, 
 am I mad or dreaming? Lyra my Lyra gone, left
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 291 
 
 Some oneone of the servants turned the handle of the 
 door. Dane signed to Chandos and he ran forward and turned 
 the key. 
 
 " What what on earth do you mean? What are you talk- 
 ing about?" he asked, shivering. 
 
 Dane held out the note to him, but as Chandos went to take 
 it, he drew his hand back. 
 
 " No, no!" he cried, in a kind of jealous rage. " You 
 shall not see it! It it is from her to me me alone! Why 
 do you stand gaping there? Why don't you do something?" 
 
 He fell into the chair again and dropped his head on his 
 hands, unconscious that the note had fallen from his fingers. 
 
 Mr. Chandos stole up and stealthily picked it up and read 
 it. It ran thus: 
 
 " I am going forever. I can not stay. Do not think too 
 badly of me, Dane. Pity and forgive me." 
 
 There was no signature, not even " Lyra." 
 
 Mr. Chandos laid the note on the table. 
 
 " C-calm yourself, Dane," he stammered. " Perhaps some 
 of the servants " 
 
 Dane raised his head and looked at him. 
 
 " Why has she gone?" he asked not Chandos, but himself. 
 
 Chandos ventured to play a card very nervously. 
 
 " Perhaps perhaps Lord St. Aubyn could tell us," he 
 said, hesitatingly. " They they were such great friends 
 
 Dane did not grasp the hideous insinuation for a moment, 
 then, as it dawned upon his bewildered, benumbed brain, he 
 sprung from his seat and seized Chandos; but his hand fell 
 even as it was raised to strike him to the ground, and he burst 
 into a hoarse laugh. 
 
 "You miserable cur!" he said, almost quietly. 'You 
 don't know her, you don't know him, or you would laugh as I 
 do at such a suggestion. Lyra! St. Aubyn! The purest 
 woman on God's earth, the most honorable of men!" Ho 
 laughed aloud. 
 
 " I I suggested nothing," faltered Chandos, rubbing the 
 part of his arm which Dane had clutched. " I only said ho 
 might know. They were great friends, weren't they? They 
 were like brother and sister " 
 
 Dane looked at him a strange look. 
 
 " Go on!" he said, hoarsely. 
 
 " That's all," said Chandos. " I wish I'd asked St. Aubyn 
 where he was going, and when he'd come back." 
 
 (( When did you see him? Where?" demanded Dane.
 
 292 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " I saw him going to the station. Let me see what time 
 was it? Just before the six o'clock train, I think; but I'm so 
 confused and upset/' 
 
 "Going to the station?" said Dane. "Are you sure? 
 Why should he be going there? Why didn't he come back to 
 dinner?" 
 
 Mr. Chandos shook his head meekly. 
 
 " Don't you know?" he said. " Hasn't he left any mes- 
 sage for you?" 
 
 Dane did not answer. The insinuation conveyed in the 
 question was working its way like subtle poison. 
 
 " D n you!" he cried, in an agony of passion. " Speak 
 out! Do you dare to hint " Then he stopped, and broke 
 into a wild, desperate laugh. 
 
 " We are both playing the fool !" he exclaimed, hoarsely, 
 wiping the sweat from his wet face. " I can see it all. It's 
 it's as plain as a pike-staff. An attack of hysteria has seized 
 her, and she has gone to Dosie's! I ought not to have let 
 Mrs. Leslie go. My poor darling! My poor darling!" 
 
 He strode to the bell. 
 
 Mr. Chandos ventured io touch his arm. 
 
 " What what are you going to do?" 
 
 " Order the carriage and drive to Castle Towers," said 
 Dane, almost calmly. 
 
 " I I wouldn't," stammered Chandos. " If I were you 
 I should keep the affair quiet till well, till morning. If if 
 anything should be wrong " 
 
 Dane set his teeth hard. 
 
 " See here, Chandos," he said, " I'm not in the mood to be 
 patient. I'm very much upset naturally by my wife's ill- 
 ness, and and oh! my God!" he broke off with a cry of 
 agony " I must do something; I must have her in my arms 
 -safe in my arms before morning, or I shall go mad!" 
 
 He rang the bell as Mr. Chandos unlocked the door. 
 
 " The break and pair," he said. " Her ladyship has gone 
 to Castle Towers " a happy idea struck him " Lady Theo- 
 dosia is worse." 
 
 In less than half an hour he was driving through the night 
 at desperate speed toward Castle Towers, and away from Lyra. 
 
 St. Aubyn got into the train very reluctantly, for notwith- 
 standing the urgency of the telegram, he felt a strange unwill- 
 ingness to leave Highfield strange, because he had no special 
 reason for his reluctance beyond his desire for Dane's and 
 Lyra's company that is, no reason he could formulate. But
 
 03TCE DT A LIFE. 293 
 
 there was something intangible something vague and unsub- 
 stantial which weighed on his mind and made him uneasy. 
 
 It was nothing more than the strange expression in Lyra's 
 eyes, the singular tone of her voice, while she had been speak- 
 ing with him at breakfast. 
 
 It haunted him and made him uncomfortable, almost to the 
 point of wretchedness, as he leaned back hi the carriage and 
 smoked the strong Cavendish which he favored. 
 
 He reached the junction, and got out to wait for the train 
 that would take him across country to his own station. It was 
 still raining, one of those miserable nights which even in sum- 
 mer remind us that we English, though so highly favored in 
 other respects, have " absolutely no climate." 
 
 Howford is a wretched station, one of those which are a dis- 
 grace to the push of the nineteenth century. It was draughty, 
 and not overclean. There was a miserable apology for a wait- 
 ing-room, and a still more miserable refreshment-room. 
 
 St. Aubyn went into the latter and asked for a cup of 
 coffee, and the young lady behind the bar eyed him for a mo- 
 ment, more in sorrow than in anger, and then informed him 
 that there was none, but that he could have " anything else." 
 
 St. Aubyn, who had no desire to be poisoned, went out and 
 paced the wet and draughty platform. As he did so, he glanced 
 through the glass door, then stopped. 
 
 A lady was sitting there a lady in a dark dress and wear- 
 ing a thick veil and it actually seemed to him that there was 
 something about her her figure, or her pose as she leaned for- 
 ward with her hands clasped on her lap like Lady Dane. 
 
 He walked on, and smiled at the idea. 
 
 " I'll tell her about it when I get back. Perhaps it will 
 make her laugh," he said. "It is a long time since she has 
 laughed;" and he sighed involuntarily. 
 
 So absurd did the idea seem that a solitary woman at How- 
 ford Junction should be like the peerless Lyra that he pur- 
 posely refrained from bestowing another glance at the waiting- 
 room as he paced up and down. 
 
 His tram came up at last; there appeared to be no other 
 passengers besides himself for the lady did not come out of 
 the waiting-room as the train drew up and he was getting 
 into a smokiug-compartment, the door of which a sleepy and 
 sulkj porter opened for him, when he heard him say: 
 
 "Barnstaple, ma'am? Yes, change at Leoford." And 
 looking out, he saw the lady get into the next carriage. He 
 was sinking back against the cushions when he heard a voic
 
 294 ONCE IN A LIFE.' 
 
 "My bag." 
 
 He sat for a moment spell-bound, then he sprung to his feel. 
 It was Lyra's voice. 
 
 " Great Heaven!" he said, aloud. " What an extraordi- 
 nary thing. She is not only like her but has her voice." 
 
 Obeying- the impulse of the moment, he leaped from the 
 carriage and snatched from the porter's hand the bag he had 
 fetched from the waiting-room. 
 
 "I'll give it to the lady," he said; and as the train moved 
 en he got into the same compartment. 
 
 " Here is your bag " he began, but a faint cry stopped 
 him. She had shrunk from him with her hands held out as if 
 to keep him back. 
 
 He caught the hands and bent forward to look into her face. 
 The light was of course bad, but he recognized her. 
 
 " Good GodI" he exclaimed. " Lyra Lady Dane!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 LYRA uttered a low cry and tried to take her hands from 
 St. Aubyn's grasp; but he held them tightly, and continued, 
 to look at her in silent amazement. It did seem to him in- 
 credible that she should be there, alone. 
 
 " Lady Dane," he said at last. "Is it possible? How did 
 you come here? Why are you here alone? Where is Dane?" 
 
 Lyra shrunk into a corner and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 St. Aubyn did not know what to say or do. He could 
 scarcely yet realize the fact of her presence. 
 
 " Has any thing happened? Have you heard bad news?" he 
 asked, gently and anxiously. 
 
 " Yes," she breathed; " something has happened." 
 
 "You have been sent for by some relation who is ill?" he 
 suggested. " Why has not Dane come with you? You ought 
 not to be traveling alone. But perhaps your maid is in an- 
 other carriage." 
 
 Lyra shook her head. 
 
 "No? Forgive me, Lady Dane, but but I am terribly 
 anxious. Will you not tell me what has happened?" 
 
 " I I can not!" she said in a low, almost inaudible voice. 
 " I I have left Highfield." She could not bring herself to 
 pronounce Dane's name. 
 
 " Left Highfield!" echoed St. Aubyn, in amazement. 
 " Left Great Heaven! I must misunderstand you!" He 
 looked at the dark dress, the thick veil which &Ue still kept
 
 OKCE IK A LIFE. 2$$ 
 
 down. < Why have you left Highfield, and at this time of 
 
 night? 
 
 " I I can not tell you/' she replied. " Don't ask me. 
 
 Leave me." 
 
 !St. Aubyn shook his head. 
 
 j ^ " Leave you, and alone! That is impossible," he said. 
 ' Lady Dane, you are in trouble of some sort. Will you not 
 tell me, confide in me?" 
 
 " No!" she said as if she were desperate; " I can confide in 
 no one. I am in trouble, yes; but no one can help me." 
 
 ''' Not even Dane?" he said, in a low, grave voice. 
 
 She put her hand to her eyes. 
 
 " Not even Dane," she murmured. 
 
 He thought a moment. 
 
 " Have you quarreled?" he asked. " But that is an absurd 
 question." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " No; oh, no, no!" 
 
 " I knew that could not have happened," he said. " What 
 is it, then? Whatever it is, it must have occurred quite re- 
 cently. You you were all right and happy this morning, 
 were you not?" he asked, as the remembrance of the expres- 
 sion of her face and the tone of her voice at breakfast flashed 
 upon him. 
 
 " Happy!" she echoed, with intense misery; "happy! In 
 all the world there is no one so unhappy, so wretched as I am, 
 and have been!" 
 
 The confession was forced from her, and startled him by the 
 intensity of its despair. 
 
 ' Great Heaven!" he murmured. " And you will not tell 
 me?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " At least tell me where you are going?" 
 
 :i To London," she said. 
 
 " But this train does not go to London," he said. 
 She put her hand to her head. It was evident to him that 
 she did not know it that she scarcely knew where she was 
 going. 
 
 " You were going to London, to friends?" he said. " But 
 you can not reach it by this train, and for hours to come what 
 will you do? Lady Dane, I beg I implore you, if you can 
 not confide in me, to let me take you back home." 
 
 " No, no!" she panted; " I can riot! It is too late; I can 
 never go back. Oh, believe that, and and do not ask me any 
 more questions! Leave me. '
 
 ONCE rsr A 
 
 " Yes, I must ask you one more," he said He paused, 
 then went on, in a low voice full of suppressed emotion, his 
 eyes fixed on hers, which gleamed through the veil. " And, 
 Lady Dane, do you know why I feel that I have a right to ask 
 you? Do .you remember one day when we were talking of 
 friendship between man and woman, and you let me say that 
 I hoped to prove myself your friend?" 
 
 She made a gesture of assent with her hand. 
 
 "It is a sacred word, but it does not go far enough to da 
 scribe my feelings. Lady Dane" he paused' 'do you re. 
 member the first day we met? I came into your presence un- 
 willingly enough. I was a woman-hater. I had suffered the 
 cruelest wrong that a man can suffer at the hands of a woman. 
 I had a wife whom I loved " His voice grew hoarse and 
 broken. " But you know my story; it is all too common. 
 The day she left me I cursed her and all her sex. The face 
 of a woman, no matter how beautiful it was, was but to me 
 the mask worn by a devil. I think that I would not have 
 stretched out my hand to save one of them from a painful 
 death. You see, I speak plainly. That day I came up into the 
 balcony there at Rome and saw you, I wished that I had pre- 
 tended not to see Dane, my old and tried friend, and gone on 
 my way. You were to me just one of the sex I hated, and I 
 meant to go as quickly as possible and get out of your way. 
 But I stayed. I saw you again and again, and gradually but 
 surely a change was wrought in me. My eyes were opened, 
 and I saw what a fool and cur I was to deem all women bad 
 because one had proved vile." 
 
 He paused and moistened his lips. 
 
 " You had wrought that change hi me. It was the charm 
 of your goodness which had performed the miracle on my 
 blindness; it was the influence of your presence that restored 
 me to my faith in womankind." 
 
 Lyra, motionless and pale, looked at him with sad, wonder- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 ' ' I can not tell you when the charm began to work in me. 
 I only know that soon I felt as a man feels who fears to leave 
 the rock upon which he has climbed out of the deadly 
 clutches of the sea. I felt that if I left you, if I removed my- 
 self from your influence, I should sink back into the life of 
 hate and distrust which was worse than death." 
 
 Lyra stirred with a troubled sense of awe. 
 
 " You were unconscious of all this; I know that; I have 
 known it all the time. I myself for a long while did not dis-
 
 OHCE DT A LIFE. 297 
 
 cover that ^ had learned to get back my trust in woman be- 
 cause I had learned to love you." 
 
 Lyra uttered a faint cry. 
 
 " You do not shrink from me?" he said. " That is right; 
 you have no need to. I loved you, I love you still, I shall 
 love you till I die; but it is with a love of which I am not 
 ashamed, for it has never for one instant bred an unworthy 
 thought of you. What is it the man in the play says? ' As 
 some saint niched in cathedral aisle.' Yes, that is it, Lady 
 Dane; you were just a saint to me; something sweeter and 
 holier than a sister. I would have laid down my life for you, 
 and I would as willingly have died for Dane, your husband. " 
 
 His dark eyes shone with the fervor which might have 
 beamed from the eyes of the purest of King Arthur's knights. 
 She did not shrink, but an infinite pity welled up in her 
 heart, and the tears came into her eyes. She had shed none 
 for herself. 
 
 " I would tell you all this if Dane were sitting beside us," 
 he went on in a low voice that thrilled her by its earnestness. 
 " I think, sometimes, that he must have seen into my heart 
 and known how it was with me. Lady Dane, my happiness is 
 only to be found by your and Dane's side. I said to myself 
 ah, and how often have I held self-communion on the subject! 
 that if you would accept my friendship, if you would let me 
 see you, share, as a spectator only, in your happiness, I should 
 be well content to let the dead past bury its dead, and live 
 only for you and him. I thought his voice grew very low 
 and solemn " that in the coming time there would be others 
 your children, little ones having the look of your eyes, the 
 trick of your voice whom I could love, and whose love I 
 could win in return. And I have said to my tempest-tossed 
 soul: ' Wait and be patient; there is a life of love, pure love, 
 unstained by passion, before you. Be content to be her friend, 
 their friend, knowing that your love has won a corner of their 
 hearts for you. ' ' 
 
 The tears were running down Lyra's face, fche put up J: 
 veil with a trembling hand, then extended the hand to him. 
 She could not speak. 
 
 He took the hand, held it for a moment, and did not press 
 it to his lips before he laid it in her lap. 
 
 " Oh, I am not worthy not worthy!" she faltered, bro- 
 
 JiGnlv 
 
 " Not worthy!" He smiled. " To me you have always 
 been the best, the purest-heated woman in all the woi 
 You are still "
 
 298 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " No, no? not now!'* 
 
 " Yes, now," he said, almost fiercely. " Do you think that 
 I suspect you of evil? You! I would as soon suspect one of 
 the angels in heaven! I find you here alone, flying from your 
 home; but I know that the trouble is not of your causing; I 
 know that you have been sinned against, not sinning. I have 
 looked into your eyes, and they are still pure and untainted. " 
 
 He clinched his hand. 
 
 " I know the other look; I have seen it too often; I remem- 
 ber it as it shone in the eyes of my false wife. No, Lady 
 Dane; others might think ill of you, but my love for you gives 
 me the nower of reading you as I read this paper. I should 
 believe in you though all the world were against you. And 
 now will you not trust me, confide in me?" 
 
 " I can not," she said once more. " You must leave me, 
 Lord St. Aubyn. We must part never to meet again." 
 
 " Pardon me!" he cried. " I should be loath to desert any 
 woman in her hour of need; I am not likely to leave you. 
 Wherever you are going, I will take you there safely. What 
 do you think Dane would say to me if I were to desert you, 
 leave you, alone and unprotected?" 
 
 She wrung her hands. 
 
 " There is only one place I can go," she said. " The man 
 said this train went to Barnstaple " 
 
 She stopped, as if she did not wish to tell him any more. 
 
 " Very well," he said; " we will go to Barnstaple. You 
 have friends there? We will find them. Now, will you not 
 try and get some sleep?" he added, gently. " I will not talk 
 to you; indeed, I will leave you at the next station and have 
 the carriage locked and reserved for you." 
 
 She tried to thank him, and closed her eyes. It was evident 
 to him she was very near physical and mental exhaustion. 
 
 He went to the further corner and looked out of the win- 
 dow. What he should do he did not know. At any rate, he 
 would not leave her could not. 
 
 When the train drew up at the next station he got out 
 quietly for he thought she was asleep and went for the 
 guard, found him, and was coming back to the carriage to 
 have it locked, when a woman opened the door and got in. 
 
 Lord St. Aubyn touched her arm. 
 
 " Where are you going?" he asked. 
 
 " To Barnstaple, sir/' she replied. " Isn't this right?" 
 
 " Quite right/ ' said St. Aubyn. " You won't mind having 
 the door locked and the carriage reserved?"
 
 OKCE IK A 11REL 299 
 
 He got into the next compartment and lighted his pipe, 
 thankful that Lyra had a woman to keep her company. 
 
 The train moved on slowly. Lyra still lay in a kind of half 
 stupor for some minutes, then she awakened and sat up and 
 put her veil back. As she did so the woman on the opposite 
 seat looked at her, then gave a cry of astonishment and 
 pleasure. 
 
 " Miss Lyra! Is it you, Miss Lyra oh! I beg your par-, 
 don; I mean, your ladyship?" 
 
 Lyra stared at her wearily, then gasped, " Mary!" and 
 clutching her arm, clung to her old servant. 
 
 Mary was speechless with surprised delight for a moment, 
 then she broke out into an exclamation: 
 
 " Lor', miss! I mean, my lady 1 can't scarcely blieve 
 my eyes! I feel quite 'mazed! To think as it should be you 
 a-sitting there, and I not know it! But it was the veil and 
 this plaguey light, and I was in such a stew a-thinWng that 
 perhaps I'd got into the wrong train, after all, and the door 
 locked! But " she broke off, looking hard and ankiously at 
 Lyra's white, worn face" is is anything the matter, miss 
 I mean, my lady? Dear, dear! it's so hard to remember that 
 you're married and a great lady! Are you ill, Miss Lyra? Is 
 is "she looked at the dark dress '* is any one dead?" 
 
 " No," said Lyra, trying to retain her composure, but 
 trembling; " no one is dead, and and I am not ill; but I am 
 in great trouble, Mary." 
 
 " Trouble, miss? Oh, I'm so sorry! And where are you 
 goino-, and all alone? But you're not alone now, Mia 
 thank goodness! Lor'! to think that I should meet you in a 
 train, and that I've only been on the railroad once before m 
 all my life, and wouldn't be now but that my old grand- 
 mother was fll and sent for me! She keeps a shop at the 
 place where I got in, and is very well off, ana so 
 ously " I felt bound to go. Not that I covet her money, or 
 am one to wait for dead men's shoes-or women s, either. I 
 Lor' ! how I do run on, and you in trouble and waiting to ft 
 me all about it! Don't mind me, Miss Lyra I mean, my 
 
 ^Mary's " cackle," as Dane would have called it, had given 
 Lyra time to recover herself. , 
 
 " I'm afraid I can't tell you about my trouble Mary, she 
 said. " It is a trouble in which no one can help me,and I 
 must bear it alone as best I can. TeU me about yourself- 
 
 Cere's nothing to tell about," said Mary, 
 
 re-
 
 800 ONCE IK A LIFE. 
 
 training from asking any more questions with that true deli- 
 cacy which persons of her class so often display. ' ' And as to 
 Griffith, he's just the same as ever. He be a-gettin' on nicely, 
 and have got quite a little farm at the Mill Cottage. I go 
 over there very often when it's my Sunday out, and we always 
 I spend the time talking of you. He shows me your letters, and 
 ' gets me to read 'em to him every time, as if he'd never heard 
 , 'em before; and he's as proud of 'em as if they were writ on 
 gold. Lor', how pleased he'll be to see you, Miss Lyra! 
 There'll be no holding him. " 
 
 Lyra was on the point of saying that she was not going to 
 the cottage, but she paused. Why should she not go there, 
 for a few hours, at any rate? Where else could she go? She 
 would be safe there, and could rest and recover strength 
 enough to enable her to continue her journey to London. 
 
 " He'll be a'most mazed " (" mazed " is the Devonshire 
 for "mad," "excited.") "He's always hoping that you 
 might find time to come and see him, if it was only for a few 
 minutes. He's just the same as ever, miss I mean, my lady 
 as crusty as an old file and as rough as a bear; but it's only 
 outside, miss; his heart's all right, is Griffith's, and it's al- 
 ways * My Miss Lyra, bless her!' with him. We often talk of 
 old tunes, as is only natural. Ah, dear! we was all so happy, 
 wasn't we, miss! Do you mind that Mr. Geoffrey Barle?" 
 
 Lyra drew away from her and averted her face. 
 
 " Terrible end for him, wasn't it, miss? Griffith told all 
 about it. But, there; I mustn't keep on gabbling, for you 
 look tired and well-nigh worn out. Let me put this shawl 
 round you, for it's got chilly. Now, do'ee, miss; I'm only 
 a-carrying it. " 
 
 When St. Aubyn got out at the next station, he was sur- 
 prised to find Lyra lying down wrapped in the shawl, and the 
 strange woman sitting beside her and holding her hand. 
 
 " You know this lady?" he asked in a whisper. 
 
 " Lor' bless you, yes, sir!" said Mary in a low, excited 
 voice. " It's Miss Lyra, my old mistress. She's asleep, sir, 
 thank goodness! for she looks main ill and troubled, poor 
 thing!" 
 
 "Where are you going?" asked St. Aubyn. 
 
 " To the Mill Cottage, her old home," said Mary, promptly, 
 " I'm going to take her there, and stay with her, if 1 lose my 
 situation;" and she set her lips firmly. 
 
 St. Aubyn murmured an inaudible thanksgiving. 
 
 " Yes, yes," he said; " that's right. I will find you a new 
 situation, if you should lose your present one. Lady Armitage*
 
 OKCE IN A LIFE. 801 
 
 is in need of you. Where is this Mill Cottage?" he asked, 
 quickly, for the guard was impatient. 
 
 " Where? In the Taw valley. Barnstaple's the address. 
 Don't you be afraid, sir/' she added, as St. Aubyn glanced 
 anxiously at Lyra, tl I'll take care of her. I'm not a-going 
 to leave her, now I've found her and her wanting me too." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said St. Aubyn, eagerly; " she does want you." 
 
 At the next station he managed to get two cups of tea, and 
 brought them to the carriage. Lyra was still asleep, or in the 
 stupor of exhaustion, and he waited beside the carriage window 
 until the very last moment. 
 
 They reached Banistaple in the early morning. The storm 
 had passed, the sun was shining brightly. He went to the 
 carriage, and told Mary to remain where she was until h 
 came for them; then he hurried to the telegraph office, got 
 form, and wrote: 
 
 " Come to me at once the Mill Cottage. 
 
 "ST. ATTBYN." 
 
 He addressed this " Armitage, Highfield," and was carry- 
 ing it to the boy at the pigeon-hole, when it occurred to him 
 that he would send it as if it had come from Lyra. 
 
 He erased the "St. Aubyn," and wrote "Lyra" in its 
 place. 
 
 " Send this off at once. How long will it take getting 
 there?" 
 
 " Not long, sir. The line's clear in the morning," said the 
 boy. 
 
 St. Aubyn engaged a fly, and then ran back to the carriage 
 where Lyra and Mary were waiting for him. 
 
 He took Lyra's hand, then held her arm as she alighted, for 
 she appeared almost too weak to stand. 
 
 Without a word she allowed him to lead her to the fly, and 
 in silence they made their way through the town to the Taw 
 valley, Lyra leaning back and holding Mary's hand, and look- 
 ing straight before her with eyes that seemed to see nothing 
 
 But when the fly rattled down the rough, uneven road to the 
 cottage, and the house came in sight, she uttered a faint cry, 
 and her hand convulsively clutched Mary's. 
 
 At the sound of carriage wheels Griffith came put of 
 porch and staggered down the path. At sight of Lyra, his 
 rugged face worked convulsively, and his fierce eyes gleamet 
 and blinked. 
 
 " Miss Lyra!" he gasped. Miss Lyra! . 
 
 Lyra stood up in the fly and hel 1 out her hand to him.
 
 302 ONCE IK A UFE. 
 
 " Griffith!" she cried. " Griffith!" 
 
 He took her in his arms, as he had been wont to do when 
 she was a mite of a child, and lifted her bodily from the car- 
 riage, and held her as if in defiance of the whole world. 
 
 "You've come back to me, Miss Lyra!" he murmured, 
 hoarsely. " You've come back at last!" and completely dis- 
 regarding the others, he carried her into the cottage. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 drove like Jehu. When he reached Castle Towers the 
 horses were wet with sweat and flecked with foam, biit other- 
 wise none the worse for their sharp spin. The vague suspicion 
 and dread which Chandos's hint and insinuation had raised in 
 Dane's mind had been scattered by the cool night wind through 
 which he had rushed. 
 
 There was still a dim light burning in the hall, and at the 
 sound of the carriage, the butler came to the door. 
 
 He did not recognize Dane for a moment, and started and 
 stared when he did so. 
 
 " Oh, my lord, is anything the matter?" he inquired. 
 
 "No, no!" said Dane; "that is, nothing to be alarmed 1 
 about." He was just going to ask if Lady Dane was there, 
 but checked himself. "You are up late," he said. " Don'fc 
 trouble to ring for a groom; I'll take the horses round to the 
 stable." 
 
 " Certainly not, my lord; the groom will be round in a few 
 minutes. I'm very glad I'm up. I was waiting for the mas- 
 ter. Come in, my lord; I'll stand by the horses." 
 
 " They won't run away to-night, poor beasts," he said, 
 grimly. " I've come quickly. Mr. Fanshawe is out, you 
 say?" 
 
 ' Yes, my lord," replied the butler, as he patted the horses 
 and looked with some surprise at their spent condition. " He 
 has been called out to see a sick man." 
 
 " How is Lady Theodosia?" asked Dane, fighting hard to 
 keep the question " Where is Lady Dane?" from his lips. 
 
 Thank you, my lord; her ladyship is better, but her 
 ankle is very painful, and her ladyship can't get any sleep at 
 night. I'm afraid she's awake now;" and he glanced up at 
 the lighted window of Lady Theodosia' s room. 
 
 A groom came up and took the horses, and Dane went into 
 the hall. As he did so, Mrs. Leslie iocked over the balustrade. 
 
 " Is that you, Martin? How is he? Why, Lord Dane " 
 she broke off, starting at sight of him " is it you? Oil,
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. 303 
 
 there is j something the matter!" and she was down the stairs 
 and at nis side in a moment. " What is it'? Lyra?" 
 His face grew pale again. 
 
 '"' Lyra is here, is she not?" he said, gripping her hand 
 fiercely. 
 
 AT L F^Ifty Dane here?" she faltered, with amazement. 
 No! Oh, Lord Dane, why did you think that? Where is 
 she?'- 
 
 He drew her into a room and closed the door. 
 
 " Are you sure she is not here? You are not deceiving 
 me?" 
 
 " Deceiving you, Lord Dane? No, no; we have not seen 
 her; she is not here. Why should I or any one else deceive 
 you?" 
 
 " God knows!" he said, bitterly. " Read that!" and he 
 thrust the crumpled note into her hand. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie read it, and stared from it to him with surprise 
 and dismay. 
 
 " I I don't understand!" she gasped. 
 
 " No, nor I. Who does understand it? Is there any one 
 who can explain it to me?" he demanded, wildly. " Why 
 has she gone left me who who loved her so, and where has 
 she gone? Does Dosie know? Can she tell me? Will she 
 tell me? I'm stifling and choking with this mystery and sus- 
 pense!" 
 
 " Oh, be calm, Lord Dane," she implored, " and let me 
 think! No, Dosie does not know. She has had no letters 
 save those I have seen; and only an hour ago she was wonder- 
 ing whether you and Lyra would come here. Dosie is incapa- 
 ble of concealment or deceit; but I need not tell you that." 
 
 " Then who does know?" he said, fiercely. " Some one 
 must be able to explain that that note. Give it to me!" and 
 lie almost snatched it from her hand and began pacing the 
 room. " My God! what shall I do? where can I seek her?" 
 he groaned. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie put her hand to her head. 
 
 "It is all dark to me," she said. "Oh, if I had only 
 stayed with her! I will go and tell Dosie." 
 
 " No, no!" he said; " she is ill; it can do no good." Then, 
 forgetting what the butler had said, he inquired, as if by a 
 sudden impulse: " Where is Martin?'- 
 
 can 
 
 and helpful.
 
 304 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " Where is he?" demanded Dane, hoarsely. 
 
 " He has gone down to the village to see a man who is fl\. 
 He is at the cottage where Dosie slipped down the stairs and 
 sprained her ankle. The poor fellow is a stranger in the place, 
 and very ill indeed dying, the doctor says. Martin was sent 
 for an hour ago, and I don't know how long he may stay all 
 night, perhaps. Martin never spares himself. Shall 1 send 
 for him? I must." 
 
 " No, no," said Dane; " tell me where the place is, and I 
 will go to him. I will not detain him more than five minutes; 
 that will be long enough to tell me that he can't help me;" 
 and he groaned. 
 
 " Oh, don't despair, Lord Dane!" she implored him, with 
 tears in her eyes. " It will all come right." 
 
 " Don't talk like that, or you will drive me mad!" he 
 said, hoarsely. " I can see my darling at this moment in all 
 sorts of dangers and perils alone, friendless " 
 
 Mrs. Leslie ran and got him a glass of wine. 
 
 "Oh, drink it to please me!" she said. "You must not 
 break down be strong, for her sake, Lord Dane." 
 
 He gulped down the wine. 
 
 " Now, tell me where this cottage is," he said, putting on 
 his hat. 
 
 She told him. 
 
 " You can not mistake it; it is the third cottage on this side 
 of the church. You will see a light in the bedroom window. 
 You will come back?" 
 
 " I can't tell," he said. 
 
 As he went out he told the groom to have the horses fed, 
 rubbed down, and harnessed. 
 
 " I may want them again in an hour," he said. 
 
 It was a lovely night. The stars were shining down upon 
 the sleeping village; all was peace a peace which jarred like 
 a discordant note upon Dane s tortured heart. 
 
 He had no difficulty in finding the cottage; the light in the - 
 eick-room guided him. He found the door open as, indeed, ! 
 were most of the doors in that happy and honest little place 
 and he went in and knocked softly against the panel. 
 
 Martin Fanshawe came to the head of the stairs. 
 
 " Dane!" he said, in a hushed voice, but with his usual 
 calmness. " What is wrong? Come up, will you?" 
 
 Dane went up and followed him into the small room. The 
 candle-light fell upon a man lying on the bed. At a glance 
 Dane saw that he was dying. 
 
 " You can speak before him," said Martin; " ths poor fel-
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 305 
 
 Jow is unconscious. I can not leave, for I have sent the woman 
 of the house for the doctor, and I am taking charge of him. 
 Is it anything serious?" 
 
 Before this, the greatest of all troubles, Dane felt his own 
 ahrink and dwindle. 
 
 " It is Lyra," he said. " She has gome!" 
 
 In a few broken words he told his story. Martin looked 
 grave and troubled, but calm and self-possessed. How many 
 terrible stories of sorrow and sin he had to listen to and advise 
 upon! 
 
 " Sit down," he said, and he gently pressed Dane's shoul- 
 der. " Let me think. You have no clew, you say?" 
 
 " None," said Dane, in a hoarse undertone. Both men 
 spoke in a whisper for fear of disturbing the dying man. 
 
 " Is there no one of whom you can think to whom she 
 would naturally go? Consider, and be calm. I know what 
 you are feeling. I sympathize with you fully. Lyra is dear 
 to all of us to me, to Dosie. We must keep our heads cool, 
 Dane. We can do nothing, absolutely nothing, until the 
 telegraph opens at eight o'clock. Be sure of this, that your 
 wife our dear Lyra is in God's hands. They are stronger 
 than ours, strong to protect and guard her." 
 
 At these kind, wise words, poor Dane nearly broke down, 
 as he pressed the hand Martin held out to him. Martin went 
 to the bed and bathed the forehead of the dying man, and was 
 then returning to Dane's side, when the man spoke. 
 
 "Send send for him! Tell him I have something to tell 
 him something I must tell him!" he said, feebly. 
 
 Martin went back to the bed and took the man's hand. 
 
 " If you mean me, Martin Fanshawe, I am here," he said. 
 
 The man opened his eyes already dimmed by the death 
 film and looked up at him with piteous imploration. 
 
 " I I knew you would come if they sent," he said. 
 " You have been very kind to me you and Lady Theodosia, 
 God bless her! Fanshawe, I I have something on my mind. 
 It weighs heavily upon me. I feel as as if it was keeping 
 me from dying, and God knows I want to die and be at rest 
 badly enough. How hot it is! Hell's hot, they say!" 
 
 " Hush, hush!" said Martin Fanshawe; " there is no hell 
 for the repentant sinner, my friend. If you have anything to 
 tell me, any sin which you repent, and which you wish to con- 
 fess, tell me." 
 
 He glanced at Dane, who rose to leave the room. 
 
 " Who is that?" asked the dying man. 
 
 < A friend of mine," said Martin. " He, too, is in acre
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 trouble. He will leave us that you may speak without re- 
 serve." 
 
 " No, no," said the man. " Let him stay. What I've to 
 tell you is best told with a witness. It does not concern myself 
 alone. Let him come nearer and and listen. Take down 
 every word I utter. Give me that Bible you left for me." 
 
 Martin reached the Bible from the drawers beside the bed 
 and placed it in the man's hand. He grasped it, and slowly 
 lifted it to his lips. 
 
 " You you are a magistrate, are you not?" he asked, in a 
 hollow voice. 
 
 " I am," said Martin Fanshawe; " so also is my friend." 
 
 " Good!" he said, with evident satisfaction in his thin 
 tones. " I want to tell you about a piece of villainy in which 
 I was concerned. A man I know an old college chum came 
 to me and asked me to take part in some amateur theatricals. " 
 
 His voice failed him, but he fought against his weakness 
 then, and until the end of his confession, with a stubborn 
 persistence which seemed to thrust death aside by sheer force 
 of will. 
 
 " That is what he called it, but I saw that it was something 
 more serious than play-acting. He knew all about my past 
 history, and that I'd meant to go into the Church, and he 
 wanted me to play the part of a parson at a wedding. Take 
 that down." 
 
 Martin wrote rapidly in his note-book. 
 
 " I have it," he said, hi a low voice. 
 
 " Every word? Good. I was hard up, stone-broke, at the 
 time, up to my neck in debt, and altogether helpless. I drank 
 too. He gave me enough liquor to drown what little conscience 
 was left to me, and I consented to do what he required of me^, 
 on condition of a lump sum down and my passage paid to one 
 of the colonies. He was a plausible devil, and held out hopes " 
 he broke off and laughed a ghastly laugh of self -mock- 
 ery " as if reformation was possible to such as I am! I con- 
 sented, and left all the arrangements to him. He was to 
 bring the girl to an old church on a certain day, and there I 
 was to marry them or to pretend to marry them." 
 
 He stopped, and labored for breath. 
 
 " Give give me some water." 
 
 Dane held a cup to the parched lips, and the man thanked 
 him. 
 
 " The day came, and though I'd more than half resolved to 
 break my promise and have nothing to do with it, the money 
 and the hope of a fresh chance in life were too much for me.
 
 OKCE Itf A LIFE. 30? 
 
 and I I went. It was an old church." He shuddered. "I 
 can feel the damp of the place hi my bones at this moment. 
 My friend appeared with the girl. I'd expected to see some 
 servant or farmer's daughter, but the moment I saw her I 
 knew that she was a lady. She was " he groaned " she 
 was very beautiful, but it wasn't only her beauty. It was 
 something else in her face that went to my heart, and made 
 me feel like a devil in the bottomless pit. I could see that she 
 was innocent innocent as a child though the man had tried 
 to make her out a willing party hi the sham. I could see 
 that she believed the marriage was all right and correct, and 
 that that the man who had bribed me to destroy her was true 
 and honest. More water!" he panted. "My blood's on fire 
 at the thought of it all!" 
 
 Dane held the cup to his lips again. 
 
 " I'd have backed out then before God, I wanted to do so, 
 I tried to do so, but the devil in human shape, who had got 
 me in his grip, taunted and goaded me on. I I went through 
 the farce of marrying them!" 
 
 His lip twitched, and he groaned heavily. 
 
 " Raise him," said Martin, in a low, solemn voice. 
 
 Dane put his arm round the man and raised him. 
 
 " If I had lived to be a hundred, instead of dying in my 
 prime, I should have remembered her face as she stood in the 
 old church. She was pale and and she tried to smile- 
 He stopped and moaned. " My friend gave me the money, 
 and I went out like Judas. I wish I had hanged myself, like 
 him! I left them, left her to fate, like the cur and devil ] 
 was, and that same day sailed for Australia." 
 
 Martin wrote rapidly. 
 
 " I have it all down," he said. " Is there anything more 
 the names?" 
 
 The dying man nodded feebly. 
 
 " Yes. I went to Australia and and I tried to turn over 
 a new leaf. I think I I should have done well and succeeded. 
 I I was no fool, and and there is a chance over there for 
 
 face haunted me. I saw it every n 
 
 carried it about with me all day. 61 the middle of my work 
 
 it would come between me and whatever I was doing, a l- 
 
 and I took to drink again to drown her face, the memon o 
 
 the wronz I'd done her? Look here !-you're a parson. Jfert 
 
 Sunday, when you're preaching, tell them that i 
 
 sin isn't punished in this world, they make a great mistake.
 
 308 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 It is. . The worst man in the world has a conscience, and it 
 will make a hell for him if he's done one half as bad a deed as 
 I did that day." 
 
 Martin Fanshawe sighed. 
 
 " Would that all sinners could hear you!'* he murmured. 
 
 " I left Australia. I didn't seem able to stay in any place 
 long. I wandered about, working sometimes, drinking always. 
 I lived the life of a dog; worse, the life of a man haunted by 
 remorse. One day I was in Rome I got into the hands of 
 the police. I forget what was the matter. Drink, I dare say 
 I forget. They were dragging me off to the station. There 
 was a crowd. On the edge of it I saw" he paused and 
 struggled for breath " I saw her. For a moment or two I 
 thought I had got D. T., and that it was only an hallucina- 
 tion. Then she spoke, and I knew it was she, the girl with 
 the beautiful, innocent face, that I'd pretended to marry. 
 And she pleaded for me, she, the girl I'd ruined! There was 
 a man with her I don't now who he was her husband, per- 
 haps but he paid some money I think it was my rent I was 
 in trouble for and I was free. She she I'd sinned against, 
 she I'd betrayed with the hands of a devil in human form 
 had saved me! Give me some water water I" he broke off, 
 gasping. 
 
 Dane put the cup to his lips once more, and the dying man 
 tried to drink, but in vain. 
 
 " I'm I'm nearly played out!" he panted, almost inaud- 
 ibly. " There's no more to tell. I tried to drink myself 
 dead. They they turned me out of Rome. I I came to 
 England, and and fell ill here. I I knew I was dying; I 
 told your wife so. I'm glad of it! What does such a wretch 
 as I am want with life? If I lived to be a hundred, as I said, 
 I should always be haunted by her. Yes, I'm glad I'm dying! 
 Have have you taken down all I've told you?" he demanded, 
 in a hollow whisper. 
 
 Martin inclined his head. 
 
 " Yes," he said. " But your confession is incomplete; yon 
 have given us no names, no dates. I trust I greatly trust 
 that the wrong you did may be set right. God works in a 
 mysterious way. He has sent you here has sent us here to 
 receive this confession of yours. There is there must be 
 some Divine purpose in it. Tell us the name of the man who 
 tempted you the name of the unfortunate girl whom you 
 deceived." 
 
 Rawdon raised his hand to his lips. 
 
 " My name is Rawdon Robert Rawdon," he said, in so low
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 309 
 
 a voice that Martin and Dane had to bend down to catch it 
 " The man who persuaded me to to play the part in the 
 mock-marriage was Water! Oh, God, I am dying!" 
 
 Dane bathed his face, and Martin got a few drops of brandy 
 through the fast-clinching lips. Rawdon made a fierce fight 
 with death, and for a few minutes conquered. 
 
 " The man was Chandos Chandos Armitage. Take it 
 down I swear it! The old church St. Mark's Barnstaple. 
 In in the valley near the river ' : 
 
 Dane started, but still held the dying man in his arms. 
 
 Martin wrote word for word. 
 
 " The girl?" he said, solemnly. 
 
 " The girl?" It was evident that Rawdon was battling 
 with the shadow of death that threatened to obliterate his 
 memory as well as his power of speech. "The girl? She 
 pleaded for me; she she saved me that day in Rome and 
 I had ruined her! Oh, God, forgive me!" 
 
 " Her name?" said Martin, solemnly. 
 
 "Her name?" panted Rawdon. " I I forget it It is 
 all dark, dark!" 
 
 His voice ceased. The two men beside the bed exchanged 
 glances. 
 
 " It is too late," said Martin, gravely. 
 
 But, as if he had heard the words and understood them, the 
 dying man opened his eyes, and almost inaudibly breathed: 
 
 "Lyra Chester!" 
 
 For a moment Dane did not realize all the name meant; 
 then he uttered a cry a cry of horror. 
 
 The dying man heard it and turned his eyes upon him. 
 
 " Lyra Chester," he repeated. " I I ruined her, and and 
 uhe pleaded for me! Tell her that that ever since that day 
 I'd have given my life to undo ' 
 
 His voice failed, a shudder convulsed his worn frame, a] 
 he sunk into Dane's arms. 
 
 Martin Fanshawe knelt beside the bed, and his deep voi 
 broke the stillness of death with the Lord's prayer: 
 
 " Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who 1 
 against us," 
 
 CHAPTER XLL 
 
 DALE'S face, as he looked at Martin Fanshawe, was .almost 
 as white as foe dead man's. Without a word, he staggp 
 down-stairs into the open air.
 
 310 ONCE I5T A LIFE. 
 
 Martin followed Mm, after a few minutes, the woman of the 
 house having returned, and took his arm. 
 
 " Dane, Dane!" he said, as Dane tried to shake him off. 
 a !My poor Dane! You mustn't give way; you must keep 
 calm. I wish that I could say that I did not think what we 
 have just heard was true." 
 
 " It is true enough!" broke in Dane, hoarsely. "It is 
 true enough. Oh, my God! Married! She is not my wife! 
 And married to Chandos!" He leaned against the fence ai <1 
 bowed his head in his hands, as if completely crushed. A mo- 
 ment or two afterward he looked up. " I don't believe it! I 
 won't believe it! No one but a fiend could have been as false 
 and treacherous as that man says she was. Lyra, my Lyra, 
 false! she is incapable of it! Martin " with a wild appeal in 
 his voice " you know her do you think that Lyra, my wife, 
 could have acted as he says she has done?" 
 
 Martin Fanshawe was silent for a moment; then he said, 
 solemnly: 
 
 " No! No, Dane! I think that poor fellow who has just 
 gone to the Judgment seat told the truth as far as he knew it; 
 but I feel convinced that there must be something behind it 
 all, that we are not in possession of all the facts. I feel with 
 you, that Lyra is incapable, simply incapable of such such 
 deceit as this poor fellow's story implied. Come home now, 
 Dane." And he led him away. 
 
 " Don't don't tell the women!" Dane groaned, as they 
 entered the house. " I couldn't bear to have them speak to 
 me yet, though they and all the world will hear it presently. 
 Not but that it's true, mind!" he added, glaring fiercely at 
 Martin. 
 
 " There's there's some explanation awaiting us. I am 
 convinced of that. The first thing we have to do is to find 
 her." 
 
 " Yes," said Dane, with a groan; " and him " he added, 
 between his clinched teeth; " let me go at once but where?" 
 
 " Back to Highfield, first," said Martin, quietly. " She 
 may have sent some message, and it may be awaiting you 
 now." Dane shook his head despondently. " Give me five 
 minutes, and I will be ready to go with you," continued Mar- 
 tin. 
 
 " I can't take you from home," said Dane, wistfully. 
 
 Martin Fanshawe smiled gravely as he left the room. 
 
 " Dosie is used to my leaving her at the call of any one who 
 needs me; and you have a greater claim than any one, Dane."
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 311 
 
 The two men drove back to Highfield. Dane had resigned 
 the reins to Martin. 
 
 ** You take them," he said. " My my hands shake so." 
 
 As they came in sight of the house he looked up at the win- 
 dow of Lyra's room and sighed heavily, and turned his head 
 away. 
 
 " I shall never see her again!" he groaned. 
 
 " I think you will," responded Martin, in a quiet tone of 
 conviction. " Wait till we hear the whole truth. I can not 
 believe her guilty. " 
 
 "Guilty? No!" said Dane. "But that devil may havo 
 got her in his power." 
 
 Martin insisted upon his taking some breakfast, though ik 
 were only a cup of coffee and a suce of bread, and then the 
 two men went down to the inn. Dane took a heavy riding- 
 whip from the stand as they crossed the hall, but Martin drew 
 it from his hand. 
 
 " No," he said; " the law is stronger to punish than the 
 individual. Leave him to the law, Dane!" 
 
 "You had better let me go alone, for [ shall kill him," 
 Dane said, grimly. 
 
 They went to the inn, and Martin Fanshawe, gently putting 
 Dane back, inquired of the obsequious landlord for Mr. Chan- 
 dos Armitage. 
 
 " Mr. Armitage have gone, sir," he said, looking from one 
 to the other. "A telegram came for him quite early this 
 morning a few minutes after eight and Mr. Armitago 
 started directly. He's gone by the first train, my lord. " 
 
 Dane turned away and ground his teeth. 
 
 " Did he say where he was going?" asked Martin. 
 
 " No, sir. He was in such a hurry that he didn't even pay 
 his bill. Not that that matters, for I knew as he was Lord 
 Dane's cousin. He seemed upset like, and went off all in a 
 flurry. I expect there was some bad news ill that there tele- 
 gram, sir." 
 
 Martin took Dane's arm, and they went rapidly to the post- 
 
 ofiice. 
 
 " Is there any letter or telegram for Lord Dane?" Martin 
 inquired of the girl at the counter. 
 
 *< Yes, sir; here are the letters," she said, handing them tx 
 
 him. 
 
 Dane examined them with feverish eagerness, but there was 
 
 none from Lyra. . 
 
 " Tkere was a telegram, but you've had that, I suppose, mj 
 lord. J sent it the very moment it came, just after eight.
 
 313 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 " No," said Dane. 
 
 She flushed, and looked alarmed at his white, haggard face. 
 
 " I sent it directly," she murmured. " Johnny, didn't you 
 take the telegram to Highfield?" she asked of a lad who came 
 in at the moment. 
 
 " Naw," he said, stolidly. " I met the gentleman in the 
 village, just outside the inn, and he. looked at it, and said it 
 was for him, an' he took it, he did." 
 
 Dane breathed hard. Martin pressed his arm warningly. 
 
 " Just repeat the telegram," he said; " Lord Dane has not 
 Been it yet; there has been some mistake." 
 
 The girl wrote out the telegram, and Dane almost snatched 
 it from her, and drew Martin outside. 
 
 " It is from her," he said. " Look!" 
 
 Martin took out his watch. 
 
 " There is no train for two hours," he said. " You know 
 the place where she has gone?" 
 
 "Know it! Yes, yes!" said Dane. " I ought to have 
 known that she would go there. Thank God ! But this vil- 
 lain, he has got the start of me. He will frighten her into ac- 
 companying him will carry her off." 
 
 Martin shook his head. 
 
 " I think not," he said, quietly. "He is a clever scoun- 
 drel, and up to every dodge. This interception of the tele- 
 gram was a cunning stroke; but Lyra is not the woman to be 
 driven into going with him. You see, she sends for you. You 
 must wire back at once." 
 
 Dane wrote the answering message, his hand steady enough 
 now. 
 
 "Am coming. Fear nothing. DANE." 
 
 " Can't I set the police on that scoundrel's track?" Dane 
 asked Martin. 
 
 But Martin Fanshawe shook his head. 
 
 " Not yet," he said. "Let us wait until we get to Lyra 
 and hear the whole truth. We must be patient and wary. 
 Remember that we have to do with a villain who is astute and 
 full of cunning. Where is St. Aubyn? He might help us." 
 
 " God knows," said Dane. " Chandos said that he had 
 seen him go off by the train, and hinted that he had gone with 
 her." 
 
 " Ah! if he only had done so. But I am afraid that suppo- 
 sition is only too good to be true," said Martin Fanshawe. 
 
 "But no matter. If St. Aubyn should coaae back, we
 
 " ONCE IK A LIFE. 313 
 
 could employ him in tracking Chandos. We must keep tha 
 police out of this as long as possible for good, if we can. " 
 Dane looked at him in agony. 
 
 'Yes, yes! Why why didn't she tell me? Why didn't 
 she confide in me? My God, Martin, I can not, I dare not 
 doubt her or I shall go mad; but if she was in ignorance that 
 her marriage was a mock one, she must have thought she was 
 committing bigamy, and and if she knew it was false, why 
 did she not tell me?" 
 
 " I can't answer," said Martin, gravely; " but," he said, 
 firmly, " I will answer for Lyra's truth and honor." 
 
 Thus they talked, Dane one moment half mad with doubt, 
 the next casting the doubt from him fiercely, until the train 
 started. 
 
 At the station Martin inquired of the station-master if a 
 man answering to Chandos's description had traveled by the 
 early train. 
 
 " Oh! yes, sir. Went off by the 8:38," was the reply. 
 Now, for a wonder, Martin and Dane had done the Honora- 
 ble Mr. Chandos an injustice. His interception of the tele- 
 gram had been quite innocent. He thought it was intended 
 for him. 
 
 That Lyra should send to him to come to her had surprised 
 and startled him, but it never occurred to him that the tele- 
 gram was intended for Dane. 
 
 " Why should she wire to him Chandos?" he asked him- 
 self. " And why had she gone to the Mill Cottage? Had she 
 and St. Aubyn quarreled already, or had she already been 
 smitten by remorse and fled from him, as she had fled from 
 Dane?" 
 
 He thought that the latter supposition was the more likely 
 of the two. Yes, that was it. She had suddenly realized 
 what she was doing, and had sent St. Aubyn about his busi- 
 ness, and taken refuge in her old home. 
 
 But why had she sent for him? Now, Mr. Chandos was as 
 vain as a peacock, and he actually permitted himself to labor 
 under the delusion that Lyra wanted him. 
 
 " After all, she thinks I'm her husband," he said to him- 
 self; " and having no one else to whom she can turn, she nat- 
 urally seeks my protection." 
 
 But should he go? As he asked himself the question, he re- 
 membered the last hour he had spent at the cottage, and Grif- 
 fith's furious pursuit, and suddenly he decided that he cer- 
 tainly would not go, but after some consideration he changed 
 his mind. After all, it w*s extremely improbable that the
 
 314 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 man should be still at the cottage next door to impossible, m 
 fact. 
 
 He would chance it and go. He must persuade Lyra to leave 
 England and hide herself. Perhaps he could induce her to go 
 with him. The thought brought an evil smile to his face, 
 which rose again and again during the course of the long jour- 
 ney. He had always hated Dane. What a delicious stroke of 
 malice it would be if he could persuade Lyra to run away with 
 him, Chandos! 
 
 By the foregoing it will be seen that Mr. Chandos's drinking 
 habits had somewhat dulled the acuteness of his brain. If he 
 had not been sodden by drink and morbid vanity he would not 
 have misread her so monstrously, or have smiled so compla- 
 cently as he lay at full length in the railway carriage and 
 smoked his delicately scented cigarette. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 LYEA was worn out, and suffered Mary to undress her and 
 put her to bed without a protest. Now that she was under 
 the old roof, a strange feeling of peace and security fell upon 
 her wounded spirit. 
 
 "If she could only fall asleep never to wake again!" she 
 thought, with a sigh, as she closed her burning eyes. 
 
 Griffith asked no questions of either St. Aubyn or Mary, but 
 after the bedroom door was closed upon Lyra he had gone 
 down to the garden and resumed his work in grim and dogged 
 silence. 
 
 That something had happened some great trouble had be- 
 fallen her he guessed, but he was almost indifferent as to its 
 nature. It was enough for him that " his little girl " had 
 come back to him, and as he worked, he told himself that she 
 should never be withdrawn from his care again. 
 
 St. Aubyn, afraid to utter a word lest it might compromise 
 Lyra, maintained a profound silence respecting her. It wag 
 evident that Griffith regarded him as a friend, for when St. 
 Aubyn addressed a few words to him on ordinary topics, Grif- 
 fith answered him civilly. 
 
 " I suppose I can't get a room nearer than Barnstaple?" he 
 asked. " I should like to remain " he was going to say, 
 " near Lady Armitage," but checked himself " for a day or 
 two." 
 
 " No," said Griffith. " You can get a room there." 
 
 St. Aubyn said no irgre. ^"n, *>t waited till Mary came 
 down.
 
 03TCE IK A LIFE. 315 
 
 " How is Laxly Armitage?" he asked. " ShaU I get a doo 
 tor? Is there anything I can do?" 
 
 '' No, sir/' said Mary, after a moment's thought. " I don't 
 think she's ill not ill in a way that a doctor could do any 
 good. She's in trouble, I can see. But a doctor couldn't 
 mend that, could he, sir? She's asleep now, bless her!" 
 
 St. Aubyn shook his head. 
 
 " I trust that her trouble will soon be over," he said. 
 
 He dared not say that he had wired for her husband, lest 
 Dane should not come. He was so completely hi the dark that 
 he was afraid to move in any direction. 
 
 " Please tell Lady Armitage that I am going to remain 
 here, near her, until well, for the present," he said, "and 
 that I will see her whenever she wishes to see me." 
 
 Then he went off to Barnstaple and looked up the time- 
 table, and found that if Dane caught either of the two morn- 
 ing trains he would reach the cottage that night. 
 
 With a sigh of relief, he went into the town, engaged a 
 room at the hotel, and set himself to the hard task of waiting. 
 
 The day passed. 
 
 Toward evening Lyra awoke. For the first few moments 
 she thought that she was still in her own room at Highfield; 
 then, as she saw Mary, she remembered, and with a sigh 
 closed her eyes again. She felt incapable of thought, much 
 less of action, and she lay quite still and almost apathetic for 
 some time. 
 
 But after awhile the bitterness of her trouble broke over her 
 like a cold wave, and she found it impossible to be still any 
 longer. 
 
 * V I must get up," she said to Mary. " If if I lie here 
 thinking, thinking, I shall go mad!" 
 
 At first Mary tried to dissuade her, but when she saw that 
 all her coaxing and arguments only distressed and harassed 
 Lyra, she wisely desisted, and helped her to dress. 
 
 " It's a lovely night, my lady, she said, drawing aside the 
 curtain. The rain had cleared, and the moon, yellow as gold, 
 shone through a faint warm mist; the tide was coming in 
 slowly, and rippled in silver bars over the sand. As Lyra 
 looked out it seemed to her as if she had never left the cottage, 
 as if her life, since the day her father died, were but a dream. 
 
 She turned from the window and sighed. If she could 
 only remain here for the rest of her life? Would they let 
 her? If only they would let her rest in peace! \Vhen she 
 went down-stairs the familiar parlor smote her with a pain so 
 keen that she could not endure to sit in the room.
 
 316 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 between her and Geoffrey Barle seemed reacting itself before 
 her eyes. 
 
 " I will go into the garden, Mary," she said; and she went 
 out and sat in the little arbor, her head leaning against the 
 woodwork, her eyes closed. All was still, save for the lowing 
 of the cows which Griffith was littering for the night in the 
 rough stable he had built behind the cottage, and the soft 
 shriek of the gulls, as they hovered over the incoming tide. 
 
 Every now and then Mary came to the door as she used to 
 do in the old time but Lyra seemed to be resting so peace- 
 fully that Mary judged it best not to disturb her, and returned 
 to the house. 
 
 But Lyra, though her eyes were closed, was not asleep. She 
 was thinking of Dane of Dane, whose heart she had oroken 
 of Dane, whom she would never see again! 
 
 Suddenly she heard a sound like that of stealthy footsteps, 
 and thinking it was Griffith, she raised her head and opened 
 her eyes. What should she tell him when he asked her why 
 she had left her husband and come back to the cottage? 
 
 The footsteps came nearer, and she heard her name spoken. 
 With a faint cry she attempted to rise, but Chandos pushed 
 himself through a gap in the hedge behind her and laid his 
 hand on her arm. 
 
 " Hush!" he whispered, warningly. " Don't make a noise; 
 don't be frightened. I've come, Lyra." 
 
 She eyed him with wild horror and dread for a moment, her 
 hand pressed to her bosom; then the color crept into her face, 
 and an expression of contempt and defiance into her eyes. 
 
 " You!" she said. " Yes, I might have known that you 
 would break your word; I might have known that I could not 
 trust a liar and a coward!" 
 
 " What do you mean?" he demanded. " You sent forme." 
 
 Her eyes flashed scorn on him. 
 
 " I sent for you !" 
 
 "Yes," he said, doggedly; "you telegraphed." He 
 hunted for the telegram, but could not find it. " You sent 
 for me this morning. I left the telegram at the inn, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 "It is a lie!" she said. "You promised But I might 
 have known. Why have you come? Is it because you thought 
 I should be alone and helpless?" 
 
 " Nonsense!" he said, with a snarl. " You know you sent 
 for me. What is the use of this play-acting? You don't do 
 it t all well, Lyra, Do you think I've come all this way for
 
 OffCE IN A LIFE. * 317 
 
 the pleasure of wrangling with you? Where is St. Aubyn?" 
 he asked, watching her keenly. 
 
 She made no reply. She was weak and ill, and the fictitious 
 strength lent her by her indignation at his presence was fast 
 waning. 
 
 " Where is he?" he repeated. " I suppose you've quar- 
 reled, or thought better of it and parted from him, eh? Well, 
 perhaps you were right. After all, I'm your proper and legal 
 protector. You can't go back to Dane; that's out of the 
 question. You can't stay here. Why, this is one of the first 
 places he would think of trying. You might have thought of 
 that. If you still want to avoid a scandal, and I suppose you 
 do, you must leave here at once at once! Do you under- 
 stand?" 
 
 She kept her eyes fixed on him, and clutched the arm of the 
 seat; but she said nothing; did not call for help. His presence 
 filled her with loathing, but not with fear. 
 
 He bit his nails and eyed her sideways, watching the effect 
 of his words. 
 
 " But, of course, you've thought all this out, or you 
 wouldn't have sent for me. And, after all, it's the proper 
 thing. I dare say you prefer St. Aubyn," he sneered as the 
 hot blood rushed into her face; " there's no accounting for 
 taste; but you were quite right to throw him over. After all, 
 I'm your husband." 
 
 Her lips parted and her breath came in quick, sharp pants. 
 
 " The best thing you can do is to come with me. \V e will 
 go abroad, and keep quiet until the fuss has blown over. It 
 won't take very long. Society is accustomed to this kind of 
 thing." The ugly sneer curved his thin lips again. "For 
 his own sake, if not for yours, Dane will hush up the affair. 
 He won't care to move. Yes; you've taken the proper course." 
 
 He pulled out his watch. 
 
 "There's a London train leaves Barnstaple at 31:25. I'll 
 wait for you at the station and have the tickets ready." 
 
 She rose slowly, with the dignity of an outraged woman elo- 
 quent in her eyes, her attitude. 
 
 "Go!" she said, raising her hand and pointing to the gate. 
 " Utter another word and" 
 
 She had raised her voice unconsciously. Chandos glared 
 round apprehensively, then sprung forward and seized her 
 arm. 
 
 " No shouting," he snarled. " You do as I tell you, or it 
 will be bad for you. You are in my power. I've got you, 
 body and soul!"
 
 318 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 Lyra shook Chandos Armitage off, with a cry of mingled 
 loathing and dread. 
 
 As if in answer to her cry, a rough voice shouted her name. 
 Mr. Chandos started, with an oath, and rushed toward the 
 gate. He had recognized Griffith's voice. 
 
 As he reached the gate, Griffith came down the path from ; 
 the cottage. At sight of Chandos he uttered a cry like that of I 
 a wolf-hound at the moment he sights his prey, and dashed \ 
 after him. Chandos swung the gate to and ran along the 
 rough road; Griffith's appearance had filled him with terror, 
 and for a moment almost deprived him of his senses. 
 
 He looked round wildly, and his eye caught sight of the boat 
 dancing on the edge of the river. He made for it with the 
 speed of despair, gained it, and leaping in, pushed it off into 
 the tide. 
 
 He had scarcely done so than Griffith reached the spot 
 where the boat had been. 
 
 More like a wild animal than a man, he stood on the brink, 
 his gnarled face distorted with rage, his uplifted hands clinch- 
 ing and unclinching. 
 
 Chandos sat down, seized the oars, and began to pull furi- 
 ously. The tide helped him, and in a few minutes he was 
 well out in the river, and, as he thought, out of reach of his 
 pursuer. If he could only gain the opposite shore he was safe. 
 There was something so grotesque in the wildly gesticulating 
 figure of Griffith, helpless and powerless on the edge of the 
 river, that Mr. Chandos could not, even in the midst of his 
 fears, help smiling. His smile grew to a laugh, which reached 
 Griffith. 
 
 But before the laugh had died away, the laugher was jerked 
 forward, and the oars were forced from his hands, and the 
 boat was stopped. 
 
 It had stranded on the very sand-bank which had caught 
 Lyra the day Dane had swum out to her. 
 
 Chandos scrambled to his feet, and seizing one of the oars, 
 attempted to push the boat joff ; but the harder he pushed, 
 the more frantic his efforts, the harder it seemed to stick. 
 Sometimes he succeeded in getting the bow clear, but then the 
 boat floated round, and the stern stuck. Griffith watched him 
 for a moment, still gesticulating and waving his arms; then 
 he tore off his coat and boots, and running to a point below 
 the sand-bank, plunged into the stream. 
 
 Chandos saw this movement, and became still more frantic 
 in his endeavors to float the boat, but the tide and his mis- 
 guided efforts had lodged it still more firmly in the mud.
 
 ONCE IK A LIFE. 319 
 
 Pushing and struggling with the oar, he watched his pursuer 
 swimming rapidly for the tide was helping Griffith at every 
 inch toward him. White to the lips, Mr. Chandos gnashed 
 his teeth, and raising the oar above his head, waited. Griffith 
 soon reached the bank. The moon shone on his gnarled face, 
 his fierce, blood-shot eyes. 
 
 " Keep off!" shouted Chandos, threateningly. " Keep off 
 or I'll brain you!" 
 
 A hoarse laugh answered him as Griffith swam within a 
 couple of feet of the boat. 
 
 Chandos struck wildly and savagely at the distorted face; 
 but with a dexterous dive Griffith avoided the blow, and before 
 Chandos could raise the oar, was on his feet and in the boat. 
 
 Chandos stumbled into the bow and raised the oar to strike 
 at him, but with a guttural cry Griffith seized it, flung it in 
 the bottom of the boat, and sprung like a tiger at Chandos's 
 throat. Chaudos went down like a nine-pin, and Griffith, with 
 one knee pressing upon the prostrate man's chest, dashed the 
 water from his own hair and face, and glared down up him. 
 
 "Let me go!" gasped Chandos. "Let me go! Do you 
 mean to murder me? Let me go and I'll I'll pay you well." 
 
 Griffith raised him a little and dashed his head down upon 
 the thwart. 
 
 " You'll you'll pay me!" he growled. 
 
 Then, still holding him in a grip like a rise, he looked 
 round as if undecided what to do with him. 
 
 After a moment a moment in which the Honorable Chan- 
 dos lived, say, a thousand years Griffith lifted him bodily and 
 flung him over the boat's edge on to the sand-bank. 
 
 Then, without a word, he pushed the boat off, seated him- 
 self, rested on his oars, and smiled an awful smile at his 
 prey. 
 
 Chandos lay panting for awhile; then, when he had recov- 
 ered his breath, he sat up and looked round affrightedly. It 
 occurred to him that his adversary let him off very lightly, 
 and he began to congratulate himself. 
 
 He looked at Griffith sitting regarding him with that pecul- 
 iar smile, and something in the fixed and glowing eyes and 
 the smile itself struck a chill into Chandos's heart and made 
 him shudder, though why he knew not. 
 
 Then he felt something cold touch his feet, and, Ic 
 down, understood. It was the water creeping rapidly arounc 
 
 With a cry, a shriek, he sprung up and extended his clasped
 
 320 ONCE IN A 1*U . . 
 
 hands toward those mocking eyes and that slow, vindictive 
 smile. 
 
 " Save me!" he shouted. " Save me! Take me off " 
 
 Griffith moved the boat a few yards further away, and went 
 on smiling. 
 
 " Take me off, Griffith!" yelled Chandos, hopping about as 
 if he were trying to keep from the insidiously approaching 
 water. " Save me! You won't let me drown! It's murder! 
 murder, do you hear?" 
 
 Not for an instant did the fierce eyes remove themselves or 
 the smile relax. Chandos raised his voice and shouted, but 
 the sea-gulls were calling, shrieking all over the river, and as 
 if they were not sufficient to drown his victim's voice, Griffith 
 began to shout and yell a Devonshire chorus loud and hoarse 
 enough to smother the wildest shriek. 
 
 Chandos looked from side to side. Not a soul was on the 
 river but themselves, the mist, semi-opaque in the moonlight, 
 hid the banks on either side from view. He was alone and 
 helplessly at the mercy of Griffith. The man would leave 
 him there till the tide rose above the sand-bank and drowned 
 him. It is needless to say Chandos could not swim. He 
 should die in the prune, in the full enjoyment of life, die like 
 a dog within sound, almost within sight, of human aid. 
 
 The cold sweat broke out upon his face, his lips grew hot 
 and tremulous, his eyes burned in their sockets, and he fell to 
 trembling as if with ague. 
 
 He would have flung himself down upon the sand, but the 
 water had already covered it and was creeping above his 
 ankles. 
 
 " Griffith," he cried, hoarsely, " take me off I Save me, 
 and and Fll give you a hundred pounds two! Think 
 think ah!" he shrieked as he felt the cold water on his legs 
 above his boots " think what you could do with two hundred 
 pounds! You'd you'd be a rich man!" 
 
 Griffith put the boat a few yards nearer and laughed at him. 
 
 Chandos took to whining. 
 
 " Griffith, I I always liked you! I I always admired you! 
 So firm and determined. Ah, yah!" he danced and hopped 
 grotesquely in his agony, for the tide had reached his knees 
 " you're you're not the sort of man to leave a fellow-creat- 
 ure to his de-death!" His teeth chattered, his eyes bulged 
 out. " You're too brave for that!" 
 
 Griffith put his boat still nearer, and Chandos, with a gur- 
 gling cry, began to wade quickly to it; but as he did so Griffith 
 rowed out of his reach ut^J: ..in! .auled.
 
 OKCE Lff A LITE. 331 
 
 A cry of despair and rage rose from Chandos's parched lips. 
 'You you devil!" lie shouted; "you mean to murder 
 me! What what harm did I ever do to you? Help! help!" 
 His voice was hoarser than the gulls' now, and carried no dis- 
 tance. " If it's Lyra you're thinking of, you're only ruining 
 her by killing me! Do you hear?" 
 
 Griffith put the boat within hearing distance. 
 
 " Say that again!" he growled. 
 
 " I do T do say it, on my oath! You'll never know the 
 truth of this business if if you leave me to die here like a 
 rat!" 
 
 Griffith growled. 
 
 "The truth?" he snarled. " You couldn't tell it if you 
 tried! Why shouldn't you die, you rat? She hates you; so 
 do I drown!" 
 
 Chandos flung his arms above his head and howled like a 
 wolf. His face white and contorted, with the great drops of 
 sweat blotching it, with the distended eyes was a hideous 
 sight under the calm, placid moonlight; but it seemed only 
 to amuse Griffith. 
 
 Chandos looked round with a shudder. The water was 
 nearly breast-high; he had a difficulty in keeping his feet firm 
 on the sand. 
 
 " I'll tell you the truth!" he cried, hoarsely. " As I'm a 
 dying man "Griffith chuckled" I'll I'll tell you the 
 truth! You will take me off then you'll save me if I swear " 
 he swore an awful oath " that it's the truth the wlwk 
 truth?" 
 
 As he half yelled, half whined the appeal, Griffith's quick 
 ear caught a sound on the river above them. He put the boat 
 still nearer, but out of the reach of Chandos's hands. 
 
 " Be quick, then!" he snarled. " Tell me a lie, as I know 
 to be a lie, and I'll knock you into the water! Go onl" 
 
 St. Aubvn literally hung about all day. He could neither 
 eat nor rest. He wished that he had wired to Dane to send an 
 answer; wondered whether hfe nad, indeed, sent an answer to 
 the cottage; tortured iumself, in fact, as persons always do in 
 periods of suspense, until the day closed and the tune ap- 
 proaches when he could, with a fair show of reason, go down 
 vo the station to meet Dane. 
 
 The train drew up, and Dane and Martin sprung c 
 St. Aubyn sprung upon them. Dane's white, haggard face 
 struck him speechless for a moment, and in that momen
 
 322 . O:\CE ix A LIFE. 
 
 remembered his own agony when he discovered that his wife 
 had left him. 
 
 Dane caught him by the a*m and fixed him with fiercely in- 
 terrogating eyes. 
 
 " Where is she?" he demanded, hoarsely. 
 
 St. Aubyn drew him aside. 
 
 " She is all right she is all right. Be calm, Dane, i tell 
 you she is all right.'' 
 
 Dane leaned against the station wall and wiped his face. 
 
 " You you have been with her?" 
 
 "All the tune, nearly," said St. Aubyn, his own voice 
 trembling. " I and an old servant of hers, Mary, traveled 
 with her a greater part of the way. She is with her now at 
 the cottage. ' ' 
 
 Dane drew a long breath of relief. 
 
 " Thank God!" lie murmured; but Ms face soon fell again. 
 His darling was safe and sound, but the hideous fact that sha 
 had deceived him, married him while she believed herself the 
 wife of another man, still remained. 
 
 " You will come to her at once," said St. Aubyn. " I've 
 got a carriage." 
 
 But Dane hesitated. Martin touched his arm. 
 
 " You must come," he said, in a low voice. 
 
 Dane looked from one to the other. 
 
 " She will not see me," he muttered, with an air of convic- 
 tion. "We can never" his voice choked "live together 
 again." 
 
 St. Aubyn stared at him. 
 
 " What hideous mystery is this?" he exclaimed. 
 
 Dane turned his head aside. 
 
 " Tell him," he said to Martin, and he walked away. 
 
 Martin, hi as few words as possible, gave the gist of Eaw- 
 don's dying confession, and St. Aubyn listened with silent 
 horror until Martin had finished, then he turned upon him. 
 
 " That's not all!" he exclaimed; " there is something more 
 to be told. What? do you mean to tell me that he " lie 
 glanced at Dane " who loves her and knows her, can believe 
 her guilty? There :!s some devilish juggling still to be discov- 
 ered. Go to her? Of course he must go to her." 
 
 He hailed the carriage and seized Dane's arm. 
 
 " Get in," he said, firmly. 
 
 Dane, almost prostrated by grief and doubt and despair, 
 obeyed like a child or sick man, and the carriage drove off. 
 He sunk back in his corner, speechless, and the two other men 
 talked in hushed whispers, as if in the presence of death. As
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 323 
 
 they drove along by the water's edge, St. Aubyn told Martin 
 of the meeting with Lyra, and her finding safe refuge at the 
 cottage, and in a whisper that could not reach Dane, they 
 were working away at the puzzle, when suddenly a wild, un- 
 earthly sound came in a weird, ghostly fashion through the 
 moonlit mist. 
 
 " What was that?'' asked St. Aubyn. 
 
 Martin shook his head and turned to Dane. He raised his 
 head and listened listlessly. The cry, mingled with the shriek 
 of the gulls, was repeated. 
 
 " Is it the sea-birds?" Martin said. 
 
 Dane shook his head apathetically. 
 
 "It is some one in distress out there on the river," he 
 Baid, with perfect indifference. 
 
 A wild howl rose, as if in confirmation of his assertion. 
 Martin sprung to his feet and stopped the flyman, who was 
 driving along half asleep and deaf to everything, then leaped 
 out. 
 
 St. Aubyn followed him, and after a moment's hesitation 
 Dane followed also. The two men tried to peer through the 
 mist, but it was like a thin muslin veil, and they could discern 
 nothing; but their strained ears again caught Chandos's yell. 
 
 " Some one is in mortal peril drowning, perhaps," said 
 Martin, gravely. " What is to be done? Is there no boat?" 
 
 He ran along the bank, followed by St. Aubyn, and as luck 
 would have it, they saw a boat creeping along shore. An old 
 man was rowing slowly and heavily along, but he did not turn 
 his head in response to their shouts, and St. Aubyn waded into 
 the water and seized the nose of the boat. 
 
 The old man turned round with natural astonishment, but 
 shook his head and pointed to his ears when St. Aubyn shouted 
 and asked him if he didn't hear anything. 
 
 " He's deaf," said Martin. " Get in quick! You can 
 
 row. " 
 
 "Yes," said St. Aubyn. " But Dane is a far better oars- 
 man. Dane!" he shouted. " Come on, old man!" 
 
 Dane, who had followed them leisurely, got into the boat in 
 the same listless way, and took the oars St. Aubyn thrust into 
 
 his hands. (t T , 
 
 " I don't hear any cry now," said Martin, gravely. 
 
 afraid" 
 
 Then it rose again. . 
 
 " Row hard, Dane. It is in the middle of the river. 
 
 poor fellow is in trouble," said Martin. a 
 
 Dane pulled quickly, but with no great enthusiasm; b
 
 321 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 suddenly lie stopped and looked in the direction of the sand 
 bank with a strange expression. 
 
 This sportsman's ears had recognized Chandos's voice. 
 
 Without a word, but with a flash of the eyes, he tore off his 
 coat, and bent to his work as if he were rowing for the 'Var- 
 sity race. In a few minutes they were near enough to dis- 
 tinctly hear the voice, the very words, of the distracted 
 wretch. 
 
 St. Aubyn sprung up. 
 
 " Why why that is Chandos Armitage's voice!" he cried. 
 
 Dane gave two strokes, then kept the boat still. 
 
 " Hush!" he said, hoarsely. 
 
 " Row! row!" implored Martin and St. Aubyn in a breath. 
 
 He glared at them fiercely, threateningly, and grasping the 
 oars with one hand, held up the other warningly. 
 
 Petrified by amazement, they were powerless to act, and 
 could only sit and listen. 
 
 It was Chandos's voice, and they could hear every word. 
 
 " It's the truth I swear, I swear it!" he was crying, 
 hoarsely. " She thought it was a real marriage. We parted 
 like strangers directly afterward. She was only my wife in 
 name. I swear it. Mary will tell you you know yourself 
 I left her that same afternoon. I never saw her again till she 
 was married to Dane. It it was only a bit of play-acting. 
 She is not my wife. I admit it, I swear it. She thought I 
 was drowned. She was never my wife. I'll swear it before a 
 magistrate. I confess it all, all, do you hear? Take me off, 
 ave me oh, God, I'm drowning!" 
 
 Conflicting emotions expressed themselves like cloud-shad- 
 ows on Dane's face. His eyes flashed and glittered in the 
 moonlight. 
 
 " You you heard?" he gasped, in a low, dry voice. 
 
 " Yes, yes!" cried Martin. " How more. Give me the 
 oars, he's drowning!" 
 
 Dane seemed still lost to the situation for a moment, then 
 he pulled hard. Suddenly they all felt a shock and were 
 thrown into the bottom of the boat. They had run into some- 
 thing. Dane was the first to regain his feet. One oar had 
 slipped from the rowlock, but he seized the other, and, stand- 
 ing on the thwart, looked round. 
 
 There, beside them, was Griffith's boat, and Griffith, sitting 
 firm as a rock, and resting on his oars as if nothing were the 
 matter. Dane recognized him after a moment. 
 
 " Griffith!" he cried. 
 
 Griffith looked at him without a word.
 
 (sJSCE TK A LIFE. 325 
 
 " Where is where is the man?" shouted Martin. 
 
 Griffith looked round the expanse of water and smiled. 
 There was no sign of the wretch who a moment before had 
 been whining out his confession. 
 
 " Good God! where is he?" exclaimed St. Aubyn. 
 
 " Look there there!" cried Martin, pointing to a head that 
 had risen a few yards down the stream. " Row, Dane, row! 
 He is drowning!" 
 
 Griffith glanced toward the head as if it were absolutely no 
 concern of his, and Dane sat for a moment motionless, then he 
 put the boat's nose for the sinking man and rowed. 
 
 The head disappeared, then came up again in a ghostly 
 fashion, but some distance from the boat. 
 
 " He will be drowned! We shall be too late!" said Martin. 
 
 Dane signed to St. Aubyn to take the oars, and stepping on 
 the gunwale of the boat, dived into the water, saying, as he 
 did so, as calmly as if he were out for a swim: 
 
 " Keep the boat down stream!" 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 DANE swam like a fish, as the reader knows, and having 
 learned the trick of the Taw current, he had no difficulty in 
 reaching Chandos. That worthy gentleman was still con- 
 scious and mad with terror. At the sight of Dane he at once, 
 as is the custom of your drowning man, made a frantic clutch 
 for him. But this was not the first time Dane had earned the 
 Royal Humane Society's medal for preserving life, and he 
 knew what to expect. 
 
 Treading water, he raised his hand and caught Mr. Chandos 
 a smart blow on the head, then seized him by the arm, and, 
 keeping at a safe distance, swam with him to the boat. He 
 had not many yards to go, and very promptly they were both 
 seized by Martin and St. Aubyn and lifted aboard. 
 
 Chandos fell at the bottom of the boat; Dane eat on the 
 thwart, breathing hard and wiping the water from his face. 
 
 Martin bent over Chandos. 
 
 " He is not dead, thank Heaven!" he said, gravely. 
 
 " Oh," said St. Aubyn, but with no great joy in his voice, 
 " I don't see that there's much to be thankful for. Here, 
 and he handed his brandy flask to Martin. 
 
 Mr. Chandos took a gulp, sat up and looked roi ad, a] 
 
 e mel1ave P mer V he whined. "I swear that FY
 
 326 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 told the truth! Don't let him get at me!' 5 and he clung con* 
 Yulsively to Martin's legs. 
 
 Martin, good and charitable as he was, could not help shak- 
 ing him off. 
 
 " Be silent!" he said, almost as sternly as Dane could have 
 spoken. " You have nothing to fear from Lord Dane. He 
 has just saved your life, and 5 you have a spark of gratitude 
 in you, you will go on your knees and implore his pardon." 
 
 But Mr. Chandos was not capable of even a solitary spark 
 of that emotion. He looked under his lids at Dane, and, 
 shivering and shaking, muttered, sullenly: 
 
 " Saved my life? He hit me hit me when I was in the 
 water and helpless! I shall catch my death!" 
 
 " It was to save you from gripping him and drowning you 
 both," said Martin. " If you can not bring yourself to thank 
 your preserver, hold your tongue altogether." 
 
 Dane rose and beckoned Griffith, who had kept close to 
 them, and viewed the rescue of Chandos with strong disgust. 
 He brought his boat alongside, and Dane stepped into it. 
 
 " Row me ashore as quickly as possible," he said. 
 
 Griffith eyed him rather suspiciously. 
 
 " What for?" he said. " Are you going to worry and 
 plague her? If so " 
 
 "No, no," said Dane, flushing. " I want to go to her and 
 tell her tell her all that that devil in human form confessed. 
 Be quick, man; I'm on fire. She knows I'm coming. I tele- 
 graphed to her." 
 
 " No, she doesn't," said Griffith, stolidly; and he took the 
 telegram from his pocket. 
 
 " You haven't given it to her!" said Dane. 
 
 " No," retorted Griffith, sullenly. " Why should I? She 
 wanted quiet and rest. How did I know what you were com- 
 ing for? To bring more trouble upon her, perhaps, to make 
 her more unhappy than she is already." 
 
 " No, no," said Dane. "It is all cleared up now. Make 
 haste, Griffith. Every moment I'm away from her is an age 
 to me." 
 
 Griffith rowed, but none too quickly. 
 
 " Why didn't you let him drown the rat?" he growled. 
 " What did you interfere for? It was no business of yours." 
 
 At any other time Dane would have laughed outright, but 
 he was incapable of a smile just then. 
 
 " Row on, or give me the oars," he said, sternly; and 
 Griffith, thus adjured, pulled hard for the snore. 
 
 The other boat was pulling up stream toward Barnstapla
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 337 
 
 " Don'u mind us," shouted St. Aubyn. " We'll take care 
 of him." 
 
 " Ugh!" grunted Griffith. " Why don't they chuck him 
 m again? Such as he isn't fit to live. If you'd only have 
 kept away another five minutes!" 
 
 Meanwhile, Lyra was in her room, whither she had gone on 
 the flight of Chandos. Her heart was beating wildly, but not 
 with fear. She had, at last, and quite suddenly, come to a 
 sensible decision. She would tell Dane all. She saw that it 
 was useless to hope for secrecy any longer. She would tell 
 him all. And as she sat down at the table, with her writing 
 materials before her, and tried to commence, she realized the 
 folly of flying from him. She ought to have confided in him 
 the moment Chandos appeared on the scene. 
 
 " I have been mad!" she moaned. " Yes; I am a coward, 
 and fear drove out all of my senses. Oh, if he were only here, 
 that I might kneel to him, and tell him everything and ask 
 his forgiveness!" 
 
 In feverish haste she began her letter. 
 
 " Dear Dane," she wrote; then she stopped. 
 
 Ought she to address him even in the conventional terms ot 
 endearment she, who had, though unwittingly, wronged and 
 injured him? From henceforth she and he must be strangers, 
 and she must address him as a stranger. 
 
 A tear blotted out the words she had written, as if to con- 
 firm her decision, and she took a fresh sheet and with dim 
 eyes commenced to write again. Eapidly she set forth the 
 story of Chandos's visit to the cottage, her father's need, 
 which had proved Chandos's opportunity, and the manner in 
 which she had been induced to marry him secretly at the old 
 church. It was a pathetic a tragic story, told in the simple 
 and moving language of the heart, and she had nearly com- 
 pleted it when she heard a footstep on the stairs a swift yet 
 firm step, which for the moment sent the blood rushing to her 
 face, for it seemed to her like the one she knew and loved. 
 But it could only be Griffith, she thought, and she quickly hid 
 her letter and rose. As she did so the door opened and Dane 
 sprung toward her and got her in his arms. 
 
 She uttered a cry a cry of joy that found an echo in his 
 heart and clung to him, sobbing his name convulsively 
 " Oh, Dane, Dane!" Then, as if the memory of all that had 
 separated them flashed upon her, she drew away from him 
 and held him at arm's-length. 
 
 " You you must not touch me must not stay! ane 
 , with white face and sorrow-laden eyes.
 
 338 ONCE I2f A LIFE. 
 
 " Not stay?" he said, with something very like a smile, as 
 he pressed her hands to his lips. 
 
 " No, no!" she breathed. " You don't know you don't 
 know, Dane!" 
 
 " Do I not?" he said. 
 
 " No!" she moaned. " Oh, if I had only told you! I did 
 try do do you remember? but you would not let me; and 
 and I was a coward and afraid. I " her voice broke " I 
 loved you so, Dane; that was why." 
 
 He tried to draw her to him again, but she kept him back. 
 
 " I would have told you that day you you asked me to 
 marry you, but you would not listen. Oh, if I had if I had! 
 Dane, you you will not be too hard on me! You will remem- 
 ber that I loved you that I " the tears streamed from her 
 eyes, and she sunk on her knees at his feet " that I love you 
 
 stair 
 
 He tried to raise her, but she would not be raised, and he 
 Bunk into a chair, with bis arm round her waist, her head rest- 
 ing against his heart. 
 
 Her face was turned up to him, and to him, in his joy at 
 recovering her, she had never seemed more lovely, never more 
 worth loving and holding. 
 
 " Dane, I have told you all now now that it is too late. But 
 it has been too late from the beginning. See, I have written 
 it out;" she pointed to the table. " You will take it with you 
 when you go; and you must go now, Dane. I have no right to 
 keep you!" A heart-breaking sigh escaped her lips. " Take 
 it with you, and and try and forgive me, Dane. I am not so 
 bad as you think me. I thought he was dead. They all 
 Griffith, everybody thought that it was he who was drowned!" 
 
 " My dearest! my darling " 
 
 " No, no; don't speak to me!" she moaned. " It tfill rob 
 me of what little strength I have if you you pity me and I 
 need all my strength, for for we must part, Dane!" 
 
 She clung to him, the tears coursing down her face. 
 
 " We must part. I must never see you again. It would 
 be a sin and yet, oh, God, I can not bear it I can not!" 
 
 " Lyra, Lyra, my darling, listen to me!" he said, his own 
 eyes tilled with tears. " I know all " 
 * " Ah!" She drew a long breath and gazed up at him appre- 
 hensively. " All? And you forgive me? You can speak 
 to me as you do! Ah, Dane my husband " 
 
 The word reminded her that, as she thought, she had no 
 right to call him by that s*cred name, and with a cry she drew 
 away from him.
 
 OITCE IH A LIFE. 
 
 He seized her and drew her against his heart. 
 
 "Lyra, Lyra!" he said, hoarsely, " I tell you I know all. 
 Both of the villains the man Rawdon and Chandos have 
 Confessed." 
 
 " Confessed!" she breathed, with wide-open eyes. 
 ' ^f' y e ?* . Can not y u S uess the truth? Think, dear- 
 est. What is it that such an unscrupulous scoundrel as Chan- 
 dos would naturally do?" 
 
 She shuddered. 
 
 " I den't know what you mean, Dane," she whispered. " I 
 only know that you must not stay here, that we must part" 
 
 His grip on her tightened. 
 
 " Part! Who shall part us?" 
 
 A look of shame, almost of horror, flashed into her eyes. 
 
 " No, no!" she panted. " Save me from myself, Dane. I 
 am weak as water. Save me from myself !" 
 ** "My poor child!" he whispered. "There is no need to 
 ask me to save you. You are quite safe, thank God! Do you 
 not understand when I tell you that they have made full and 
 free confession?" 
 
 She shook her head. Her hair had escaped its bands, and 
 was falling in a rich flood over her shoulders, and partly hid 
 her face. 
 
 He put it back, and looked into her eyes with a look that 
 brought the blood burning to her face and made her heart 
 leap. 1 
 
 Lyra, that marriage was no marriage at all. It was a 
 mock one, planned and carried out with devilish cunning by 
 Chandos. The man who performed the sham ceremony was 
 not a clergyman. His name was Rawdon a school-master. 
 He is dead. But before he died he told Martin and me the 
 whole business. You are not, never were oh, thank God! 
 Chandos Armitage's wife!" 
 
 The blood ebbed from her face and left it deathly white. 
 Sudden joy and relief go near killing sometimes. 
 
 " Not not his wife! Then then " 
 
 She crimsoned over face and neck as her eyes sought his, 
 then dropped from his ardent gaze. 
 
 " Yes," he whispered, answering her look "yes, you are 
 my wife, Lyra mine!" 
 
 " Why, you are wet all wet, Dane!" she exclaimed sud- 
 denly. " My face, my dress are wet! Oh! what has hap- 
 pened?" 
 
 He laughed. His eyes were bright with his regained bap* 
 piness.
 
 830 ONCE nr A LIFE, 
 
 " I fell in the water/' he said. 
 
 " Dane, tell me the truth. Oh, Dane, don't let us conoeAl 
 anything from each other, never again never again!" 
 
 " Well," he admitted, shamefacedly, " I went in after 
 Chandos, who was drowning, and 
 
 She shuddered at the sound of his name, and from that day 
 Dane never mentioned it in her hearing again. 
 
 " And and you saved him?" she breathed. 
 
 He nodded slowly. 
 
 " Yes. I know I ought to be ashamed of myself, as Griffith 
 has remarked more than once, but " 
 
 She wound her arms round his neck and pressed her lips to 
 his in a passionate, worshiping kiss. 
 
 " Oh, Dane, Dane! how noble you arel How how I love 
 youi" 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 ST. AUBYN did not put in an appearance at the cottage 
 until past noon the following day. As he came into the gar- 
 den, Dane rose from the arbor seat, where he had been sitting 
 with Lyra, and wrung his hand. 
 
 There was no need for St. Aubyn to ask if "all were well." 
 One glance at Dane^ face told that the two were once more 
 united. 
 
 " How is Lady Dane?" he asked, as if he had come to pay 
 an ordinary morning call. 
 
 Dane linked his arm in St. Aubyn's and led him to Lyra. 
 
 She was still rather pale, but that awful look which had 
 haunted St. Aubyn had disappeared from her face, and as she 
 gave him her hand, something of her old, happy smile shone 
 in her eyes, mingled with a tender gratitude. 
 
 " See for yourself," said Dane. 
 
 St. Aubyn's tact and manner were perfect. As if nothing 
 whatever had happened, completely igoring the tragic inci- 
 dents of the previous day, he took Lyra's hand, returned its 
 warm pressure, and then sat down beside her and talked of 
 the beauty and richness of Devonshire scenery, filling Lyra's 
 heart with gratitude and Dane with admiration. 
 
 Quite calmly and naturally, St. Aubyn did all the talking, 
 and sat smoking and chatting for half an hour, then rose, like 
 an ordinary afternoon visitor, to take his departure. 
 
 " Come back to dinner, old fellow," said Dane, just as he 
 bad said at Rome, at London, at Highfield scores of times.
 
 ONCE EN" A LIFE. 33* 
 
 ^ "* Yes^yes," said Lyra, in a low voice and with eager eyes 
 
 " Thank jpou, I shall he very glad/' returned St. Aubyn, 
 just as usual. 
 
 Dane went with him to the gate and on to the river-bank, 
 and wten out of sight of Lyra he held out his hand, and look- 
 ing straight into St. Aubyn's eyes, said in a low voice shaken 
 by emotion: 
 
 " What am I to say to you, St. Aubyn?" 
 
 " Nothing," said St. Aubyn. 
 
 Dane grasped his hand tightly. 
 
 " She has told me all," he said. 
 
 " Yes?" said St. Aubyn, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. 
 " I knew that she would, or I shouldn't have told her. ft is 
 for you to say whether you blame me wish to cut me-" 
 
 Dane put his hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " Cut you? God bless you, old fellow!" His eyes grew 
 dim. " What a friend you have been to us! What! do you 
 think I am such a blind idiot as not to understand that your 
 affection for her is an honor to her, and to me, too? Do you 
 think she doesn't feel that? St. Aubyn, you have been the 
 truest friend a man ever had; and if " his voice broke" if 
 I could tell you what I feel; but I can't, and it's no use 
 trying." 
 
 " All right," said St. Aubyn, using Dane's favorite phrase 
 as he grasped his hand. " We won't say any more." 
 
 The two men walked along the river-side in a silence more 
 eloquent than words; then suddenly the sight of the sand-bank 
 
 glittering in the sunshine recalled the scene of last night to 
 ane. He started. 
 
 " What about that scoundrel what have you done with 
 him?" he asked, slowly. 
 
 " W T e took him to the hotel and put him to bed," said St. 
 Aubyn, gravely. " He was very bad" 
 
 Dane muttered something. 
 
 " Very bad, half delirious, in fact; but I think it was the 
 result of some brandy he got from the waiter as much^as his 
 ducking. Martin has taken him up to town to-day. " 
 paused and lighted a cigarette. " He seems to have caught a 
 chill vesterda^ Heaven and that wild man of the woods, 
 Griffith, only knows how long he had been in the water, 
 Chandos says 'hours.' Anyway, he is a perfect wreck, 
 fancy our villainous friend is given to excessive alcohol, and 
 that he was not in training, so to speak, for yesterday's per-
 
 333 OHCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 formance. Last night he repeated his confession, and, I 
 think, perhaps for the first time in his life, he told the truth." 
 
 " Martin has gone with him?" 
 
 " Yes/' said St. Aubyn. " Dane, Martin Fanshawe has 
 given me a better opinion of parsons than, I am ashamed to 
 say, I have ever had before. To see him beside that wretch's 
 bed, exhorting him, praying over him! Well, Martin's a good 
 fellow and a good Christian, and that sums it up. I ventured 
 to express my sense of his goodness, and he remarked that if 
 you, whom the scoundrel had so wronged, injured, could risk 
 your life to save his, the least he, Martin, could do, as a cler- 
 gyman, was to try and save his soul. I wanted to express a 
 doubt that Chandos had a soul, but I forbore. Martin sends 
 his love to Lady Dane, and " 
 
 He paused. 
 
 '* Go on," said Dane. 
 
 " Well, he said that if you asked his advioe which was not 
 probable he should recommend you to take her away for a 
 change. Somewhere on the Continent anywhere where she 
 could forget that scoundrel and all his works." 
 
 " Martin is right; he always is. I must take her away," 
 said Dane. " But don't think that Lyra is ill or broken 
 down. No." He smiled with profound satisfaction. "I've 
 proved to her that it was all my fault." 
 
 " All your fault?" said St. Aubyn, rather startled, notwith- 
 standing his warm regard for Lyra. 
 
 " Yes, certainly. Wouldn't you do so if you were in my 
 place?" 
 
 St. Aubyn smiled. 
 
 " Yes, certainly," he assented, promptly. " Of course I 
 should." 
 
 " Well, then!" said Dane. "But, as I said before, don't 
 you think that she is going to be ill? She's all right, as you'll 
 jee when you come to dinner to-night. But all the same, 
 we'll go abroad for a bit. By George!" he flushed and smiled, 
 " it will be a second honey-moon." 
 
 That modern saint, in a long black coat and white choker, 
 Martin Fanshawe, took Chandos to town. Either his long 
 bath or his terror had played havoc with the accomplished 
 scoundrel; and notwithstanding the best of medical advice, 
 and the unremitting attention of a first-class nurse, the Hon- 
 orable Mr. Chandos grew exceedingly ill. The doctor hinted 
 that a long but secret course of indulgence in alcohol had so 
 undermined Mr. Chandos' s constitution that the shock and 
 consequent fever might end fatally. " Of eturse, while there
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 OOtJ 
 
 was life" there was hope," etc., etc. Day by day 
 grew weaker. He was an extremely interesting invalid^ 
 the nurse, who, it is true, did not know anything of his antel 
 cedents, was quite charmed with him. 
 
 Clad in a dressing-gown of soft peach silk, he lay, or sat, 
 propped up by pillows, and discoursed " Shakespeare and the 
 musical glories " by the turn together. Sometimes he amused 
 himself by composing " sonnets " and " lyrics," or sketching 
 " impressions," as of old, and at first he seemed quite happy 
 and contented, as a man whose conscience is at rest should be. 
 
 But as he grew still weaker, the air of complacency began to 
 leave him. He had " bad quarters of an hour," sighed and 
 groaned in his sleep, and grew anxious-eyed. 
 
 One day Martin came up to see him. A glance at the 
 wasted face and shrunken eyes, with their unnatural glossy 
 sheen, told Martin that Chandos was nearing the end of a 
 life which had been half farce and half tragedy. 
 
 " Well, Fanshawe," said Chandos, with a flicker of his su- 
 perior and condescending smile, " you have come to see me 
 before I pass beyond ' these garish lights,' as poor Dickens 
 said at his last reading." 
 
 Martin looked gravely at him. 
 
 " I hope you are not so ill as you think, Chandos." 
 
 Chandos eyed him half stealthily. 
 
 " I am dying," he said, with a sudden note of suppressed 
 terror in his voice " I'm dying, and you know it! They all 
 know it the doctor and the nurse though they try to keep 
 it from me. Look at my arm." He drew the silken sleeve 
 back and held up the wasted limb. ' You see? Three days 
 ago there was blood on my handkerchief after I'd coughed. 
 Yes, I'm dying!" 
 
 His lips quivered, and he looked from side to side, with a 
 hunted expression on his hatchet-like face. 
 
 " I fear it is so," said Martin, solemnly. Chandos, 
 knowing, as you do, that you are near 
 
 " No, no," broke in the querulous voice, 
 to me, Fanshawe. Sermons are all very well in a nice church, 
 with a surpliced choir and good music, but but^ without the 
 proper accompaniment they they jar upon me." 
 
 <r My poor fellow!" said Martin, with pity and not anger. 
 " Think Chandos! God has given you time for repentance! 
 
 " Thanks thanks," said Chandos, as if he were declining 
 some invalid dainty which he did not want. 
 of you. But repentance! Now, I doubt whether any man 
 really repents. I doubt- ' His endeavor to keep up the 1
 
 334- ONCE IN" A LIFE. 
 
 of bantering cynicism broke down suddenly, and clutching 
 Martin's arm, he said in quite a different voice: " Fanshawe 
 I I want to see Dane!" 
 
 " To see Dane?" 
 
 " Yes," said Chandos, his eyes wandering reitlessly round 
 the room. " I I want to know whether " he tried to smile, 
 as if he were ashamed of his emotion, but the smile was a 
 ghastly one " I want to know whether she forgives me!" 
 
 " Be assured of that," said Martin, in a low voice. " Lyra 
 is too true a Christian to harbor resentment. She has forgiven 
 vou long since, or she would not be so perfectly happy as she 
 is," 
 
 " You think so?" said Chandos, uneasily and doubtfully. 
 " It seems impossible impossible!" 
 
 " Not for her not for Lyra," responded Martin. " You 
 had her forgiveness long since. Seek now the forgiveness of 
 Heaven " 
 
 " Yes, yes; but but I want to see Dane; I want to hear 
 him say that -that she forgives me. Ask him to come to me. 
 I I don't think he'll refuse. He " he turned his head 
 away " he saved my life or tried to do so. Tell him that 
 I'm dying, that I shall never trouble him after this " A fit 
 of coughing stopped him, and Martin saw that the handker- 
 chief was flecked with blood. 
 
 Dane was on the point of starting for the Continent with 
 Lyra, but he came up immediately on receipt of Martin's tele- 
 gram. 
 
 Chandos was much weaker, but was still propped up amidst 
 his pillows. The bed was strewn with writing and sketching 
 materials, and his guitar, with its pale-blue ribbons, lay within 
 reach. A flush spread over his thin face as Dane entered. 
 
 " So you've come," he said. " I I thought you would. 
 It's it's lovely weather, isn't it? I'm I'm busy, as usual, 
 you see;" he waved his weak, trembling hand to the litter OR 
 the bed. " I've just been knocking off a a few verses to 
 to Autumn." He rolled his eyes, and simperingly repeated: 
 
 ** "When Autumn tints the brittle leaves, 
 Death hovers near to claim its sheaves; 
 They fall like ghosts" 
 
 He broke off suddenly and looked with a terrible anxiety in 
 Dane's face. ^Dane, I sent for you to ask you if if she 
 had really forgiven me I must know the truth. Fanshawe 
 says ' yes;' but these parsons, and nurses, and doctors are not 
 to be depended on, Thev ' humor the patient,' eh? Tell me,
 
 (WCE Df A LIFE. 335 
 
 Dane, and tell the truth, for God's sake. I can't sleep, I can't 
 rest, 'or thinking of her. She cones to my bedside there " 
 he pointed a skinny finger " there, she is standing there 
 
 now! She looks as she looked that day in in the church " 
 
 he shuddered and hid his eyes in his hand as if to shut out the 
 vision " I shall see her, hear her voice, ju?t when I'm dying, 
 mlet^, unless I'm sure she has forgiven me!" 
 
 Dane took his hand. I will not say that it did not cost 
 Dane an effort, or that he did not shudder as his fingers came 
 in contact with Chandos's wasted claw; but he held the hand 
 nrmly. 
 
 " Set your mind at rest, Chandos," he said, gravely, ear- 
 nestly. " Lyra has forgiven you wholly, fully. She told me 
 to tell you so. " 
 
 Chandos drew a long sigh of relief. 
 
 "Thank you, Dane. It's it's like her. Oh "he 
 groaned, and his head dropped on his breast " what a beast I 
 have been!" 
 
 After this his mind seemed to wander, and lifting his head, 
 he looked at Dane with a ghostly smile. 
 
 " Neatly done, wasn't it?" he muttered, plucking at the 
 coverlid with nervous fingers. " Rawdpn out of the way 
 fear will keep his tongue quiet there is no witness to prove 
 anything, even if they charged me. She thinks I'm her hus- 
 band. I've saved that money, too. Xo; I forgot. It's gone. 
 That drunken beast of a sailor had my coat on when he 
 slipped over the quay. What* Dane's wife? Lord! what a 
 comedy!" 
 
 Dane bore it like a man, and stood silent and motionless, 
 while, for nearly a quarter of an hour, Chandos rambled 
 through his villainy. 
 
 At last his voice'died away, and he looked at Dane with re- 
 turning intelligence. 
 
 " You're here still?" he said. " I I wish you'd go now. 
 I've I've got what I want, and "he looked from side to 
 side restlessly, then dropped back on the pillow " and yon 
 disturb me." 
 
 Dane relinquished his hand. 
 
 " Good-bye, Chandos!" he said, solemnly. 
 
 The eyes fearfully like a monkey's hi their glittering rest- 
 lessness were lifted to Dane's. 
 
 " Eh ? Good-bye good-bye ! 
 
 " ' When autumn tints the brittle learoi 
 Death"
 
 336 ONCE IN A LIFE. 
 
 Dane went softly from the room, much more impressed and 
 moved than if he had found the dying man raving violently. 
 Chandos died that night. 
 
 Nearly ten months later, on a particularly bright summer 
 afternoon, there was a great stir and bustle at Starminster. 
 
 In the house itself servants were hurrying to and fro, as if 
 engaged hi some tremendous and all-important preparations. 
 Outside, flags were flying, and an eager and excited crowd of 
 villagers, with flowers in their button-holes and in the bosoms 
 of their dresses, looked and laughed with anticipatory enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 A huge marquee reared itself proudly on the lawn, and the 
 local brass band discoursed sweet and noisy music. Children, 
 dressed in their Sunday best, were roving and running all over 
 the place. 
 
 At first sight, " the intelligent observer " would have said that 
 these signs portended a wedding, but for once " the intelligent 
 observer " would have been mistaken. It was a christening, 
 and this gathering of all the clans was to celebrate the naming 
 of Lord and Lady Dane's first-born, their son and heir. 
 
 Three o'clock was the hour fixed for the ceremony, which 
 Martin was to perform in the ivy-grown chapel in the grounds; 
 but long before that the villagers, and not only the villagers, 
 but the tenants and the people from the nearest town, had 
 thronged the lawn, only too delighted to testify by their pres- 
 ence to the unqualified popularity of Lord and Lady Dane. 
 
 It was distinctly and emphatically a day of rejoicing. After 
 the christening there were to be some athletic sports; after 
 the sports a dinner, to which all were welcome, and after the 
 dinner a dance on the lawn, a dance which was to continue till 
 the moon had dipped behind the hills beyond the park. 
 
 I suppose in the great and good time coming such a gather- 
 ing, such a scene will be impossible. Well, " the old order 
 changeth, giving place to the new;" but for artistic and other 
 reasons, the disappearance of the old feudalism will be re- 
 gretted. Anyway, the old order was in fine force that day. 
 There was not a man, woman or child who did not feel as if 
 they had a part and lot in the matter. It was almost as if 
 Lady Dane's child were then- child, Dane and his wife's happi- 
 ness their happiness; and every face was decked with smiles as 
 the hour of three approached, and the big crowd gathered with 
 one accord at the bottom of the flight of steps Teading to th0 
 house.
 
 ONCE IN A LIFE, 337 
 
 As the clock struck, a group of persons emerged from the 
 hall and stood looking down at the crowd. 
 
 First came Dane and Lyra and the earl, for the old man, 
 though he leaned with his right hand on his sixpenny oak stick, 
 held Lyra's arm with his left. 
 
 At sight of them the crowd set up a loud cheer, and cries 
 of " Long live the earl, long live Lord and Lady Dane," rose 
 heartily. 
 
 Very beautiful and very happy Lyra looked that day, and 
 there was some excuse for the proud smile with which Dane 
 glanced at his wife as he raised his hat in response to the 
 cheers. 
 
 Close behind them came Martin and Theodosia and SL 
 Aubyn. 
 
 A cheer greeted them also, for the crowd knew, in a vague 
 way, that Lord and Lady Dane had gone through some trouble, 
 and that the calm, pleasant-looking man with the iron-gray 
 hair had proved a true friend; and Mr. Fanshawe was also 
 known and respected. 
 
 But when, immediately behind them, Mary that most im- 
 portant personage, " baby's nurse " appeared with the 
 precious infant in her arms, a roar of delight welcomed her 
 and made her honest face turn crimson. 
 
 " Lawks sake! they'll wake the darling," she said to Grif- 
 fith, who limped beside her; and she rocked and crowed to the 
 baby in the accepted fashion. 
 
 The crowd made a lane for the principal performers in the 
 ceremony to pass through, and the children, admirably drilled 
 and marshaled by the school-master, strewed the path with 
 flowers which, in honor of the baby, were all of white. 
 
 Slowly, to the music of the brass band which proudly led 
 the van, the procession made its way to the church. 
 
 It was too small to hold all who were present, but all who 
 could crowded and squeezed their way in; and presently, as 
 the organ poured out its music, Martin came down the aisle, 
 clad in his white surplice, his usually grave face softened by 
 the rare smile which, so his wife declared, made him look like 
 a saint. 
 
 In deep, impressive tones he commenced the famili 
 ice. The congregation listened reverently; but a stir, the 
 stir of suppressed excitement, ran through them when Martui 
 said, " Name this child," and St. Aubyn, stepping forward, 
 said, in a low but clear voice that could be heard by all: 
 
 " St. Aubyn Dane." 
 
 To the delight of all present the baby smiled placidly until
 
 338 ONCE IN A trrs. ,- 
 
 the water fell on its face, then it uttered the proper c.rf one 
 cry only and was immediately seized and hushed by Mary. 
 
 The crowd poured out of the church and made its way to 
 the marquee, in which awaited them a dinner that afforded a 
 topic of conversation for many a year after. Toward the close 
 of *lie meal, Dane and Lyra, with the earl, St. Aubyn, Martin 
 and Theodosia, entered the huge tent, and a cheer that was 
 more like a roar welcomed them. 
 
 With the color coming and going on her lovely face, Lyra 
 clung to her husband's arm and looked round with a smile 
 upon the friendly faces all turned toward her. 
 
 The old earl touched her on the shoulder. 
 
 " Give me your arm, my dear/' he said. 
 
 She took his hand and drew it within her arm, and lifting 
 his gray head proudly, the old man raised his voice. 
 
 " You do not need to be told, friends and neighbors, that 
 you are welcome!" 
 
 " No, no!" was the responsive shout. " Long live the 
 earl!" 
 
 The old man smiled. 
 
 " Say, rather, long lire his son and grandson/' he said. " I 
 m an old man, friends, but my old age has been blessed, not 
 only by a son and daughter to cheer me with their love " he 
 raised Lyra's hand to his lips, and the action was greeted by a 
 frantic cheer " but by a grandson who will, I trust, not only 
 inherit my name, but your friendship and love, which are 
 dearer to me than any empty title." 
 
 " The earl, health and long life to him!" some one shouted. 
 
 " No, no," said the old man. " Drink to the health of my 
 son and daughter." 
 
 " No," said Lyra; and low and trembling as her voice 
 was, it reached every ear. 
 
 There was rather an awkward pause. But one man was 
 equal to the emergency. St. Aubyn, who had stood at a mod- 
 est distance surveying the proceedings with a pleasant smile, 
 here stepped forward, and catching up a glass, raised it above 
 his head. 
 
 " Long life and happiness to St. Aubyn Dane!" he cried. 
 
 The happy inspiration was accepted and acted upon with 
 unanimous promptitude, and as every one sprung to his feet, 
 the cry, " Long life and happiness to St. Aubyn Dane!" rent 
 the air. 
 
 The Mill Cottage still stands; but it is now the center of a 
 large and thriving farm, of which its owner, Griffith, is justly
 
 OKCE Df A LIFE. 339 
 
 proud. But he is still prouder of the fact that every year in 
 May, when Devonshire is at its best, Lady Dane and her chil- 
 dren take up their quarters there. For a couple of weeks the 
 happy children, and their no less happy mother, roam and 
 romp unchecked by the banks of the shining Taw, and up the 
 valley in which " father taught mother to fish for trout. 
 
 Dane is always with them on these visits, and not seldom 
 St. Aubyn joins the party. He is quite gray now, and looks 
 considerably older than Dane; but sadness and melancholy 
 have long since left him. 
 
 What man can be melancholy or brood over past misery 
 while he is surrounded by half a dozen bright-eyed children, 
 who are never so happy as when they have Uncle 'Byn to play 
 with them; or, better still, when, clustering at his knee, they 
 had persuaded him to tell them not one, but a score of stories? 
 They are never too rough, never too noisy for him, though 
 often the mother gently chides them, and offers to rescue him 
 from their assaults. 
 
 " Let them alone, Lady Dane," he always says, as he puts 
 the arms of the last mite round his neck, or hoists it firmly on 
 to his shoulder. " Somebody has told them that I'm fond of 
 them, and it's too late to persuade them that they are mis- 
 taken. Let them alone." 
 
 THE END.
 
 The Letters of Alphonse 
 
 " MEMBER OF THE FRENCH JOURNALISM" 
 BY ALEX. KENEALY 
 
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