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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