A GROUP OF NOBLE DAMES

THAT IS TO SAY

THE FIRST COUNTESS OF WESSEXBARBARA OF THE HOSE OF GREBETHE MARCHIONESS OF STONEHENGE, LADY MOTTIFONT SQUIRE PETRICK'S LADYTHE LADY ICENWAY ANNA, LADY BAXBYTHE LADY PENELOPETHE DUCHESS OF HAMPTONSHIRE; ANDTHE HONOURABLE LAURA

BYTHOMAS HARDY

 '. . . Store of Ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence. '--L'ALLEGRO. 

WITH A MAP OF WESSEX

MACMILLAN AND CO. , LIMITEDST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON1920

COPYRIGHT

_First Collected Edition_ 1891_New Edition and reprints_ 1896-1900_First published by Macmillan & Co. _, _Crown_ 8vo, 1903_Pocket Edition_ 1907 _Reprinted_ 1911, 1914, 1917, 1919, 1920

Contents:

PrefacePart I--Before Dinner The First Countess of Wessex Barbara of the House of Grebe The Marchioness of Stonehenge Lady MottisfontPart II--After Dinner The Lady Icenway Squire Petrick's Lady Anna, Lady Baxby The Lady Penelope The Duchess Of Hamptonshire The Honourable Laura

PREFACE

The pedigrees of our county families, arranged in diagrams on the pagesof county histories, mostly appear at first sight to be as barren of anytouch of nature as a table of logarithms. But given a clue--the faintesttradition of what went on behind the scenes, and this dryness as of dustmay be transformed into a palpitating drama. More, the carefulcomparison of dates alone--that of birth with marriage, of marriage withdeath, of one marriage, birth, or death with a kindred marriage, birth, or death--will often effect the same transformation, and anybodypractised in raising images from such genealogies finds himselfunconsciously filling into the framework the motives, passions, andpersonal qualities which would appear to be the single explanationpossible of some extraordinary conjunction in times, events, andpersonages that occasionally marks these reticent family records. 

Out of such pedigrees and supplementary material most of the followingstories have arisen and taken shape. 

I would make this preface an opportunity of expressing my sense of thecourtesy and kindness of several bright-eyed Noble Dames yet in theflesh, who, since the first publication of these tales in periodicals, six or seven years ago, have given me interesting comments andconjectures on such of the narratives as they have recognized to beconnected with their own families, residences, or traditions; in whichthey have shown a truly philosophic absence of prejudice in their regardof those incidents whose relation has tended more distinctly to dramatizethan to eulogize their ancestors. The outlines they have also given ofother singular events in their family histories for use in a second"Group of Noble Dames, " will, I fear, never reach the printing-pressthrough me; but I shall store them up in memory of my informants' goodnature. 

T. H. 

_June_ 1896. 

DAME THE FIRST--THE FIRST COUNTESS OF WESSEXBy the Local Historian

King's-Hintock Court (said the narrator, turning over his memoranda forreference)--King's-Hintock Court is, as we know, one of the most imposingof the mansions that overlook our beautiful Blackmoor or Blakemore Vale. On the particular occasion of which I have to speak this building stood, as it had often stood before, in the perfect silence of a calm clearnight, lighted only by the cold shine of the stars. The season waswinter, in days long ago, the last century having run but little morethan a third of its length. North, south, and west, not a casement wasunfastened, not a curtain undrawn; eastward, one window on the upperfloor was open, and a girl of twelve or thirteen was leaning over thesill. That she had not taken up the position for purposes of observationwas apparent at a glance, for she kept her eyes covered with her hands. 

The room occupied by the girl was an inner one of a suite, to be reachedonly by passing through a large bedchamber adjoining. From thisapartment voices in altercation were audible, everything else in thebuilding being so still. It was to avoid listening to these voices thatthe girl had left her little cot, thrown a cloak round her head andshoulders, and stretched into the night air. 

But she could not escape the conversation, try as she would. The wordsreached her in all their painfulness, one sentence in masculine tones, those of her father, being repeated many times. 

'I tell 'ee there shall be no such betrothal! I tell 'ee there sha'n't!A child like her!'

She knew the subject of dispute to be herself. A cool feminine voice, her mother's, replied:

'Have done with you, and be wise. He is willing to wait a good five orsix years before the marriage takes place, and there's not a man in thecounty to compare with him. '

'It shall not be! He is over thirty. It is wickedness. '

'He is just thirty, and the best and finest man alive--a perfect matchfor her. '

'He is poor!'

'But his father and elder brothers are made much of at Court--none soconstantly at the palace as they; and with her fortune, who knows? Hemay be able to get a barony. '

'I believe you are in love with en yourself!'

'How can you insult me so, Thomas! And is it not monstrous for you totalk of my wickedness when you have a like scheme in your own head? Youknow you have. Some bumpkin of your own choosing--some petty gentlemanwho lives down at that outlandish place of yours, Falls-Park--one of yourpot-companions' sons--'

There was an outburst of imprecation on the part of her husband in lieuof further argument. As soon as he could utter a connected sentence hesaid: 'You crow and you domineer, mistress, because you areheiress-general here. You are in your own house; you are on your ownland. But let me tell 'ee that if I did come here to you instead oftaking you to me, it was done at the dictates of convenience merely. H---!I'm no beggar! Ha'n't I a place of my own? Ha'n't I an avenue aslong as thine? Ha'n't I beeches that will more than match thy oaks? Ishould have lived in my own quiet house and land, contented, if you hadnot called me off with your airs and graces. Faith, I'll go back there;I'll not stay with thee longer! If it had not been for our Betty Ishould have gone long ago!'

After this there were no more words; but presently, hearing the sound ofa door opening and shutting below, the girl again looked from the window. Footsteps crunched on the gravel-walk, and a shape in a drab greatcoat, easily distinguishable as her father, withdrew from the house. He movedto the left, and she watched him diminish down the long east front tillhe had turned the corner and vanished. He must have gone round to thestables. 

She closed the window and shrank into bed, where she cried herself tosleep. This child, their only one, Betty, beloved ambitiously by hermother, and with uncalculating passionateness by her father, wasfrequently made wretched by such episodes as this; though she was tooyoung to care very deeply, for her own sake, whether her mother betrothedher to the gentleman discussed or not. 

The Squire had often gone out of the house in this manner, declaring thathe would never return, but he had always reappeared in the morning. Thepresent occasion, however, was different in the issue: next day she wastold that her father had ridden to his estate at Falls-Park early in themorning on business with his agent, and might not come back for somedays. 

* * * * *

Falls-Park was over twenty miles from King's-Hintock Court, and wasaltogether a more modest centre-piece to a more modest possession thanthe latter. But as Squire Dornell came in view of it that Februarymorning, he thought that he had been a fool ever to leave it, though itwas for the sake of the greatest heiress in Wessex. Its classic front, of the period of the second Charles, derived from its regular features adignity which the great, battlemented, heterogeneous mansion of his wifecould not eclipse. Altogether he was sick at heart, and the gloom whichthe densely-timbered park threw over the scene did not tend to remove thedepression of this rubicund man of eight-and-forty, who sat so heavilyupon his gelding. The child, his darling Betty: there lay the root ofhis trouble. He was unhappy when near his wife, he was unhappy when awayfrom his little girl; and from this dilemma there was no practicableescape. As a consequence he indulged rather freely in the pleasures ofthe table, became what was called a three bottle man, and, in his wife'sestimation, less and less presentable to her polite friends from town. 

He was received by the two or three old servants who were in charge ofthe lonely place, where a few rooms only were kept habitable for his useor that of his friends when hunting; and during the morning he was mademore comfortable by the arrival of his faithful servant Tupcombe fromKing's-Hintock. But after a day or two spent here in solitude he beganto feel that he had made a mistake in coming. By leaving King's-Hintockin his anger he had thrown away his best opportunity of counteracting hiswife's preposterous notion of promising his poor little Betty's hand to aman she had hardly seen. To protect her from such a repugnant bargain heshould have remained on the spot. He felt it almost as a misfortune thatthe child would inherit so much wealth. She would be a mark for all theadventurers in the kingdom. Had she been only the heiress to his ownunassuming little place at Falls, how much better would have been herchances of happiness!

His wife had divined truly when she insinuated that he himself had alover in view for this pet child. The son of a dear deceased friend ofhis, who lived not two miles from where the Squire now was, a lad acouple of years his daughter's senior, seemed in her father's opinion theone person in the world likely to make her happy. But as to breathingsuch a scheme to either of the young people with the indecent haste thathis wife had shown, he would not dream of it; years hence would be soonenough for that. They had already seen each other, and the Squirefancied that he noticed a tenderness on the youth's part which promisedwell. He was strongly tempted to profit by his wife's example, andforestall her match-making by throwing the two young people togetherthere at Falls. The girl, though marriageable in the views of thosedays, was too young to be in love, but the lad was fifteen, and alreadyfelt an interest in her. 

Still better than keeping watch over her at King's Hintock, where she wasnecessarily much under her mother's influence, would it be to get thechild to stay with him at Falls for a time, under his exclusive control. But how accomplish this without using main force? The only possiblechance was that his wife might, for appearance' sake, as she had donebefore, consent to Betty paying him a day's visit, when he might findmeans of detaining her till Reynard, the suitor whom his wife favoured, had gone abroad, which he was expected to do the following week. SquireDornell determined to return to King's-Hintock and attempt theenterprise. If he were refused, it was almost in him to pick up Bettybodily and carry her off. 

The journey back, vague and Quixotic as were his intentions, wasperformed with a far lighter heart than his setting forth. He would seeBetty, and talk to her, come what might of his plan. 

So he rode along the dead level which stretches between the hillsskirting Falls-Park and those bounding the town of Ivell, trotted throughthat borough, and out by the King's-Hintock highway, till, passing thevillages he entered the mile-long drive through the park to the Court. The drive being open, without an avenue, the Squire could discern thenorth front and door of the Court a long way off, and was himself visiblefrom the windows on that side; for which reason he hoped that Betty mightperceive him coming, as she sometimes did on his return from an outing, and run to the door or wave her handkerchief. 

But there was no sign. He inquired for his wife as soon as he set footto earth. 

'Mistress is away. She was called to London, sir. '

'And Mistress Betty?' said the Squire blankly. 

'Gone likewise, sir, for a little change. Mistress has left a letter foryou. '

The note explained nothing, merely stating that she had posted to Londonon her own affairs, and had taken the child to give her a holiday. Onthe fly-leaf were some words from Betty herself to the same effect, evidently written in a state of high jubilation at the idea of her jaunt. Squire Dornell murmured a few expletives, and submitted to hisdisappointment. How long his wife meant to stay in town she did not say;but on investigation he found that the carriage had been packed withsufficient luggage for a sojourn of two or three weeks. 

King's-Hintock Court was in consequence as gloomy as Falls-Park had been. He had lost all zest for hunting of late, and had hardly attended a meetthat season. Dornell read and re-read Betty's scrawl, and hunted up someother such notes of hers to look over, this seeming to be the onlypleasure there was left for him. That they were really in London helearnt in a few days by another letter from Mrs. Dornell, in which sheexplained that they hoped to be home in about a week, and that she hadhad no idea he was coming back to King's-Hintock so soon, or she wouldnot have gone away without telling him. 

Squire Dornell wondered if, in going or returning, it had been her planto call at the Reynards' place near Melchester, through which city theirjourney lay. It was possible that she might do this in furtherance ofher project, and the sense that his own might become the losing game washarassing. 

He did not know how to dispose of himself, till it occurred to him that, to get rid of his intolerable heaviness, he would invite some friends todinner and drown his cares in grog and wine. No sooner was the carousedecided upon than he put it in hand; those invited being mostlyneighbouring landholders, all smaller men than himself, members of thehunt; also the doctor from Evershead, and the like--some of themrollicking blades whose presence his wife would not have countenanced hadshe been at home. 'When the cat's away--!' said the Squire. 

They arrived, and there were indications in their manner that they meantto make a night of it. Baxby of Sherton Castle was late, and they waiteda quarter of an hour for him, he being one of the liveliest of Dornell'sfriends; without whose presence no such dinner as this would beconsidered complete, and, it may be added, with whose presence no dinnerwhich included both sexes could be conducted with strict propriety. Hehad just returned from London, and the Squire was anxious to talk tohim--for no definite reason; but he had lately breathed the atmosphere inwhich Betty was. 

At length they heard Baxby driving up to the door, whereupon the host andthe rest of his guests crossed over to the dining-room. In a momentBaxby came hastily in at their heels, apologizing for his lateness. 

'I only came back last night, you know, ' he said; 'and the truth o't is, I had as much as I could carry. ' He turned to the Squire. 'Well, Dornell--so cunning Reynard has stolen your little ewe lamb? Ha, ha!'

'What?' said Squire Dornell vacantly, across the dining-table, roundwhich they were all standing, the cold March sunlight streaming in uponhis full-clean shaven face. 

'Surely th'st know what all the town knows?--you've had a letter by thistime?--that Stephen Reynard has married your Betty? Yes, as I'm a livingman. It was a carefully-arranged thing: they parted at once, and are notto meet for five or six years. But, Lord, you must know!'

A thud on the floor was the only reply of the Squire. They quicklyturned. He had fallen down like a log behind the table, and laymotionless on the oak boards. 

Those at hand hastily bent over him, and the whole group were inconfusion. They found him to be quite unconscious, though puffing andpanting like a blacksmith's bellows. His face was livid, his veinsswollen, and beads of perspiration stood upon his brow. 

'What's happened to him?' said several. 

'An apoplectic fit, ' said the doctor from Evershead, gravely. 

He was only called in at the Court for small ailments, as a rule, andfelt the importance of the situation. He lifted the Squire's head, loosened his cravat and clothing, and rang for the servants, who took theSquire upstairs. 

There he lay as if in a drugged sleep. The surgeon drew a basin-full ofblood from him, but it was nearly six o'clock before he came to himself. The dinner was completely disorganized, and some had gone home long ago;but two or three remained. 

'Bless my soul, ' Baxby kept repeating, 'I didn't know things had come tothis pass between Dornell and his lady! I thought the feast he wasspreading to-day was in honour of the event, though privately kept forthe present! His little maid married without his knowledge!'

As soon as the Squire recovered consciousness he gasped: ''Tis abduction!'Tis a capital felony! He can be hung! Where is Baxby? I am very wellnow. What items have ye heard, Baxby?'

The bearer of the untoward news was extremely unwilling to agitateDornell further, and would say little more at first. But an hour after, when the Squire had partially recovered and was sitting up, Baxby told asmuch as he knew, the most important particular being that Betty's motherwas present at the marriage, and showed every mark of approval. 'Everything appeared to have been done so regularly that I, of course, thought you knew all about it, ' he said. 

'I knew no more than the underground dead that such a step was in thewind! A child not yet thirteen! How Sue hath outwitted me! Did Reynardgo up to Lon'on with 'em, d'ye know?'

'I can't say. All I know is that your lady and daughter were walkingalong the street, with the footman behind 'em; that they entered ajeweller's shop, where Reynard was standing; and that there, in thepresence o' the shopkeeper and your man, who was called in on purpose, your Betty said to Reynard--so the story goes: 'pon my soul I don't vouchfor the truth of it--she said, "Will you marry me?" or, "I want to marryyou: will you have me--now or never?" she said. '

'What she said means nothing, ' murmured the Squire, with wet eyes. 'Hermother put the words into her mouth to avoid the serious consequencesthat would attach to any suspicion of force. The words be not thechild's: she didn't dream of marriage--how should she, poor little maid!Go on. '

'Well, be that as it will, they were all agreed apparently. They boughtthe ring on the spot, and the marriage took place at the nearest churchwithin half-an-hour. '

* * * * *

A day or two later there came a letter from Mrs. Dornell to her husband, written before she knew of his stroke. She related the circumstances ofthe marriage in the gentlest manner, and gave cogent reasons and excusesfor consenting to the premature union, which was now an accomplished factindeed. She had no idea, till sudden pressure was put upon her, that thecontract was expected to be carried out so soon, but being taken halfunawares, she had consented, having learned that Stephen Reynard, nowtheir son-in-law, was becoming a great favourite at Court, and that hewould in all likelihood have a title granted him before long. No harmcould come to their dear daughter by this early marriage-contract, seeingthat her life would be continued under their own eyes, exactly as before, for some years. In fine, she had felt that no other such fairopportunity for a good marriage with a shrewd courtier and wise man ofthe world, who was at the same time noted for his excellent personalqualities, was within the range of probability, owing to the rusticatedlives they led at King's-Hintock. Hence she had yielded to Stephen'ssolicitation, and hoped her husband would forgive her. She wrote, inshort, like a woman who, having had her way as to the deed, is preparedto make any concession as to words and subsequent behaviour. 

All this Dornell took at its true value, or rather, perhaps, at less thanits true value. As his life depended upon his not getting into apassion, he controlled his perturbed emotions as well as he was able, going about the house sadly and utterly unlike his former self. He tookevery precaution to prevent his wife knowing of the incidents of hissudden illness, from a sense of shame at having a heart so tender; aridiculous quality, no doubt, in her eyes, now that she had become soimbued with town ideas. But rumours of his seizure somehow reached her, and she let him know that she was about to return to nurse him. Hethereupon packed up and went off to his own place at Falls-Park. 

Here he lived the life of a recluse for some time. He was still toounwell to entertain company, or to ride to hounds or elsewhither; butmore than this, his aversion to the faces of strangers and acquaintances, who knew by that time of the trick his wife had played him, operated tohold him aloof. 

Nothing could influence him to censure Betty for her share in theexploit. He never once believed that she had acted voluntarily. Anxiousto know how she was getting on, he despatched the trusty servant Tupcombeto Evershead village, close to King's-Hintock, timing his journey so thathe should reach the place under cover of dark. The emissary arrivedwithout notice, being out of livery, and took a seat in thechimney-corner of the Sow-and-Acorn. 

The conversation of the droppers-in was always of the nine days'wonder--the recent marriage. The smoking listener learnt that Mrs. Dornell and the girl had returned to King's-Hintock for a day or two, that Reynard had set out for the Continent, and that Betty had since beenpacked off to school. She did not realize her position as Reynard'schild-wife--so the story went--and though somewhat awe-stricken at firstby the ceremony, she had soon recovered her spirits on finding that herfreedom was in no way to be interfered with. 

After that, formal messages began to pass between Dornell and his wife, the latter being now as persistently conciliating as she was formerlymasterful. But her rustic, simple, blustering husband still heldpersonally aloof. Her wish to be reconciled--to win his forgiveness forher stratagem--moreover, a genuine tenderness and desire to soothe hissorrow, which welled up in her at times, brought her at last to his doorat Falls-Park one day. 

They had not met since that night of altercation, before her departurefor London and his subsequent illness. She was shocked at the change inhim. His face had become expressionless, as blank as that of a puppet, and what troubled her still more was that she found him living in oneroom, and indulging freely in stimulants, in absolute disobedience to thephysician's order. The fact was obvious that he could no longer beallowed to live thus uncouthly. 

So she sympathized, and begged his pardon, and coaxed. But though afterthis date there was no longer such a complete estrangement as before, they only occasionally saw each other, Dornell for the most part makingFalls his headquarters still. 

Three or four years passed thus. Then she came one day, with moreanimation in her manner, and at once moved him by the simple statementthat Betty's schooling had ended; she had returned, and was grievedbecause he was away. She had sent a message to him in these words: 'Askfather to come home to his dear Betty. '

'Ah! Then she is very unhappy!' said Squire Dornell. 

His wife was silent. 

''Tis that accursed marriage!' continued the Squire. 

Still his wife would not dispute with him. 'She is outside in thecarriage, ' said Mrs. Dornell gently. 

'What--Betty?'

'Yes. '

'Why didn't you tell me?' Dornell rushed out, and there was the girlawaiting his forgiveness, for she supposed herself, no less than hermother, to be under his displeasure. 

Yes, Betty had left school, and had returned to King's-Hintock. She wasnearly seventeen, and had developed to quite a young woman. She lookednot less a member of the household for her early marriage-contract, whichshe seemed, indeed, to have almost forgotten. It was like a dream toher; that clear cold March day, the London church, with its gorgeouspews, and green-baize linings, and the great organ in the west gallery--sodifferent from their own little church in the shrubbery of King's-HintockCourt--the man of thirty, to whose face she had looked up with so muchawe, and with a sense that he was rather ugly and formidable; the manwhom, though they corresponded politely, she had never seen since; one towhose existence she was now so indifferent that if informed of his death, and that she would never see him more, she would merely have replied, 'Indeed!' Betty's passions as yet still slept. 

'Hast heard from thy husband lately?' said Squire Dornell, when they wereindoors, with an ironical laugh of fondness which demanded no answer. 

The girl winced, and he noticed that his wife looked appealingly at him. As the conversation went on, and there were signs that Dornell wouldexpress sentiments that might do harm to a position which they could notalter, Mrs. Dornell suggested that Betty should leave the room till herfather and herself had finished their private conversation; and thisBetty obediently did. 

Dornell renewed his animadversions freely. 'Did you see how the sound ofhis name frightened her?' he presently added. 'If you didn't, I did. Zounds! what a future is in store for that poor little unfortunate wencho' mine! I tell 'ee, Sue, 'twas not a marriage at all, in morality, andif I were a woman in such a position, I shouldn't feel it as one. Shemight, without a sign of sin, love a man of her choice as well now as ifshe were chained up to no other at all. There, that's my mind, and Ican't help it. Ah, Sue, my man was best! He'd ha' suited her. '

'I don't believe it, ' she replied incredulously. 

'You should see him; then you would. He's growing up a fine fellow, Ican tell 'ee. '

'Hush! not so loud!' she answered, rising from her seat and going to thedoor of the next room, whither her daughter had betaken herself. To Mrs. Dornell's alarm, there sat Betty in a reverie, her round eyes fixed onvacancy, musing so deeply that she did not perceive her mother'sentrance. She had heard every word, and was digesting the new knowledge. 

Her mother felt that Falls-Park was dangerous ground for a young girl ofthe susceptible age, and in Betty's peculiar position, while Dornelltalked and reasoned thus. She called Betty to her, and they took leave. The Squire would not clearly promise to return and make King's-HintockCourt his permanent abode; but Betty's presence there, as at formertimes, was sufficient to make him agree to pay them a visit soon. 

All the way home Betty remained preoccupied and silent. It was too plainto her anxious mother that Squire Dornell's free views had been a sort ofawakening to the girl. 

The interval before Dornell redeemed his pledge to come and see them wasunexpectedly short. He arrived one morning about twelve o'clock, drivinghis own pair of black-bays in the curricle-phaeton with yellow panels andred wheels, just as he had used to do, and his faithful old Tupcombe onhorseback behind. A young man sat beside the Squire in the carriage, andMrs. Dornell's consternation could scarcely be concealed when, abruptlyentering with his companion, the Squire announced him as his friendPhelipson of Elm-Cranlynch. 

Dornell passed on to Betty in the background and tenderly kissed her. 'Sting your mother's conscience, my maid!' he whispered. 'Sting herconscience by pretending you are struck with Phelipson, and would ha'loved him, as your old father's choice, much more than him she has forcedupon 'ee. '

The simple-souled speaker fondly imagined that it as entirely inobedience to this direction that Betty's eyes stole interested glances atthe frank and impulsive Phelipson that day at dinner, and he laughedgrimly within himself to see how this joke of his, as he imagined it tobe, was disturbing the peace of mind of the lady of the house. 'Now Suesees what a mistake she has made!' said he. 

Mrs. Dornell was verily greatly alarmed, and as soon as she could speak aword with him alone she upbraided him. 'You ought not to have broughthim here. Oh Thomas, how could you be so thoughtless! Lord, don't yousee, dear, that what is done cannot be undone, and how all this fooleryjeopardizes her happiness with her husband? Until you interfered, andspoke in her hearing about this Phelipson, she was as patient and aswilling as a lamb, and looked forward to Mr. Reynard's return with realpleasure. Since her visit to Falls-Park she has been monstrous close-mouthed and busy with her own thoughts. What mischief will you do? Howwill it end?'

'Own, then, that my man was best suited to her. I only brought him toconvince you. '

'Yes, yes; I do admit it. But oh! do take him back again at once! Don'tkeep him here! I fear she is even attracted by him already. '

'Nonsense, Sue. 'Tis only a little trick to tease 'ee!'

Nevertheless her motherly eye was not so likely to be deceived as his, and if Betty were really only playing at being love-struck that day, sheplayed at it with the perfection of a Rosalind, and would have deceivedthe best professors into a belief that it was no counterfeit. TheSquire, having obtained his victory, was quite ready to take back the tooattractive youth, and early in the afternoon they set out on their returnjourney. 

A silent figure who rode behind them was as interested as Dornell in thatday's experiment. It was the staunch Tupcombe, who, with his eyes on theSquire's and young Phelipson's backs, thought how well the latter wouldhave suited Betty, and how greatly the former had changed for the worseduring these last two or three years. He cursed his mistress as thecause of the change. 

After this memorable visit to prove his point, the lives of the Dornellcouple flowed on quietly enough for the space of a twelvemonth, theSquire for the most part remaining at Falls, and Betty passing andrepassing between them now and then, once or twice alarming her mother bynot driving home from her father's house till midnight. 

* * * * *

The repose of King's-Hintock was broken by the arrival of a specialmessenger. Squire Dornell had had an access of gout so violent as to beserious. He wished to see Betty again: why had she not come for so long?

Mrs. Dornell was extremely reluctant to take Betty in that direction toofrequently; but the girl was so anxious to go, her interests latterlyseeming to be so entirely bound up in Falls-Park and its neighbourhood, that there was nothing to be done but to let her set out and accompanyher. 

Squire Dornell had been impatiently awaiting her arrival. They found himvery ill and irritable. It had been his habit to take powerful medicinesto drive away his enemy, and they had failed in their effect on thisoccasion. 

The presence of his daughter, as usual, calmed him much, even while, asusual too, it saddened him; for he could never forget that she haddisposed of herself for life in opposition to his wishes, though she hadsecretly assured him that she would never have consented had she been asold as she was now. 

As on a former occasion, his wife wished to speak to him alone about thegirl's future, the time now drawing nigh at which Reynard was expected tocome and claim her. He would have done so already, but he had been putoff by the earnest request of the young woman herself, which accordedwith that of her parents, on the score of her youth. Reynard haddeferentially submitted to their wishes in this respect, theunderstanding between them having been that he would not visit her beforeshe was eighteen, except by the mutual consent of all parties. But thiscould not go on much longer, and there was no doubt, from the tenor ofhis last letter, that he would soon take possession of her whether or no. 

To be out of the sound of this delicate discussion Betty was accordinglysent downstairs, and they soon saw her walking away into the shrubberies, looking very pretty in her sweeping green gown, and flappingbroad-brimmed hat overhung with a feather. 

On returning to the subject, Mrs. Dornell found her husband's reluctanceto reply in the affirmative to Reynard's letter to be as great as ever. 

'She is three months short of eighteen!' he exclaimed. ''Tis too soon. Iwon't hear of it! If I have to keep him off sword in hand, he shall nothave her yet. '

'But, my dear Thomas, ' she expostulated, 'consider if anything shouldhappen to you or to me, how much better it would be that she should besettled in her home with him!'

'I say it is too soon!' he argued, the veins of his forehead beginning toswell. 'If he gets her this side o' Candlemas I'll challenge en--I'lltake my oath on't! I'll be back to King's-Hintock in two or three days, and I'll not lose sight of her day or night!'

She feared to agitate him further, and gave way, assuring him, inobedience to his demand, that if Reynard should write again before he gotback, to fix a time for joining Betty, she would put the letter in herhusband's hands, and he should do as he chose. This was all thatrequired discussion privately, and Mrs. Dornell went to call in Betty, hoping that she had not heard her father's loud tones. 

She had certainly not done so this time. Mrs. Dornell followed the pathalong which she had seen Betty wandering, but went a considerabledistance without perceiving anything of her. The Squire's wife thenturned round to proceed to the other side of the house by a short cutacross the grass, when, to her surprise and consternation, she beheld theobject of her search sitting on the horizontal bough of a cedar, besideher being a young man, whose arm was round her waist. He moved a little, and she recognized him as young Phelipson. 

Alas, then, she was right. The so-called counterfeit love was real. WhatMrs. Dornell called her husband at that moment, for his folly inoriginally throwing the young people together, it is not necessary tomention. She decided in a moment not to let the lovers know that she hadseen them. She accordingly retreated, reached the front of the house byanother route, and called at the top of her voice from a window, 'Betty!'

For the first time since her strategic marriage of the child, SusanDornell doubted the wisdom of that step. 

Her husband had, as it were, been assisted by destiny to make hisobjection, originally trivial, a valid one. She saw the outlines oftrouble in the future. Why had Dornell interfered? Why had he insistedupon producing his man? This, then, accounted for Betty's pleading forpostponement whenever the subject of her husband's return was broached;this accounted for her attachment to Falls-Park. Possibly this verymeeting that she had witnessed had been arranged by letter. 

Perhaps the girl's thoughts would never have strayed for a moment if herfather had not filled her head with ideas of repugnance to her earlyunion, on the ground that she had been coerced into it before she knewher own mind; and she might have rushed to meet her husband with openarms on the appointed day. 

Betty at length appeared in the distance in answer to the call, and cameup pale, but looking innocent of having seen a living soul. Mrs. Dornellgroaned in spirit at such duplicity in the child of her bosom. This wasthe simple creature for whose development into womanhood they had allbeen so tenderly waiting--a forward minx, old enough not only to have alover, but to conceal his existence as adroitly as any woman of theworld! Bitterly did the Squire's lady regret that Stephen Reynard hadnot been allowed to come to claim her at the time he first proposed. 

The two sat beside each other almost in silence on their journey back toKing's-Hintock. Such words as were spoken came mainly from Betty, andtheir formality indicated how much her mind and heart were occupied withother things. 

Mrs. Dornell was far too astute a mother to openly attack Betty on thematter. That would be only fanning flame. The indispensable courseseemed to her to be that of keeping the treacherous girl under lock andkey till her husband came to take her off her mother's hands. That hewould disregard Dornell's opposition, and come soon, was her devout wish. 

It seemed, therefore, a fortunate coincidence that on her arrival atKing's-Hintock a letter from Reynard was put into Mrs. Dornell's hands. It was addressed to both her and her husband, and courteously informedthem that the writer had landed at Bristol, and proposed to come on toKing's-Hintock in a few days, at last to meet and carry off his darlingBetty, if she and her parents saw no objection. 

Betty had also received a letter of the same tenor. Her mother had onlyto look at her face to see how the girl received the information. Shewas as pale as a sheet. 

'You must do your best to welcome him this time, my dear Betty, ' hermother said gently. 

'But--but--I--'

'You are a woman now, ' added her mother severely, 'and thesepostponements must come to an end. '

'But my father--oh, I am sure he will not allow this! I am not ready. Ifhe could only wait a year longer--if he could only wait a few monthslonger! Oh, I wish--I wish my dear father were here! I will send to himinstantly. ' She broke off abruptly, and falling upon her mother's neck, burst into tears, saying, 'O my mother, have mercy upon me--I do not lovethis man, my husband!'

The agonized appeal went too straight to Mrs. Dornell's heart for her tohear it unmoved. Yet, things having come to this pass, what could shedo? She was distracted, and for a moment was on Betty's side. Heroriginal thought had been to write an affirmative reply to Reynard, allowhim to come on to King's-Hintock, and keep her husband in ignorance ofthe whole proceeding till he should arrive from Falls on some fine dayafter his recovery, and find everything settled, and Reynard and Bettyliving together in harmony. But the events of the day, and herdaughter's sudden outburst of feeling, had overthrown this intention. Betty was sure to do as she had threatened, and communicate instantlywith her father, possibly attempt to fly to him. Moreover, Reynard'sletter was addressed to Mr. Dornell and herself conjointly, and she couldnot in conscience keep it from her husband. 

'I will send the letter on to your father instantly, ' she repliedsoothingly. 'He shall act entirely as he chooses, and you know that willnot be in opposition to your wishes. He would ruin you rather thanthwart you. I only hope he may be well enough to bear the agitation ofthis news. Do you agree to this?'

Poor Betty agreed, on condition that she should actually witness thedespatch of the letter. Her mother had no objection to offer to this;but as soon as the horseman had cantered down the drive toward thehighway, Mrs. Dornell's sympathy with Betty's recalcitration began to dieout. The girl's secret affection for young Phelipson could not possiblybe condoned. Betty might communicate with him, might even try to reachhim. Ruin lay that way. Stephen Reynard must be speedily installed inhis proper place by Betty's side. 

She sat down and penned a private letter to Reynard, which threw lightupon her plan. 

* * * * *

'It is Necessary that I should now tell you, ' she said, 'what I havenever Mentioned before--indeed I may have signified the Contrary--thather Father's Objection to your joining her has not as yet been overcome. As I personally Wish to delay you no longer--am indeed as anxious foryour Arrival as you can be yourself, having the good of my Daughter atHeart--no course is left open to me but to assist your Cause without myHusband's Knowledge. He, I am sorry to say, is at present ill at Falls-Park, but I felt it my Duty to forward him your Letter. He willtherefore be like to reply with a peremptory Command to you to go backagain, for some Months, whence you came, till the Time he originallystipulated has expir'd. My Advice is, if you get such a Letter, to takeno Notice of it, but to come on hither as you had proposed, letting meknow the Day and Hour (after dark, if possible) at which we may expectyou. Dear Betty is with me, and I warrant ye that she shall be in theHouse when you arrive. '

* * * * *

Mrs. Dornell, having sent away this epistle unsuspected of anybody, nexttook steps to prevent her daughter leaving the Court, avoiding ifpossible to excite the girl's suspicions that she was under restraint. But, as if by divination, Betty had seemed to read the husband's approachin the aspect of her mother's face. 

'He is coming!' exclaimed the maiden. 

'Not for a week, ' her mother assured her. 

'He is then--for certain?'

'Well, yes. '

Betty hastily retired to her room, and would not be seen. 

To lock her up, and hand over the key to Reynard when he should appear inthe hall, was a plan charming in its simplicity, till her mother found, on trying the door of the girl's chamber softly, that Betty had alreadylocked and bolted it on the inside, and had given directions to have hermeals served where she was, by leaving them on a dumb-waiter outside thedoor. 

Thereupon Mrs. Dornell noiselessly sat down in her boudoir, which, aswell as her bed-chamber, was a passage-room to the girl's apartment, andshe resolved not to vacate her post night or day till her daughter'shusband should appear, to which end she too arranged to breakfast, dine, and sup on the spot. It was impossible now that Betty should escapewithout her knowledge, even if she had wished, there being no other doorto the chamber, except one admitting to a small inner dressing-roominaccessible by any second way. 

But it was plain that the young girl had no thought of escape. Her ideasran rather in the direction of intrenchment: she was prepared to stand asiege, but scorned flight. This, at any rate, rendered her secure. Asto how Reynard would contrive a meeting with her coy daughter while insuch a defensive humour, that, thought her mother, must be left to hisown ingenuity to discover. 

Betty had looked so wild and pale at the announcement of her husband'sapproaching visit, that Mrs. Dornell, somewhat uneasy, could not leaveher to herself. She peeped through the keyhole an hour later. Betty layon the sofa, staring listlessly at the ceiling. 

'You are looking ill, child, ' cried her mother. 'You've not taken theair lately. Come with me for a drive. '

Betty made no objection. Soon they drove through the park towards thevillage, the daughter still in the strained, strung-up silence that hadfallen upon her. They left the park to return by another route, and onthe open road passed a cottage. 

Betty's eye fell upon the cottage-window. Within it she saw a young girlabout her own age, whom she knew by sight, sitting in a chair and proppedby a pillow. The girl's face was covered with scales, which glistened inthe sun. She was a convalescent from smallpox--a disease whoseprevalence at that period was a terror of which we at present can hardlyform a conception. 

An idea suddenly energized Betty's apathetic features. She glanced ather mother; Mrs. Dornell had been looking in the opposite direction. Betty said that she wished to go back to the cottage for a moment tospeak to a girl in whom she took an interest. Mrs. Dornell appearedsuspicious, but observing that the cottage had no back-door, and thatBetty could not escape without being seen, she allowed the carriage to bestopped. Betty ran back and entered the cottage, emerging again in abouta minute, and resuming her seat in the carriage. As they drove on shefixed her eyes upon her mother and said, 'There, I have done it now!' Herpale face was stormy, and her eyes full of waiting tears. 

'What have you done?' said Mrs. Dornell. 

'Nanny Priddle is sick of the smallpox, and I saw her at the window, andI went in and kissed her, so that I might take it; and now I shall haveit, and he won't be able to come near me!'

'Wicked girl!' cries her mother. 'Oh, what am I to do! What--bring adistemper on yourself, and usurp the sacred prerogative of God, becauseyou can't palate the man you've wedded!'

The alarmed woman gave orders to drive home as rapidly as possible, andon arriving, Betty, who was by this time also somewhat frightened at herown enormity, was put into a bath, and fumigated, and treated in everyway that could be thought of to ward off the dreadful malady that in arash moment she had tried to acquire. 

There was now a double reason for isolating the rebellious daughter andwife in her own chamber, and there she accordingly remained for the restof the day and the days that followed; till no ill results seemed likelyto arise from her wilfulness. 

* * * * *

Meanwhile the first letter from Reynard, announcing to Mrs. Dornell andher husband jointly that he was coming in a few days, had sped on its wayto Falls-Park. It was directed under cover to Tupcombe, the confidentialservant, with instructions not to put it into his master's hands till hehad been refreshed by a good long sleep. Tupcombe much regretted hiscommission, letters sent in this way always disturbing the Squire; butguessing that it would be infinitely worse in the end to withhold thenews than to reveal it, he chose his time, which was early the nextmorning, and delivered the missive. 

The utmost effect that Mrs. Dornell had anticipated from the message wasa peremptory order from her husband to Reynard to hold aloof a few monthslonger. What the Squire really did was to declare that he would gohimself and confront Reynard at Bristol, and have it out with him thereby word of mouth. 

'But, master, ' said Tupcombe, 'you can't. You cannot get out of bed. '

'You leave the room, Tupcombe, and don't say "can't" before me! HaveJerry saddled in an hour. '

The long-tried Tupcombe thought his employer demented, so utterlyhelpless was his appearance just then, and he went out reluctantly. Nosooner was he gone than the Squire, with great difficulty, stretchedhimself over to a cabinet by the bedside, unlocked it, and took out asmall bottle. It contained a gout specific, against whose use he hadbeen repeatedly warned by his regular physician, but whose warning he nowcast to the winds. 

He took a double dose, and waited half an hour. It seemed to produce noeffect. He then poured out a treble dose, swallowed it, leant back uponhis pillow, and waited. The miracle he anticipated had been worked atlast. It seemed as though the second draught had not only operated withits own strength, but had kindled into power the latent forces of thefirst. He put away the bottle, and rang up Tupcombe. 

Less than an hour later one of the housemaids, who of course was quiteaware that the Squire's illness was serious, was surprised to hear a boldand decided step descending the stairs from the direction of Mr. Dornell's room, accompanied by the humming of a tune. She knew that thedoctor had not paid a visit that morning, and that it was too heavy to bethe valet or any other man-servant. Looking up, she saw Squire Dornellfully dressed, descending toward her in his drab caped riding-coat andboots, with the swinging easy movement of his prime. Her face expressedher amazement. 

'What the devil beest looking at?' said the Squire. 'Did you never see aman walk out of his house before, wench?'

Resuming his humming--which was of a defiant sort--he proceeded to thelibrary, rang the bell, asked if the horses were ready, and directed themto be brought round. Ten minutes later he rode away in the direction ofBristol, Tupcombe behind him, trembling at what these movements mightportend. 

They rode on through the pleasant woodlands and the monotonous straightlanes at an equal pace. The distance traversed might have been aboutfifteen miles when Tupcombe could perceive that the Squire was gettingtired--as weary as he would have been after riding three times thedistance ten years before. However, they reached Bristol without anymishap, and put up at the Squire's accustomed inn. Dornell almostimmediately proceeded on foot to the inn which Reynard had given as hisaddress, it being now about four o'clock. 

Reynard had already dined--for people dined early then--and he wasstaying indoors. He had already received Mrs. Dornell's reply to hisletter; but before acting upon her advice and starting for King's-Hintockhe made up his mind to wait another day, that Betty's father might atleast have time to write to him if so minded. The returned travellermuch desired to obtain the Squire's assent, as well as his wife's, to theproposed visit to his bride, that nothing might seem harsh or forced inhis method of taking his position as one of the family. But though heanticipated some sort of objection from his father-in-law, in consequenceof Mrs. Dornell's warning, he was surprised at the announcement of theSquire in person. 

Stephen Reynard formed the completest of possible contrasts to Dornell asthey stood confronting each other in the best parlour of the Bristoltavern. The Squire, hot-tempered, gouty, impulsive, generous, reckless;the younger man, pale, tall, sedate, self-possessed--a man of the world, fully bearing out at least one couplet in his epitaph, still extant inKing's-Hintock church, which places in the inventory of his goodqualities

 'Engaging Manners, cultivated Mind, Adorn'd by Letters, and in Courts refin'd. '

He was at this time about five-and-thirty, though careful living and aneven, unemotional temperament caused him to look much younger than hisyears. 

Squire Dornell plunged into his errand without much ceremony or preface. 

'I am your humble servant, sir, ' he said. 'I have read your letter writto my wife and myself, and considered that the best way to answer itwould be to do so in person. '

'I am vastly honoured by your visit, sir, ' said Mr. Stephen Reynard, bowing. 

'Well, what's done can't be undone, ' said Dornell, 'though it was mightyearly, and was no doing of mine. She's your wife; and there's an endon't. But in brief, sir, she's too young for you to claim yet; wemustn't reckon by years; we must reckon by nature. She's still a girl;'tis onpolite of 'ee to come yet; next year will be full soon enough foryou to take her to you. '

Now, courteous as Reynard could be, he was a little obstinate when hisresolution had once been formed. She had been promised him by hereighteenth birthday at latest--sooner if she were in robust health. Hermother had fixed the time on her own judgment, without a word ofinterference on his part. He had been hanging about foreign courts tillhe was weary. Betty was now as woman, if she would ever be one, andthere was not, in his mind, the shadow of an excuse for putting him offlonger. Therefore, fortified as he was by the support of her mother, heblandly but firmly told the Squire that he had been willing to waive hisrights, out of deference to her parents, to any reasonable extent, butmust now, in justice to himself and her insist on maintaining them. Hetherefore, since she had not come to meet him, should proceed to King's-Hintock in a few days to fetch her. 

This announcement, in spite of the urbanity with which it was delivered, set Dornell in a passion. 

'Oh dammy, sir; you talk about rights, you do, after stealing her away, amere child, against my will and knowledge! If we'd begged and prayed 'eeto take her, you could say no more. '

'Upon my honour, your charge is quite baseless, sir, ' said his son-in-law. 'You must know by this time--or if you do not, it has been amonstrous cruel injustice to me that I should have been allowed to remainin your mind with such a stain upon my character--you must know that Iused no seductiveness or temptation of any kind. Her mother assented;she assented. I took them at their word. That you was really opposed tothe marriage was not known to me till afterwards. '

Dornell professed to believe not a word of it. 'You sha'n't have hertill she's dree sixes full--no maid ought to be married till she's dreesixes!--and my daughter sha'n't be treated out of nater!' So he stormedon till Tupcombe, who had been alarmedly listening in the next room, entered suddenly, declaring to Reynard that his master's life was indanger if the interview were prolonged, he being subject to apoplecticstrokes at these crises. Reynard immediately said that he would be thelast to wish to injure Squire Dornell, and left the room, and as soon asthe Squire had recovered breath and equanimity, he went out of the inn, leaning on the arm of Tupcombe. 

Tupcombe was for sleeping in Bristol that night, but Dornell, whoseenergy seemed as invincible as it was sudden, insisted upon mounting andgetting back as far as Falls-Park, to continue the journey toKing's-Hintock on the following day. At five they started, and took thesouthern road toward the Mendip Hills. The evening was dry and windy, and, excepting that the sun did not shine, strongly reminded Tupcombe ofthe evening of that March month, nearly five years earlier, when news hadbeen brought to King's-Hintock Court of the child Betty's marriage inLondon--news which had produced upon Dornell such a marked effect for theworse ever since, and indirectly upon the household of which he was thehead. Before that time the winters were lively at Falls-Park, as well asat King's-Hintock, although the Squire had ceased to make it his regularresidence. Hunting-guests and shooting-guests came and went, and openhouse was kept. Tupcombe disliked the clever courtier who had put a stopto this by taking away from the Squire the only treasure he valued. 

It grew darker with their progress along the lanes, and Tupcombediscovered from Mr. Dornell's manner of riding that his strength wasgiving way; and spurring his own horse close alongside, he asked him howhe felt. 

'Oh, bad; damn bad, Tupcombe! I can hardly keep my seat. I shall neverbe any better, I fear! Have we passed Three-Man-Gibbet yet?'

'Not yet by a long ways, sir. '

'I wish we had. I can hardly hold on. ' The Squire could not repress agroan now and then, and Tupcombe knew he was in great pain. 'I wish Iwas underground--that's the place for such fools as I! I'd gladly bethere if it were not for Mistress Betty. He's coming on toKing's-Hintock to-morrow--he won't put it off any longer; he'll set outand reach there to-morrow night, without stopping at Falls; and he'lltake her unawares, and I want to be there before him. '

'I hope you may be well enough to do it, sir. But really--'

'I _must_, Tupcombe! You don't know what my trouble is; it is not somuch that she is married to this man without my agreeing--for, after all, there's nothing to say against him, so far as I know; but that she don'ttake to him at all, seems to fear him--in fact, cares nothing about him;and if he comes forcing himself into the house upon her, why, 'twill berank cruelty. Would to the Lord something would happen to prevent him!'

How they reached home that night Tupcombe hardly knew. The Squire was insuch pain that he was obliged to recline upon his horse, and Tupcombe wasafraid every moment lest he would fall into the road. But they did reachhome at last, and Mr. Dornell was instantly assisted to bed. 

* * * * *

Next morning it was obvious that he could not possibly go toKing's-Hintock for several days at least, and there on the bed he lay, cursing his inability to proceed on an errand so personal and so delicatethat no emissary could perform it. What he wished to do was to ascertainfrom Betty's own lips if her aversion to Reynard was so strong that hispresence would be positively distasteful to her. Were that the case, hewould have borne her away bodily on the saddle behind him. 

But all that was hindered now, and he repeated a hundred times inTupcombe's hearing, and in that of the nurse and other servants, 'I wishto God something would happen to him!'

This sentiment, reiterated by the Squire as he tossed in the agonyinduced by the powerful drugs of the day before, entered sharply into thesoul of Tupcombe and of all who were attached to the house of Dornell, asdistinct from the house of his wife at King's-Hintock. Tupcombe, who wasan excitable man, was hardly less disquieted by the thought of Reynard'sreturn than the Squire himself was. As the week drew on, and theafternoon advanced at which Reynard would in all probability be passingnear Falls on his way to the Court, the Squire's feelings became acuter, and the responsive Tupcombe could hardly bear to come near him. Havingleft him in the hands of the doctor, the former went out upon the lawn, for he could hardly breathe in the contagion of excitement caught fromthe employer who had virtually made him his confidant. He had lived withthe Dornells from his boyhood, had been born under the shadow of theirwalls; his whole life was annexed and welded to the life of the family ina degree which has no counterpart in these latter days. 

He was summoned indoors, and learnt that it had been decided to send forMrs. Dornell: her husband was in great danger. There were two or threewho could have acted as messenger, but Dornell wished Tupcombe to go, thereason showing itself when, Tupcombe being ready to start, Squire Dornellsummoned him to his chamber and leaned down so that he could whisper inhis ear:

'Put Peggy along smart, Tupcombe, and get there before him, youknow--before him. This is the day he fixed. He has not passed Fallscross-roads yet. If you can do that you will be able to get Betty tocome--d'ye see?--after her mother has started; she'll have a reason fornot waiting for him. Bring her by the lower road--he'll go by the upper. Your business is to make 'em miss each other--d'ye see?--but that's athing I couldn't write down. '

Five minutes after, Tupcombe was astride the horse and on his way--theway he had followed so many times since his master, a florid youngcountryman, had first gone wooing to King's-Hintock Court. As soon as hehad crossed the hills in the immediate neighbourhood of the manor, theroad lay over a plain, where it ran in long straight stretches forseveral miles. In the best of times, when all had been gay in the unitedhouses, that part of the road had seemed tedious. It was gloomy in theextreme now that he pursued it, at night and alone, on such an errand. 

He rode and brooded. If the Squire were to die, he, Tupcombe, would bealone in the world and friendless, for he was no favourite with Mrs. Dornell; and to find himself baffled, after all, in what he had set hismind on, would probably kill the Squire. Thinking thus, Tupcombe stoppedhis horse every now and then, and listened for the coming husband. Thetime was drawing on to the moment when Reynard might be expected to passalong this very route. He had watched the road well during theafternoon, and had inquired of the tavern-keepers as he came up to each, and he was convinced that the premature descent of the stranger-husbandupon his young mistress had not been made by this highway as yet. 

Besides the girl's mother, Tupcombe was the only member of the householdwho suspected Betty's tender feelings towards young Phelipson, sounhappily generated on her return from school; and he could thereforeimagine, even better than her fond father, what would be her emotions onthe sudden announcement of Reynard's advent that evening atKing's-Hintock Court. 

So he rode and rode, desponding and hopeful by turns. He felt assuredthat, unless in the unfortunate event of the almost immediate arrival ofher son-in law at his own heels, Mrs. Dornell would not be able to hinderBetty's departure for her father's bedside. 

It was about nine o'clock that, having put twenty miles of country behindhim, he turned in at the lodge-gate nearest to Ivell and King's-Hintockvillage, and pursued the long north drive--itself much like a turnpikeroad--which led thence through the park to the Court. Though there wereso many trees in King's-Hintock park, few bordered the carriage roadway;he could see it stretching ahead in the pale night light like an unrolleddeal shaving. Presently the irregular frontage of the house came inview, of great extent, but low, except where it rose into the outlines ofa broad square tower. 

As Tupcombe approached he rode aside upon the grass, to make sure, ifpossible, that he was the first comer, before letting his presence beknown. The Court was dark and sleepy, in no respect as if a bridegroomwere about to arrive. 

While pausing he distinctly heard the tread of a horse upon the trackbehind him, and for a moment despaired of arriving in time: here, surely, was Reynard! Pulling up closer to the densest tree at hand he waited, and found he had retreated nothing too soon, for the second rider avoidedthe gravel also, and passed quite close to him. In the profile herecognized young Phelipson. 

Before Tupcombe could think what to do, Phelipson had gone on; but not tothe door of the house. Swerving to the left, he passed round to the eastangle, where, as Tupcombe knew, were situated Betty's apartments. Dismounting, he left the horse tethered to a hanging bough, and walked onto the house. 

Suddenly his eye caught sight of an object which explained the positionimmediately. It was a ladder stretching from beneath the trees, whichthere came pretty close to the house, up to a first-floor window--onewhich lighted Miss Betty's rooms. Yes, it was Betty's chamber; he knewevery room in the house well. 

The young horseman who had passed him, having evidently left his steedsomewhere under the trees also, was perceptible at the top of the ladder, immediately outside Betty's window. While Tupcombe watched, a cloakedfemale figure stepped timidly over the sill, and the two cautiouslydescended, one before the other, the young man's arms enclosing the youngwoman between his grasp of the ladder, so that she could not fall. Assoon as they reached the bottom, young Phelipson quickly removed theladder and hid it under the bushes. The pair disappeared; till, in a fewminutes, Tupcombe could discern a horse emerging from a remoter part ofthe umbrage. The horse carried double, the girl being on a pillionbehind her lover. 

Tupcombe hardly knew what to do or think; yet, though this was notexactly the kind of flight that had been intended, she had certainlyescaped. He went back to his own animal, and rode round to the servants'door, where he delivered the letter for Mrs. Dornell. To leave a verbalmessage for Betty was now impossible. 

The Court servants desired him to stay over the night, but he would notdo so, desiring to get back to the Squire as soon as possible and tellwhat he had seen. Whether he ought not to have intercepted the youngpeople, and carried off Betty himself to her father, he did not know. However, it was too late to think of that now, and without wetting hislips or swallowing a crumb, Tupcombe turned his back upon King's-HintockCourt. 

It was not till he had advanced a considerable distance on his wayhomeward that, halting under the lantern of a roadside-inn while thehorse was watered, there came a traveller from the opposite direction ina hired coach; the lantern lit the stranger's face as he passed along anddropped into the shade. Tupcombe exulted for the moment, though he couldhardly have justified his exultation. The belated traveller was Reynard;and another had stepped in before him. 

You may now be willing to know of the fortunes of Miss Betty. Left muchto herself through the intervening days, she had ample time to brood overher desperate attempt at the stratagem of infection--thwarted, apparently, by her mother's promptitude. In what other way to gain timeshe could not think. Thus drew on the day and the hour of the evening onwhich her husband was expected to announce himself. 

At some period after dark, when she could not tell, a tap at the window, twice and thrice repeated, became audible. It caused her to start up, for the only visitant in her mind was the one whose advances she had sofeared as to risk health and life to repel them. She crept to thewindow, and heard a whisper without. 

'It is I--Charley, ' said the voice. 

Betty's face fired with excitement. She had latterly begun to doubt heradmirer's staunchness, fancying his love to be going off in mereattentions which neither committed him nor herself very deeply. Sheopened the window, saying in a joyous whisper, 'Oh Charley; I thought youhad deserted me quite!'

He assured her he had not done that, and that he had a horse in waiting, if she would ride off with him. 'You must come quickly, ' he said; 'forReynard's on the way!'

To throw a cloak round herself was the work of a moment, and assuringherself that her door was locked against a surprise, she climbed over thewindow-sill and descended with him as we have seen. 

Her mother meanwhile, having received Tupcombe's note, found the news ofher husband's illness so serious, as to displace her thoughts of thecoming son-in-law, and she hastened to tell her daughter of the Squire'sdangerous condition, thinking it might be desirable to take her to herfather's bedside. On trying the door of the girl's room, she found itstill locked. Mrs. Dornell called, but there was no answer. Full ofmisgivings, she privately fetched the old house-steward and bade himburst open the door--an order by no means easy to execute, the joinery ofthe Court being massively constructed. However, the lock sprang open atlast, and she entered Betty's chamber only to find the window unfastenedand the bird flown. 

For a moment Mrs. Dornell was staggered. Then it occurred to her thatBetty might have privately obtained from Tupcombe the news of herfather's serious illness, and, fearing she might be kept back to meet herhusband, have gone off with that obstinate and biassed servitor to Falls-Park. The more she thought it over the more probable did the suppositionappear; and binding her own head-man to secrecy as to Betty's movements, whether as she conjectured, or otherwise, Mrs. Dornell herself preparedto set out. 

She had no suspicion how seriously her husband's malady had beenaggravated by his ride to Bristol, and thought more of Betty's affairsthan of her own. That Betty's husband should arrive by some other roadto-night, and find neither wife nor mother-in-law to receive him, and noexplanation of their absence, was possible; but never forgetting chances, Mrs. Dornell as she journeyed kept her eyes fixed upon the highway on theoff-side, where, before she had reached the town of Ivell, the hiredcoach containing Stephen Reynard flashed into the lamplight of her owncarriage. 

Mrs. Dornell's coachman pulled up, in obedience to a direction she hadgiven him at starting; the other coach was hailed, a few words passed, and Reynard alighted and came to Mrs. Dornell's carriage-window. 

'Come inside, ' says she. 'I want to speak privately to you. Why are youso late?'

'One hindrance and another, ' says he. 'I meant to be at the Court byeight at latest. My gratitude for your letter. I hope--'

'You must not try to see Betty yet, ' said she. 'There be far other andnewer reasons against your seeing her now than there were when I wrote. '

The circumstances were such that Mrs. Dornell could not possibly concealthem entirely; nothing short of knowing some of the facts would preventhis blindly acting in a manner which might be fatal to the future. Moreover, there are times when deeper intriguers than Mrs. Dornell feelthat they must let out a few truths, if only in self-indulgence. So shetold so much of recent surprises as that Betty's heart had been attractedby another image than his, and that his insisting on visiting her nowmight drive the girl to desperation. 'Betty has, in fact, rushed off toher father to avoid you, ' she said. 'But if you wait she will soonforget this young man, and you will have nothing to fear. '

As a woman and a mother she could go no further, and Betty's desperateattempt to infect herself the week before as a means of repelling him, together with the alarming possibility that, after all, she had not goneto her father but to her lover, was not revealed. 

'Well, ' sighed the diplomatist, in a tone unexpectedly quiet, 'suchthings have been known before. After all, she may prefer me to him someday, when she reflects how very differently I might have acted than I amgoing to act towards her. But I'll say no more about that now. I canhave a bed at your house for to-night?'

'To-night, certainly. And you leave to-morrow morning early?' She spokeanxiously, for on no account did she wish him to make furtherdiscoveries. 'My husband is so seriously ill, ' she continued, 'that myabsence and Betty's on your arrival is naturally accounted for. '

He promised to leave early, and to write to her soon. 'And when I thinkthe time is ripe, ' he said, 'I'll write to her. I may have something totell her that will bring her to graciousness. '

It was about one o'clock in the morning when Mrs. Dornell reached Falls-Park. A double blow awaited her there. Betty had not arrived; herflight had been elsewhither; and her stricken mother divined with whom. She ascended to the bedside of her husband, where to her concern shefound that the physician had given up all hope. The Squire was sinking, and his extreme weakness had almost changed his character, except in theparticular that his old obstinacy sustained him in a refusal to see aclergyman. He shed tears at the least word, and sobbed at the sight ofhis wife. He asked for Betty, and it was with a heavy heart that Mrs. Dornell told him that the girl had not accompanied her. 

'He is not keeping her away?'

'No, no. He is going back--he is not coming to her for some time. '

'Then what is detaining her--cruel, neglectful maid!'

'No, no, Thomas; she is-- She could not come. '

'How's that?'

Somehow the solemnity of these last moments of his gave him inquisitorialpower, and the too cold wife could not conceal from him the flight whichhad taken place from King's-Hintock that night. 

To her amazement, the effect upon him was electrical. 

'What--Betty--a trump after all? Hurrah! She's her father's own maid!She's game! She knew he was her father's own choice! She vowed that myman should win! Well done, Bet!--haw! haw! Hurrah!'

He had raised himself in bed by starts as he spoke, and now fell backexhausted. He never uttered another word, and died before the dawn. People said there had not been such an ungenteel death in a good countyfamily for years. 

* * * * *

Now I will go back to the time of Betty's riding off on the pillionbehind her lover. They left the park by an obscure gate to the east, andpresently found themselves in the lonely and solitary length of the oldRoman road now called Long-Ash Lane. 

By this time they were rather alarmed at their own performance, for theywere both young and inexperienced. Hence they proceeded almost insilence till they came to a mean roadside inn which was not yet closed;when Betty, who had held on to him with much misgiving all this while, felt dreadfully unwell, and said she thought she would like to get down. 

They accordingly dismounted from the jaded animal that had brought them, and were shown into a small dark parlour, where they stood side by sideawkwardly, like the fugitives they were. A light was brought, and whenthey were left alone Betty threw off the cloak which had enveloped her. No sooner did young Phelipson see her face than he uttered an alarmedexclamation. 

'Why, Lord, Lord, you are sickening for the small-pox!' he cried. 

'Oh--I forgot!' faltered Betty. And then she informed him that, onhearing of her husband's approach the week before, in a desperate attemptto keep him from her side, she had tried to imbibe the infection--an actwhich till this moment she had supposed to have been ineffectual, imagining her feverishness to be the result of her excitement. 

The effect of this discovery upon young Phelipson was overwhelming. Better-seasoned men than he would not have been proof against it, and hewas only a little over her own age. 'And you've been holding on to me!'he said. 'And suppose you get worse, and we both have it, what shall wedo? Won't you be a fright in a month or two, poor, poor Betty!'

In his horror he attempted to laugh, but the laugh ended in a weaklygiggle. She was more woman than girl by this time, and realized hisfeeling. 

'What--in trying to keep off him, I keep off you?' she said miserably. 'Do you hate me because I am going to be ugly and ill?'

'Oh--no, no!' he said soothingly. 'But I--I am thinking if it is quiteright for us to do this. You see, dear Betty, if you was not married itwould be different. You are not in honour married to him we've oftensaid; still you are his by law, and you can't be mine whilst he's alive. And with this terrible sickness coming on, perhaps you had better let metake you back, and--climb in at the window again. '

'Is _this_ your love?' said Betty reproachfully. 'Oh, if you wassickening for the plague itself, and going to be as ugly as the Ooser inthe church-vestry, I wouldn't--'

'No, no, you mistake, upon my soul!'

But Betty with a swollen heart had rewrapped herself and gone out of thedoor. The horse was still standing there. She mounted by the help ofthe upping-stock, and when he had followed her she said, 'Do not comenear me, Charley; but please lead the horse, so that if you've not caughtanything already you'll not catch it going back. After all, what keepsoff you may keep off him. Now onward. '

He did not resist her command, and back they went by the way they hadcome, Betty shedding bitter tears at the retribution she had alreadybrought upon herself; for though she had reproached Phelipson, she wasstaunch enough not to blame him in her secret heart for showing that hislove was only skin-deep. The horse was stopped in the plantation, andthey walked silently to the lawn, reaching the bushes wherein the ladderstill lay. 

'Will you put it up for me?' she asked mournfully. 

He re-erected the ladder without a word; but when she approached toascend he said, 'Good-bye, Betty!'

'Good-bye!' said she; and involuntarily turned her face towards his. Hehung back from imprinting the expected kiss: at which Betty started as ifshe had received a poignant wound. She moved away so suddenly that hehardly had time to follow her up the ladder to prevent her falling. 

'Tell your mother to get the doctor at once!' he said anxiously. 

She stepped in without looking behind; he descended, withdrew the ladder, and went away. 

Alone in her chamber, Betty flung herself upon her face on the bed, andburst into shaking sobs. Yet she would not admit to herself that herlover's conduct was unreasonable; only that her rash act of the previousweek had been wrong. No one had heard her enter, and she was too wornout, in body and mind, to think or care about medical aid. In an hour orso she felt yet more unwell, positively ill; and nobody coming to her atthe usual bedtime, she looked towards the door. Marks of the lock havingbeen forced were visible, and this made her chary of summoning a servant. She opened the door cautiously and sallied forth downstairs. 

In the dining-parlour, as it was called, the now sick and sorry Betty wasstartled to see at that late hour not her mother, but a man sitting, calmly finishing his supper. There was no servant in the room. Heturned, and she recognized her husband. 

'Where's my mamma?' she demanded without preface. 

'Gone to your father's. Is that--' He stopped, aghast. 

'Yes, sir. This spotted object is your wife! I've done it because Idon't want you to come near me!'

He was sixteen years her senior; old enough to be compassionate. 'Mypoor child, you must get to bed directly! Don't be afraid of me--I'llcarry you upstairs, and send for a doctor instantly. '

'Ah, you don't know what I am!' she cried. 'I had a lover once; but nowhe's gone! 'Twasn't I who deserted him. He has deserted me; because Iam ill he wouldn't kiss me, though I wanted him to!'

'Wouldn't he? Then he was a very poor slack-twisted sort of fellow. Betty, _I've_ never kissed you since you stood beside me as my littlewife, twelve years and a half old! May I kiss you now?'

Though Betty by no means desired his kisses, she had enough of the spiritof Cunigonde in Schiller's ballad to test his daring. 'If you havecourage to venture, yes sir!' said she. 'But you may die for it, mind!'

He came up to her and imprinted a deliberate kiss full upon her mouth, saying, 'May many others follow!'

She shook her head, and hastily withdrew, though secretly pleased at hishardihood. The excitement had supported her for the few minutes she hadpassed in his presence, and she could hardly drag herself back to herroom. Her husband summoned the servants, and, sending them to herassistance, went off himself for a doctor. 

The next morning Reynard waited at the Court till he had learnt from themedical man that Betty's attack promised to be a very light one--or, asit was expressed, 'very fine'; and in taking his leave sent up a note toher:

'Now I must be Gone. I promised your Mother I would not see You yet, andshe may be anger'd if she finds me here. Promise to see me as Soon asyou are well?'

He was of all men then living one of the best able to cope with such anuntimely situation as this. A contriving, sagacious, gentle-manneredman, a philosopher who saw that the only constant attribute of life ischange, he held that, as long as she lives, there is nothing finite inthe most impassioned attitude a woman may take up. In twelve months hisgirl-wife's recent infatuation might be as distasteful to her mind as itwas now to his own. In a few years her very flesh would change--so saidthe scientific;--her spirit, so much more ephemeral, was capable ofchanging in one. Betty was his, and it became a mere question of meanshow to effect that change. 

During the day Mrs. Dornell, having closed her husband's eyes, returnedto the Court. She was truly relieved to find Betty there, even though ona bed of sickness. The disease ran its course, and in due time Bettybecame convalescent, without having suffered deeply for her rashness, onelittle speck beneath her ear, and one beneath her chin, being all themarks she retained. 

The Squire's body was not brought back to King's-Hintock. Where he wasborn, and where he had lived before wedding his Sue, there he had wishedto be buried. No sooner had she lost him than Mrs. Dornell, like certainother wives, though she had never shown any great affection for him whilehe lived, awoke suddenly to his many virtues, and zealously embraced hisopinion about delaying Betty's union with her husband, which she hadformerly combated strenuously. 'Poor man! how right he was, and howwrong was I!' Eighteen was certainly the lowest age at which Mr. Reynardshould claim her child--nay, it was too low! Far too low!

So desirous was she of honouring her lamented husband's sentiments inthis respect, that she wrote to her son-in-law suggesting that, partly onaccount of Betty's sorrow for her father's loss, and out of considerationfor his known wishes for delay, Betty should not be taken from her tillher nineteenth birthday. 

However much or little Stephen Reynard might have been to blame in hismarriage, the patient man now almost deserved to be pitied. FirstBetty's skittishness; now her mother's remorseful _volte-face_: it wasenough to exasperate anybody; and he wrote to the widow in a tone whichled to a little coolness between those hitherto firm friends. However, knowing that he had a wife not to claim but to win, and that youngPhelipson had been packed off to sea by his parents, Stephen wascomplaisant to a degree, returning to London, and holding quite alooffrom Betty and her mother, who remained for the present in the country. In town he had a mild visitation of the distemper he had taken fromBetty, and in writing to her he took care not to dwell upon its mildness. It was now that Betty began to pity him for what she had inflicted uponhim by the kiss, and her correspondence acquired a distinct flavour ofkindness thenceforward. 

Owing to his rebuffs, Reynard had grown to be truly in love with Betty inhis mild, placid, durable way--in that way which perhaps, upon the whole, tends most generally to the woman's comfort under the institution ofmarriage, if not particularly to her ecstasy. Mrs. Dornell'sexaggeration of her husband's wish for delay in their living together wasinconvenient, but he would not openly infringe it. He wrote tenderly toBetty, and soon announced that he had a little surprise in store for her. The secret was that the King had been graciously pleased to inform himprivately, through a relation, that His Majesty was about to offer him aBarony. Would she like the title to be Ivell? Moreover, he had reasonfor knowing that in a few years the dignity would be raised to that of anEarl, for which creation he thought the title of Wessex would beeminently suitable, considering the position of much of their property. As Lady Ivell, therefore, and future Countess of Wessex, he should begleave to offer her his heart a third time. 

He did not add, as he might have added, how greatly the consideration ofthe enormous estates at King's-Hintock and elsewhere which Betty wouldinherit, and her children after her, had conduced to this desirablehonour. 

Whether the impending titles had really any effect upon Betty's regardfor him I cannot state, for she was one of those close characters whonever let their minds be known upon anything. That such honour wasabsolutely unexpected by her from such a quarter is, however, certain;and she could not deny that Stephen had shown her kindness, forbearance, even magnanimity; had forgiven her for an errant passion which he mightwith some reason have denounced, notwithstanding her cruel position as achild entrapped into marriage ere able to understand its bearings. 

Her mother, in her grief and remorse for the loveless life she had ledwith her rough, though open-hearted, husband, made now a creed of hismerest whim; and continued to insist that, out of respect to his knowndesire, her son-in-law should not reside with Betty till the girl'sfather had been dead a year at least, at which time the girl would stillbe under nineteen. Letters must suffice for Stephen till then. 

'It is rather long for him to wait, ' Betty hesitatingly said one day. 

'What!' said her mother. 'From _you_? not to respect your dear father--'

'Of course it is quite proper, ' said Betty hastily. 'I don't gainsay it. I was but thinking that--that--'

In the long slow months of the stipulated interval her mother tended andtrained Betty carefully for her duties. Fully awake now to the manyvirtues of her dear departed one, she, among other acts of pious devotionto his memory, rebuilt the church of King's-Hintock village, andestablished valuable charities in all the villages of that name, as faras to Little-Hintock, several miles eastward. 

In superintending these works, particularly that of the church-building, her daughter Betty was her constant companion, and the incidents of theirexecution were doubtless not without a soothing effect upon the youngcreature's heart. She had sprung from girl to woman by a sudden bound, and few would have recognized in the thoughtful face of Betty now thesame person who, the year before, had seemed to have absolutely no ideawhatever of responsibility, moral or other. Time passed thus till theSquire had been nearly a year in his vault; and Mrs. Dornell was dulyasked by letter by the patient Reynard if she were willing for him tocome soon. He did not wish to take Betty away if her mother's sense ofloneliness would be too great, but would willingly live at King's-Hintockawhile with them. 

Before the widow had replied to this communication, she one day happenedto observe Betty walking on the south terrace in the full sunlight, without hat or mantle, and was struck by her child's figure. Mrs. Dornell called her in, and said suddenly: 'Have you seen your husbandsince the time of your poor father's death?'

'Well--yes, mamma, ' says Betty, colouring. 

'What--against my wishes and those of your dear father! I am shocked atyour disobedience!'

'But my father said eighteen, ma'am, and you made it much longer--'

'Why, of course--out of consideration for you! When have ye seen him?'

'Well, ' stammered Betty, 'in the course of his letters to me he said thatI belonged to him, and if nobody knew that we met it would make nodifference. And that I need not hurt your feelings by telling you. '

'Well?'

'So I went to Casterbridge that time you went to London about five monthsago--'

'And met him there? When did you come back?'

'Dear mamma, it grew very late, and he said it was safer not to go backtill next day, as the roads were bad; and as you were away from home--'

'I don't want to hear any more! This is your respect for your father'smemory, ' groaned the widow. 'When did you meet him again?'

'Oh--not for more than a fortnight. '

'A fortnight! How many times have ye seen him altogether?'

'I'm sure, mamma, I've not seen him altogether a dozen times. '

'A dozen! And eighteen and a half years old barely!'

'Twice we met by accident, ' pleaded Betty. 'Once at Abbot's-Cernel, andanother time at the Red Lion, Melchester. '

'O thou deceitful girl!' cried Mrs. Dornell. 'An accident took you tothe Red Lion whilst I was staying at the White Hart! I remember--youcame in at twelve o'clock at night and said you'd been to see thecathedral by the light o' the moon!'

'My ever-honoured mamma, so I had! I only went to the Red Lion with himafterwards. '

'Oh Betty, Betty! That my child should have deceived me even in mywidowed days!'

'But, my dearest mamma, you made me marry him!' says Betty with spirit, 'and of course I've to obey him more than you now!'

Mrs. Dornell sighed. 'All I have to say is, that you'd better get yourhusband to join you as soon as possible, ' she remarked. 'To go onplaying the maiden like this--I'm ashamed to see you!'

She wrote instantly to Stephen Reynard: 'I wash my hands of the wholematter as between you two; though I should advise you to _openly_ joineach other as soon as you can--if you wish to avoid scandal. '

He came, though not till the promised title had been granted, and hecould call Betty archly 'My Lady. '

People said in after years that she and her husband were very happy. However that may be, they had a numerous family; and she became in duecourse first Countess of Wessex, as he had foretold. 

The little white frock in which she had been married to him at the tenderage of twelve was carefully preserved among the relics at King's-HintockCourt, where it may still be seen by the curious--a yellowing, pathetictestimony to the small count taken of the happiness of an innocent childin the social strategy of those days, which might have led, butprovidentially did not lead, to great unhappiness. 

When the Earl died Betty wrote him an epitaph, in which she described himas the best of husbands, fathers, and friends, and called herself hisdisconsolate widow. 

Such is woman; or rather (not to give offence by so sweeping anassertion), such was Betty Dornell. 

* * * * *

It was at a meeting of one of the Wessex Field and Antiquarian Clubs thatthe foregoing story, partly told, partly read from a manuscript, was madeto do duty for the regulation papers on deformed butterflies, fossil ox-horns, prehistoric dung-mixens, and such like, that usually occupied themore serious attention of the members. 

This Club was of an inclusive and intersocial character; to a degree, indeed, remarkable for the part of England in which it had itsbeing--dear, delightful Wessex, whose statuesque dynasties are even nowonly just beginning to feel the shaking of the new and strange spiritwithout, like that which entered the lonely valley of Ezekiel's visionand made the dry bones move: where the honest squires, tradesmen, parsons, clerks, and people still praise the Lord with one voice for Hisbest of all possible worlds. 

The present meeting, which was to extend over two days, had opened itsproceedings at the museum of the town whose buildings and environs wereto be visited by the members. Lunch had ended, and the afternoonexcursion had been about to be undertaken, when the rain came down in anobstinate spatter, which revealed no sign of cessation. As the memberswaited they grew chilly, although it was only autumn, and a fire waslighted, which threw a cheerful shine upon the varnished skulls, urns, penates, tesserae, costumes, coats of mail, weapons, and missals, animated the fossilized ichthyosaurus and iguanodon; while the dead eyesof the stuffed birds--those never-absent familiars in such collections, though murdered to extinction out of doors--flashed as they had flashedto the rising sun above the neighbouring moors on the fatal morning whenthe trigger was pulled which ended their little flight. It was then thatthe historian produced his manuscript, which he had prepared, he said, with a view to publication. His delivery of the story having concludedas aforesaid, the speaker expressed his hope that the constraint of theweather, and the paucity of more scientific papers, would excuse anyinappropriateness in his subject. 

Several members observed that a storm-bound club could not presume to beselective, and they were all very much obliged to him for such a curiouschapter from the domestic histories of the county. 

The President looked gloomily from the window at the descending rain, andbroke a short silence by saying that though the Club had met, thereseemed little probability of its being able to visit the objects ofinterest set down among the _agenda_. 

The Treasurer observed that they had at least a roof over their heads;and they had also a second day before them. 

A sentimental member, leaning back in his chair, declared that he was inno hurry to go out, and that nothing would please him so much as anothercounty story, with or without manuscript. 

The Colonel added that the subject should be a lady, like the former, towhich a gentleman known as the Spark said 'Hear, hear!'

Though these had spoken in jest, a rural dean who was present observedblandly that there was no lack of materials. Many, indeed, were thelegends and traditions of gentle and noble dames, renowned in times pastin that part of England, whose actions and passions were now, but formen's memories, buried under the brief inscription on a tomb or an entryof dates in a dry pedigree. 

Another member, an old surgeon, a somewhat grim though sociablepersonage, was quite of the speaker's opinion, and felt quite sure thatthe memory of the reverend gentleman must abound with such curious talesof fair dames, of their loves and hates, their joys and theirmisfortunes, their beauty and their fate. 

The parson, a trifle confused, retorted that their friend the surgeon, the son of a surgeon, seemed to him, as a man who had seen much and heardmore during the long course of his own and his father's practice, themember of all others most likely to be acquainted with such lore. 

The bookworm, the Colonel, the historian, the Vice-president, thechurchwarden, the two curates, the gentleman-tradesman, the sentimentalmember, the crimson maltster, the quiet gentleman, the man of family, theSpark, and several others, quite agreed, and begged that he would recallsomething of the kind. The old surgeon said that, though a meeting ofthe Mid-Wessex Field and Antiquarian Club was the last place at which heshould have expected to be called upon in this way, he had no objection;and the parson said he would come next. The surgeon then reflected, anddecided to relate the history of a lady named Barbara, who lived towardsthe end of the last century, apologizing for his tale as being perhaps alittle too professional. The crimson maltster winked to the Spark athearing the nature of the apology, and the surgeon began. 

DAME THE SECOND--BARBARA OF THE HOUSE OF GREBEBy the Old Surgeon

It was apparently an idea, rather than a passion, that inspired LordUplandtowers' resolve to win her. Nobody ever knew when he formed it, orwhence he got his assurance of success in the face of her manifestdislike of him. Possibly not until after that first important act of herlife which I shall presently mention. His matured and cynical doggednessat the age of nineteen, when impulse mostly rules calculation, wasremarkable, and might have owed its existence as much to his successionto the earldom and its accompanying local honours in childhood, as to thefamily character; an elevation which jerked him into maturity, so tospeak, without his having known adolescence. He had only reached histwelfth year when his father, the fourth Earl, died, after a course ofthe Bath waters. 

Nevertheless, the family character had a great deal to do with it. Determination was hereditary in the bearers of that escutcheon; sometimesfor good, sometimes for evil. 

The seats of the two families were about ten miles apart, the way betweenthem lying along the now old, then new, turnpike-road connectingHavenpool and Warborne with the city of Melchester: a road which, thoughonly a branch from what was known as the Great Western Highway, isprobably, even at present, as it has been for the last hundred years, oneof the finest examples of a macadamized turnpike-track that can be foundin England. 

The mansion of the Earl, as well as that of his neighbour, Barbara'sfather, stood back about a mile from the highway, with which each wasconnected by an ordinary drive and lodge. It was along this particularhighway that the young Earl drove on a certain evening at Christmastidesome twenty years before the end of the last century, to attend a ball atChene Manor, the home of Barbara, and her parents Sir John and LadyGrebe. Sir John's was a baronetcy created a few years before thebreaking out of the Civil War, and his lands were even more extensivethan those of Lord Uplandtowers himself; comprising this Manor of Chene, another on the coast near, half the Hundred of Cockdene, andwell-enclosed lands in several other parishes, notably Warborne and thosecontiguous. At this time Barbara was barely seventeen, and the ball isthe first occasion on which we have any tradition of Lord Uplandtowersattempting tender relations with her; it was early enough, God knows. 

An intimate friend--one of the Drenkhards--is said to have dined with himthat day, and Lord Uplandtowers had, for a wonder, communicated to hisguest the secret design of his heart. 

'You'll never get her--sure; you'll never get her!' this friend had saidat parting. 'She's not drawn to your lordship by love: and as forthought of a good match, why, there's no more calculation in her than ina bird. '

'We'll see, ' said Lord Uplandtowers impassively. 

He no doubt thought of his friend's forecast as he travelled along thehighway in his chariot; but the sculptural repose of his profile againstthe vanishing daylight on his right hand would have shown his friend thatthe Earl's equanimity was undisturbed. He reached the solitary waysidetavern called Lornton Inn--the rendezvous of many a daring poacher foroperations in the adjoining forest; and he might have observed, if he hadtaken the trouble, a strange post-chaise standing in the halting-spacebefore the inn. He duly sped past it, and half-an-hour after through thelittle town of Warborne. Onward, a mile farther, was the house of hisentertainer. 

At this date it was an imposing edifice--or, rather, congeries ofedifices--as extensive as the residence of the Earl himself; though farless regular. One wing showed extreme antiquity, having huge chimneys, whose substructures projected from the external walls like towers; and akitchen of vast dimensions, in which (it was said) breakfasts had beencooked for John of Gaunt. Whilst he was yet in the forecourt he couldhear the rhythm of French horns and clarionets, the favourite instrumentsof those days at such entertainments. 

Entering the long parlour, in which the dance had just been opened byLady Grebe with a minuet--it being now seven o'clock, according to thetradition--he was received with a welcome befitting his rank, and lookedround for Barbara. She was not dancing, and seemed to bepreoccupied--almost, indeed, as though she had been waiting for him. Barbara at this time was a good and pretty girl, who never spoke ill ofany one, and hated other pretty women the very least possible. She didnot refuse him for the country-dance which followed, and soon after washis partner in a second. 

The evening wore on, and the horns and clarionets tootled merrily. Barbara evinced towards her lover neither distinct preference noraversion; but old eyes would have seen that she pondered something. However, after supper she pleaded a headache, and disappeared. To passthe time of her absence, Lord Uplandtowers went into a little roomadjoining the long gallery, where some elderly ones were sitting by thefire--for he had a phlegmatic dislike of dancing for its own sake, --and, lifting the window-curtains, he looked out of the window into the parkand wood, dark now as a cavern. Some of the guests appeared to beleaving even so soon as this, two lights showing themselves as turningaway from the door and sinking to nothing in the distance. 

His hostess put her head into the room to look for partners for theladies, and Lord Uplandtowers came out. Lady Grebe informed him thatBarbara had not returned to the ball-room: she had gone to bed in sheernecessity. 

'She has been so excited over the ball all day, ' her mother continued, 'that I feared she would be worn out early . . . But sure, LordUplandtowers, you won't be leaving yet?'

He said that it was near twelve o'clock, and that some had already left. 

'I protest nobody has gone yet, ' said Lady Grebe. 

To humour her he stayed till midnight, and then set out. He had made noprogress in his suit; but he had assured himself that Barbara gave noother guest the preference, and nearly everybody in the neighbourhood wasthere. 

''Tis only a matter of time, ' said the calm young philosopher. 

The next morning he lay till near ten o'clock, and he had only just comeout upon the head of the staircase when he heard hoofs upon the gravelwithout; in a few moments the door had been opened, and Sir John Grebemet him in the hall, as he set foot on the lowest stair. 

'My lord--where's Barbara--my daughter?'

Even the Earl of Uplandtowers could not repress amazement. 'What's thematter, my dear Sir John, ' says he. 

The news was startling, indeed. From the Baronet's disjointedexplanation Lord Uplandtowers gathered that after his own and the otherguests' departure Sir John and Lady Grebe had gone to rest without seeingany more of Barbara; it being understood by them that she had retired tobed when she sent word to say that she could not join the dancers again. Before then she had told her maid that she would dispense with herservices for this night; and there was evidence to show that the younglady had never lain down at all, the bed remaining unpressed. Circumstances seemed to prove that the deceitful girl had feignedindisposition to get an excuse for leaving the ball-room, and that shehad left the house within ten minutes, presumably during the first danceafter supper. 

'I saw her go, ' said Lord Uplandtowers. 

'The devil you did!' says Sir John. 

'Yes. ' And he mentioned the retreating carriage-lights, and how he wasassured by Lady Grebe that no guest had departed. 

'Surely that was it!' said the father. 'But she's not gone alone, d'yeknow!'

'Ah--who is the young man?'

'I can on'y guess. My worst fear is my most likely guess. I'll say nomore. I thought--yet I would not believe--it possible that you was thesinner. Would that you had been! But 'tis t'other, 'tis t'other, by G---!I must e'en up, and after 'em!'

'Whom do you suspect?'

Sir John would not give a name, and, stultified rather than agitated, Lord Uplandtowers accompanied him back to Chene. He again asked uponwhom were the Baronet's suspicions directed; and the impulsive Sir Johnwas no match for the insistence of Uplandtowers. 

He said at length, 'I fear 'tis Edmond Willowes. '

'Who's he?'

'A young fellow of Shottsford-Forum--a widow-woman's son, ' the other toldhim, and explained that Willowes's father, or grandfather, was the lastof the old glass-painters in that place, where (as you may know) the artlingered on when it had died out in every other part of England. 

'By G--- that's bad--mighty bad!' said Lord Uplandtowers, throwinghimself back in the chaise in frigid despair. 

They despatched emissaries in all directions; one by the Melchester Road, another by Shottsford-Forum, another coastwards. 

But the lovers had a ten-hours' start; and it was apparent that soundjudgment had been exercised in choosing as their time of flight theparticular night when the movements of a strange carriage would not benoticed, either in the park or on the neighbouring highway, owing to thegeneral press of vehicles. The chaise which had been seen waiting atLornton Inn was, no doubt, the one they had escaped in; and the pair ofheads which had planned so cleverly thus far had probably contrivedmarriage ere now. 

The fears of her parents were realized. A letter sent by specialmessenger from Barbara, on the evening of that day, briefly informed themthat her lover and herself were on the way to London, and before thiscommunication reached her home they would be united as husband and wife. She had taken this extreme step because she loved her dear Edmond as shecould love no other man, and because she had seen closing round her thedoom of marriage with Lord Uplandtowers, unless she put that threatenedfate out of possibility by doing as she had done. She had wellconsidered the step beforehand, and was prepared to live like any othercountry-townsman's wife if her father repudiated her for her action. 

'D--- her!' said Lord Uplandtowers, as he drove homeward that night. 'D---her for a fool!'--which shows the kind of love he bore her. 

Well; Sir John had already started in pursuit of them as a matter ofduty, driving like a wild man to Melchester, and thence by the directhighway to the capital. But he soon saw that he was acting to nopurpose; and by and by, discovering that the marriage had actually takenplace, he forebore all attempts to unearth them in the City, and returnedand sat down with his lady to digest the event as best they could. 

To proceed against this Willowes for the abduction of our heiress was, possibly, in their power; yet, when they considered the now unalterablefacts, they refrained from violent retribution. Some six weeks passed, during which time Barbara's parents, though they keenly felt her loss, held no communication with the truant, either for reproach orcondonation. They continued to think of the disgrace she had broughtupon herself; for, though the young man was an honest fellow, and the sonof an honest father, the latter had died so early, and his widow had hadsuch struggles to maintain herself; that the son was very imperfectlyeducated. Moreover, his blood was, as far as they knew, of nodistinction whatever, whilst hers, through her mother, was compounded ofthe best juices of ancient baronial distillation, containing tinctures ofMaundeville, and Mohun, and Syward, and Peverell, and Culliford, andTalbot, and Plantagenet, and York, and Lancaster, and God knows whatbesides, which it was a thousand pities to throw away. 

The father and mother sat by the fireplace that was spanned by the four-centred arch bearing the family shields on its haunches, and groanedaloud--the lady more than Sir John. 

'To think this should have come upon us in our old age!' said he. 

'Speak for yourself!' she snapped through her sobs. 'I am only one-and-forty! . . . Why didn't ye ride faster and overtake 'em!'

In the meantime the young married lovers, caring no more about theirblood than about ditch-water, were intensely happy--happy, that is, inthe descending scale which, as we all know, Heaven in its wisdom hasordained for such rash cases; that is to say, the first week they were inthe seventh heaven, the second in the sixth, the third week temperate, the fourth reflective, and so on; a lover's heart after possession beingcomparable to the earth in its geologic stages, as described to ussometimes by our worthy President; first a hot coal, then a warm one, then a cooling cinder, then chilly--the simile shall be pursued nofurther. The long and the short of it was that one day a letter, sealedwith their daughter's own little seal, came into Sir John and LadyGrebe's hands; and, on opening it, they found it to contain an appealfrom the young couple to Sir John to forgive them for what they had done, and they would fall on their naked knees and be most dutiful children forevermore. 

Then Sir John and his lady sat down again by the fireplace with the four-centred arch, and consulted, and re-read the letter. Sir John Grebe, ifthe truth must be told, loved his daughter's happiness far more, poorman, than he loved his name and lineage; he recalled to his mind all herlittle ways, gave vent to a sigh; and, by this time acclimatized to theidea of the marriage, said that what was done could not be undone, andthat he supposed they must not be too harsh with her. Perhaps Barbaraand her husband were in actual need; and how could they let their onlychild starve?

A slight consolation had come to them in an unexpected manner. They hadbeen credibly informed that an ancestor of plebeian Willowes was oncehonoured with intermarriage with a scion of the aristocracy who had goneto the dogs. In short, such is the foolishness of distinguished parents, and sometimes of others also, that they wrote that very day to theaddress Barbara had given them, informing her that she might return homeand bring her husband with her; they would not object to see him, wouldnot reproach her, and would endeavour to welcome both, and to discusswith them what could best be arranged for their future. 

In three or four days a rather shabby post-chaise drew up at the door ofChene Manor-house, at sound of which the tender-hearted baronet and hiswife ran out as if to welcome a prince and princess of the blood. Theywere overjoyed to see their spoilt child return safe and sound--thoughshe was only Mrs. Willowes, wife of Edmond Willowes of nowhere. Barbaraburst into penitential tears, and both husband and wife were contriteenough, as well they might be, considering that they had not a guinea tocall their own. 

When the four had calmed themselves, and not a word of chiding had beenuttered to the pair, they discussed the position soberly, young Willowessitting in the background with great modesty till invited forward by LadyGrebe in no frigid tone. 

'How handsome he is!' she said to herself. 'I don't wonder at Barbara'scraze for him. '

He was, indeed, one of the handsomest men who ever set his lips on amaid's. A blue coat, murrey waistcoat, and breeches of drab set off afigure that could scarcely be surpassed. He had large dark eyes, anxiousnow, as they glanced from Barbara to her parents and tenderly back againto her; observing whom, even now in her trepidation, one could see whythe _sang froid_ of Lord Uplandtowers had been raised to more thanlukewarmness. Her fair young face (according to the tale handed down byold women) looked out from under a gray conical hat, trimmed with whiteostrich-feathers, and her little toes peeped from a buff petticoat wornunder a puce gown. Her features were not regular: they were almostinfantine, as you may see from miniatures in possession of the family, her mouth showing much sensitiveness, and one could be sure that herfaults would not lie on the side of bad temper unless for urgent reasons. 

Well, they discussed their state as became them, and the desire of theyoung couple to gain the goodwill of those upon whom they were literallydependent for everything induced them to agree to any temporizing measurethat was not too irksome. Therefore, having been nearly two monthsunited, they did not oppose Sir John's proposal that he should furnishEdmond Willowes with funds sufficient for him to travel a year on theContinent in the company of a tutor, the young man undertaking to lendhimself with the utmost diligence to the tutor's instructions, till hebecame polished outwardly and inwardly to the degree required in thehusband of such a lady as Barbara. He was to apply himself to the studyof languages, manners, history, society, ruins, and everything else thatcame under his eyes, till he should return to take his place withoutblushing by Barbara's side. 

'And by that time, ' said worthy Sir John, 'I'll get my little place outat Yewsholt ready for you and Barbara to occupy on your return. Thehouse is small and out of the way; but it will do for a young couple fora while. '

'If 'twere no bigger than a summer-house it would do!' says Barbara. 

'If 'twere no bigger than a sedan-chair!' says Willowes. 'And the morelonely the better. '

'We can put up with the loneliness, ' said Barbara, with less zest. 'Somefriends will come, no doubt. '

All this being laid down, a travelled tutor was called in--a man of manygifts and great experience, --and on a fine morning away tutor and pupilwent. A great reason urged against Barbara accompanying her youthfulhusband was that his attentions to her would naturally be such as toprevent his zealously applying every hour of his time to learning andseeing--an argument of wise prescience, and unanswerable. Regular daysfor letter-writing were fixed, Barbara and her Edmond exchanged theirlast kisses at the door, and the chaise swept under the archway into thedrive. 

He wrote to her from Le Havre, as soon as he reached that port, which wasnot for seven days, on account of adverse winds; he wrote from Rouen, andfrom Paris; described to her his sight of the King and Court atVersailles, and the wonderful marble-work and mirrors in that palace;wrote next from Lyons; then, after a comparatively long interval, fromTurin, narrating his fearful adventures in crossing Mont Cenis on mules, and how he was overtaken with a terrific snowstorm, which had well-nighbeen the end of him, and his tutor, and his guides. Then he wroteglowingly of Italy; and Barbara could see the development of herhusband's mind reflected in his letters month by month; and she muchadmired the forethought of her father in suggesting this education forEdmond. Yet she sighed sometimes--her husband being no longer inevidence to fortify her in her choice of him--and timidly dreaded whatmortifications might be in store for her by reason of this _mesalliance_. She went out very little; for on the one or two occasions on which shehad shown herself to former friends she noticed a distinct difference intheir manner, as though they should say, 'Ah, my happy swain's wife;you're caught!'

Edmond's letters were as affectionate as ever; even more affectionate, after a while, than hers were to him. Barbara observed this growingcoolness in herself; and like a good and honest lady was horrified andgrieved, since her only wish was to act faithfully and uprightly. Ittroubled her so much that she prayed for a warmer heart, and at lastwrote to her husband to beg him, now that he was in the land of Art, tosend her his portrait, ever so small, that she might look at it all dayand every day, and never for a moment forget his features. 

Willowes was nothing loth, and replied that he would do more than shewished: he had made friends with a sculptor in Pisa, who was muchinterested in him and his history; and he had commissioned this artist tomake a bust of himself in marble, which when finished he would send her. What Barbara had wanted was something immediate; but she expressed noobjection to the delay; and in his next communication Edmund told herthat the sculptor, of his own choice, had decided to increase the bust toa full-length statue, so anxious was he to get a specimen of his skillintroduced to the notice of the English aristocracy. It was progressingwell, and rapidly. 

Meanwhile, Barbara's attention began to be occupied at home with YewsholtLodge, the house that her kind-hearted father was preparing for herresidence when her husband returned. It was a small place on the plan ofa large one--a cottage built in the form of a mansion, having a centralhall with a wooden gallery running round it, and rooms no bigger thanclosets to follow this introduction. It stood on a slope so solitary, and surrounded by trees so dense, that the birds who inhabited the boughssang at strange hours, as if they hardly could distinguish night fromday. 

During the progress of repairs at this bower Barbara frequently visitedit. Though so secluded by the dense growth, it was near the high road, and one day while looking over the fence she saw Lord Uplandtowers ridingpast. He saluted her courteously, yet with mechanical stiffness, and didnot halt. Barbara went home, and continued to pray that she might nevercease to love her husband. After that she sickened, and did not come outof doors again for a long time. 

The year of education had extended to fourteen months, and the house wasin order for Edmond's return to take up his abode there with Barbara, when, instead of the accustomed letter for her, came one to Sir JohnGrebe in the handwriting of the said tutor, informing him of a terriblecatastrophe that had occurred to them at Venice. Mr Willowes and himselfhad attended the theatre one night during the Carnival of the precedingweek, to witness the Italian comedy, when, owing to the carelessness ofone of the candle-snuffers, the theatre had caught fire, and been burntto the ground. Few persons had lost their lives, owing to the superhumanexertions of some of the audience in getting out the senseless sufferers;and, among them all, he who had risked his own life the most heroicallywas Mr. Willowes. In re-entering for the fifth time to save his fellow-creatures some fiery beams had fallen upon him, and he had been given upfor lost. He was, however, by the blessing of Providence, recovered, with the life still in him, though he was fearfully burnt; and by almosta miracle he seemed likely to survive, his constitution being wondrouslysound. He was, of course, unable to write, but he was receiving theattention of several skilful surgeons. Further report would be made bythe next mail or by private hand. 

The tutor said nothing in detail of poor Willowes's sufferings, but assoon as the news was broken to Barbara she realized how intense they musthave been, and her immediate instinct was to rush to his side, though, onconsideration, the journey seemed impossible to her. Her health was byno means what it had been, and to post across Europe at that season ofthe year, or to traverse the Bay of Biscay in a sailing-craft, was anundertaking that would hardly be justified by the result. But she wasanxious to go till, on reading to the end of the letter, her husband'stutor was found to hint very strongly against such a step if it should becontemplated, this being also the opinion of the surgeons. And thoughWillowes's comrade refrained from giving his reasons, they disclosedthemselves plainly enough in the sequel. 

The truth was that the worst of the wounds resulting from the fire hadoccurred to his head and face--that handsome face which had won her heartfrom her, --and both the tutor and the surgeons knew that for a sensitiveyoung woman to see him before his wounds had healed would cause moremisery to her by the shock than happiness to him by her ministrations. 

Lady Grebe blurted out what Sir John and Barbara had thought, but had hadtoo much delicacy to express. 

'Sure, 'tis mighty hard for you, poor Barbara, that the one little gifthe had to justify your rash choice of him--his wonderful goodlooks--should be taken away like this, to leave 'ee no excuse at all foryour conduct in the world's eyes . . . Well, I wish you'd marriedt'other--that do I!' And the lady sighed. 

'He'll soon get right again, ' said her father soothingly. 

Such remarks as the above were not often made; but they were frequentenough to cause Barbara an uneasy sense of self-stultification. Shedetermined to hear them no longer; and the house at Yewsholt being readyand furnished, she withdrew thither with her maids, where for the firsttime she could feel mistress of a home that would be hers and herhusband's exclusively, when he came. 

After long weeks Willowes had recovered sufficiently to be able to writehimself; and slowly and tenderly he enlightened her upon the full extentof his injuries. It was a mercy, he said, that he had not lost his sightentirely; but he was thankful to say that he still retained full visionin one eye, though the other was dark for ever. The sparing manner inwhich he meted out particulars of his condition told Barbara howappalling had been his experience. He was grateful for her assurancethat nothing could change her; but feared she did not fully realize thathe was so sadly disfigured as to make it doubtful if she would recognizehim. However, in spite of all, his heart was as true to her as it everhad been. 

Barbara saw from his anxiety how much lay behind. She replied that shesubmitted to the decrees of Fate, and would welcome him in any shape assoon as he could come. She told him of the pretty retreat in which shehad taken up her abode, pending their joint occupation of it, and did notreveal how much she had sighed over the information that all his goodlooks were gone. Still less did she say that she felt a certainstrangeness in awaiting him, the weeks they had lived together havingbeen so short by comparison with the length of his absence. 

Slowly drew on the time when Willowes found himself well enough to comehome. He landed at Southampton, and posted thence towards Yewsholt. Barbara arranged to go out to meet him as far as Lornton Inn--the spotbetween the Forest and the Chase at which he had waited for night on theevening of their elopement. Thither she drove at the appointed hour in alittle pony-chaise, presented her by her father on her birthday for herespecial use in her new house; which vehicle she sent back on arriving atthe inn, the plan agreed upon being that she should perform the returnjourney with her husband in his hired coach. 

There was not much accommodation for a lady at this wayside tavern; but, as it was a fine evening in early summer, she did not mind--walking aboutoutside, and straining her eyes along the highway for the expected one. But each cloud of dust that enlarged in the distance and drew near wasfound to disclose a conveyance other than his post-chaise. Barbararemained till the appointment was two hours passed, and then began tofear that owing to some adverse wind in the Channel he was not comingthat night. 

While waiting she was conscious of a curious trepidation that was notentirely solicitude, and did not amount to dread; her tense state ofincertitude bordered both on disappointment and on relief. She had livedsix or seven weeks with an imperfectly educated yet handsome husband whomnow she had not seen for seventeen months, and who was so changedphysically by an accident that she was assured she would hardly know him. Can we wonder at her compound state of mind?

But her immediate difficulty was to get away from Lornton Inn, for hersituation was becoming embarrassing. Like too many of Barbara's actions, this drive had been undertaken without much reflection. Expecting towait no more than a few minutes for her husband in his post-chaise, andto enter it with him, she had not hesitated to isolate herself by sendingback her own little vehicle. She now found that, being so well known inthis neighbourhood, her excursion to meet her long-absent husband wasexciting great interest. She was conscious that more eyes were watchingher from the inn-windows than met her own gaze. Barbara had decided toget home by hiring whatever kind of conveyance the tavern afforded, when, straining her eyes for the last time over the now darkening highway, sheperceived yet another dust-cloud drawing near. She paused; a chariotascended to the inn, and would have passed had not its occupant caughtsight of her standing expectantly. The horses were checked on theinstant. 

'You here--and alone, my dear Mrs. Willowes?' said Lord Uplandtowers, whose carriage it was. 

She explained what had brought her into this lonely situation; and, as hewas going in the direction of her own home, she accepted his offer of aseat beside him. Their conversation was embarrassed and fragmentary atfirst; but when they had driven a mile or two she was surprised to findherself talking earnestly and warmly to him: her impulsiveness was intruth but the natural consequence of her late existence--a somewhatdesolate one by reason of the strange marriage she had made; and there isno more indiscreet mood than that of a woman surprised into talk who haslong been imposing upon herself a policy of reserve. Therefore heringenuous heart rose with a bound into her throat when, in response tohis leading questions, or rather hints, she allowed her troubles to leakout of her. Lord Uplandtowers took her quite to her own door, althoughhe had driven three miles out of his way to do so; and in handing herdown she heard from him a whisper of stern reproach: 'It need not havebeen thus if you had listened to me!'

She made no reply, and went indoors. There, as the evening wore away, she regretted more and more that she had been so friendly with LordUplandtowers. But he had launched himself upon her so unexpectedly: ifshe had only foreseen the meeting with him, what a careful line ofconduct she would have marked out! Barbara broke into a perspiration ofdisquiet when she thought of her unreserve, and, in self-chastisement, resolved to sit up till midnight on the bare chance of Edmond's return;directing that supper should be laid for him, improbable as his arrivaltill the morrow was. 

The hours went past, and there was dead silence in and round aboutYewsholt Lodge, except for the soughing of the trees; till, when it wasnear upon midnight, she heard the noise of hoofs and wheels approachingthe door. Knowing that it could only be her husband, Barbara instantlywent into the hall to meet him. Yet she stood there not without asensation of faintness, so many were the changes since their parting!And, owing to her casual encounter with Lord Uplandtowers, his voice andimage still remained with her, excluding Edmond, her husband, from theinner circle of her impressions. 

But she went to the door, and the next moment a figure stepped inside, ofwhich she knew the outline, but little besides. Her husband was attiredin a flapping black cloak and slouched hat, appearing altogether as aforeigner, and not as the young English burgess who had left her side. When he came forward into the light of the lamp, she perceived withsurprise, and almost with fright, that he wore a mask. At first she hadnot noticed this--there being nothing in its colour which would lead acasual observer to think he was looking on anything but a realcountenance. 

He must have seen her start of dismay at the unexpectedness of hisappearance, for he said hastily: 'I did not mean to come in to you likethis--I thought you would have been in bed. How good you are, dearBarbara!' He put his arm round her, but he did not attempt to kiss her. 

'O Edmond--it _is_ you?--it must be?' she said, with clasped hands, forthough his figure and movement were almost enough to prove it, and thetones were not unlike the old tones, the enunciation was so altered as toseem that of a stranger. 

'I am covered like this to hide myself from the curious eyes of the inn-servants and others, ' he said, in a low voice. 'I will send back thecarriage and join you in a moment. '

'You are quite alone?'

'Quite. My companion stopped at Southampton. '

The wheels of the post-chaise rolled away as she entered the dining-room, where the supper was spread; and presently he rejoined her there. He hadremoved his cloak and hat, but the mask was still retained; and she couldnow see that it was of special make, of some flexible material like silk, coloured so as to represent flesh; it joined naturally to the front hair, and was otherwise cleverly executed. 

'Barbara--you look ill, ' he said, removing his glove, and taking herhand. 

'Yes--I have been ill, ' said she. 

'Is this pretty little house ours?'

'O--yes. ' She was hardly conscious of her words, for the hand he hadungloved in order to take hers was contorted, and had one or two of itsfingers missing; while through the mask she discerned the twinkle of oneeye only. 

'I would give anything to kiss you, dearest, now, at this moment!' hecontinued, with mournful passionateness. 'But I cannot--in this guise. The servants are abed, I suppose?'

'Yes, ' said she. 'But I can call them? You will have some supper?'

He said he would have some, but that it was not necessary to call anybodyat that hour. Thereupon they approached the table, and sat down, facingeach other. 

Despite Barbara's scared state of mind, it was forced upon her noticethat her husband trembled, as if he feared the impression he wasproducing, or was about to produce, as much as, or more than, she. Hedrew nearer, and took her hand again. 

'I had this mask made at Venice, ' he began, in evident embarrassment. 'Mydarling Barbara--my dearest wife--do you think you--will mind when I takeit off? You will not dislike me--will you?'

'O Edmond, of course I shall not mind, ' said she. 'What has happened toyou is our misfortune; but I am prepared for it. '

'Are you sure you are prepared?'

'O yes! You are my husband. '

'You really feel quite confident that nothing external can affect you?'he said again, in a voice rendered uncertain by his agitation. 

'I think I am--quite, ' she answered faintly. 

He bent his head. 'I hope, I hope you are, ' he whispered. 

In the pause which followed, the ticking of the clock in the hall seemedto grow loud; and he turned a little aside to remove the mask. Shebreathlessly awaited the operation, which was one of some tediousness, watching him one moment, averting her face the next; and when it was doneshe shut her eyes at the hideous spectacle that was revealed. A quickspasm of horror had passed through her; but though she quailed she forcedherself to regard him anew, repressing the cry that would naturally haveescaped from her ashy lips. Unable to look at him longer, Barbara sankdown on the floor beside her chair, covering her eyes. 

'You cannot look at me!' he groaned in a hopeless way. 'I am tooterrible an object even for you to bear! I knew it; yet I hoped againstit. Oh, this is a bitter fate--curse the skill of those Venetiansurgeons who saved me alive! . . . Look up, Barbara, ' he continuedbeseechingly; 'view me completely; say you loathe me, if you do loatheme, and settle the case between us for ever!'

His unhappy wife pulled herself together for a desperate strain. He washer Edmond; he had done her no wrong; he had suffered. A momentarydevotion to him helped her, and lifting her eyes as bidden she regardedthis human remnant, this _ecorche_, a second time. But the sight was toomuch. She again involuntarily looked aside and shuddered. 

'Do you think you can get used to this?' he said. 'Yes or no! Can youbear such a thing of the charnel-house near you? Judge for yourself;Barbara. Your Adonis, your matchless man, has come to this!'

The poor lady stood beside him motionless, save for the restlessness ofher eyes. All her natural sentiments of affection and pity were drivenclean out of her by a sort of panic; she had just the same sense ofdismay and fearfulness that she would have had in the presence of anapparition. She could nohow fancy this to be her chosen one--the man shehad loved; he was metamorphosed to a specimen of another species. 'I donot loathe you, ' she said with trembling. 'But I am so horrified--soovercome! Let me recover myself. Will you sup now? And while you do somay I go to my room to--regain my old feeling for you? I will try, if Imay leave you awhile? Yes, I will try!'

Without waiting for an answer from him, and keeping her gaze carefullyaverted, the frightened woman crept to the door and out of the room. Sheheard him sit down to the table, as if to begin supper though, Heavenknows, his appetite was slight enough after a reception which hadconfirmed his worst surmises. When Barbara had ascended the stairs andarrived in her chamber she sank down, and buried her face in the coverletof the bed. 

Thus she remained for some time. The bed-chamber was over the dining-room, and presently as she knelt Barbara heard Willowes thrust back hischair, and rise to go into the hall. In five minutes that figure wouldprobably come up the stairs and confront her again; it, --this new andterrible form, that was not her husband's. In the loneliness of thisnight, with neither maid nor friend beside her, she lost allself-control, and at the first sound of his footstep on the stairs, without so much as flinging a cloak round her, she flew from the room, ran along the gallery to the back staircase, which she descended, and, unlocking the back door, let herself out. She scarcely was aware whatshe had done till she found herself in the greenhouse, crouching on aflower-stand. 

Here she remained, her great timid eyes strained through the glass uponthe garden without, and her skirts gathered up, in fear of the field-micewhich sometimes came there. Every moment she dreaded to hear footstepswhich she ought by law to have longed for, and a voice that should havebeen as music to her soul. But Edmond Willowes came not that way. Thenights were getting short at this season, and soon the dawn appeared, andthe first rays of the sun. By daylight she had less fear than in thedark. She thought she could meet him, and accustom herself to thespectacle. 

So the much-tried young woman unfastened the door of the hot-house, andwent back by the way she had emerged a few hours ago. Her poor husbandwas probably in bed and asleep, his journey having been long; and shemade as little noise as possible in her entry. The house was just as shehad left it, and she looked about in the hall for his cloak and hat, butshe could not see them; nor did she perceive the small trunk which hadbeen all that he brought with him, his heavier baggage having been leftat Southampton for the road-waggon. She summoned courage to mount thestairs; the bedroom-door was open as she had left it. She fearfullypeeped round; the bed had not been pressed. Perhaps he had lain down onthe dining-room sofa. She descended and entered; he was not there. Onthe table beside his unsoiled plate lay a note, hastily written on theleaf of a pocket-book. It was something like this:

 'MY EVER-BELOVED WIFE--The effect that my forbidding appearance has produced upon you was one which I foresaw as quite possible. I hoped against it, but foolishly so. I was aware that no _human_ love could survive such a catastrophe. I confess I thought yours _divine_; but, after so long an absence, there could not be left sufficient warmth to overcome the too natural first aversion. It was an experiment, and it has failed. I do not blame you; perhaps, even, it is better so. Good- bye. I leave England for one year. You will see me again at the expiration of that time, if I live. Then I will ascertain your true feeling; and, if it be against me, go away for ever. E. W. '

On recovering from her surprise, Barbara's remorse was such that she feltherself absolutely unforgiveable. She should have regarded him as anafflicted being, and not have been this slave to mere eyesight, like achild. To follow him and entreat him to return was her first thought. But on making inquiries she found that nobody had seen him: he hadsilently disappeared. 

More than this, to undo the scene of last night was impossible. Herterror had been too plain, and he was a man unlikely to be coaxed back byher efforts to do her duty. She went and confessed to her parents allthat had occurred; which, indeed, soon became known to more persons thanthose of her own family. 

The year passed, and he did not return; and it was doubted if he werealive. Barbara's contrition for her unconquerable repugnance was nowsuch that she longed to build a church-aisle, or erect a monument, anddevote herself to deeds of charity for the remainder of her days. Tothat end she made inquiry of the excellent parson under whom she sat onSundays, at a vertical distance of twenty feet. But he could only adjusthis wig and tap his snuff-box; for such was the lukewarm state ofreligion in those days, that not an aisle, steeple, porch, east window, Ten-Commandment board, lion-and-unicorn, or brass candlestick, wasrequired anywhere at all in the neighbourhood as a votive offering from adistracted soul--the last century contrasting greatly in this respectwith the happy times in which we live, when urgent appeals forcontributions to such objects pour in by every morning's post, and nearlyall churches have been made to look like new pennies. As the poor ladycould not ease her conscience this way, she determined at least to becharitable, and soon had the satisfaction of finding her porch throngedevery morning by the raggedest, idlest, most drunken, hypocritical, andworthless tramps in Christendom. 

But human hearts are as prone to change as the leaves of the creeper onthe wall, and in the course of time, hearing nothing of her husband, Barbara could sit unmoved whilst her mother and friends said in herhearing, 'Well, what has happened is for the best. ' She began to thinkso herself; for even now she could not summon up that lopped andmutilated form without a shiver, though whenever her mind flew back toher early wedded days, and the man who had stood beside her then, athrill of tenderness moved her, which if quickened by his living presencemight have become strong. She was young and inexperienced, and hadhardly on his late return grown out of the capricious fancies ofgirlhood. 

But he did not come again, and when she thought of his word that he wouldreturn once more, if living, and how unlikely he was to break his word, she gave him up for dead. So did her parents; so also did anotherperson--that man of silence, of irresistible incisiveness, of stillcountenance, who was as awake as seven sentinels when he seemed to be assound asleep as the figures on his family monument. Lord Uplandtowers, though not yet thirty, had chuckled like a caustic fogey of threescorewhen he heard of Barbara's terror and flight at her husband's return, andof the latter's prompt departure. He felt pretty sure, however, thatWillowes, despite his hurt feelings, would have reappeared to claim hisbright-eyed property if he had been alive at the end of the twelvemonths. 

As there was no husband to live with her, Barbara had relinquished thehouse prepared for them by her father, and taken up her abode anew atChene Manor, as in the days of her girlhood. By degrees the episode withEdmond Willowes seemed but a fevered dream, and as the months grew toyears Lord Uplandtowers' friendship with the people at Chene--which hadsomewhat cooled after Barbara's elopement--revived considerably, and heagain became a frequent visitor there. He could not make the mosttrivial alteration or improvement at Knollingwood Hall, where he lived, without riding off to consult with his friend Sir John at Chene; and thusputting himself frequently under her eyes, Barbara grew accustomed tohim, and talked to him as freely as to a brother. She even began to lookup to him as a person of authority, judgment, and prudence; and thoughhis severity on the bench towards poachers, smugglers, andturnip-stealers was matter of common notoriety, she trusted that much ofwhat was said might be misrepresentation. 

Thus they lived on till her husband's absence had stretched to years, andthere could be no longer any doubt of his death. A passionless manner ofrenewing his addresses seemed no longer out of place in LordUplandtowers. Barbara did not love him, but hers was essentially one ofthose sweet-pea or with-wind natures which require a twig of stouterfibre than its own to hang upon and bloom. Now, too, she was older, andadmitted to herself that a man whose ancestor had run scores of Saracensthrough and through in fighting for the site of the Holy Sepulchre was amore desirable husband, socially considered, than one who could onlyclaim with certainty to know that his father and grandfather wererespectable burgesses. 

Sir John took occasion to inform her that she might legally considerherself a widow; and, in brief; Lord Uplandtowers carried his point withher, and she married him, though he could never get her to own that sheloved him as she had loved Willowes. In my childhood I knew an old ladywhose mother saw the wedding, and she said that when Lord and LadyUplandtowers drove away from her father's house in the evening it was ina coach-and-four, and that my lady was dressed in green and silver, andwore the gayest hat and feather that ever were seen; though whether itwas that the green did not suit her complexion, or otherwise, theCountess looked pale, and the reverse of blooming. After their marriageher husband took her to London, and she saw the gaieties of a seasonthere; then they returned to Knollingwood Hall, and thus a year passedaway. 

Before their marriage her husband had seemed to care but little about herinability to love him passionately. 'Only let me win you, ' he had said, 'and I will submit to all that. ' But now her lack of warmth seemed toirritate him, and he conducted himself towards her with a resentfulnesswhich led to her passing many hours with him in painful silence. Theheir-presumptive to the title was a remote relative, whom LordUplandtowers did not exclude from the dislike he entertained towards manypersons and things besides, and he had set his mind upon a linealsuccessor. He blamed her much that there was no promise of this, andasked her what she was good for. 

On a particular day in her gloomy life a letter, addressed to her as Mrs. Willowes, reached Lady Uplandtowers from an unexpected quarter. Asculptor in Pisa, knowing nothing of her second marriage, informed herthat the long-delayed life-size statue of Mr. Willowes, which, when herhusband left that city, he had been directed to retain till it was sentfor, was still in his studio. As his commission had not wholly beenpaid, and the statue was taking up room he could ill spare, he should beglad to have the debt cleared off, and directions where to forward thefigure. Arriving at a time when the Countess was beginning to havelittle secrets (of a harmless kind, it is true) from her husband, byreason of their growing estrangement, she replied to this letter withoutsaying a word to Lord Uplandtowers, sending off the balance that wasowing to the sculptor, and telling him to despatch the statue to herwithout delay. 

It was some weeks before it arrived at Knollingwood Hall, and, by asingular coincidence, during the interval she received the firstabsolutely conclusive tidings of her Edmond's death. It had taken placeyears before, in a foreign land, about six months after their parting, and had been induced by the sufferings he had already undergone, coupledwith much depression of spirit, which had caused him to succumb to aslight ailment. The news was sent her in a brief and formal letter fromsome relative of Willowes's in another part of England. 

Her grief took the form of passionate pity for his misfortunes, and ofreproach to herself for never having been able to conquer her aversion tohis latter image by recollection of what Nature had originally made him. The sad spectacle that had gone from earth had never been her Edmond atall to her. O that she could have met him as he was at first! ThusBarbara thought. It was only a few days later that a waggon with twohorses, containing an immense packing-case, was seen at breakfast-timeboth by Barbara and her husband to drive round to the back of the house, and by-and-by they were informed that a case labelled 'Sculpture' hadarrived for her ladyship. 

'What can that be?' said Lord Uplandtowers. 

'It is the statue of poor Edmond, which belongs to me, but has never beensent till now, ' she answered. 

'Where are you going to put it?' asked he. 

'I have not decided, ' said the Countess. 'Anywhere, so that it will notannoy you. '

'Oh, it won't annoy me, ' says he. 

When it had been unpacked in a back room of the house, they went toexamine it. The statue was a full-length figure, in the purest Carraramarble, representing Edmond Willowes in all his original beauty, as hehad stood at parting from her when about to set out on his travels; aspecimen of manhood almost perfect in every line and contour. The workhad been carried out with absolute fidelity. 

'Phoebus-Apollo, sure, ' said the Earl of Uplandtowers, who had never seenWillowes, real or represented, till now. 

Barbara did not hear him. She was standing in a sort of trance beforethe first husband, as if she had no consciousness of the other husband ather side. The mutilated features of Willowes had disappeared from hermind's eye; this perfect being was really the man she had loved, and notthat later pitiable figure; in whom love and truth should have seen thisimage always, but had not done so. 

It was not till Lord Uplandtowers said roughly, 'Are you going to stayhere all the morning worshipping him?' that she roused herself. 

Her husband had not till now the least suspicion that Edmond Willowesoriginally looked thus, and he thought how deep would have been hisjealousy years ago if Willowes had been known to him. Returning to theHall in the afternoon he found his wife in the gallery, whither thestatue had been brought. 

She was lost in reverie before it, just as in the morning. 

'What are you doing?' he asked. 

She started and turned. 'I am looking at my husb--- my statue, to see ifit is well done, ' she stammered. 'Why should I not?'

'There's no reason why, ' he said. 'What are you going to do with themonstrous thing? It can't stand here for ever. '

'I don't wish it, ' she said. 'I'll find a place. '

In her boudoir there was a deep recess, and while the Earl was absentfrom home for a few days in the following week, she hired joiners fromthe village, who under her directions enclosed the recess with a panelleddoor. Into the tabernacle thus formed she had the statue placed, fastening the door with a lock, the key of which she kept in her pocket. 

When her husband returned he missed the statue from the gallery, and, concluding that it had been put away out of deference to his feelings, made no remark. Yet at moments he noticed something on his lady's facewhich he had never noticed there before. He could not construe it; itwas a sort of silent ecstasy, a reserved beatification. What had becomeof the statue he could not divine, and growing more and more curious, looked about here and there for it till, thinking of her private room, hewent towards that spot. After knocking he heard the shutting of a door, and the click of a key; but when he entered his wife was sitting at work, on what was in those days called knotting. Lord Uplandtowers' eye fellupon the newly-painted door where the recess had formerly been. 

'You have been carpentering in my absence then, Barbara, ' he saidcarelessly. 

'Yes, Uplandtowers. '

'Why did you go putting up such a tasteless enclosure as that--spoilingthe handsome arch of the alcove?'

'I wanted more closet-room; and I thought that as this was my ownapartment--'

'Of course, ' he returned. Lord Uplandtowers knew now where the statue ofyoung Willowes was. 

One night, or rather in the smallest hours of the morning, he missed theCountess from his side. Not being a man of nervous imaginings he fellasleep again before he had much considered the matter, and the nextmorning had forgotten the incident. But a few nights later the samecircumstances occurred. This time he fully roused himself; but before hehad moved to search for her, she entered the chamber in herdressing-gown, carrying a candle, which she extinguished as sheapproached, deeming him asleep. He could discover from her breathingthat she was strangely moved; but not on this occasion either did hereveal that he had seen her. Presently, when she had lain down, affecting to wake, he asked her some trivial questions. 'Yes, _Edmond_, 'she replied absently. 

Lord Uplandtowers became convinced that she was in the habit of leavingthe chamber in this queer way more frequently than he had observed, andhe determined to watch. The next midnight he feigned deep sleep, andshortly after perceived her stealthily rise and let herself out of theroom in the dark. He slipped on some clothing and followed. At thefarther end of the corridor, where the clash of flint and steel would beout of the hearing of one in the bed-chamber, she struck a light. Hestepped aside into an empty room till she had lit a taper and had passedon to her boudoir. In a minute or two he followed. Arrived at the doorof the boudoir, he beheld the door of the private recess open, andBarbara within it, standing with her arms clasped tightly round the neckof her Edmond, and her mouth on his. The shawl which she had thrownround her nightclothes had slipped from her shoulders, and her long whiterobe and pale face lent her the blanched appearance of a second statueembracing the first. Between her kisses, she apostrophized it in a lowmurmur of infantine tenderness:

'My only love--how could I be so cruel to you, my perfect one--so goodand true--I am ever faithful to you, despite my seeming infidelity! Ialways think of you--dream of you--during the long hours of the day, andin the night-watches! O Edmond, I am always yours!' Such words asthese, intermingled with sobs, and streaming tears, and dishevelled hair, testified to an intensity of feeling in his wife which Lord Uplandtowershad not dreamed of her possessing. 

'Ha, ha!' says he to himself. 'This is where we evaporate--this is wheremy hopes of a successor in the title dissolve--ha, ha! This must be seento, verily!'

Lord Uplandtowers was a subtle man when once he set himself to strategy;though in the present instance he never thought of the simple stratagemof constant tenderness. Nor did he enter the room and surprise his wifeas a blunderer would have done, but went back to his chamber as silentlyas he had left it. When the Countess returned thither, shaken by spentsobs and sighs, he appeared to be soundly sleeping as usual. The nextday he began his countermoves by making inquiries as to the whereaboutsof the tutor who had travelled with his wife's first husband; thisgentleman, he found, was now master of a grammar-school at no greatdistance from Knollingwood. At the first convenient moment LordUplandtowers went thither and obtained an interview with the saidgentleman. The schoolmaster was much gratified by a visit from such aninfluential neighbour, and was ready to communicate anything that hislordship desired to know. 

After some general conversation on the school and its progress, thevisitor observed that he believed the schoolmaster had once travelled agood deal with the unfortunate Mr. Willowes, and had been with him on theoccasion of his accident. He, Lord Uplandtowers, was interested inknowing what had really happened at that time, and had often thought ofinquiring. And then the Earl not only heard by word of mouth as much ashe wished to know, but, their chat becoming more intimate, theschoolmaster drew upon paper a sketch of the disfigured head, explainingwith bated breath various details in the representation. 

'It was very strange and terrible!' said Lord Uplandtowers, taking thesketch in his hand. 'Neither nose nor ears!'

A poor man in the town nearest to Knollingwood Hall, who combined the artof sign-painting with ingenious mechanical occupations, was sent for byLord Uplandtowers to come to the Hall on a day in that week when theCountess had gone on a short visit to her parents. His employer made theman understand that the business in which his assistance was demanded wasto be considered private, and money insured the observance of thisrequest. The lock of the cupboard was picked, and the ingenious mechanicand painter, assisted by the schoolmaster's sketch, which LordUplandtowers had put in his pocket, set to work upon the god-likecountenance of the statue under my lord's direction. What the fire hadmaimed in the original the chisel maimed in the copy. It was a fiendishdisfigurement, ruthlessly carried out, and was rendered still moreshocking by being tinted to the hues of life, as life had been after thewreck. 

Six hours after, when the workman was gone, Lord Uplandtowers looked uponthe result, and smiled grimly, and said:

'A statue should represent a man as he appeared in life, and that's as heappeared. Ha! ha! But 'tis done to good purpose, and not idly. '

He locked the door of the closet with a skeleton key, and went his way tofetch the Countess home. 

That night she slept, but he kept awake. According to the tale, shemurmured soft words in her dream; and he knew that the tender converse ofher imaginings was held with one whom he had supplanted but in name. Atthe end of her dream the Countess of Uplandtowers awoke and arose, andthen the enactment of former nights was repeated. Her husband remainedstill and listened. Two strokes sounded from the clock in the pedimentwithout, when, leaving the chamber-door ajar, she passed along thecorridor to the other end, where, as usual, she obtained a light. Sodeep was the silence that he could even from his bed hear her softlyblowing the tinder to a glow after striking the steel. She moved on intothe boudoir, and he heard, or fancied he heard, the turning of the key inthe closet-door. The next moment there came from that direction a loudand prolonged shriek, which resounded to the farthest corners of thehouse. It was repeated, and there was the noise of a heavy fall. 

Lord Uplandtowers sprang out of bed. He hastened along the dark corridorto the door of the boudoir, which stood ajar, and, by the light of thecandle within, saw his poor young Countess lying in a heap in hernightdress on the floor of the closet. When he reached her side he foundthat she had fainted, much to the relief of his fears that matters wereworse. He quickly shut up and locked in the hated image which had donethe mischief; and lifted his wife in his arms, where in a few instantsshe opened her eyes. Pressing her face to his without saying a word, hecarried her back to her room, endeavouring as he went to disperse herterrors by a laugh in her ear, oddly compounded of causticity, predilection, and brutality. 

'Ho--ho--ho!' says he. 'Frightened, dear one, hey? What a baby 'tis!Only a joke, sure, Barbara--a splendid joke! But a baby should not go toclosets at midnight to look for the ghost of the dear departed! If it doit must expect to be terrified at his aspect--ho--ho--ho!'

When she was in her bed-chamber, and had quite come to herself; thoughher nerves were still much shaken, he spoke to her more sternly. 'Now, my lady, answer me: do you love him--eh?'

'No--no!' she faltered, shuddering, with her expanded eyes fixed on herhusband. 'He is too terrible--no, no!'

'You are sure?'

'Quite sure!' replied the poor broken-spirited Countess. But her naturalelasticity asserted itself. Next morning he again inquired of her: 'Doyou love him now?'

She quailed under his gaze, but did not reply. 

'That means that you do still, by G---!' he continued. 

'It means that I will not tell an untruth, and do not wish to incense mylord, ' she answered, with dignity. 

'Then suppose we go and have another look at him?' As he spoke, hesuddenly took her by the wrist, and turned as if to lead her towards theghastly closet. 

'No--no! Oh--no!' she cried, and her desperate wriggle out of his handrevealed that the fright of the night had left more impression upon herdelicate soul than superficially appeared. 

'Another dose or two, and she will be cured, ' he said to himself. 

It was now so generally known that the Earl and Countess were not inaccord, that he took no great trouble to disguise his deeds in relationto this matter. During the day he ordered four men with ropes androllers to attend him in the boudoir. When they arrived, the closet wasopen, and the upper part of the statue tied up in canvas. He had ittaken to the sleeping-chamber. What followed is more or less matter ofconjecture. The story, as told to me, goes on to say that, when LadyUplandtowers retired with him that night, she saw near the foot of theheavy oak four-poster, a tall dark wardrobe, which had not stood therebefore; but she did not ask what its presence meant. 

'I have had a little whim, ' he explained when they were in the dark. 

'Have you?' says she. 

'To erect a little shrine, as it may be called. '

'A little shrine?'

'Yes; to one whom we both equally adore--eh? I'll show you what itcontains. '

He pulled a cord which hung covered by the bed-curtains, and the doors ofthe wardrobe slowly opened, disclosing that the shelves within had beenremoved throughout, and the interior adapted to receive the ghastlyfigure, which stood there as it had stood in the boudoir, but with a wax-candle burning on each side of it to throw the cropped and distortedfeatures into relief. She clutched him, uttered a low scream, and buriedher head in the bedclothes. 'Oh, take it away--please take it away!' sheimplored. 

'All in good time namely, when you love me best, ' he returned calmly. 'You don't quite yet--eh?'

'I don't know--I think--O Uplandtowers, have mercy--I cannot bear it--O, in pity, take it away!'

'Nonsense; one gets accustomed to anything. Take another gaze. '

In short, he allowed the doors to remain unclosed at the foot of the bed, and the wax-tapers burning; and such was the strange fascination of thegrisly exhibition that a morbid curiosity took possession of the Countessas she lay, and, at his repeated request, she did again look out from thecoverlet, shuddered, hid her eyes, and looked again, all the whilebegging him to take it away, or it would drive her out of her senses. Buthe would not do so as yet, and the wardrobe was not locked till dawn. 

The scene was repeated the next night. Firm in enforcing his ferociouscorrectives, he continued the treatment till the nerves of the poor ladywere quivering in agony under the virtuous tortures inflicted by herlord, to bring her truant heart back to faithfulness. 

The third night, when the scene had opened as usual, and she lay staringwith immense wild eyes at the horrid fascination, on a sudden she gave anunnatural laugh; she laughed more and more, staring at the image, tillshe literally shrieked with laughter: then there was silence, and hefound her to have become insensible. He thought she had fainted, butsoon saw that the event was worse: she was in an epileptic fit. Hestarted up, dismayed by the sense that, like many other subtlepersonages, he had been too exacting for his own interests. Such love ashe was capable of, though rather a selfish gloating than a cherishingsolicitude, was fanned into life on the instant. He closed the wardrobewith the pulley, clasped her in his arms, took her gently to the window, and did all he could to restore her. 

It was a long time before the Countess came to herself, and when she didso, a considerable change seemed to have taken place in her emotions. Sheflung her arms around him, and with gasps of fear abjectly kissed himmany times, at last bursting into tears. She had never wept in thisscene before. 

'You'll take it away, dearest--you will!' she begged plaintively. 

'If you love me. '

'I do--oh, I do!'

'And hate him, and his memory?'

'Yes--yes!'

'Thoroughly?'

'I cannot endure recollection of him!' cried the poor Countess slavishly. 'It fills me with shame--how could I ever be so depraved! I'll neverbehave badly again, Uplandtowers; and you will never put the hated statueagain before my eyes?'

He felt that he could promise with perfect safety. 'Never, ' said he. 

'And then I'll love you, ' she returned eagerly, as if dreading lest thescourge should be applied anew. 'And I'll never, never dream of thinkinga single thought that seems like faithlessness to my marriage vow. '

The strange thing now was that this fictitious love wrung from her byterror took on, through mere habit of enactment, a certain quality ofreality. A servile mood of attachment to the Earl became distinctlyvisible in her contemporaneously with an actual dislike for her latehusband's memory. The mood of attachment grew and continued when thestatue was removed. A permanent revulsion was operant in her, whichintensified as time wore on. How fright could have effected such achange of idiosyncrasy learned physicians alone can say; but I believesuch cases of reactionary instinct are not unknown. 

The upshot was that the cure became so permanent as to be itself a newdisease. She clung to him so tightly, that she would not willingly beout of his sight for a moment. She would have no sitting-room apart fromhis, though she could not help starting when he entered suddenly to her. Her eyes were well-nigh always fixed upon him. If he drove out, shewished to go with him; his slightest civilities to other women made herfrantically jealous; till at length her very fidelity became a burden tohim, absorbing his time, and curtailing his liberty, and causing him tocurse and swear. If he ever spoke sharply to her now, she did notrevenge herself by flying off to a mental world of her own; all thataffection for another, which had provided her with a resource, was now acold black cinder. 

From that time the life of this scared and enervated lady--whoseexistence might have been developed to so much higher purpose but for theignoble ambition of her parents and the conventions of the time--was oneof obsequious amativeness towards a perverse and cruel man. Littlepersonal events came to her in quick succession--half a dozen, eight, nine, ten such events, --in brief; she bore him no less than elevenchildren in the eight following years, but half of them came prematurelyinto the world, or died a few days old; only one, a girl, attained tomaturity; she in after years became the wife of the Honourable Mr. Beltonleigh, who was created Lord D'Almaine, as may be remembered. 

There was no living son and heir. At length, completely worn out in mindand body, Lady Uplandtowers was taken abroad by her husband, to try theeffect of a more genial climate upon her wasted frame. But nothingavailed to strengthen her, and she died at Florence, a few months afterher arrival in Italy. 

Contrary to expectation, the Earl of Uplandtowers did not marry again. Such affection as existed in him--strange, hard, brutal as it was--seemeduntransferable, and the title, as is known, passed at his death to hisnephew. Perhaps it may not be so generally known that, during theenlargement of the Hall for the sixth Earl, while digging in the groundsfor the new foundations, the broken fragments of a marble statue wereunearthed. They were submitted to various antiquaries, who said that, sofar as the damaged pieces would allow them to form an opinion, the statueseemed to be that of a mutilated Roman satyr; or if not, an allegoricalfigure of Death. Only one or two old inhabitants guessed whose statuethose fragments had composed. 

I should have added that, shortly after the death of the Countess, anexcellent sermon was preached by the Dean of Melchester, the subject ofwhich, though names were not mentioned, was unquestionably suggested bythe aforesaid events. He dwelt upon the folly of indulgence in sensuouslove for a handsome form merely; and showed that the only rational andvirtuous growths of that affection were those based upon intrinsic worth. In the case of the tender but somewhat shallow lady whose life I haverelated, there is no doubt that an infatuation for the person of youngWillowes was the chief feeling that induced her to marry him; which wasthe more deplorable in that his beauty, by all tradition, was the leastof his recommendations, every report bearing out the inference that hemust have been a man of steadfast nature, bright intelligence, andpromising life. 

* * * * *

The company thanked the old surgeon for his story, which the rural deandeclared to be a far more striking one than anything he could hope totell. An elderly member of the Club, who was mostly called the Bookworm, said that a woman's natural instinct of fidelity would, indeed, send backher heart to a man after his death in a truly wonderful mannersometimes--if anything occurred to put before her forcibly the originalaffection between them, and his original aspect in her eyes, --whateverhis inferiority may have been, social or otherwise; and then a generalconversation ensued upon the power that a woman has of seeing the actualin the representation, the reality in the dream--a power which (accordingto the sentimental member) men have no faculty of equalling. 

The rural dean thought that such cases as that related by the surgeonwere rather an illustration of passion electrified back to life than of alatent, true affection. The story had suggested that he should try torecount to them one which he had used to hear in his youth, and whichafforded an instance of the latter and better kind of feeling, hisheroine being also a lady who had married beneath her, though he fearedhis narrative would be of a much slighter kind than the surgeon's. TheClub begged him to proceed, and the parson began. 

DAME THE THIRD--THE MARCHIONESS OF STONEHENGEBy the Rural Dean

I would have you know, then, that a great many years ago there lived in aclassical mansion with which I used to be familiar, standing not ahundred miles from the city of Melchester, a lady whose personal charmswere so rare and unparalleled that she was courted, flattered, and spoiltby almost all the young noblemen and gentlemen in that part of Wessex. For a time these attentions pleased her well. But as, in the words ofgood Robert South (whose sermons might be read much more than they are), the most passionate lover of sport, if tied to follow his hawks andhounds every day of his life, would find the pursuit the greatest tormentand calamity, and would fly to the mines and galleys for his recreation, so did this lofty and beautiful lady after a while become satiated withthe constant iteration of what she had in its novelty enjoyed; and by analmost natural revulsion turned her regards absolutely netherward, socially speaking. She perversely and passionately centred her affectionon quite a plain-looking young man of humble birth and no position atall; though it is true that he was gentle and delicate in nature, of goodaddress, and guileless heart. In short, he was the parish-clerk's son, acting as assistant to the land-steward of her father, the Earl of Avon, with the hope of becoming some day a land-steward himself. It should besaid that perhaps the Lady Caroline (as she was called) was a littlestimulated in this passion by the discovery that a young girl of thevillage already loved the young man fondly, and that he had paid someattentions to her, though merely of a casual and good-natured kind. 

Since his occupation brought him frequently to the manor-house and itsenvirons, Lady Caroline could make ample opportunities of seeing andspeaking to him. She had, in Chaucer's phrase, 'all the craft of fineloving' at her fingers' ends, and the young man, being of areadily-kindling heart, was quick to notice the tenderness in her eyesand voice. He could not at first believe in his good fortune, having nounderstanding of her weariness of more artificial men; but a time comeswhen the stupidest sees in an eye the glance of his other half; and itcame to him, who was quite the reverse of dull. As he gained confidenceaccidental encounters led to encounters by design; till at length whenthey were alone together there was no reserve on the matter. Theywhispered tender words as other lovers do, and were as devoted a pair asever was seen. But not a ray or symptom of this attachment was allowedto show itself to the outer world. 

Now, as she became less and less scrupulous towards him under theinfluence of her affection, and he became more and more reverential underthe influence of his, and they looked the situation in the face together, their condition seemed intolerable in its hopelessness. That she couldever ask to be allowed to marry him, or could hold her tongue and quietlyrenounce him, was equally beyond conception. They resolved upon a thirdcourse, possessing neither of the disadvantages of these two: to wedsecretly, and live on in outward appearance the same as before. In thisthey differed from the lovers of my friend's story. 

Not a soul in the parental mansion guessed, when Lady Caroline camecoolly into the hall one day after a visit to her aunt, that, during thatvisit, her lover and herself had found an opportunity of unitingthemselves till death should part them. Yet such was the fact; the youngwoman who rode fine horses, and drove in pony-chaises, and was saluteddeferentially by every one, and the young man who trudged about, anddirected the tree-felling, and the laying out of fish-ponds in the park, were husband and wife. 

As they had planned, so they acted to the letter for the space of a monthand more, clandestinely meeting when and where they best could do so;both being supremely happy and content. To be sure, towards the latterpart of that month, when the first wild warmth of her love had gone off, the Lady Caroline sometimes wondered within herself how she, who mighthave chosen a peer of the realm, baronet, knight; or, if serious-minded, a bishop or judge of the more gallant sort who prefer young wives, couldhave brought herself to do a thing so rash as to make this marriage;particularly when, in their private meetings, she perceived that thoughher young husband was full of ideas, and fairly well read, they had not asingle social experience in common. It was his custom to visit her afternightfall, in her own house, when he could find no opportunity for aninterview elsewhere; and to further this course she would contrive toleave unfastened a window on the ground-floor overlooking the lawn, byentering which a back stair-case was accessible; so that he could climbup to her apartments, and gain audience of his lady when the house wasstill. 

One dark midnight, when he had not been able to see her during the day, he made use of this secret method, as he had done many times before; andwhen they had remained in company about an hour he declared that it wastime for him to descend. 

He would have stayed longer, but that the interview had been a somewhatpainful one. What she had said to him that night had much excited andangered him, for it had revealed a change in her; cold reason had come tohis lofty wife; she was beginning to have more anxiety about her ownposition and prospects than ardour for him. Whether from the agitationof this perception or not, he was seized with a spasm; he gasped, rose, and in moving towards the window for air he uttered in a short thickwhisper, 'Oh, my heart!'

With his hand upon his chest he sank down to the floor before he had goneanother step. By the time that she had relighted the candle, which hadbeen extinguished in case any eye in the opposite grounds should witnesshis egress, she found that his poor heart had ceased to beat; and thererushed upon her mind what his cottage-friends had once told her, that hewas liable to attacks of heart-disease, one of which, the doctor hadinformed them, might some day carry him off. 

Accustomed as she was to doctoring the other parishioners, nothing thatshe could effect upon him in that kind made any difference whatever; andhis stillness, and the increasing coldness of his feet and hands, disclosed too surely to the affrighted young woman that her husband wasdead indeed. For more than an hour, however, she did not abandon herefforts to restore him; when she fully realized the fact that he was acorpse she bent over his body, distracted and bewildered as to what stepshe next should take. 

Her first feelings had undoubtedly been those of passionate grief at theloss of him; her second thoughts were concern at her own position as thedaughter of an earl. 'Oh, why, why, my unfortunate husband, did you diein my chamber at this hour!' she said piteously to the corpse. 'Why nothave died in your own cottage if you would die! Then nobody would everhave known of our imprudent union, and no syllable would have beenbreathed of how I mismated myself for love of you!'

The clock in the courtyard striking the hour of one aroused Lady Carolinefrom the stupor into which she had fallen, and she stood up, and wenttowards the door. To awaken and tell her mother seemed her only way outof this terrible situation; yet when she put her hand on the key tounlock it she withdrew herself again. It would be impossible to calleven her mother's assistance without risking a revelation to all theworld through the servants; while if she could remove the body unassistedto a distance she might avert suspicion of their union even now. Thisthought of immunity from the social consequences of her rash act, ofrenewed freedom, was indubitably a relief to her, for, as has been said, the constraint and riskiness of her position had begun to tell upon theLady Caroline's nerves. 

She braced herself for the effort, and hastily dressed herself; and thendressed him. Tying his dead hands together with a handkerchief; she laidhis arms round her shoulders, and bore him to the landing and down thenarrow stairs. Reaching the bottom by the window, she let his body slideslowly over the sill till it lay on the ground without. She then climbedover the window-sill herself, and, leaving the sash open, dragged him onto the lawn with a rustle not louder than the rustle of a broom. Thereshe took a securer hold, and plunged with him under the trees. 

Away from the precincts of the house she could apply herself morevigorously to her task, which was a heavy one enough for her, robust asshe was; and the exertion and fright she had already undergone began totell upon her by the time she reached the corner of a beech-plantationwhich intervened between the manor-house and the village. Here she wasso nearly exhausted that she feared she might have to leave him on thespot. But she plodded on after a while, and keeping upon the grass atevery opportunity she stood at last opposite the poor young man's garden-gate, where he lived with his father, the parish-clerk. How sheaccomplished the end of her task Lady Caroline never quite knew; but, toavoid leaving traces in the road, she carried him bodily across thegravel, and laid him down at the door. Perfectly aware of his ways ofcoming and going, she searched behind the shutter for the cottage door-key, which she placed in his cold hand. Then she kissed his face for thelast time, and with silent little sobs bade him farewell. 

Lady Caroline retraced her steps, and reached the mansion withouthindrance; and to her great relief found the window open just as she hadleft it. When she had climbed in she listened attentively, fastened thewindow behind her, and ascending the stairs noiselessly to her room, seteverything in order, and returned to bed. 

The next morning it was speedily echoed around that the amiable andgentle young villager had been found dead outside his father's door, which he had apparently been in the act of unlocking when he fell. Thecircumstances were sufficiently exceptional to justify an inquest, atwhich syncope from heart-disease was ascertained to be beyond doubt theexplanation of his death, and no more was said about the matter then. But, after the funeral, it was rumoured that some man who had beenreturning late from a distant horse-fair had seen in the gloom of night aperson, apparently a woman, dragging a heavy body of some sort towardsthe cottage-gate, which, by the light of after events, would seem to havebeen the corpse of the young fellow. His clothes were thereupon examinedmore particularly than at first, with the result that marks of frictionwere visible upon them here and there, precisely resembling such as wouldbe left by dragging on the ground. 

Our beautiful and ingenious Lady Caroline was now in great consternation;and began to think that, after all, it might have been better to honestlyconfess the truth. But having reached this stage without discovery orsuspicion, she determined to make another effort towards concealment; anda bright idea struck her as a means of securing it. I think I mentionedthat, before she cast eyes on the unfortunate steward's clerk, he hadbeen the beloved of a certain village damsel, the woodman's daughter, hisneighbour, to whom he had paid some attentions; and possibly he wasbeloved of her still. At any rate, the Lady Caroline's influence on theestates of her father being considerable, she resolved to seek aninterview with the young girl in furtherance of her plan to save herreputation, about which she was now exceedingly anxious; for by thistime, the fit being over, she began to be ashamed of her mad passion forher late husband, and almost wished she had never seen him. 

In the course of her parish-visiting she lighted on the young girlwithout much difficulty, and found her looking pale and sad, and wearinga simple black gown, which she had put on out of respect for the youngman's memory, whom she had tenderly loved, though he had not loved her. 

'Ah, you have lost your lover, Milly, ' said Lady Caroline. 

The young woman could not repress her tears. 'My lady, he was not quitemy lover, ' she said. 'But I was his--and now he is dead I don't care tolive any more!'

'Can you keep a secret about him?' asks the lady; 'one in which hishonour is involved--which is known to me alone, but should be known toyou?'

The girl readily promised, and, indeed, could be safely trusted on such asubject, so deep was her affection for the youth she mourned. 

'Then meet me at his grave to-night, half-an-hour after sunset, and Iwill tell it to you, ' says the other. 

In the dusk of that spring evening the two shadowy figures of the youngwomen converged upon the assistant-steward's newly-turfed mound; and atthat solemn place and hour, the one of birth and beauty unfolded hertale: how she had loved him and married him secretly; how he had died inher chamber; and how, to keep her secret, she had dragged him to his owndoor. 

'Married him, my lady!' said the rustic maiden, starting back. 

'I have said so, ' replied Lady Caroline. 'But it was a mad thing, and amistaken course. He ought to have married you. You, Milly, werepeculiarly his. But you lost him. '

'Yes, ' said the poor girl; 'and for that they laughed at me. "Ha--ha, you mid love him, Milly, " they said; "but he will not love you!"'

'Victory over such unkind jeerers would be sweet, ' said Lady Caroline. 'You lost him in life; but you may have him in death _as if_ you had hadhim in life; and so turn the tables upon them. '

'How?' said the breathless girl. 

The young lady then unfolded her plan, which was that Milly should goforward and declare that the young man had contracted a secret marriage(as he truly had done); that it was with her, Milly, his sweetheart; thathe had been visiting her in her cottage on the evening of his death;when, on finding he was a corpse, she had carried him to his house toprevent discovery by her parents, and that she had meant to keep thewhole matter a secret till the rumours afloat had forced it from her. 

'And how shall I prove this?' said the woodman's daughter, amazed at theboldness of the proposal. 

'Quite sufficiently. You can say, if necessary, that you were married tohim at the church of St. Michael, in Bath City, in my name, as the firstthat occurred to you, to escape detection. That was where he married me. I will support you in this. '

'Oh--I don't quite like--'

'If you will do so, ' said the lady peremptorily, 'I will always be yourfather's friend and yours; if not, it will be otherwise. And I will giveyou my wedding-ring, which you shall wear as yours. '

'Have you worn it, my lady?'

'Only at night. '

There was not much choice in the matter, and Milly consented. Then thisnoble lady took from her bosom the ring she had never been able openly toexhibit, and, grasping the young girl's hand, slipped it upon her fingeras she stood upon her lover's grave. 

Milly shivered, and bowed her head, saying, 'I feel as if I had become acorpse's bride!'

But from that moment the maiden was heart and soul in the substitution. Ablissful repose came over her spirit. It seemed to her that she hadsecured in death him whom in life she had vainly idolized; and she wasalmost content. After that the lady handed over to the young man's newwife all the little mementoes and trinkets he had given herself; even toa locket containing his hair. 

The next day the girl made her so-called confession, which the simplemourning she had already worn, without stating for whom, seemed to bearout; and soon the story of the little romance spread through the villageand country-side, almost as far as Melchester. It was a curiouspsychological fact that, having once made the avowal, Milly seemedpossessed with a spirit of ecstasy at her position. With the liberal sumof money supplied to her by Lady Caroline she now purchased the garb of awidow, and duly appeared at church in her weeds, her simple face lookingso sweet against its margin of crape that she was almost envied her stateby the other village-girls of her age. And when a woman's sorrow for herbeloved can maim her young life so obviously as it had done Milly's therewas, in truth, little subterfuge in the case. Her explanation tallied sowell with the details of her lover's latter movements--those strangeabsences and sudden returnings, which had occasionally puzzled hisfriends--that nobody supposed for a moment that the second actor in thesesecret nuptials was other than she. The actual and whole truth wouldindeed have seemed a preposterous assertion beside this plausible one, byreason of the lofty demeanour of the Lady Caroline and the unassuminghabits of the late villager. There being no inheritance in question, nota soul took the trouble to go to the city church, forty miles off, andsearch the registers for marriage signatures bearing out so humble aromance. 

In a short time Milly caused a decent tombstone to be erected over hernominal husband's grave, whereon appeared the statement that it wasplaced there by his heartbroken widow, which, considering that thepayment for it came from Lady Caroline and the grief from Milly, was astruthful as such inscriptions usually are, and only required pluralizingto render it yet more nearly so. 

The impressionable and complaisant Milly, in her character of widow, tookdelight in going to his grave every day, and indulging in sorrow whichwas a positive luxury to her. She placed fresh flowers on his grave, andso keen was her emotional imaginativeness that she almost believedherself to have been his wife indeed as she walked to and fro in her garbof woe. One afternoon, Milly being busily engaged in this labour of loveat the grave, Lady Caroline passed outside the churchyard wall with someof her visiting friends, who, seeing Milly there, watched her actionswith interest, remarked upon the pathos of the scene, and upon theintense affection the young man must have felt for such a tender creatureas Milly. A strange light, as of pain, shot from the Lady Caroline'seye, as if for the first time she begrudged to the young girl theposition she had been at such pains to transfer to her; it showed that aslumbering affection for her husband still had life in Lady Caroline, obscured and stifled as it was by social considerations. 

An end was put to this smooth arrangement by the sudden appearance in thechurchyard one day of the Lady Caroline, when Milly had come there on herusual errand of laying flowers. Lady Caroline had been anxiouslyawaiting her behind the chancel, and her countenance was pale andagitated. 

'Milly!' she said, 'come here! I don't know how to say to you what I amgoing to say. I am half dead!'

'I am sorry for your ladyship, ' says Milly, wondering. 

'Give me that ring!' says the lady, snatching at the girl's left hand. 

Milly drew it quickly away. 

'I tell you give it to me!' repeated Caroline, almost fiercely. 'Oh--butyou don't know why? I am in a grief and a trouble I did not expect!' AndLady Caroline whispered a few words to the girl. 

'O my lady!' said the thunderstruck Milly. 'What _will_ you do?'

'You must say that your statement was a wicked lie, an invention, ascandal, a deadly sin--that I told you to make it to screen me! That itwas I whom he married at Bath. In short, we must tell the truth, or I amruined--body, mind, and reputation--for ever!'

But there is a limit to the flexibility of gentle-souled women. Milly bythis time had so grown to the idea of being one flesh with this youngman, of having the right to bear his name as she bore it; had sothoroughly come to regard him as her husband, to dream of him as herhusband, to speak of him as her husband, that she could not relinquishhim at a moment's peremptory notice. 

'No, no, ' she said desperately, 'I cannot, I will not give him up! Yourladyship took him away from me alive, and gave him back to me only whenhe was dead. Now I will keep him! I am truly his widow. More trulythan you, my lady! for I love him and mourn for him, and call myself byhis dear name, and your ladyship does neither!'

'I _do_ love him!' cries Lady Caroline with flashing eyes, 'and I clingto him, and won't let him go to such as you! How can I, when he is thefather of this poor babe that's coming to me? I must have him backagain! Milly, Milly, can't you pity and understand me, perverse girlthat you are, and the miserable plight that I am in? Oh, thisprecipitancy--it is the ruin of women! Why did I not consider, and wait!Come, give me back all that I have given you, and assure me you willsupport me in confessing the truth!'

'Never, never!' persisted Milly, with woe-begone passionateness. 'Lookat this headstone! Look at my gown and bonnet of crape--this ring:listen to the name they call me by! My character is worth as much to meas yours is to you! After declaring my Love mine, myself his, taking hisname, making his death my own particular sorrow, how can I say it was notso? No such dishonour for me! I will outswear you, my lady; and I shallbe believed. My story is so much the more likely that yours will bethought false. But, O please, my lady, do not drive me to this! In pitylet me keep him!'

The poor nominal widow exhibited such anguish at a proposal which wouldhave been truly a bitter humiliation to her, that Lady Caroline waswarmed to pity in spite of her own condition. 

'Yes, I see your position, ' she answered. 'But think of mine! What canI do? Without your support it would seem an invention to save me fromdisgrace; even if I produced the register, the love of scandal in theworld is such that the multitude would slur over the fact, say it was afabrication, and believe your story. I do not know who were thewitnesses, or anything!'

In a few minutes these two poor young women felt, as so many in a straithave felt before, that union was their greatest strength, even now; andthey consulted calmly together. The result of their deliberations wasthat Milly went home as usual, and Lady Caroline also, the latterconfessing that very night to the Countess her mother of the marriage, and to nobody else in the world. And, some time after, Lady Caroline andher mother went away to London, where a little while later still theywere joined by Milly, who was supposed to have left the village toproceed to a watering-place in the North for the benefit of her health, at the expense of the ladies of the Manor, who had been much interestedin her state of lonely and defenceless widowhood. 

Early the next year the widow Milly came home with an infant in her arms, the family at the Manor House having meanwhile gone abroad. They did notreturn from their tour till the autumn ensuing, by which time Milly andthe child had again departed from the cottage of her father the woodman, Milly having attained to the dignity of dwelling in a cottage of her own, many miles to the eastward of her native village; a comfortable littleallowance had moreover been settled on her and the child for life, through the instrumentality of Lady Caroline and her mother. 

Two or three years passed away, and the Lady Caroline married anobleman--the Marquis of Stonehenge--considerably her senior, who hadwooed her long and phlegmatically. He was not rich, but she led a placidlife with him for many years, though there was no child of the marriage. Meanwhile Milly's boy, as the youngster was called, and as Milly herselfconsidered him, grew up, and throve wonderfully, and loved her as shedeserved to be loved for her devotion to him, in whom she every daytraced more distinctly the lineaments of the man who had won her girlishheart, and kept it even in the tomb. 

She educated him as well as she could with the limited means at herdisposal, for the allowance had never been increased, Lady Caroline, orthe Marchioness of Stonehenge as she now was, seeming by degrees to carelittle what had become of them. Milly became extremely ambitious on theboy's account; she pinched herself almost of necessaries to send him tothe Grammar School in the town to which they retired, and at twenty heenlisted in a cavalry regiment, joining it with a deliberate intent ofmaking the Army his profession, and not in a freak of idleness. Hisexceptional attainments, his manly bearing, his steady conduct, speedilywon him promotion, which was furthered by the serious war in which thiscountry was at that time engaged. On his return to England after thepeace he had risen to the rank of riding-master, and was soon afteradvanced another stage, and made quartermaster, though still a young man. 

His mother--his corporeal mother, that is, the Marchioness ofStonehenge--heard tidings of this unaided progress; it reawakened hermaternal instincts, and filled her with pride. She became keenlyinterested in her successful soldier-son; and as she grew older muchwished to see him again, particularly when, the Marquis dying, she wasleft a solitary and childless widow. Whether or not she would have goneto him of her own impulse I cannot say; but one day, when she was drivingin an open carriage in the outskirts of a neighbouring town, the troopslying at the barracks hard by passed her in marching order. She eyedthem narrowly, and in the finest of the horsemen recognized her son fromhis likeness to her first husband. 

This sight of him doubly intensified the motherly emotions which had laindormant in her for so many years, and she wildly asked herself how shecould so have neglected him? Had she possessed the true courage ofaffection she would have owned to her first marriage, and have reared himas her son! What would it have mattered if she had never obtained thisprecious coronet of pearls and gold leaves, by comparison with the gainof having the love and protection of such a noble and worthy son? Theseand other sad reflections cut the gloomy and solitary lady to the heart;and she repented of her pride in disclaiming her first husband morebitterly than she had ever repented of her infatuation in marrying him. 

Her yearning was so strong, that at length it seemed to her that shecould not live without announcing herself to him as his mother. Comewhat might, she would do it: late as it was, she would have him away fromthat woman whom she began to hate with the fierceness of a desertedheart, for having taken her place as the mother of her only child. Shefelt confidently enough that her son would only too gladly exchange acottage-mother for one who was a peeress of the realm. Being now, in herwidowhood, free to come and go as she chose, without question fromanybody, Lady Stonehenge started next day for the little town where Millyyet lived, still in her robes of sable for the lost lover of her youth. 

'He is _my_ son, ' said the Marchioness, as soon as she was alone in thecottage with Milly. 'You must give him back to me, now that I am in aposition in which I can defy the world's opinion. I suppose he comes tosee you continually?'

'Every month since he returned from the war, my lady. And sometimes hestays two or three days, and takes me about seeing sights everywhere!'She spoke with quiet triumph. 

'Well, you will have to give him up, ' said the Marchioness calmly. 'Itshall not be the worse for you--you may see him when you choose. I amgoing to avow my first marriage, and have him with me. '

'You forget that there are two to be reckoned with, my lady. Not onlyme, but himself. '

'That can be arranged. You don't suppose that he wouldn't--' But notwishing to insult Milly by comparing their positions, she said, 'He is myown flesh and blood, not yours. '

'Flesh and blood's nothing!' said Milly, flashing with as much scorn as acottager could show to a peeress, which, in this case, was not so littleas may be supposed. 'But I will agree to put it to him, and let himsettle it for himself. '

'That's all I require, ' said Lady Stonehenge. 'You must ask him to come, and I will meet him here. '

The soldier was written to, and the meeting took place. He was not somuch astonished at the disclosure of his parentage as Lady Stonehenge hadbeen led to expect, having known for years that there was a littlemystery about his birth. His manner towards the Marchioness, thoughrespectful, was less warm than she could have hoped. The alternatives asto his choice of a mother were put before him. His answer amazed andstupefied her. 

'No, my lady, ' he said. 'Thank you much, but I prefer to let things beas they have been. My father's name is mine in any case. You see, mylady, you cared little for me when I was weak and helpless; why should Icome to you now I am strong? She, dear devoted soul [pointing to Milly], tended me from my birth, watched over me, nursed me when I was ill, anddeprived herself of many a little comfort to push me on. I cannot loveanother mother as I love her. She _is_ my mother, and I will always beher son!' As he spoke he put his manly arm round Milly's neck, andkissed her with the tenderest affection. 

The agony of the poor Marchioness was pitiable. 'You kill me!' she said, between her shaking sobs. 'Cannot you--love--me--too?'

'No, my lady. If I must say it, you were ashamed of my poor father, whowas a sincere and honest man; therefore, I am ashamed of you. '

Nothing would move him; and the suffering woman at last gasped, 'Cannot--oh, cannot you give one kiss to me--as you did to her? It isnot much--it is all I ask--all!'

'Certainly, ' he replied. 

He kissed her coldly, and the painful scene came to an end. That day wasthe beginning of death to the unfortunate Marchioness of Stonehenge. Itwas in the perverseness of her human heart that his denial of her shouldadd fuel to the fire of her craving for his love. How long afterwardsshe lived I do not know with any exactness, but it was no great length oftime. That anguish that is sharper than a serpent's tooth wore her outsoon. Utterly reckless of the world, its ways, and its opinions, sheallowed her story to become known; and when the welcome end supervened(which, I grieve to say, she refused to lighten by the consolations ofreligion), a broken heart was the truest phrase in which to sum up itscause. 

* * * * *

The rural dean having concluded, some observations upon his tale weremade in due course. The sentimental member said that Lady Caroline'shistory afforded a sad instance of how an honest human affection willbecome shamefaced and mean under the frost of class-division and socialprejudices. She probably deserved some pity; though her offspring, before he grew up to man's estate, had deserved more. There was nopathos like the pathos of childhood, when a child found itself in a worldwhere it was not wanted, and could not understand the reason why. A taleby the speaker, further illustrating the same subject, though withdifferent results from the last, naturally followed. 

DAME THE FOURTH--LADY MOTTISFONTBy the Sentimental Member

Of all the romantic towns in Wessex, Wintoncester is probably the mostconvenient for meditative people to live in; since there you have acathedral with a nave so long that it affords space in which to walk andsummon your remoter moods without continually turning on your heel, orseeming to do more than take an afternoon stroll under cover from therain or sun. In an uninterrupted course of nearly three hundred stepseastward, and again nearly three hundred steps westward amid thosemagnificent tombs, you can, for instance, compare in the most leisurelyway the dry dustiness which ultimately pervades the persons of kings andbishops with the damper dustiness that is usually the final shape ofcommoners, curates, and others who take their last rest out of doors. Then, if you are in love, you can, by sauntering in the chapels andbehind the episcopal chantries with the bright-eyed one, so steep andmellow your ecstasy in the solemnities around, that it will assume ararer and finer tincture, even more grateful to the understanding, if notto the senses, than that form of the emotion which arises from suchcompanionship in spots where all is life, and growth, and fecundity. 

It was in this solemn place, whither they had withdrawn from the sight ofrelatives on one cold day in March, that Sir Ashley Mottisfont asked inmarriage, as his second wife, Philippa, the gentle daughter of plainSquire Okehall. Her life had been an obscure one thus far; while SirAshley, though not a rich man, had a certain distinction about him; sothat everybody thought what a convenient, elevating, and, in a word, blessed match it would be for such a supernumerary as she. Nobodythought so more than the amiable girl herself. She had been smitten withsuch affection for him that, when she walked the cathedral aisles at hisside on the before-mentioned day, she did not know that her feet touchedhard pavement; it seemed to her rather that she was floating in space. Philippa was an ecstatic, heart-thumping maiden, and could not understandhow she had deserved to have sent to her such an illustrious lover, sucha travelled personage, such a handsome man. 

When he put the question, it was in no clumsy language, such as theordinary bucolic county landlords were wont to use on like quiveringoccasions, but as elegantly as if he had been taught it in Enfield's_Speaker_. Yet he hesitated a little--for he had something to add. 

'My pretty Philippa, ' he said (she was not very pretty by the way), 'Ihave, you must know, a little girl dependent upon me: a little waif Ifound one day in a patch of wild oats [such was this worthy baronet'shumour] when I was riding home: a little nameless creature, whom I wishto take care of till she is old enough to take care of herself; and toeducate in a plain way. She is only fifteen months old, and is atpresent in the hands of a kind villager's wife in my parish. Will youobject to give some attention to the little thing in her helplessness?'

It need hardly be said that our innocent young lady, loving him so deeplyand joyfully as she did, replied that she would do all she could for thenameless child; and, shortly afterwards, the pair were married in thesame cathedral that had echoed the whispers of his declaration, theofficiating minister being the Bishop himself; a venerable andexperienced man, so well accomplished in uniting people who had a mindfor that sort of experiment, that the couple, with some sense ofsurprise, found themselves one while they were still vaguely gazing ateach other as two independent beings. 

After this operation they went home to Deansleigh Park, and made abeginning of living happily ever after. Lady Mottisfont, true to herpromise, was always running down to the village during the followingweeks to see the baby whom her husband had so mysteriously lighted onduring his ride home--concerning which interesting discovery she had herown opinion; but being so extremely amiable and affectionate that shecould have loved stocks and stones if there had been no living creaturesto love, she uttered none of her thoughts. The little thing, who hadbeen christened Dorothy, took to Lady Mottisfont as if the baronet'syoung wife had been her mother; and at length Philippa grew so fond ofthe child that she ventured to ask her husband if she might have Dorothyin her own home, and bring her up carefully, just as if she were her own. To this he answered that, though remarks might be made thereon, he had noobjection; a fact which was obvious, Sir Ashley seeming rather pleasedthan otherwise with the proposal. 

After this they lived quietly and uneventfully for two or three years atSir Ashley Mottisfont's residence in that part of England, with as nearan approach to bliss as the climate of this country allows. The childhad been a godsend to Philippa, for there seemed no great probability ofher having one of her own: and she wisely regarded the possession ofDorothy as a special kindness of Providence, and did not worry her mindat all as to Dorothy's possible origin. Being a tender and impulsivecreature, she loved her husband without criticism, exhaustively andreligiously, and the child not much otherwise. She watched the littlefoundling as if she had been her own by nature, and Dorothy became agreat solace to her when her husband was absent on pleasure or business;and when he came home he looked pleased to see how the two had won eachother's hearts. Sir Ashley would kiss his wife, and his wife would kisslittle Dorothy, and little Dorothy would kiss Sir Ashley, and after thistriangular burst of affection Lady Mottisfont would say, 'Dear me--Iforget she is not mine!'

'What does it matter?' her husband would reply. 'Providence isfore-knowing. He has sent us this one because he is not intending tosend us one by any other channel. '

Their life was of the simplest. Since his travels the baronet had takento sporting and farming; while Philippa was a pattern of domesticity. Their pleasures were all local. They retired early to rest, and rosewith the cart-horses and whistling waggoners. They knew the names ofevery bird and tree not exceptionally uncommon, and could foretell theweather almost as well as anxious farmers and old people with corns. 

One day Sir Ashley Mottisfont received a letter, which he read, andmusingly laid down on the table without remark. 

'What is it, dearest?' asked his wife, glancing at the sheet. 

'Oh, it is from an old lawyer at Bath whom I used to know. He reminds meof something I said to him four or five years ago--some little timebefore we were married--about Dorothy. '

'What about her?'

'It was a casual remark I made to him, when I thought you might not takekindly to her, that if he knew a lady who was anxious to adopt a child, and could insure a good home to Dorothy, he was to let me know. '

'But that was when you had nobody to take care of her, ' she said quickly. 'How absurd of him to write now! Does he know you are married? He must, surely. '

'Oh yes!'

He handed her the letter. The solicitor stated that a widow-lady ofposition, who did not at present wish her name to be disclosed, hadlately become a client of his while taking the waters, and had mentionedto him that she would like a little girl to bring up as her own, if shecould be certain of finding one of good and pleasing disposition; and, the better to insure this, she would not wish the child to be too youngfor judging her qualities. He had remembered Sir Ashley's observation tohim a long while ago, and therefore brought the matter before him. Itwould be an excellent home for the little girl--of that he waspositive--if she had not already found such a home. 

'But it is absurd of the man to write so long after!' said LadyMottisfont, with a lumpiness about the back of her throat as she thoughthow much Dorothy had become to her. 'I suppose it was when youfirst--found her--that you told him this?'

'Exactly--it was then. '

He fell into thought, and neither Sir Ashley nor Lady Mottisfont took thetrouble to answer the lawyer's letter; and so the matter ended for thetime. 

One day at dinner, on their return from a short absence in town, whitherthey had gone to see what the world was doing, hear what it was saying, and to make themselves generally fashionable after rusticating for solong--on this occasion, I say, they learnt from some friend who hadjoined them at dinner that Fernell Hall--the manorial house of the estatenext their own, which had been offered on lease by reason of theimpecuniosity of its owner--had been taken for a term by a widow lady, anItalian Contessa, whose name I will not mention for certain reasons whichmay by and by appear. Lady Mottisfont expressed her surprise andinterest at the probability of having such a neighbour. 'Though, if Ihad been born in Italy, I think I should have liked to remain there, ' shesaid. 

'She is not Italian, though her husband was, ' said Sir Ashley. 

'Oh, you have heard about her before now?'

'Yes; they were talking of her at Grey's the other evening. She isEnglish. ' And then, as her husband said no more about the lady, thefriend who was dining with them told Lady Mottisfont that the Countess'sfather had speculated largely in East-India Stock, in which immensefortunes were being made at that time; through this his daughter hadfound herself enormously wealthy at his death, which had occurred only afew weeks after the death of her husband. It was supposed that themarriage of an enterprising English speculator's daughter to a poorforeign nobleman had been matter of arrangement merely. As soon as theCountess's widowhood was a little further advanced she would, no doubt, be the mark of all the schemers who came near her, for she was stillquite young. But at present she seemed to desire quiet, and avoidedsociety and town. 

Some weeks after this time Sir Ashley Mottisfont sat looking fixedly athis lady for many moments. He said:

'It might have been better for Dorothy if the Countess had taken her. Sheis so wealthy in comparison with ourselves, and could have ushered thegirl into the great world more effectually than we ever shall be able todo. '

'The Contessa take Dorothy?' said Lady Mottisfont with a start. 'What--wasshe the lady who wished to adopt her?'

'Yes; she was staying at Bath when Lawyer Gayton wrote to me. '

'But how do you know all this, Ashley?'

He showed a little hesitation. 'Oh, I've seen her, ' he says. 'You know, she drives to the meet sometimes, though she does not ride; and she hasinformed me that she was the lady who inquired of Gayton. '

'You have talked to her as well as seen her, then?'

'Oh yes, several times; everybody has. '

'Why didn't you tell me?' says his lady. 'I had quite forgotten to callupon her. I'll go to-morrow, or soon . . . But I can't think, Ashley, how you can say that it might have been better for Dorothy to have goneto her; she is so much our own now that I cannot admit any suchconjectures as those, even in jest. ' Her eyes reproached him soeloquently that Sir Ashley Mottisfont did not answer. 

Lady Mottisfont did not hunt any more than the Anglo-Italian Countessdid; indeed, she had become so absorbed in household matters and inDorothy's wellbeing that she had no mind to waste a minute on mereenjoyments. As she had said, to talk coolly of what might have been thebest destination in days past for a child to whom they had become soattached seemed quite barbarous, and she could not understand how herhusband should consider the point so abstractedly; for, as will probablyhave been guessed, Lady Mottisfont long before this time, if she had notdone so at the very beginning, divined Sir Ashley's true relation toDorothy. But the baronet's wife was so discreetly meek and mild that shenever told him of her surmise, and took what Heaven had sent her withoutcavil, her generosity in this respect having been bountifully rewarded bythe new life she found in her love for the little girl. 

Her husband recurred to the same uncomfortable subject when, a few dayslater, they were speaking of travelling abroad. He said that it wasalmost a pity, if they thought of going, that they had not fallen in withthe Countess's wish. That lady had told him that she had met Dorothywalking with her nurse, and that she had never seen a child she liked sowell. 

'What--she covets her still? How impertinent of the woman!' said LadyMottisfont. 

'She seems to do so . . . You see, dearest Philippa, the advantage toDorothy would have been that the Countess would have adopted her legally, and have made her as her own daughter; while we have not done that--weare only bringing up and educating a poor child in charity. '

'But I'll adopt her fully--make her mine legally!' cried his wife in ananxious voice. 'How is it to be done?'

'H'm. ' He did not inform her, but fell into thought; and, for reasons ofher own, his lady was restless and uneasy. 

The very next day Lady Mottisfont drove to Fernell Hall to pay theneglected call upon her neighbour. The Countess was at home, andreceived her graciously. But poor Lady Mottisfont's heart died withinher as soon as she set eyes on her new acquaintance. Such wonderfulbeauty, of the fully-developed kind, had never confronted her beforeinside the lines of a human face. She seemed to shine with every lightand grace that woman can possess. Her finished Continental manners, herexpanded mind, her ready wit, composed a study that made the other poorlady sick; for she, and latterly Sir Ashley himself, were rather rural inmanners, and she felt abashed by new sounds and ideas from without. Shehardly knew three words in any language but her own, while this divinecreature, though truly English, had, apparently, whatever she wanted inthe Italian and French tongues to suit every impression; which wasconsidered a great improvement to speech in those days, and, indeed, isby many considered as such in these. 

'How very strange it was about the little girl!' the Contessa said toLady Mottisfont, in her gay tones. 'I mean, that the child the lawyerrecommended should, just before then, have been adopted by you, who arenow my neighbour. How is she getting on? I must come and see her. '

'Do you still want her?' asks Lady Mottisfont suspiciously. 

'Oh, I should like to have her!'

'But you can't! She's mine!' said the other greedily. 

A drooping manner appeared in the Countess from that moment. 

Lady Mottisfont, too, was in a wretched mood all the way home that day. The Countess was so charming in every way that she had charmed her gentleladyship; how should it be possible that she had failed to charm SirAshley? Moreover, she had awakened a strange thought in Philippa's mind. As soon as she reached home she rushed to the nursery, and there, seizingDorothy, frantically kissed her; then, holding her at arm's length, shegazed with a piercing inquisitiveness into the girl's lineaments. Shesighed deeply, abandoned the wondering Dorothy, and hastened away. 

She had seen there not only her husband's traits, which she had oftenbeheld before, but others, of the shade, shape, and expression whichcharacterized those of her new neighbour. 

Then this poor lady perceived the whole perturbing sequence of things, and asked herself how she could have been such a walking piece ofsimplicity as not to have thought of this before. But she did not staylong upbraiding herself for her shortsightedness, so overwhelmed was shewith misery at the spectacle of herself as an intruder between these. Tobe sure she could not have foreseen such a conjuncture; but that did notlessen her grief. The woman who had been both her husband's bliss andhis backsliding had reappeared free when he was no longer so, and sheevidently was dying to claim her own in the person of Dorothy, who hadmeanwhile grown to be, to Lady Mottisfont, almost the only source of eachday's happiness, supplying her with something to watch over, inspiringher with the sense of maternity, and so largely reflecting her husband'snature as almost to deceive her into the pleasant belief that shereflected her own also. 

If there was a single direction in which this devoted and virtuous ladyerred, it was in the direction of over-submissiveness. When all is saidand done, and the truth told, men seldom show much self-sacrifice intheir conduct as lords and masters to helpless women bound to them forlife, and perhaps (though I say it with all uncertainty) if she hadblazed up in his face like a furze-faggot, directly he came home, shemight have helped herself a little. But God knows whether this is a truesupposition; at any rate she did no such thing; and waited and prayedthat she might never do despite to him who, she was bound to admit, hadalways been tender and courteous towards her; and hoped that littleDorothy might never be taken away. 

By degrees the two households became friendly, and very seldom did a weekpass without their seeing something of each other. Try as she might, anddangerous as she assumed the acquaintanceship to be, Lady Mottisfontcould detect no fault or flaw in her new friend. It was obvious thatDorothy had been the magnet which had drawn the Contessa hither, and notSir Ashley. 

Such beauty, united with such understanding and brightness, Philippa hadnever before known in one of her own sex, and she tried to think (whethershe succeeded I do not know) that she did not mind the propinquity; sincea woman so rich, so fair, and with such a command of suitors, could notdesire to wreck the happiness of so inoffensive a person as herself. 

The season drew on when it was the custom for families of distinction togo off to The Bath, and Sir Ashley Mottisfont persuaded his wife toaccompany him thither with Dorothy. Everybody of any note was there thisyear. From their own part of England came many that they knew; among therest, Lord and Lady Purbeck, the Earl and Countess of Wessex, Sir JohnGrebe, the Drenkhards, Lady Stourvale, the old Duke of Hamptonshire, theBishop of Melchester, the Dean of Exonbury, and other lesser lights ofCourt, pulpit, and field. Thither also came the fair Contessa, whom, assoon as Philippa saw how much she was sought after by younger men, shecould not conscientiously suspect of renewed designs upon Sir Ashley. 

But the Countess had finer opportunities than ever with Dorothy; for LadyMottisfont was often indisposed, and even at other times could nothonestly hinder an intercourse which gave bright ideas to the child. Dorothy welcomed her new acquaintance with a strange and instinctivereadiness that intimated the wonderful subtlety of the threads which bindflesh and flesh together. 

At last the crisis came: it was precipitated by an accident. Dorothy andher nurse had gone out one day for an airing, leaving Lady Mottisfontalone indoors. While she sat gloomily thinking that in all likelihoodthe Countess would contrive to meet the child somewhere, and exchange afew tender words with her, Sir Ashley Mottisfont rushed in and informedher that Dorothy had just had the narrowest possible escape from death. Some workmen were undermining a house to pull it down for rebuilding, when, without warning, the front wall inclined slowly outwards for itsfall, the nurse and child passing beneath it at the same moment. Thefall was temporarily arrested by the scaffolding, while in the meantimethe Countess had witnessed their imminent danger from the other side ofthe street. Springing across, she snatched Dorothy from under the wall, and pulled the nurse after her, the middle of the way being barelyreached before they were enveloped in the dense dust of the descendingmass, though not a stone touched them. 

'Where is Dorothy?' says the excited Lady Mottisfont. 

'She has her--she won't let her go for a time--'

'Has her? But she's _mine_--she's mine!' cries Lady Mottisfont. 

Then her quick and tender eyes perceived that her husband had almostforgotten her intrusive existence in contemplating the oneness ofDorothy's, the Countess's, and his own: he was in a dream of exaltationwhich recognized nothing necessary to his well-being outside that weldedcircle of three lives. 

Dorothy was at length brought home; she was much fascinated by theCountess, and saw nothing tragic, but rather all that was trulydelightful, in what had happened. In the evening, when the excitementwas over, and Dorothy was put to bed, Sir Ashley said, 'She has savedDorothy; and I have been asking myself what I can do for her as a slightacknowledgment of her heroism. Surely we ought to let her have Dorothyto bring up, since she still desires to do it? It would be so much toDorothy's advantage. We ought to look at it in that light, and notselfishly. '

Philippa seized his hand. 'Ashley, Ashley! You don't mean it--that Imust lose my pretty darling--the only one I have?' She met his gaze withher piteous mouth and wet eyes so painfully strained, that he turned awayhis face. 

The next morning, before Dorothy was awake, Lady Mottisfont stole to thegirl's bedside, and sat regarding her. When Dorothy opened her eyes, shefixed them for a long time upon Philippa's features. 

'Mamma--you are not so pretty as the Contessa, are you?' she said atlength. 

'I am not, Dorothy. '

'Why are you not, mamma?'

'Dorothy--where would you rather live, always; with me, or with her?'

The little girl looked troubled. 'I am sorry, mamma; I don't mean to beunkind; but I would rather live with her; I mean, if I might withouttrouble, and you did not mind, and it could be just the same to us all, you know. '

'Has she ever asked you the same question?'

'Never, mamma. '

There lay the sting of it: the Countess seemed the soul of honour andfairness in this matter, test her as she might. That afternoon LadyMottisfont went to her husband with singular firmness upon her gentleface. 

'Ashley, we have been married nearly five years, and I have neverchallenged you with what I know perfectly well--the parentage ofDorothy. '

'Never have you, Philippa dear. Though I have seen that you knew fromthe first. '

'From the first as to her father, not as to her mother. Her I did notknow for some time; but I know now. '

'Ah! you have discovered that too?' says he, without much surprise. 

'Could I help it? Very well, that being so, I have thought it over; andI have spoken to Dorothy. I agree to her going. I can do no less thangrant to the Countess her wish, after her kindness to my--your--her--child. '

Then this self-sacrificing woman went hastily away that he might not seethat her heart was bursting; and thereupon, before they left the city, Dorothy changed her mother and her home. After this, the Countess wentaway to London for a while, taking Dorothy with her; and the baronet andhis wife returned to their lonely place at Deansleigh Park without her. 

To renounce Dorothy in the bustle of Bath was a different thing fromliving without her in this quiet home. One evening Sir Ashley missed hiswife from the supper-table; her manner had been so pensive and woeful oflate that he immediately became alarmed. He said nothing, but lookedabout outside the house narrowly, and discerned her form in the park, where recently she had been accustomed to walk alone. In its lowerlevels there was a pool fed by a trickling brook, and he reached thisspot in time to hear a splash. Running forward, he dimly perceived herlight gown floating in the water. To pull her out was the work of a fewinstants, and bearing her indoors to her room, he undressed her, nobodyin the house knowing of the incident but himself. She had not beenimmersed long enough to lose her senses, and soon recovered. She ownedthat she had done it because the Contessa had taken away her child, asshe persisted in calling Dorothy. Her husband spoke sternly to her, andimpressed upon her the weakness of giving way thus, when all that hadhappened was for the best. She took his reproof meekly, and admitted herfault. 

After that she became more resigned, but he often caught her in tearsover some doll, shoe, or ribbon of Dorothy's, and decided to take her tothe North of England for change of air and scene. This was not withoutits beneficial effect, corporeally no less than mentally, as later eventsshowed, but she still evinced a preternatural sharpness of ear at themost casual mention of the child. When they reached home, the Countessand Dorothy were still absent from the neighbouring Fernell Hall, but ina month or two they returned, and a little later Sir Ashley Mottisfontcame into his wife's room full of news. 

'Well--would you think it, Philippa! After being so desperate, too, about getting Dorothy to be with her!'

'Ah--what?'

'Our neighbour, the Countess, is going to be married again! It is tosomebody she has met in London. '

Lady Mottisfont was much surprised; she had never dreamt of such anevent. The conflict for the possession of Dorothy's person had obscuredthe possibility of it; yet what more likely, the Countess being stillunder thirty, and so good-looking?

'What is of still more interest to us, or to you, ' continued her husband, 'is a kind offer she has made. She is willing that you should haveDorothy back again. Seeing what a grief the loss of her has been to you, she will try to do without her. '

'It is not for that; it is not to oblige me, ' said Lady Mottisfontquickly. 'One can see well enough what it is for!'

'Well, never mind; beggars mustn't be choosers. The reason or motive isnothing to us, so that you obtain your desire. '

'I am not a beggar any longer, ' said Lady Mottisfont, with proud mystery. 

'What do you mean by that?'

Lady Mottisfont hesitated. However, it was only too plain that she didnot now jump at a restitution of one for whom some months before she hadbeen breaking her heart. 

The explanation of this change of mood became apparent some little timefarther on. Lady Mottisfont, after five years of wedded life, wasexpecting to become a mother, and the aspect of many things was greatlyaltered in her view. Among the more important changes was that of nolonger feeling Dorothy to be absolutely indispensable to her existence. 

Meanwhile, in view of her coming marriage, the Countess decided toabandon the remainder of her term at Fernell Hall, and return to herpretty little house in town. But she could not do this quite so quicklyas she had expected, and half a year or more elapsed before she finallyquitted the neighbourhood, the interval being passed in alternationsbetween the country and London. Prior to her last departure she had aninterview with Sir Ashley Mottisfont, and it occurred three days afterhis wife had presented him with a son and heir. 

'I wanted to speak to you, ' said the Countess, looking him luminously inthe face, 'about the dear foundling I have adopted temporarily, andthought to have adopted permanently. But my marriage makes it toorisky!'

'I thought it might be that, ' he answered, regarding her steadfastly backagain, and observing two tears come slowly into her eyes as she heard herown voice describe Dorothy in those words. 

'Don't criticize me, ' she said hastily; and recovering herself, went on. 'If Lady Mottisfont could take her back again, as I suggested, it wouldbe better for me, and certainly no worse for Dorothy. To every one butourselves she is but a child I have taken a fancy to, and Lady Mottisfontcoveted her so much, and was very reluctant to let her go . . . I am sureshe will adopt her again?' she added anxiously. 

'I will sound her afresh, ' said the baronet. 'You leave Dorothy behindfor the present?'

'Yes; although I go away, I do not give up the house for another month. '

He did not speak to his wife about the proposal till some few days after, when Lady Mottisfont had nearly recovered, and news of the Countess'smarriage in London had just reached them. He had no sooner mentionedDorothy's name than Lady Mottisfont showed symptoms of disquietude. 

'I have not acquired any dislike of Dorothy, ' she said, 'but I feel thatthere is one nearer to me now. Dorothy chose the alternative of going tothe Countess, you must remember, when I put it to her as between theCountess and myself. '

'But, my dear Philippa, how can you argue thus about a child, and thatchild our Dorothy?'

'Not _ours_, ' said his wife, pointing to the cot. 'Ours is here. '

'What, then, Philippa, ' he said, surprised, 'you won't have her back, after nearly dying of grief at the loss of her?'

'I cannot argue, dear Ashley. I should prefer not to have theresponsibility of Dorothy again. Her place is filled now. '

Her husband sighed, and went out of the chamber. There had been aprevious arrangement that Dorothy should be brought to the house on avisit that day, but instead of taking her up to his wife, he did notinform Lady Mottisfont of the child's presence. He entertained herhimself as well as he could, and accompanied her into the park, wherethey had a ramble together. Presently he sat down on the root of an elmand took her upon his knee. 

'Between this husband and this baby, little Dorothy, you who had twohomes are left out in the cold, ' he said. 

'Can't I go to London with my pretty mamma?' said Dorothy, perceivingfrom his manner that there was a hitch somewhere. 

'I am afraid not, my child. She only took you to live with her becauseshe was lonely, you know. '

'Then can't I stay at Deansleigh Park with my other mamma and you?'

'I am afraid that cannot be done either, ' said he sadly. 'We have a babyin the house now. ' He closed the reply by stooping down and kissing her, there being a tear in his eye. 

'Then nobody wants me!' said Dorothy pathetically. 

'Oh yes, somebody wants you, ' he assured her. 'Where would you like tolive besides?'

Dorothy's experiences being rather limited, she mentioned the only otherplace in the world that she was acquainted with, the cottage of thevillager who had taken care of her before Lady Mottisfont had removed herto the Manor House. 

'Yes; that's where you'll be best off and most independent, ' he answered. 'And I'll come to see you, my dear girl, and bring you pretty things; andperhaps you'll be just as happy there. '

Nevertheless, when the change came, and Dorothy was handed over to thekind cottage-woman, the poor child missed the luxurious roominess ofFernell Hall and Deansleigh; and for a long time her little feet, whichhad been accustomed to carpets and oak floors, suffered from the cold ofthe stone flags on which it was now her lot to live and to play; whilechilblains came upon her fingers with washing at the pump. But thickershoes with nails in them somewhat remedied the cold feet, and hercomplaints and tears on this and other scores diminished to silence asshe became inured anew to the hardships of the farm-cottage, and she grewup robust if not handsome. She was never altogether lost sight of by SirAshley, though she was deprived of the systematic education which hadbeen devised and begun for her by Lady Mottisfont, as well as by herother mamma, the enthusiastic Countess. The latter soon had otherDorothys to think of, who occupied her time and affection as fully asLady Mottisfont's were occupied by her precious boy. In the course oftime the doubly-desired and doubly-rejected Dorothy married, I believe, arespectable road-contractor--the same, if I mistake not, who repaired andimproved the old highway running from Wintoncester south-westerly throughthe New Forest--and in the heart of this worthy man of business the poorgirl found the nest which had been denied her by her own flesh and bloodof higher degree. 

* * * * *

Several of the listeners wished to hear another story from thesentimental member after this, but he said that he could recall nothingelse at the moment, and that it seemed to him as if his friend on theother side of the fireplace had something to say from the look of hisface. 

The member alluded to was a respectable churchwarden, with a sly chink toone eyelid--possibly the result of an accident--and a regular attendantat the Club meetings. He replied that his looks had been mainly causedby his interest in the two ladies of the last story, apparently women ofstrong motherly instincts, even though they were not genuinely staunch intheir tenderness. The tale had brought to his mind an instance of afirmer affection of that sort on the paternal side, in a nature otherwiseculpable. As for telling the story, his manner was much against him, hefeared; but he would do his best, if they wished. 

Here the President interposed with a suggestion that as it was gettinglate in the afternoon it would be as well to adjourn to their respectiveinns and lodgings for dinner, after which those who cared to do so couldreturn and resume these curious domestic traditions for the remainder ofthe evening, which might otherwise prove irksome enough. The curator hadtold him that the room was at their service. The churchwarden, who wasbeginning to feel hungry himself, readily acquiesced, and the Clubseparated for an hour and a half. Then the faithful ones began to dropin again--among whom were not the President; neither came the rural dean, nor the two curates, though the Colonel, and the man of family, cigars inmouth, were good enough to return, having found their hotel dreary. Themuseum had no regular means of illumination, and a solitary candle, lesspowerful than the rays of the fire, was placed on the table; also bottlesand glasses, provided by some thoughtful member. The chink-eyedchurchwarden, now thoroughly primed, proceeded to relate in his own termswhat was in substance as follows, while many of his listeners smoked. 

DAME THE FIFTH--THE LADY ICENWAYBy the Churchwarden

In the reign of His Most Excellent Majesty King George the Third, Defender of the Faith and of the American Colonies, there lived in 'afaire maner-place' (so Leland called it in his day, as I have been told), in one o' the greenest bits of woodland between Bristol and the city ofExonbury, a young lady who resembled some aforesaid ones in having manytalents and exceeding great beauty. With these gifts she combined asomewhat imperious temper and arbitrary mind, though her experience ofthe world was not actually so large as her conclusive manner would haveled the stranger to suppose. Being an orphan, she resided with heruncle, who, though he was fairly considerate as to her welfare, left herpretty much to herself. 

Now it chanced that when this lovely young lady was about nineteen, she(being a fearless horsewoman) was riding, with only a young lad as anattendant, in one o' the woods near her uncle's house, and, in trottingalong, her horse stumbled over the root of a felled tree. She slipped tothe ground, not seriously hurt, and was assisted home by a gentleman whocame in view at the moment of her mishap. It turned out that thisgentleman, a total stranger to her, was on a visit at the house of aneighbouring landowner. He was of Dutch extraction, and occasionallycame to England on business or pleasure from his plantations in Guiana, on the north coast of South America, where he usually resided. 

On this account he was naturally but little known in Wessex, and was buta slight acquaintance of the gentleman at whose mansion he was a guest. However, the friendship between him and the Heymeres--as the uncle andniece were named--warmed and warmed by degrees, there being but few folko' note in the vicinity at that time, which made a newcomer, if he wereat all sociable and of good credit, always sure of a welcome. A tenderfeeling (as it is called by the romantic) sprang up between the two youngpeople, which ripened into intimacy. Anderling, the foreign gentleman, was of an amorous temperament; and, though he endeavoured to conceal hisfeeling, it could be seen that Miss Maria Heymere had impressed himrather more deeply than would be represented by a scratch upon a stone. He seemed absolutely unable to free himself from her fascination; and hisinability to do so, much as he tried--evidently thinking he had not theghost of a chance with her--gave her the pleasure of power; though shemore than sympathized when she overheard him heaving his deep drawnsighs--privately to himself, as he supposed. 

After prolonging his visit by every conceivable excuse in his power, hesummoned courage, and offered her his hand and his heart. Being in noway disinclined to him, though not so fervid as he, and her uncle makingno objection to the match, she consented to share his fate, for better orotherwise, in the distant colony where, as he assured her, his rice, andcoffee, and maize, and timber, produced him ample means--a statementwhich was borne out by his friend, her uncle's neighbour. In short, aday for their marriage was fixed, earlier in the engagement than is usualor desirable between comparative strangers, by reason of the necessity hewas under of returning to look after his properties. 

The wedding took place, and Maria left her uncle's mansion with herhusband, going in the first place to London, and about a fortnight aftersailing with him across the great ocean for their distant home--which, however, he assured her, should not be her home for long, it being hisintention to dispose of his interests in this part of the world as soonas the war was over, and he could do so advantageously; when they couldcome to Europe, and reside in some favourite capital. 

As they advanced on the voyage she observed that he grew more and moreconstrained; and, by the time they had crossed the Line, he was quitedepressed, just as he had been before proposing to her. A day or twobefore landing at Paramaribo, he embraced her in a very tearful andpassionate manner, and said he wished to make a confession. It had beenhis misfortune, he said, to marry at Quebec in early life a woman whosereputation proved to be in every way bad and scandalous. The discoveryhad nearly killed him; but he had ultimately separated from her, and hadnever seen her since. He had hoped and prayed she might be dead; butrecently in London, when they were starting on this journey, he haddiscovered that she was still alive. At first he had decided to keepthis dark intelligence from her beloved ears; but he had felt that hecould not do it. All he hoped was that such a condition of things wouldmake no difference in her feelings for him, as it need make no differencein the course of their lives. 

Thereupon the spirit of this proud and masterful lady showed itself inviolent turmoil, like the raging of a nor'-west thunderstorm--as well itmight, God knows. But she was of too stout a nature to be broken down byhis revelation, as many ladies of my acquaintance would have been--so farfrom home, and right under the Line in the blaze o' the sun. Of the two, indeed, he was the more wretched and shattered in spirit, for he lovedher deeply, and (there being a foreign twist in his make) had beentempted to this crime by her exceeding beauty, against which he hadstruggled day and night, till he had no further resistance left in him. It was she who came first to a decision as to what should be done--whethera wise one I do not attempt to judge. 

'I put it to you, ' says she, when many useless self-reproaches andprotestations on his part had been uttered--'I put it to you whether, ifany manliness is left in you, you ought not to do exactly what I considerthe best thing for me in this strait to which you have reduced me?'

He promised to do anything in the whole world. She then requested him toallow her to return, and announce him as having died of malignant agueimmediately on their arrival at Paramaribo; that she should consequentlyappear in weeds as his widow in her native place; and that he would nevermolest her, or come again to that part of the world during the wholecourse of his life--a good reason for which would be that the legalconsequences might be serious. 

He readily acquiesced in this, as he would have acquiesced in anythingfor the restitution of one he adored so deeply--even to the yielding oflife itself. To put her in an immediate state of independence he gaveher, in bonds and jewels, a considerable sum (for his worldly means hadbeen in no way exaggerated); and by the next ship she sailed again forEngland, having travelled no farther than to Paramaribo. At parting hedeclared it to be his intention to turn all his landed possessions intopersonal property, and to be a wanderer on the face of the earth inremorse for his conduct towards her. 

Maria duly arrived in England, and immediately on landing apprised heruncle of her return, duly appearing at his house in the garb of a widow. She was commiserated by all the neighbours as soon as her story was told;but only to her uncle did she reveal the real state of affairs, and herreason for concealing it. For, though she had been innocent of wrong, Maria's pride was of that grain which could not brook the leastappearance of having been fooled, or deluded, or nonplussed in herworldly aims. 

For some time she led a quiet life with her relative, and in due course ason was born to her. She was much respected for her dignity and reserve, and the portable wealth which her temporary husband had made over to herenabled her to live in comfort in a wing of the mansion, withoutassistance from her uncle at all. But, knowing that she was not what sheseemed to be, her life was an uneasy one, and she often said to herself:'Suppose his continued existence should become known here, and peopleshould discern the pride of my motive in hiding my humiliation? It wouldbe worse than if I had been frank at first, which I should have been butfor the credit of this child. '

Such grave reflections as these occupied her with increasing force; andduring their continuance she encountered a worthy man of noble birth andtitle--Lord Icenway his name--whose seat was beyond Wintoncester, quiteat t'other end of Wessex. He being anxious to pay his addresses to her, Maria willingly accepted them, though he was a plain man, older thanherself; for she discerned in a re-marriage a method of fortifying herposition against mortifying discoveries. In a few months their uniontook place, and Maria lifted her head as Lady Icenway, and left with herhusband and child for his home as aforesaid, where she was quite unknown. 

A justification, or a condemnation, of her step (according as you viewit) was seen when, not long after, she received a note from her formerhusband Anderling. It was a hasty and tender epistle, and perhaps it wasfortunate that it arrived during the temporary absence of Lord Icenway. His worthless wife, said Anderling, had just died in Quebec; he had gonethere to ascertain particulars, and had seen the unfortunate womanburied. He now was hastening to England to repair the wrong he had donehis Maria. He asked her to meet him at Southampton, his port of arrival;which she need be in no fear of doing, as he had changed his name, andwas almost absolutely unknown in Europe. He would remarry herimmediately, and live with her in any part of the Continent, as they hadoriginally intended, where, for the great love he still bore her, hewould devote himself to her service for the rest of his days. 

Lady Icenway, self-possessed as it was her nature to be, was yet muchdisturbed at this news, and set off to meet him, unattended, as soon asshe heard that the ship was in sight. As soon as they stood face to faceshe found that she still possessed all her old influence over him, thoughhis power to fascinate her had quite departed. In his sorrow for hisoffence against her, he had become a man of strict religious habits, self-denying as a lenten saint, though formerly he had been a free and joyousliver. Having first got him to swear to make her any amends she shouldchoose (which he was imagining must be by a true marriage), she informedhim that she had already wedded another husband, an excellent man ofancient family and possessions, who had given her a title, in which shemuch rejoiced. 

At this the countenance of the poor foreign gentleman became cold asclay, and his heart withered within him; for as it had been her beautyand bearing which had led him to sin to obtain her, so, now that herbeauty was in fuller bloom, and her manner more haughty by her success, did he feel her fascination to be almost more than he could bear. Nevertheless, having sworn his word, he undertook to obey her commands, which were simply a renewal of her old request--that he would depart forsome foreign country, and never reveal his existence to her friends, orhusband, or any person in England; never trouble her more, seeing howgreat a harm it would do her in the high position which she at presentoccupied. 

He bowed his head. 'And the child--our child?' he said. 

'He is well, ' says she. 'Quite well. '

With this the unhappy gentleman departed, much sadder in his heart thanon his voyage to England; for it had never occurred to him that a womanwho rated her honour so highly as Maria had done, and who was the motherof a child of his, would have adopted such means as this for therestoration of that honour, and at so surprisingly early a date. He hadfully calculated on making her his wife in law and truth, and of livingin cheerful unity with her and his offspring, for whom he felt a deep andgrowing tenderness, though he had never once seen the child. 

The lady returned to her mansion beyond Wintoncester, and told nothing ofthe interview to her noble husband, who had fortunately gone that day todo a little cocking and ratting out by Weydon Priors, and knew nothing ofher movements. She had dismissed her poor Anderling peremptorily enough;yet she would often after this look in the face of the child of her so-called widowhood, to discover what and how many traits of his father wereto be seen in his lineaments. For this she had ample opportunity duringthe following autumn and winter months, her husband being a matter-of-fact nobleman, who spent the greater part of his time in field-sports andagriculture. 

One winter day, when he had started for a meet of the hounds a long wayfrom the house--it being his custom to hunt three or four times a week atthis season of the year--she had walked into the sunshine upon theterrace before the windows, where there fell at her feet some littlewhite object that had come over a boundary wall hard by. It proved to bea tiny note wrapped round a stone. Lady Icenway opened it and read it, and immediately (no doubt, with a stern fixture of her queenlycountenance) walked hastily along the terrace, and through the door intothe shrubbery, whence the note had come. The man who had first marriedher stood under the bushes before her. It was plain from his appearancethat something had gone wrong with him. 

'You notice a change in me, my best-beloved, ' he said. 'Yes, Maria--Ihave lost all the wealth I once possessed--mainly by reckless gambling inthe Continental hells to which you banished me. But one thing in theworld remains to me--the child--and it is for him that I have intrudedhere. Don't fear me, darling! I shall not inconvenience you long; Ilove you too well! But I think of the boy day and night--I cannot helpit--I cannot keep my feeling for him down; and I long to see him, andspeak a word to him once in my lifetime!'

'But your oath?' says she. 'You promised never to reveal by word orsign--'

'I will reveal nothing. Only let me see the child. I know what I havesworn to you, cruel mistress, and I respect my oath. Otherwise I mighthave seen him by some subterfuge. But I preferred the frank course ofasking your permission. '

She demurred, with the haughty severity which had grown part of hercharacter, and which her elevation to the rank of a peeress had ratherintensified than diminished. She said that she would consider, and wouldgive him an answer the day after the next, at the same hour and place, when her husband would again be absent with his pack of hounds. 

The gentleman waited patiently. Lady Icenway, who had now no consciouslove left for him, well considered the matter, and felt that it would beadvisable not to push to extremes a man of so passionate a heart. On theday and hour she met him as she had promised to do. 

'You shall see him, ' she said, 'of course on the strict condition thatyou do not reveal yourself, and hence, though you see him, he must notsee you, or your manner might betray you and me. I will lull him into anap in the afternoon, and then I will come to you here, and fetch youindoors by a private way. '

The unfortunate father, whose misdemeanour had recoiled upon his own headin a way he could not have foreseen, promised to adhere to herinstructions, and waited in the shrubberies till the moment when sheshould call him. This she duly did about three o'clock that day, leadinghim in by a garden door, and upstairs to the nursery where the child lay. He was in his little cot, breathing calmly, his arm thrown over his head, and his silken curls crushed into the pillow. His father, now almost tobe pitied, bent over him, and a tear from his eye wetted the coverlet. 

She held up a warning finger as he lowered his mouth to the lips of theboy. 

'But oh, why not?' implored he. 

'Very well, then, ' said she, relenting. 'But as gently as possible. '

He kissed the child without waking him, turned, gave him a last look, andfollowed her out of the chamber, when she conducted him off the premisesby the way he had come. 

But this remedy for his sadness of heart at being a stranger to his ownson, had the effect of intensifying the malady; for while originally, notknowing or having ever seen the boy, he had loved him vaguely andimaginatively only, he now became attached to him in flesh and bone, asany parent might; and the feeling that he could at best only see hischild at the rarest and most cursory moments, if at all, drove him into astate of distraction which threatened to overthrow his promise to theboy's mother to keep out of his sight. 

But such was his chivalrous respect for Lady Icenway, and his regret athaving ever deceived her, that he schooled his poor heart intosubmission. Owing to his loneliness, all the fervour of which he wascapable--and that was much--flowed now in the channel of parental andmarital love--for a child who did not know him, and a woman who hadceased to love him. 

At length this singular punishment became such a torture to the poorforeigner that he resolved to lessen it at all hazards, compatible withpunctilious care for the name of the lady his former wife, to whom hisattachment seemed to increase in proportion to her punitive treatment ofhim. At one time of his life he had taken great interest intulip-culture, as well as gardening in general; and since the ruin of hisfortunes, and his arrival in England, he had made of his knowledge aprecarious income in the hot-houses of nurserymen and others. With thenew idea in his head he applied himself zealously to the business, tillhe acquired in a few months great skill in horticulture. Waiting tillthe noble lord, his lady's husband, had room for an under-gardener of ageneral sort, he offered himself for the place, and was engagedimmediately by reason of his civility and intelligence, before LadyIcenway knew anything of the matter. Much therefore did he surprise herwhen she found him in the conservatories of her mansion a week or twoafter his arrival. The punishment of instant dismissal, with which atfirst she haughtily threatened him, my lady thought fit, on reflection, not to enforce. While he served her thus she knew he would not harm herby a word, while, if he were expelled, chagrin might induce him to revealin a moment of exasperation what kind treatment would assist him toconceal. 

So he was allowed to remain on the premises, and had for his residence alittle cottage by the garden-wall which had been the domicile of some ofhis predecessors in the same occupation. Here he lived absolutely alone, and spent much of his leisure in reading, but the greater part inwatching the windows and lawns of his lady's house for glimpses of theform of the child. It was for that child's sake that he abandoned thetenets of the Roman Catholic Church in which he had been reared, andbecame the most regular attendant at the services in the parish place ofworship hard by, where, sitting behind the pew of my lady, my lord, andhis stepson, the gardener could pensively study the traits and movementsof the youngster at only a few feet distance, without suspicion orhindrance. 

He filled his post for more than two years with a pleasure to himselfwhich, though mournful, was soothing, his lady never forgiving him, orallowing him to be anything more than 'the gardener' to her child, thoughonce or twice the boy said, 'That gardener's eyes are so sad! Why doeshe look so sadly at me?' He sunned himself in her scornfulness as if itwere love, and his ears drank in her curt monosyllables as though theywere rhapsodies of endearment. Strangely enough, the coldness with whichshe treated her foreigner began to be the conduct of Lord Icenway towardsherself. It was a matter of great anxiety to him that there should be alineal successor to the title, yet no sign of that successor appeared. One day he complained to her quite roughly of his fate. 'All will go tothat dolt of a cousin!' he cried. 'I'd sooner see my name and place atthe bottom of the sea!'

The lady soothed him and fell into thought, and did not recriminate. Butone day, soon after, she went down to the cottage of the gardener toinquire how he was getting on, for he had been ailing of late, though, aswas supposed, not seriously. Though she often visited the poor, she hadnever entered her under-gardener's home before, and was muchsurprised--even grieved and dismayed--to find that he was too ill to risefrom his bed. She went back to her mansion and returned with somedelicate soup, that she might have a reason for seeing him. 

His condition was so feeble and alarming, and his face so thin, that itquite shocked her softening heart, and gazing upon him she said, 'Youmust get well--you must! I have been hard with you--I know it. I willnot be so again. '

The sick and dying man--for he was dying indeed--took her hand andpressed it to his lips. 'Too late, my darling, too late!' he murmured. 

'But you _must not_ die! Oh, you must not!' she said. And on an impulseshe bent down and whispered some words to him, blushing as she hadblushed in her maiden days. 

He replied by a faint wan smile. 'Time was! . . . But that's past!' hesaid, 'I must die!'

And die he did, a few days later, as the sun was going down behind thegarden-wall. Her harshness seemed to come trebly home to her then, andshe remorsefully exclaimed against herself in secret and alone. Her onedesire now was to erect some tribute to his memory, without its beingrecognized as her handiwork. In the completion of this scheme therearrived a few months later a handsome stained-glass window for thechurch; and when it was unpacked and in course of erection Lord Icenwaystrolled into the building with his wife. 

'"_Erected to his memory by his grieving widow_, "' he said, reading thelegend on the glass. 'I didn't know that he had a wife; I've never seenher. '

'Oh yes, you must have, Icenway; only you forget, ' replied his ladyblandly. 'But she didn't live with him, and was seldom seen visitinghim, because there were differences between them; which, as is usuallythe case, makes her all the more sorry now. '

'And go ruining herself by this expensive ruby-and-azure glass-design. '

'She is not poor, they say. '

As Lord Icenway grew older he became crustier and crustier, and wheneverhe set eyes on his wife's boy by her other husband he would burst outmorosely, saying, ''Tis a very odd thing, my lady, that you could oblige your firsthusband, and couldn't oblige me. '

'Ah! if I had only thought of it sooner!' she murmured. 

'What?' said he. 

'Nothing, dearest, ' replied Lady Icenway. 

* * * * *

The Colonel was the first to comment upon the Churchwarden's tale, bysaying that the fate of the poor fellow was rather a hard one. 

The gentleman-tradesman could not see that his fate was at all too hardfor him. He was legally nothing to her, and he had served hershamefully. If he had been really her husband it would have stooddifferently. 

The Bookworm remarked that Lord Icenway seemed to have been a veryunsuspicious man, with which view a fat member with a crimson faceagreed. It was true his wife was a very close-mouthed personage, whichmade a difference. If she had spoken out recklessly her lord might havebeen suspicious enough, as in the case of that lady who lived atStapleford Park in their great-grandfathers' time. Though there, to besure, considerations arose which made her husband view matters with muchphilosophy. 

A few of the members doubted the possibility of this. 

The crimson man, who was a retired maltster of comfortable means, _ventru_, and short in stature, cleared his throat, blew off hissuperfluous breath, and proceeded to give the instance before alluded toof such possibility, first apologizing for his heroine's lack of a title, it never having been his good fortune to know many of the nobility. Tohis style of narrative the following is only an approximation. 

DAME THE SIXTH--SQUIRE PETRICK'S LADYBy the Crimson Maltster

Folk who are at all acquainted with the traditions of Stapleford Parkwill not need to be told that in the middle of the last century it wasowned by that trump of mortgagees, Timothy Petrick, whose skill ingaining possession of fair estates by granting sums of money on theirtitle-deeds has seldom if ever been equalled in our part of England. Timothy was a lawyer by profession, and agent to several noblemen, bywhich means his special line of business became opened to him by a sortof revelation. It is said that a relative of his, a very deep thinker, who afterwards had the misfortune to be transported for life for mistakennotions on the signing of a will, taught him considerable legal lore, which he creditably resolved never to throw away for the benefit of otherpeople, but to reserve it entirely for his own. 

However, I have nothing in particular to say about his early and activedays, but rather of the time when, an old man, he had become the owner ofvast estates by the means I have signified--among them the great manor ofStapleford, on which he lived, in the splendid old mansion now pulleddown; likewise estates at Marlott, estates near Sherton Abbas, nearly allthe borough of Millpool, and many properties near Ivell. Indeed, I can'tcall to mind half his landed possessions, and I don't know that itmatters much at this time of day, seeing that he's been dead and gonemany years. It is said that when he bought an estate he would not decideto pay the price till he had walked over every single acre with his owntwo feet, and prodded the soil at every point with his own spud, to testits quality, which, if we regard the extent of his properties, must havebeen a stiff business for him. 

At the time I am speaking of he was a man over eighty, and his son wasdead; but he had two grandsons, the eldest of whom, his namesake, wasmarried, and was shortly expecting issue. Just then the grandfather wastaken ill, for death, as it seemed, considering his age. By his will theold man had created an entail (as I believe the lawyers call it), devising the whole of the estates to his elder grandson and his issuemale, failing which, to his younger grandson and his issue male, failingwhich, to remoter relatives, who need not be mentioned now. 

While old Timothy Petrick was lying ill, his elder grandson's wife, Annetta, gave birth to her expected child, who, as fortune would have it, was a son. Timothy, her husband, through sprung of a scheming family, was no great schemer himself; he was the single one of the Petricks thenliving whose heart had ever been greatly moved by sentiments which didnot run in the groove of ambition; and on this account he had not marriedwell, as the saying is; his wife having been the daughter of a family ofno better beginnings than his own; that is to say, her father was acountry townsman of the professional class. But she was a very prettywoman, by all accounts, and her husband had seen, courted, and marriedher in a high tide of infatuation, after a very short acquaintance, andwith very little knowledge of her heart's history. He had never foundreason to regret his choice as yet, and his anxiety for her recovery wasgreat. 

She was supposed to be out of danger, and herself and the childprogressing well, when there was a change for the worse, and she sank sorapidly that she was soon given over. When she felt that she was aboutto leave him, Annetta sent for her husband, and, on his speedy entry andassurance that they were alone, she made him solemnly vow to give thechild every care in any circumstances that might arise, if it shouldplease Heaven to take her. This, of course, he readily promised. Then, after some hesitation, she told him that she could not die with afalsehood upon her soul, and dire deceit in her life; she must make aterrible confession to him before her lips were sealed for ever. Shethereupon related an incident concerning the baby's parentage, which wasnot as he supposed. 

Timothy Petrick, though a quick-feeling man, was not of a sort to shownerves outwardly; and he bore himself as heroically as he possibly coulddo in this trying moment of his life. That same night his wife died; andwhile she lay dead, and before her funeral, he hastened to the bedside ofhis sick grandfather, and revealed to him all that had happened: thebaby's birth, his wife's confession, and her death, beseeching the agedman, as he loved him, to bestir himself now, at the eleventh hour, andalter his will so as to dish the intruder. Old Timothy, seeing mattersin the same light as his grandson, required no urging against allowinganything to stand in the way of legitimate inheritance; he executedanother will, limiting the entail to Timothy his grandson, for life, andhis male heirs thereafter to be born; after them to his other grandsonEdward, and Edward's heirs. Thus the newly-born infant, who had been thecentre of so many hopes, was cut off and scorned as none of the elect. 

The old mortgagee lived but a short time after this, the excitement ofthe discovery having told upon him considerably, and he was gathered tohis fathers like the most charitable man in his neighbourhood. Both wifeand grandparent being buried, Timothy settled down to his usual life aswell as he was able, mentally satisfied that he had by prompt actiondefeated the consequences of such dire domestic treachery as had beenshown towards him, and resolving to marry a second time as soon as hecould satisfy himself in the choice of a wife. 

But men do not always know themselves. The embittered state of TimothyPetrick's mind bred in him by degrees such a hatred and mistrust ofwomankind that, though several specimens of high attractiveness cameunder his eyes, he could not bring himself to the point of proposingmarriage. He dreaded to take up the position of husband a second time, discerning a trap in every petticoat, and a Slough of Despond in possibleheirs. 'What has happened once, when all seemed so fair, may happenagain, ' he said to himself. 'I'll risk my name no more. ' So heabstained from marriage, and overcame his wish for a lineal descendant tofollow him in the ownership of Stapleford. 

Timothy had scarcely noticed the unfortunate child that his wife hadborne, after arranging for a meagre fulfilment of his promise to her totake care of the boy, by having him brought up in his house. Occasionally, remembering this promise, he went and glanced at the child, saw that he was doing well, gave a few special directions, and again wenthis solitary way. Thus he and the child lived on in the Staplefordmansion-house till two or three years had passed by. One day he waswalking in the garden, and by some accident left his snuff-box on abench. When he came back to find it he saw the little boy standingthere; he had escaped his nurse, and was making a plaything of the box, in spite of the convulsive sneezings which the game brought in its train. Then the man with the encrusted heart became interested in the littlefellow's persistence in his play under such discomforts; he looked in thechild's face, saw there his wife's countenance, though he did not see hisown, and fell into thought on the piteousness of childhood--particularlyof despised and rejected childhood, like this before him. 

From that hour, try as he would to counteract the feeling, the humannecessity to love something or other got the better of what he had calledhis wisdom, and shaped itself in a tender anxiety for the youngsterRupert. This name had been given him by his dying mother when, at herrequest, the child was baptized in her chamber, lest he should notsurvive for public baptism; and her husband had never thought of it as aname of any significance till, about this time, he learnt by accidentthat it was the name of the young Marquis of Christminster, son of theDuke of Southwesterland, for whom Annetta had cherished warm feelingsbefore her marriage. Recollecting some wandering phrases in his wife'slast words, which he had not understood at the time, he perceived at lastthat this was the person to whom she had alluded when affording him aclue to little Rupert's history. 

He would sit in silence for hours with the child, being no great speakerat the best of times; but the boy, on his part, was too ready with histongue for any break in discourse to arise because Timothy Petrick hadnothing to say. After idling away his mornings in this manner, Petrickwould go to his own room and swear in long loud whispers, and walk up anddown, calling himself the most ridiculous dolt that ever lived, anddeclaring that he would never go near the little fellow again; to whichresolve he would adhere for the space perhaps of a day. Such cases arehappily not new to human nature, but there never was a case in which aman more completely befocled his former self than in this. 

As the child grew up, Timothy's attachment to him grew deeper, tillRupert became almost the sole object for which he lived. There had beenenough of the family ambition latent in him for Timothy Petrick to feel alittle envy when, some time before this date, his brother Edward had beenaccepted by the Honourable Harriet Mountclere, daughter of the secondViscount of that name and title; but having discovered, as I have beforestated, the paternity of his boy Rupert to lurk in even a higher stratumof society, those envious feelings speedily dispersed. Indeed, the morehe reflected thereon, after his brother's aristocratic marriage, the morecontent did he become. His late wife took softer outline in his memory, as he thought of the lofty taste she had displayed, though only a plainburgher's daughter, and the justification for his weakness in loving thechild--the justification that he had longed for--was afforded now in theknowledge that the boy was by nature, if not by name, a representative ofone of the noblest houses in England. 

'She was a woman of grand instincts, after all, ' he said to himselfproudly. 'To fix her choice upon the immediate successor in that ducalline--it was finely conceived! Had he been of low blood like myself ormy relations she would scarce have deserved the harsh measure that I havedealt out to her and her offspring. How much less, then, when suchgrovelling tastes were farthest from her soul! The man Annetta loved wasnoble, and my boy is noble in spite of me. '

The afterclap was inevitable, and it soon came. 'So far, ' he reasoned, 'from cutting off this child from inheritance of my estates, as I havedone, I should have rejoiced in the possession of him! He is of purestock on one side at least, whilst in the ordinary run of affairs hewould have been a commoner to the bone. '

Being a man, whatever his faults, of good old beliefs in the divinity ofkings and those about 'em, the more he overhauled the case in this light, the more strongly did his poor wife's conduct in improving the blood andbreed of the Petrick family win his heart. He considered what ugly, idle, hard-drinking scamps many of his own relations had been; themiserable scriveners, usurers, and pawnbrokers that he had numbered amonghis forefathers, and the probability that some of their bad qualitieswould have come out in a merely corporeal child, to give him sorrow inhis old age, turn his black hairs gray, his gray hairs white, cut downevery stick of timber, and Heaven knows what all, had he not, like askilful gardener, minded his grafting and changed the sort; till atlength this right-minded man fell down on his knees every night andmorning and thanked God that he was not as other meanly descended fathersin such matters. 

It was in the peculiar disposition of the Petrick family that thesatisfaction which ultimately settled in Timothy's breast foundnourishment. The Petricks had adored the nobility, and plucked them atthe same time. That excellent man Izaak Walton's feelings about fishwere much akin to those of old Timothy Petrick, and of his descendants ina lesser degree, concerning the landed aristocracy. To torture and tolove simultaneously is a proceeding strange to reason, but possible topractice, as these instances show. 

Hence, when Timothy's brother Edward said slightingly one day thatTimothy's son was well enough, but that he had nothing but shops andoffices in his backward perspective, while his own children, should hehave any, would be far different, in possessing such a mother as theHonourable Harriet, Timothy felt a bound of triumph within him at thepower he possessed of contradicting that statement if he chose. 

So much was he interested in his boy in this new aspect that he now beganto read up chronicles of the illustrious house ennobled as the Dukes ofSouthwesterland, from their very beginning in the glories of theRestoration of the blessed Charles till the year of his own time. Hementally noted their gifts from royalty, grants of lands, purchases, intermarriages, plantings and buildings; more particularly theirpolitical and military achievements, which had been great, and theirperformances in art and letters, which had been by no means contemptible. He studied prints of the portraits of that family, and then, like achemist watching a crystallization, began to examine young Rupert's facefor the unfolding of those historic curves and shades that the paintersVandyke and Lely had perpetuated on canvas. 

When the boy reached the most fascinating age of childhood, and hisshouts of laughter ran through Stapleford House from end to end, theremorse that oppressed Timothy Petrick knew no bounds. Of all people inthe world this Rupert was the one on whom he could have wished theestates to devolve; yet Rupert, by Timothy's own desperate strategy atthe time of his birth, had been ousted from all inheritance of them; and, since he did not mean to remarry, the manors would pass to his brotherand his brother's children, who would be nothing to him, whose boastedpedigree on one side would be nothing to his Rupert's. 

Had he only left the first will of his grandfather alone!

His mind ran on the wills continually, both of which were in existence, and the first, the cancelled one, in his own possession. Night afternight, when the servants were all abed, and the click of safety lockssounded as loud as a crash, he looked at that first will, and wished ithad been the second and not the first. 

The crisis came at last. One night, after having enjoyed the boy'scompany for hours, he could no longer bear that his beloved Rupert shouldbe dispossessed, and he committed the felonious deed of altering the dateof the earlier will to a fortnight later, which made its execution appearsubsequent to the date of the second will already proved. He then boldlypropounded the first will as the second. 

His brother Edward submitted to what appeared to be not onlyincontestible fact, but a far more likely disposition of old Timothy'sproperty; for, like many others, he had been much surprised at thelimitations defined in the other will, having no clue to their cause. Hejoined his brother Timothy in setting aside the hitherto accepteddocument, and matters went on in their usual course, there being nodispositions in the substituted will differing from those in the other, except such as related to a future which had not yet arrived. 

The years moved on. Rupert had not yet revealed the anxiously expectedhistoric lineaments which should foreshadow the political abilities ofthe ducal family aforesaid when it happened on a certain day that TimothyPetrick made the acquaintance of a well-known physician of Budmouth, whohad been the medical adviser and friend of the late Mrs. Petrick's familyfor many years; though after Annetta's marriage, and consequent removalto Stapleford, he had seen no more of her, the neighbouring practitionerwho attended the Petricks having then become her doctor as a matter ofcourse. Timothy was impressed by the insight and knowledge disclosed inthe conversation of the Budmouth physician, and the acquaintance ripeningto intimacy, the physician alluded to a form of hallucination to whichAnnetta's mother and grandmother had been subject--that of believing incertain dreams as realities. He delicately inquired if Timothy had evernoticed anything of the sort in his wife during her lifetime; he, thephysician, had fancied that he discerned germs of the same peculiarity inAnnetta when he attended her in her girlhood. One explanation begatanother, till the dumbfoundered Timothy Petrick was persuaded in his ownmind that Annetta's confession to him had been based on a delusion. 

'You look down in the mouth?' said the doctor, pausing. 

'A bit unmanned. 'Tis unexpected-like, ' sighed Timothy. 

But he could hardly believe it possible; and, thinking it best to befrank with the doctor, told him the whole story which, till now, he hadnever related to living man, save his dying grandfather. To hissurprise, the physician informed him that such a form of delusion wasprecisely what he would have expected from Annetta's antecedents at sucha physical crisis in her life. 

Petrick prosecuted his inquiries elsewhere; and the upshot of his labourswas, briefly, that a comparison of dates and places showed irrefutablythat his poor wife's assertion could not possibly have foundation infact. The young Marquis of her tender passion--a highly moral and bright-minded nobleman--had gone abroad the year before Annetta's marriage, andhad not returned till after her death. The young girl's love for him hadbeen a delicate ideal dream--no more. 

Timothy went home, and the boy ran out to meet him; whereupon a strangelydismal feeling of discontent took possession of his soul. After all, then, there was nothing but plebeian blood in the veins of the heir tohis name and estates; he was not to be succeeded by a noble-natured line. To be sure, Rupert was his son; but that glory and halo he believed himto have inherited from the ages, outshining that of his brother'schildren, had departed from Rupert's brow for ever; he could no longerread history in the boy's face, and centuries of domination in his eyes. 

His manner towards his son grew colder and colder from that day forward;and it was with bitterness of heart that he discerned the characteristicfeatures of the Petricks unfolding themselves by degrees. Instead of theelegant knife-edged nose, so typical of the Dukes of Southwesterland, there began to appear on his face the broad nostril and hollow bridge ofhis grandfather Timothy. No illustrious line of politicians was promiseda continuator in that graying blue eye, for it was acquiring theexpression of the orb of a particularly objectionable cousin of his own;and, instead of the mouth-curves which had thrilled Parliamentaryaudiences in speeches now bound in calf in every well-ordered library, there was the bull-lip of that very uncle of his who had had themisfortune with the signature of a gentleman's will, and had beentransported for life in consequence. 

To think how he himself, too, had sinned in this same matter of a willfor this mere fleshly reproduction of a wretched old uncle whose veryname he wished to forget! The boy's Christian name, even, was animposture and an irony, for it implied hereditary force and brilliancy towhich he plainly would never attain. The consolation of real sonship wasalways left him certainly; but he could not help groaning to himself, 'Why cannot a son be one's own and somebody else's likewise!'

The Marquis was shortly afterwards in the neighbourhood of Stapleford, and Timothy Petrick met him, and eyed his noble countenance admiringly. The next day, when Petrick was in his study, somebody knocked at thedoor. 

'Who's there?'

'Rupert. '

'I'll Rupert thee, you young impostor! Say, only a poor commonplacePetrick!' his father grunted. 'Why didn't you have a voice like theMarquis's I saw yesterday?' he continued, as the lad came in. 'Whyhaven't you his looks, and a way of commanding, as if you'd done it forcenturies--hey?'

'Why? How can you expect it, father, when I'm not related to him?'

'Ugh! Then you ought to be!' growled his father. 

* * * * *

As the narrator paused, the surgeon, the Colonel, the historian, theSpark, and others exclaimed that such subtle and instructivepsychological studies as this (now that psychology was so much in demand)were precisely the tales they desired, as members of a scientific club, and begged the master-maltster to tell another curious mental delusion. 

The maltster shook his head, and feared he was not genteel enough to tellanother story with a sufficiently moral tone in it to suit the club; hewould prefer to leave the next to a better man. 

The Colonel had fallen into reflection. True it was, he observed, thatthe more dreamy and impulsive nature of woman engendered within hererratic fancies, which often started her on strange tracks, only toabandon them in sharp revulsion at the dictates of her commonsense--sometimes with ludicrous effect. Events which had caused a lady'saction to set in a particular direction might continue to enforce thesame line of conduct, while she, like a mangle, would start on a suddenin a contrary course, and end where she began. 

The Vice-President laughed, and applauded the Colonel, adding that theresurely lurked a story somewhere behind that sentiment, if he were notmuch mistaken. 

The Colonel fixed his face to a good narrative pose, and went on withoutfurther preamble. 

DAME THE SEVENTH--ANNA, LADY BAXBYBy the Colonel

It was in the time of the great Civil War--if I should not rather, as aloyal subject, call it, with Clarendon, the Great Rebellion. It was, Isay, at that unhappy period of our history, that towards the autumn of aparticular year, the Parliament forces sat down before Sherton Castlewith over seven thousand foot and four pieces of cannon. The Castle, aswe all know, was in that century owned and occupied by one of the Earlsof Severn, and garrisoned for his assistance by a certain noble Marquiswho commanded the King's troops in these parts. The said Earl, as wellas the young Lord Baxby, his eldest son, were away from home just now, raising forces for the King elsewhere. But there were present in theCastle, when the besiegers arrived before it, the son's fair wife LadyBaxby, and her servants, together with some friends and near relatives ofher husband; and the defence was so good and well-considered that theyanticipated no great danger. 

The Parliamentary forces were also commanded by a noble lord--for thenobility were by no means, at this stage of the war, all on the King'sside--and it had been observed during his approach in the night-time, andin the morning when the reconnoitring took place, that he appeared sadand much depressed. The truth was that, by a strange freak of destiny, it had come to pass that the stronghold he was set to reduce was the homeof his own sister, whom he had tenderly loved during her maidenhood, andwhom he loved now, in spite of the estrangement which had resulted fromhostilities with her husband's family. He believed, too, that, notwithstanding this cruel division, she still was sincerely attached tohim. 

His hesitation to point his ordnance at the walls was inexplicable tothose who were strangers to his family history. He remained in the fieldon the north side of the Castle (called by his name to this day becauseof his encampment there) till it occurred to him to send a messenger tohis sister Anna with a letter, in which he earnestly requested her, asshe valued her life, to steal out of the place by the little gate to thesouth, and make away in that direction to the residence of some friends. 

Shortly after he saw, to his great surprise, coming from the front of theCastle walls a lady on horseback, with a single attendant. She rodestraight forward into the field, and up the slope to where his army andtents were spread. It was not till she got quite near that he discernedher to be his sister Anna; and much was he alarmed that she should haverun such risk as to sally out in the face of his forces without knowledgeof their proceedings, when at any moment their first discharge might haveburst forth, to her own destruction in such exposure. She dismountedbefore she was quite close to him, and he saw that her familiar face, though pale, was not at all tearful, as it would have been in theiryounger days. Indeed, if the particulars as handed down are to bebelieved, he was in a more tearful state than she, in his anxiety abouther. He called her into his tent, out of the gaze of those around; forthough many of the soldiers were honest and serious-minded men, he couldnot bear that she who had been his dear companion in childhood should beexposed to curious observation in this her great grief. 

When they were alone in the tent he clasped her in his arms, for he hadnot seen her since those happier days when, at the commencement of thewar, her husband and himself had been of the same mind about thearbitrary conduct of the King, and had little dreamt that they would notgo to extremes together. She was the calmest of the two, it is said, andwas the first to speak connectedly. 

'William, I have come to you, ' said she, 'but not to save myself as yousuppose. Why, oh, why do you persist in supporting this disloyal cause, and grieving us so?'

'Say not that, ' he replied hastily. 'If truth hides at the bottom of awell, why should you suppose justice to be in high places? I am for theright at any price. Anna, leave the Castle; you are my sister; comeaway, my dear, and save thy life!'

'Never!' says she. 'Do you plan to carry out this attack, and level theCastle indeed?'

'Most certainly I do, ' says he. 'What meaneth this army around us if notso?'

'Then you will find the bones of your sister buried in the ruins youcause!' said she. And without another word she turned and left him. 

'Anna--abide with me!' he entreated. 'Blood is thicker than water, andwhat is there in common between you and your husband now?'

But she shook her head and would not hear him and hastening out, mountedher horse, and returned towards the Castle as she had come. Ay, many'sthe time when I have been riding to hounds across that field that I havethought of that scene!

When she had quite gone down the field, and over the intervening ground, and round the bastion, so that he could no longer even see the tip of hermare's white tail, he was much more deeply moved by emotions concerningher and her welfare than he had been while she was before him. He wildlyreproached himself that he had not detained her by force for her owngood, so that, come what might, she would be under his protection and notunder that of her husband, whose impulsive nature rendered him too opento instantaneous impressions and sudden changes of plan; he was nowacting in this cause and now in that, and lacked the cool judgmentnecessary for the protection of a woman in these troubled times. Herbrother thought of her words again and again, and sighed, and evenconsidered if a sister were not of more value than a principle, and if hewould not have acted more naturally in throwing in his lot with hers. 

The delay of the besiegers in attacking the Castle was said to beentirely owing to this distraction on the part of their leader, whoremained on the spot attempting some indecisive operations, and parleyingwith the Marquis, then in command, with far inferior forces, within theCastle. It never occurred to him that in the meantime the young LadyBaxby, his sister, was in much the same mood as himself. Her brother'sfamiliar voice and eyes, much worn and fatigued by keeping the field, andby family distractions on account of this unhappy feud, rose upon hervision all the afternoon, and as day waned she grew more and moreParliamentarian in her principles, though the only arguments which hadaddressed themselves to her were those of family ties. 

Her husband, General Lord Baxby, had been expected to return all the dayfrom his excursion into the east of the county, a message having beensent to him informing him of what had happened at home; and in theevening he arrived with reinforcements in unexpected numbers. Herbrother retreated before these to a hill near Ivell, four or five milesoff, to afford the men and himself some repose. Lord Baxby duly placedhis forces, and there was no longer any immediate danger. By this timeLady Baxby's feelings were more Parliamentarian than ever, and in herfancy the fagged countenance of her brother, beaten back by her husband, seemed to reproach her for heartlessness. When her husband entered herapartment, ruddy and boisterous, and full of hope, she received him butsadly; and upon his casually uttering some slighting words about herbrother's withdrawal, which seemed to convey an imputation upon hiscourage, she resented them, and retorted that he, Lord Baxby himself, hadbeen against the Court-party at first, where it would be much more to hiscredit if he were at present, and showing her brother's consistency ofopinion, instead of supporting the lying policy of the King (as shecalled it) for the sake of a barren principle of loyalty, which was butan empty expression when a King was not at one with his people. Thedissension grew bitter between them, reaching to little less than a hotquarrel, both being quick-tempered souls. 

Lord Baxby was weary with his long day's march and other excitements, andsoon retired to bed. His lady followed some time after. Her husbandslept profoundly, but not so she; she sat brooding by the window-slit, and lifting the curtain looked forth upon the hills without. 

In the silence between the footfalls of the sentinels she could hearfaint sounds of her brother's camp on the distant hills, where thesoldiery had hardly settled as yet into their bivouac since theirevening's retreat. The first frosts of autumn had touched the grass, andshrivelled the more delicate leaves of the creepers; and she thought ofWilliam sleeping on the chilly ground, under the strain of thesehardships. Tears flooded her eyes as she returned to her husband'simputations upon his courage, as if there could be any doubt of LordWilliam's courage after what he had done in the past days. 

Lord Baxby's long and reposeful breathings in his comfortable bed vexedher now, and she came to a determination on an impulse. Hastily lightinga taper, she wrote on a scrap of paper:

'_Blood is thicker than water_, _dear William--I will come_;' and withthis in her hand, she went to the door of the room, and out upon thestairs; on second thoughts turning back for a moment, to put on herhusband's hat and cloak--not the one he was daily wearing--that if seenin the twilight she might at a casual glance appear as some lad or hanger-on of one of the household women; thus accoutred she descended a flightof circular stairs, at the bottom of which was a door opening upon theterrace towards the west, in the direction of her brother's position. Herobject was to slip out without the sentry seeing her, get to the stables, arouse one of the varlets, and send him ahead of her along the highwaywith the note to warn her brother of her approach, to throw in her lotwith his. 

She was still in the shadow of the wall on the west terrace, waiting forthe sentinel to be quite out of the way, when her ears were greeted by avoice, saying, from the adjoining shade--

'Here I be!'

The tones were the tones of a woman. Lady Baxby made no reply, and stoodclose to the wall. 

'My Lord Baxby, ' the voice continued; and she could recognize in it thelocal accent of some girl from the little town of Sherton, close at hand. 'I be tired of waiting, my dear Lord Baxby! I was afeard you would nevercome!'

Lady Baxby flushed hot to her toes. 

'How the wench loves him!' she said to herself, reasoning from the tonesof the voice, which were plaintive and sweet and tender as a bird's. Shechanged from the home-hating truant to the strategic wife in one moment. 

'Hist!' she said. 

'My lord, you told me ten o'clock, and 'tis near twelve now, ' continuesthe other. 'How could ye keep me waiting so if you love me as you said?I should have stuck to my lover in the Parliament troops if it had notbeen for thee, my dear lord!'

There was not the least doubt that Lady Baxby had been mistaken for herhusband by this intriguing damsel. Here was a pretty underhand business!Here were sly manoeuvrings! Here was faithlessness! Here was a preciousassignation surprised in the midst! Her wicked husband, whom till thisvery moment she had ever deemed the soul of good faith--how could he!

Lady Baxby precipitately retreated to the door in the turret, closed it, locked it, and ascended one round of the staircase, where there was aloophole. 'I am not coming! I, Lord Baxby, despise ye and all yourwanton tribe!' she hissed through the opening; and then crept upstairs, as firmly rooted in Royalist principles as any man in the Castle. 

Her husband still slept the sleep of the weary, well-fed, andwell-drunken, if not of the just; and Lady Baxby quickly disrobed herselfwithout assistance--being, indeed, supposed by her woman to have retiredto rest long ago. Before lying down, she noiselessly locked the door andplaced the key under her pillow. More than that, she got a staylace, and, creeping up to her lord, in great stealth tied the lace in a tightknot to one of his long locks of hair, attaching the other end of thelace to the bedpost; for, being tired herself now, she feared she mightsleep heavily; and, if her husband should wake, this would be a delicatehint that she had discovered all. 

It is added that, to make assurance trebly sure, her gentle ladyship, when she had lain down to rest, held her lord's hand in her own duringthe whole of the night. But this is old-wives' gossip, and notcorroborated. What Lord Baxby thought and said when he awoke the nextmorning, and found himself so strangely tethered, is likewise only matterof conjecture; though there is no reason to suppose that his rage wasgreat. The extent of his culpability as regards the intrigue was thismuch; that, while halting at a cross-road near Sherton that day, he hadflirted with a pretty young woman, who seemed nothing loth, and hadinvited her to the Castle terrace after dark--an invitation which hequite forgot on his arrival home. 

The subsequent relations of Lord and Lady Baxby were not again greatlyembittered by quarrels, so far as is known; though the husband's conductin later life was occasionally eccentric, and the vicissitudes of hispublic career culminated in long exile. The siege of the Castle was notregularly undertaken till two or three years later than the time I havebeen describing, when Lady Baxby and all the women therein, except thewife of the then Governor, had been removed to safe distance. Thatmemorable siege of fifteen days by Fairfax, and the surrender of the oldplace on an August evening, is matter of history, and need not be told byme. 

* * * * *

The Man of Family spoke approvingly across to the Colonel when the Clubhad done smiling, declaring that the story was an absolutely faithfulpage of history, as he had good reason to know, his own people havingbeen engaged in that well-known scrimmage. He asked if the Colonel hadever heard the equally well-authenticated, though less martial tale of acertain Lady Penelope, who lived in the same century, and not a score ofmiles from the same place?

The Colonel had not heard it, nor had anybody except the local historian;and the inquirer was induced to proceed forthwith. 

DAME THE EIGHTH--THE LADY PENELOPEBy the Man of Family

In going out of Casterbridge by the low-lying road which eventuallyconducts to the town of Ivell, you see on the right hand an ivied manor-house, flanked by battlemented towers, and more than usuallydistinguished by the size of its many mullioned windows. Though still ofgood capacity, the building is much reduced from its original grandproportions; it has, moreover, been shorn of the fair estate which onceappertained to its lord, with the exception of a few acres of park-landimmediately around the mansion. This was formerly the seat of theancient and knightly family of the Drenghards, or Drenkhards, now extinctin the male line, whose name, according to the local chronicles, wasinterpreted to mean _Strenuus Miles_, _vel Potator_, though certainmembers of the family were averse to the latter signification, and a duelwas fought by one of them on that account, as is well known. With this, however, we are not now concerned. 

In the early part of the reign of the first King James, there wasvisiting near this place of the Drenghards a lady of noble family andextraordinary beauty. She was of the purest descent; ah, there's seldomsuch blood nowadays as hers! She possessed no great wealth, it was said, but was sufficiently endowed. Her beauty was so perfect, and her mannerso entrancing, that suitors seemed to spring out of the ground wherevershe went, a sufficient cause of anxiety to the Countess her mother, heronly living parent. Of these there were three in particular, whomneither her mother's complaints of prematurity, nor the ready raillery ofthe maiden herself, could effectually put off. The said gallants were acertain Sir John Gale, a Sir William Hervy, and the well-known Sir GeorgeDrenghard, one of the Drenghard family before-mentioned. They had, curiously enough, all been equally honoured with the distinction ofknighthood, and their schemes for seeing her were manifold, each fearingthat one of the others would steal a march over himself. Not contentwith calling, on every imaginable excuse, at the house of the relativewith whom she sojourned, they intercepted her in rides and in walks; andif any one of them chanced to surprise another in the act of paying hermarked attentions, the encounter often ended in an altercation of greatviolence. So heated and impassioned, indeed, would they become, that thelady hardly felt herself safe in their company at such times, notwithstanding that she was a brave and buxom damsel, not easily putout, and with a daring spirit of humour in her composition, if not ofcoquetry. 

At one of these altercations, which had place in her relative's grounds, and was unusually bitter, threatening to result in a duel, she found itnecessary to assert herself. Turning haughtily upon the pair ofdisputants, she declared that whichever should be the first to break thepeace between them, no matter what the provocation, that man should neverbe admitted to her presence again; and thus would she effectuallystultify the aggressor by making the promotion of a quarrel a distinctbar to its object. 

While the two knights were wearing rather a crest-fallen appearance ather reprimand, the third, never far off, came upon the scene, and sherepeated her caveat to him also. Seeing, then, how great was the concernof all at her peremptory mood, the lady's manner softened, and she saidwith a roguish smile--

'Have patience, have patience, you foolish men! Only bide your timequietly, and, in faith, I will marry you all in turn!'

They laughed heartily at this sally, all three together, as though theywere the best of friends; at which she blushed, and showed someembarrassment, not having realized that her arch jest would have soundedso strange when uttered. The meeting which resulted thus, however, hadits good effect in checking the bitterness of their rivalry; and theyrepeated her speech to their relatives and acquaintance with a hilariousfrequency and publicity that the lady little divined, or she might haveblushed and felt more embarrassment still. 

In the course of time the position resolved itself, and the beauteousLady Penelope (as she was called) made up her mind; her choice being theeldest of the three knights, Sir George Drenghard, owner of the mansionaforesaid, which thereupon became her home; and her husband being apleasant man, and his family, though not so noble, of as good repute asher own, all things seemed to show that she had reckoned wisely inhonouring him with her preference. 

But what may lie behind the still and silent veil of the future none canforetell. In the course of a few months the husband of her choice diedof his convivialities (as if, indeed, to bear out his name), and the LadyPenelope was left alone as mistress of his house. By this time she hadapparently quite forgotten her careless declaration to her loverscollectively; but the lovers themselves had not forgotten it; and, as shewould now be free to take a second one of them, Sir John Gale appeared ather door as early in her widowhood as it was proper and seemly to do so. 

She gave him little encouragement; for, of the two remaining, her bestbeloved was Sir William, of whom, if the truth must be told, she hadoften thought during her short married life. But he had not yetreappeared. Her heart began to be so much with him now that shecontrived to convey to him, by indirect hints through his friends, thatshe would not be displeased by a renewal of his former attentions. SirWilliam, however, misapprehended her gentle signalling, and fromexcellent, though mistaken motives of delicacy, delayed to intrudehimself upon her for a long time. Meanwhile Sir John, now created abaronet, was unremitting, and she began to grow somewhat piqued at thebackwardness of him she secretly desired to be forward. 

'Never mind, ' her friends said jestingly to her (knowing of her humorousremark, as everybody did, that she would marry them all three if theywould have patience)--'never mind; why hesitate upon the order of them?Take 'em as they come. '

This vexed her still more, and regretting deeply, as she had often done, that such a careless speech should ever have passed her lips, she fairlybroke down under Sir John's importunity, and accepted his hand. Theywere married on a fine spring morning, about the very time at which theunfortunate Sir William discovered her preference for him, and wasbeginning to hasten home from a foreign court to declare his unaltereddevotion to her. On his arrival in England he learnt the sad truth. 

If Sir William suffered at her precipitancy under what she had deemed hisneglect, the Lady Penelope herself suffered more. She had not long beenthe wife of Sir John Gale before he showed a disposition to retaliateupon her for the trouble and delay she had put him to in winning her. With increasing frequency he would tell her that, as far as he couldperceive, she was an article not worth such labour as he had bestowed inobtaining it, and such snubbings as he had taken from his rivals on thesame account. These and other cruel things he repeated till he made thelady weep sorely, and wellnigh broke her spirit, though she had formerlybeen such a mettlesome dame. By degrees it became perceptible to all herfriends that her life was a very unhappy one; and the fate of the fairwoman seemed yet the harder in that it was her own stately mansion, leftto her sole use by her first husband, which her second had entered intoand was enjoying, his being but a mean and meagre erection. 

But such is the flippancy of friends that when she met them, and secretlyconfided her grief to their ears, they would say cheerily, 'Lord, nevermind, my dear; there's a third to come yet!'--at which maladroit remarkshe would show much indignation, and tell them they should know betterthan to trifle on so solemn a theme. Yet that the poor lady would havebeen only too happy to be the wife of the third, instead of Sir John whomshe had taken, was painfully obvious, and much she was blamed for herfoolish choice by some people. Sir William, however, had returned toforeign cities on learning the news of her marriage, and had never beenheard of since. 

Two or three years of suffering were passed by Lady Penelope as thedespised and chidden wife of this man Sir John, amid regrets that she hadso greatly mistaken him, and sighs for one whom she thought never to seeagain, till it chanced that her husband fell sick of some slight ailment. One day after this, when she was sitting in his room, looking from thewindow upon the expanse in front, she beheld, approaching the house onfoot, a form she seemed to know well. Lady Penelope withdrew silentlyfrom the sickroom, and descended to the hall, whence, through thedoorway, she saw entering between the two round towers, which at thattime flanked the gateway, Sir William Hervy, as she had surmised, butlooking thin and travel-worn. She advanced into the courtyard to meethim. 

'I was passing through Casterbridge, ' he said, with faltering deference, 'and I walked out to ask after your ladyship's health. I felt that Icould do no less; and, of course, to pay my respects to your goodhusband, my heretofore acquaintance . . . But oh, Penelope, th'st looksick and sorry!'

'I am heartsick, that's all, ' said she. 

They could see in each other an emotion which neither wished to express, and they stood thus a long time with tears in their eyes. 

'He does not treat 'ee well, I hear, ' said Sir William in a low voice. 'May God in Heaven forgive him; but it is asking a great deal!'

'Hush, hush!' said she hastily. 

'Nay, but I will speak what I may honestly say, ' he answered. 'I am notunder your roof, and my tongue is free. Why didst not wait for me, Penelope, or send to me a more overt letter? I would have travellednight and day to come!'

'Too late, William; you must not ask it, ' said she, endeavouring to quiethim as in old times. 'My husband just now is unwell. He will growbetter in a day or two, maybe. You must call again and see him beforeyou leave Casterbridge. '

As she said this their eyes met. Each was thinking of her lightsomewords about taking the three men in turn; each thought that two-thirds ofthat promise had been fulfilled. But, as if it were unpleasant to herthat this recollection should have arisen, she spoke again quickly: 'Comeagain in a day or two, when my husband will be well enough to see you. '

Sir William departed without entering the house, and she returned to SirJohn's chamber. He, rising from his pillow, said, 'To whom hast beentalking, wife, in the courtyard? I heard voices there. '

She hesitated, and he repeated the question more impatiently. 

'I do not wish to tell you now, ' said she. 

'But I wooll know!' said he. 

Then she answered, 'Sir William Hervy. '

'By G--- I thought as much!' cried Sir John, drops of perspirationstanding on his white face. 'A skulking villain! A sick man's ears arekeen, my lady. I heard that they were lover-like tones, and he called'ee by your Christian name. These be your intrigues, my lady, when I amoff my legs awhile!'

'On my honour, ' cried she, 'you do me a wrong. I swear I did not know ofhis coming!'

'Swear as you will, ' said Sir John, 'I don't believe 'ee. ' And with thishe taunted her, and worked himself into a greater passion, which muchincreased his illness. His lady sat still, brooding. There was thatupon her face which had seldom been there since her marriage; and sheseemed to think anew of what she had so lightly said in the days of herfreedom, when her three lovers were one and all coveting her hand. 'Ibegan at the wrong end of them, ' she murmured. 'My God--that did I!'

'What?' said he. 

'A trifle, ' said she. 'I spoke to myself only. '

It was somewhat strange that after this day, while she went about thehouse with even a sadder face than usual, her churlish husband grewworse; and what was more, to the surprise of all, though to the regret offew, he died a fortnight later. Sir William had not called upon him ashe had promised, having received a private communication from LadyPenelope, frankly informing him that to do so would be inadvisable, byreason of her husband's temper. 

Now when Sir John was gone, and his remains carried to his family burying-place in another part of England, the lady began in due time to wonderwhither Sir William had betaken himself. But she had been cured ofprecipitancy (if ever woman were), and was prepared to wait her wholelifetime a widow if the said Sir William should not reappear. Her lifewas now passed mostly within the walls, or in promenading between thepleasaunce and the bowling-green; and she very seldom went even so far asthe high road which then skirted the grounds on the north, though it hasnow, and for many years, been diverted to the south side. Her patiencewas rewarded (if love be in any case a reward); for one day, many monthsafter her second husband's death, a messenger arrived at her gate withthe intelligence that Sir William Hervy was again in Casterbridge, andwould be glad to know if it were her pleasure that he should wait uponher. 

It need hardly be said that permission was joyfully granted, and withintwo hours her lover stood before her, a more thoughtful man thanformerly, but in all essential respects the same man, generous, modest todiffidence, and sincere. The reserve which womanly decorum threw overher manner was but too obviously artificial, and when he said 'the waysof Providence are strange, ' and added after a moment, 'and mercifullikewise, ' she could not conceal her agitation, and burst into tears uponhis neck. 

'But this is too soon, ' she said, starting back. 

'But no, ' said he. 'You are eleven months gone in widowhood, and it isnot as if Sir John had been a good husband to you. '

His visits grew pretty frequent now, as may well be guessed, and in amonth or two he began to urge her to an early union. But she counselleda little longer delay. 

'Why?' said he. 'Surely I have waited long! Life is short; we aregetting older every day, and I am the last of the three. '

'Yes, ' said the lady frankly. 'And that is why I would not have youhasten. Our marriage may seem so strange to everybody, after my unluckyremark on that occasion we know so well, and which so many others knowlikewise, thanks to talebearers. '

On this representation he conceded a little space, for the sake of hergood name. But the destined day of their marriage at last arrived, andit was a gay time for the villagers and all concerned, and the bells inthe parish church rang from noon till night. Thus at last she was unitedto the man who had loved her the most tenderly of them all, who but forhis reticence might perhaps have been the first to win her. Often did hesay to himself; 'How wondrous that her words should have been fulfilled!Many a truth hath been spoken in jest, but never a more remarkable one!'The noble lady herself preferred not to dwell on the coincidence, acertain shyness, if not shame, crossing her fair face at any allusionthereto. 

But people will have their say, sensitive souls or none, and theirsayings on this third occasion took a singular shape. 'Surely, ' theywhispered, 'there is something more than chance in this . . . The deathof the first was possibly natural; but what of the death of the second, who ill-used her, and whom, loving the third so desperately, she musthave wished out of the way?'

Then they pieced together sundry trivial incidents of Sir John's illness, and dwelt upon the indubitable truth that he had grown worse after herlover's unexpected visit; till a very sinister theory was built up as tothe hand she may have had in Sir John's premature demise. But nothing ofthis suspicion was said openly, for she was a lady of noble birth--nobler, indeed, than either of her husbands--and what people suspected theyfeared to express in formal accusation. 

The mansion that she occupied had been left to her for so long a time asshe should choose to reside in it, and, having a regard for the spot, shehad coaxed Sir William to remain there. But in the end it wasunfortunate; for one day, when in the full tide of his happiness, he waswalking among the willows near the gardens, where he overheard aconversation between some basket-makers who were cutting the osiers fortheir use. In this fatal dialogue the suspicions of the neighbouringtownsfolk were revealed to him for the first time. 

'A cupboard close to his bed, and the key in her pocket. Ah!' said one. 

'And a blue phial therein--h'm!' said another. 

'And spurge-laurel leaves among the hearth-ashes. Oh-oh!' said a third. 

On his return home Sir William seemed to have aged years. But he saidnothing; indeed, it was a thing impossible. And from that hour a ghastlyestrangement began. She could not understand it, and simply waited. Oneday he said, however, 'I must go abroad. '

'Why?' said she. 'William, have I offended you?'

'No, ' said he; 'but I must go. '

She could coax little more out of him, and in itself there was nothingunnatural in his departure, for he had been a wanderer from his youth. Ina few days he started off, apparently quite another man than he who hadrushed to her side so devotedly a few months before. 

It is not known when, or how, the rumours, which were so thick in theatmosphere around her, actually reached the Lady Penelope's ears, butthat they did reach her there is no doubt. It was impossible that theyshould not; the district teemed with them; they rustled in the air likenight-birds of evil omen. Then a reason for her husband's departureoccurred to her appalled mind, and a loss of health became quicklyapparent. She dwindled thin in the face, and the veins in her templescould all be distinctly traced. An inner fire seemed to be withering heraway. Her rings fell off her fingers, and her arms hung like the flailsof the threshers, though they had till lately been so round and soelastic. She wrote to her husband repeatedly, begging him to return toher; but he, being in extreme and wretched doubt, moreover, knowingnothing of her ill-health, and never suspecting that the rumours hadreached her also, deemed absence best, and postponed his return awhile, giving various good reasons for his delay. 

At length, however, when the Lady Penelope had given birth to a still-born child, her mother, the Countess, addressed a letter to Sir William, requesting him to come back to her if he wished to see her alive; sinceshe was wasting away of some mysterious disease, which seemed to berather mental than physical. It was evident that his mother-in-law knewnothing of the secret, for she lived at a distance; but Sir Williampromptly hastened home, and stood beside the bed of his now dying wife. 

'Believe me, William, ' she said when they were alone, 'I aminnocent--innocent!'

'Of what?' said he. 'Heaven forbid that I should accuse you ofanything!'

'But you do accuse me--silently!' she gasped. 'I could not writethereon--and ask you to hear me. It was too much, too degrading. Butwould that I had been less proud! They suspect me of poisoning him, William! But, oh my dear husband, I am innocent of that wicked crime! Hedied naturally. I loved you--too soon; but that was all!'

Nothing availed to save her. The worm had gnawed too far into her heartbefore Sir William's return for anything to be remedial now; and in a fewweeks she breathed her last. After her death the people spoke louder, and her conduct became a subject of public discussion. A little lateron, the physician, who had attended the late Sir John, heard the rumour, and came down from the place near London to which he latterly hadretired, with the express purpose of calling upon Sir William Hervy, nowstaying in Casterbridge. 

He stated that, at the request of a relative of Sir John's, who wished tobe assured on the matter by reason of its suddenness, he had, with theassistance of a surgeon, made a private examination of Sir John's bodyimmediately after his decease, and found that it had resulted from purelynatural causes. Nobody at this time had breathed a suspicion of foulplay, and therefore nothing was said which might afterwards haveestablished her innocence. 

It being thus placed beyond doubt that this beautiful and noble lady hadbeen done to death by a vile scandal that was wholly unfounded, herhusband was stung with a dreadful remorse at the share he had taken inher misfortunes, and left the country anew, this time never to returnalive. He survived her but a few years, and his body was brought homeand buried beside his wife's under the tomb which is still visible in theparish church. Until lately there was a good portrait of her, in weedsfor her first husband, with a cross in her hand, at the ancestral seat ofher family, where she was much pitied, as she deserved to be. Yet therewere some severe enough to say--and these not unjust persons in otherrespects--that though unquestionably innocent of the crime imputed toher, she had shown an unseemly wantonness in contracting three marriagesin such rapid succession; that the untrue suspicion might have beenordered by Providence (who often works indirectly) as a punishment forher self-indulgence. Upon that point I have no opinion to offer. 

* * * * *

The reverend the Vice-President, however, the tale being ended, offeredas his opinion that her fate ought to be quite clearly recognized as apunishment. So thought the Churchwarden, and also the quiet gentlemansitting near. The latter knew many other instances in point, one ofwhich could be narrated in a few words. 

DAME THE NINTH--THE DUCHESS OF HAMPTONSHIREBy the Quiet Gentleman

Some fifty years ago, the then Duke of Hamptonshire, fifth of that title, was incontestibly the head man in his county, and particularly in theneighbourhood of Batton. He came of the ancient and loyal family ofSaxelbye, which, before its ennoblement, had numbered many knightly andecclesiastical celebrities in its male line. It would have occupied apainstaking county historian a whole afternoon to take rubbings of thenumerous effigies and heraldic devices graven to their memory on thebrasses, tablets, and altar-tombs in the aisle of the parish-church. TheDuke himself, however, was a man little attracted by ancient chroniclesin stone and metal, even when they concerned his own beginnings. Heallowed his mind to linger by preference on the many graceless andunedifying pleasures which his position placed at his command. He couldon occasion close the mouths of his dependents by a good bomb-like oath, and he argued doggedly with the parson on the virtues of cock-fightingand baiting the bull. 

This nobleman's personal appearance was somewhat impressive. Hiscomplexion was that of the copper-beech tree. His frame was stalwart, though slightly stooping. His mouth was large, and he carried anunpolished sapling as his walking-stick, except when he carried a spudfor cutting up any thistle he encountered on his walks. His castle stoodin the midst of a park, surrounded by dusky elms, except to thesouthward; and when the moon shone out, the gleaming stone facade, backedby heavy boughs, was visible from the distant high road as a white spoton the surface of darkness. Though called a castle, the building waslittle fortified, and had been erected with greater eye to internalconvenience than those crannied places of defence to which the namestrictly appertains. It was a castellated mansion as regular as achessboard on its ground-plan, ornamented with make-believe bastions andmachicolations, behind which were stacks of battlemented chimneys. Onstill mornings, at the fire-lighting hour, when ghostly house-maids stalkthe corridors, and thin streaks of light through the shutter-chinks lendstartling winks and smiles to ancestors on canvas, twelve or fifteen thinstems of blue smoke sprouted upwards from these chimney-tops, and spreadinto a flat canopy on high. Around the site stretched ten thousand acresof good, fat, unimpeachable soil, plentiful in glades and lawns wherevervisible from the castle-windows, and merging in homely arable wherescreened from the too curious eye by ingeniously-contrived plantations. 

Some way behind the owner of all this came the second man in the parish, the rector, the Honourable and Reverend Mr. Oldbourne, a widower, overstiff and stern for a clergyman, whose severe white neckcloth, well-keptgray hair, and right-lined face betokened none of those sympathetictraits whereon depends so much of a parson's power to do good among hisfellow-creatures. The last, far-removed man of the series--altogetherthe Neptune of these local primaries--was the curate, Mr. Alwyn Hill. Hewas a handsome young deacon with curly hair, dreamy eyes--so dreamy thatto look long into them was like ascending and floating among summerclouds--a complexion as fresh as a flower, and a chin absolutelybeardless. Though his age was about twenty-five, he looked not much overnineteen. 

The rector had a daughter called Emmeline, of so sweet and simple anature that her beauty was discovered, measured, and inventoried byalmost everybody in that part of the country before it was suspected byherself to exist. She had been bred in comparative solitude; arencounter with men troubled and confused her. Whenever a strangevisitor came to her father's house she slipped into the orchard andremained till he was gone, ridiculing her weakness in apostrophes, butunable to overcome it. Her virtues lay in no resistant force ofcharacter, but in a natural inappetency for evil things, which to herwere as unmeaning as joints of flesh to a herbivorous creature. Hercharms of person, manner, and mind, had been clear for some time to theAntinous in orders, and no less so to the Duke, who, though scandalouslyignorant of dainty phrases, ever showing a clumsy manner towards thegentler sex, and, in short, not at all a lady's man, took fire to adegree that was wellnigh terrible at sudden sight of Emmeline, a shorttime after she was turned seventeen. 

It occurred one afternoon at the corner of a shrubbery between the castleand the rectory, where the Duke was standing to watch the heaving of amole, when the fair girl brushed past at a distance of a few yards, inthe full light of the sun, and without hat or bonnet. The Duke went homelike a man who had seen a spirit. He ascended to the picture-gallery ofhis castle, and there passed some time in staring at the bygone beautiesof his line as if he had never before considered what an important partthose specimens of womankind had played in the evolution of the Saxelbyerace. He dined alone, drank rather freely, and declared to himself thatEmmeline Oldbourne must be his. 

Meanwhile there had unfortunately arisen between the curate and this girlsome sweet and secret understanding. Particulars of the attachmentremained unknown then and always, but it was plainly not approved of byher father. His procedure was cold, hard, and inexorable. Soon thecurate disappeared from the parish, almost suddenly, after bitter andhard words had been heard to pass between him and the rector one eveningin the garden, intermingled with which, like the cries of the dying inthe din of battle, were the beseeching sobs of a woman. Not long afterthis it was announced that a marriage between the Duke and Miss Oldbournewas to be solemnized at a surprisingly early date. 

The wedding-day came and passed; and she was a Duchess. Nobody seemed tothink of the ousted man during the day, or else those who thought of himconcealed their meditations. Some of the less subservient ones weredisposed to speak in a jocular manner of the august husband and wife, others to make correct and pretty speeches about them, according as theirsex and nature dictated. But in the evening, the ringers in the belfry, with whom Alwyn had been a favourite, eased their minds a littleconcerning the gentle young man, and the possible regrets of the woman hehad loved. 

'Don't you see something wrong in it all?' said the third bell as hewiped his face. 'I know well enough where she would have liked to stableher horses to-night, when they have done their journey. '

'That is, you would know if you could tell where young Mr. Hill isliving, which is known to none in the parish. '

'Except to the lady that this ring o' grandsire triples is in honour of. '

Yet these friendly cottagers were at this time far from suspecting thereal dimensions of Emmeline's misery, nor was it clear even to those whocame into much closer communion with her than they, so well had sheconcealed her heart-sickness. But bride and bridegroom had not long beenhome at the castle when the young wife's unhappiness became plainlyenough perceptible. Her maids and men said that she was in the habit ofturning to the wainscot and shedding stupid scalding tears at a time whena right-minded lady would have been overhauling her wardrobe. She prayedearnestly in the great church-pew, where she sat lonely and insignificantas a mouse in a cell, instead of counting her rings, falling asleep, oramusing herself in silent laughter at the queer old people in thecongregation, as previous beauties of the family had done in their time. She seemed to care no more for eating and drinking out of crystal andsilver than from a service of earthen vessels. Her head was, in truth, full of something else; and that such was the case was only too obviousto the Duke, her husband. At first he would only taunt her for her follyin thinking of that milk-and-water parson; but as time went on hischarges took a more positive shape. He would not believe her assurancethat she had in no way communicated with her former lover, nor he withher, since their parting in the presence of her father. This led to somestrange scenes between them which need not be detailed; their result wassoon to take a catastrophic shape. 

One dark quiet evening, about two months after the marriage, a manentered the gate admitting from the highway to the park and avenue whichran up to the house. He arrived within two hundred yards of the walls, when he left the gravelled drive and drew near to the castle by aroundabout path leading into a shrubbery. Here he stood still. In a fewminutes the strokes of the castle-clock resounded, and then a femalefigure entered the same secluded nook from an opposite direction. Therethe two indistinct persons leapt together like a pair of dewdrops on aleaf; and then they stood apart, facing each other, the woman lookingdown. 

'Emmeline, you begged me to come, and here I am, Heaven forgive me!' saidthe man hoarsely. 

'You are going to emigrate, Alwyn, ' she said in broken accents. 'I haveheard of it; you sail from Plymouth in three days in the _WesternGlory_?'

'Yes. I can live in England no longer. Life is as death to me here, 'says he. 

'My life is even worse--worse than death. Death would not have driven meto this extremity. Listen, Alwyn--I have sent for you to beg to go withyou, or at least to be near you--to do anything so that it be not to stayhere. '

'To go away with me?' he said in a startled tone. 

'Yes, yes--or under your direction, or by your help in some way! Don'tbe horrified at me--you must bear with me whilst I implore it. Nothingshort of cruelty would have driven me to this. I could have borne mydoom in silence had I been left unmolested; but he tortures me, and Ishall soon be in the grave if I cannot escape. '

To his shocked inquiry how her husband tortured her, the Duchess saidthat it was by jealousy. 'He tries to wring admissions from meconcerning you, ' she said, 'and will not believe that I have notcommunicated with you since my engagement to him was settled by myfather, and I was forced to agree to it. '

The poor curate said that this was the heaviest news of all. 'He has notpersonally ill-used you?' he asked. 

'Yes, ' she whispered. 

'What has he done?'

She looked fearfully around, and said, sobbing: 'In trying to make meconfess to what I have never done, he adopts plans I dare not describefor terrifying me into a weak state, so that I may own to anything! Iresolved to write to you, as I had no other friend. ' She added, withdreary irony, 'I thought I would give him some ground for his suspicion, so as not to disgrace his judgment. '

'Do you really mean, Emmeline, ' he tremblingly inquired, 'that you--thatyou want to fly with me?'

'Can you think that I would act otherwise than in earnest at such a timeas this?'

He was silent for a minute or more. 'You must not go with me, ' he said. 

'Why?'

'It would be sin. '

'It _cannot_ be sin, for I have never wanted to commit sin in my life;and it isn't likely I would begin now, when I pray every day to die andbe sent to Heaven out of my misery!'

'But it is wrong, Emmeline, all the same. '

'Is it wrong to run away from the fire that scorches you?'

'It would look wrong, at any rate, in this case. '

'Alwyn, Alwyn, take me, I beseech you!' she burst out. 'It is not rightin general, I know, but it is such an exceptional instance, this. Whyhas such a severe strain been put upon me? I was doing no harm, injuringno one, helping many people, and expecting happiness; yet trouble came. Can it be that God holds me in derision? I had no supporter--I gave way;and now my life is a burden and a shame to me . . . Oh, if you only knewhow much to me this request to you is--how my life is wrapped up in it, you could not deny me!'

'This is almost beyond endurance--Heaven support us, ' he groaned. 'Emmy, you are the Duchess of Hamptonshire, the Duke of Hamptonshire's wife; youmust not go with me!'

'And am I then refused?--Oh, am I refused?' she cried frantically. 'Alwyn, Alwyn, do you say it indeed to me?'

'Yes, I do, dear, tender heart! I do most sadly say it. You must notgo. Forgive me, for there is no alternative but refusal. Though I die, though you die, we must not fly together. It is forbidden in God's law. Good-bye, for always and ever!'

He tore himself away, hastened from the shrubbery, and vanished among thetrees. 

Three days after this meeting and farewell, Alwyn, his soft, handsomefeatures stamped with a haggard hardness that ten years of ordinary wearand tear in the world could scarcely have produced, sailed from Plymouthon a drizzling morning, in the passenger-ship _Western Glory_. When theland had faded behind him he mechanically endeavoured to school himselfinto a stoical frame of mind. His attempt, backed up by the strong moralstaying power that had enabled him to resist the passionate temptation towhich Emmeline, in her reckless trustfulness, had exposed him, wasrewarded by a certain kind of success, though the murmuring stretch ofwaters whereon he gazed day after day too often seemed to be articulatingto him in tones of her well-remembered voice. 

He framed on his journey rules of conduct for reducing to mildproportions the feverish regrets which would occasionally arise andagitate him, when he indulged in visions of what might have been had henot hearkened to the whispers of conscience. He fixed his thoughts forso many hours a day on philosophical passages in the volumes he hadbrought with him, allowing himself now and then a few minutes' thought ofEmmeline, with the strict yet reluctant niggardliness of an ailingepicure proportioning the rank drinks that cause his malady. The voyagewas marked by the usual incidents of a sailing-passage in those days--astorm, a calm, a man overboard, a birth, and a funeral--the latter sadevent being one in which he, as the only clergyman on board, officiated, reading the service ordained for the purpose. The ship duly arrived atBoston early in the month following, and thence he proceeded toProvidence to seek out a distant relative. 

After a short stay at Providence he returned again to Boston, and byapplying himself to a serious occupation made good progress in shakingoff the dreary melancholy which enveloped him even now. Distracted andweakened in his beliefs by his recent experiences, he decided that hecould not for a time worthily fill the office of a minister of religion, and applied for the mastership of a school. Some introductions, givenhim before starting, were useful now, and he soon became known as arespectable scholar and gentleman to the trustees of one of the colleges. This ultimately led to his retirement from the school and installation inthe college as Professor of rhetoric and oratory. 

Here and thus he lived on, exerting himself solely because of aconscientious determination to do his duty. He passed his winterevenings in turning sonnets and elegies, often giving his thoughts voicein 'Lines to an Unfortunate Lady, ' while his summer leisure at the samehour would be spent in watching the lengthening shadows from his window, and fancifully comparing them with the shades of his own life. If hewalked, he mentally inquired which was the eastern quarter of thelandscape, and thought of two thousand miles of water that way, and ofwhat was beyond it. In a word he was at all spare times dreaming of herwho was only a memory to him, and would probably never be more. 

Nine years passed by, and under their wear and tear Alwyn Hill's facelost a great many of the attractive characteristics which had formerlydistinguished it. He was kind to his pupils and affable to all who camein contact with him; but the kernel of his life, his secret, was kept assnugly shut up as though he had been dumb. In talking to hisacquaintances of England and his life there, he omitted the episode ofBatton Castle and Emmeline as if it had no existence in his calendar atall. Though of towering importance to himself, it had filled but a shortand small fragment of time, an ephemeral season which would have beenwellnigh imperceptible, even to him, at this distance, but for theincident it enshrined. 

One day, at this date, when cursorily glancing over an old Englishnewspaper, he observed a paragraph which, short as it was, contained forhim whole tomes of thrilling information--rung with more passion-stirringrhythm than the collected cantos of all the poets. It was anannouncement of the death of the Duke of Hamptonshire, leaving behind hima widow, but no children. 

The current of Alwyn's thoughts now completely changed. On looking againat the newspaper he found it to be one that was sent him long ago, andhad been carelessly thrown aside. But for an accidental overhauling ofthe waste journals in his study he might not have known of the event foryears. At this moment of reading the Duke had already been dead sevenmonths. Alwyn could now no longer bind himself down to machine-madesynecdoche, antithesis, and climax, being full of spontaneous specimensof all these rhetorical forms, which he dared not utter. Who shallwonder that his mind luxuriated in dreams of a sweet possibility now laidopen for the first time these many years? for Emmeline was to him now asever the one dear thing in all the world. The issue of his silentromancing was that he resolved to return to her at the very earliestmoment. 

But he could not abandon his professional work on the instant. He didnot get really quite free from engagements till four months later; but, though suffering throes of impatience continually, he said to himselfevery day: 'If she has continued to love me nine years she will love meten; she will think the more tenderly of me when her present hours ofsolitude shall have done their proper work; old times will revive withthe cessation of her recent experience, and every day will favour myreturn. '

The enforced interval soon passed, and he duly arrived in England, reaching the village of Batton on a certain winter day between twelve andthirteen months subsequent to the time of the Duke's death. 

It was evening; yet such was Alwyn's impatience that he could not forbeartaking, this very night, one look at the castle which Emmeline hadentered as unhappy mistress ten years before. He threaded the parktrees, gazed in passing at well-known outlines which rose against the dimsky, and was soon interested in observing that lively country-people, inparties of two and three, were walking before and behind him up theinterlaced avenue to the castle gateway. Knowing himself to be safe fromrecognition, Alwyn inquired of one of these pedestrians what was goingon. 

'Her Grace gives her tenantry a ball to-night, to keep up the old customof the Duke and his father before him, which she does not wish tochange. '

'Indeed. Has she lived here entirely alone since the Duke's death?'

'Quite alone. But though she doesn't receive company herself, she likesthe village people to enjoy themselves, and often has 'em here. '

'Kind-hearted, as always!' thought Alwyn. 

On reaching the castle he found that the great gates at the tradesmen'sentrance were thrown back against the wall as if they were never to beclosed again; that the passages and rooms in that wing were brilliantlylighted up, some of the numerous candles guttering down over the greenleaves which decorated them, and upon the silk dresses of the happyfarmers' wives as they passed beneath, each on her husband's arm. Alwynfound no difficulty in marching in along with the rest, the castle beingLiberty Hall to-night. He stood unobserved in a corner of the largeapartment where dancing was about to begin. 

'Her Grace, though hardly out of mourning, will be sure to come down andlead off the dance with neighbour Bates, ' said one. 

'Who is neighbour Bates?' asked Alwyn. 

'An old man she respects much--the oldest of her tenant-farmers. He wasseventy-eight his last birthday. '

'Ah, to be sure!' said Alwyn, at his ease. 'I remember. '

The dancers formed in line, and waited. A door opened at the farther endof the hall, and a lady in black silk came forth. She bowed, smiled, andproceeded to the top of the dance. 

'Who is that lady?' said Alwyn, in a puzzled tone. 'I thought you toldme that the Duchess of Hamptonshire--'

'That is the Duchess, ' said his informant. 

'But there is another?'

'No; there is no other. '

'But she is not the Duchess of Hamptonshire--who used to--' Alwyn'stongue stuck to his mouth, he could get no farther. 

'What's the matter?' said his acquaintance. Alwyn had retired, and wassupporting himself against the wall. 

The wretched Alwyn murmured something about a stitch in his side fromwalking. Then the music struck up, the dance went on, and his neighbourbecame so interested in watching the movements of this strange Duchessthrough its mazes as to forget Alwyn for a while. 

It gave him an opportunity to brace himself up. He was a man who hadsuffered, and he could suffer again. 'How came that person to be yourDuchess?' he asked in a firm, distinct voice, when he had attainedcomplete self-command. 'Where is her other Grace of Hamptonshire? Therecertainly was another. I know it. '

'Oh, the previous one! Yes, yes. She ran away years and years ago withthe young curate. Mr. Hill was the young man's name, if I recollect. '

'No! She never did. What do you mean by that?' he said. 

'Yes, she certainly ran away. She met the curate in the shrubbery abouta couple of months after her marriage with the Duke. There were folkswho saw the meeting and heard some words of their talk. They arranged togo, and she sailed from Plymouth with him a day or two afterward. '

'That's not true. '

'Then 'tis the queerest lie ever told by man. Her father believed andknew to his dying day that she went with him; and so did the Duke, andeverybody about here. Ay, there was a fine upset about it at the time. The Duke traced her to Plymouth. '

'Traced her to Plymouth?'

'He traced her to Plymouth, and set on his spies; and they found that shewent to the shipping-office, and inquired if Mr. Alwyn Hill had enteredhis name as passenger by the _Western Glory_; and when she found that hehad, she booked herself for the same ship, but not in her real name. Whenthe vessel had sailed a letter reached the Duke from her, telling himwhat she had done. She never came back here again. His Grace lived byhimself a number of years, and married this lady only twelve monthsbefore he died. '

Alwyn was in a state of indescribable bewilderment. But, unmanned as hewas, he called the next day on the, to him, spurious Duchess ofHamptonshire. At first she was alarmed at his statement, then cold, thenshe was won over by his condition to give confidence for confidence. Sheshowed him a letter which had been found among the papers of the lateDuke, corroborating what Alwyn's informant had detailed. It was fromEmmeline, bearing the postmarked date at which the _Western Glory_sailed, and briefly stated that she had emigrated by that ship toAmerica. 

Alwyn applied himself body and mind to unravel the remainder of themystery. The story repeated to him was always the same: 'She ran awaywith the curate. ' A strangely circumstantial piece of intelligence wasadded to this when he had pushed his inquiries a little further. Therewas given him the name of a waterman at Plymouth, who had come forward atthe time that she was missed and sought for by her husband, and hadstated that he put her on board the _Western Glory_ at dusk one eveningbefore that vessel sailed. 

After several days of search about the alleys and quays of PlymouthBarbican, during which these impossible words, 'She ran off with thecurate, ' became branded on his brain, Alwyn found this importantwaterman. He was positive as to the truth of his story, stillremembering the incident well, and he described in detail the lady'sdress, as he had long ago described it to her husband, which descriptioncorresponded in every particular with the dress worn by Emmeline on theevening of their parting. 

Before proceeding to the other side of the Atlantic to continue hisinquiries there, the puzzled and distracted Alwyn set himself toascertain the address of Captain Wheeler, who had commanded the _WesternGlory_ in the year of Alwyn's voyage out, and immediately wrote a letterto him on the subject. 

The only circumstances which the sailor could recollect or discover fromhis papers in connection with such a story were, that a woman bearing thename which Alwyn had mentioned as fictitious certainly did come aboardfor a voyage he made about that time; that she took a common berth amongthe poorest emigrants; that she died on the voyage out, at about fivedays' sail from Plymouth; that she seemed a lady in manners andeducation. Why she had not applied for a first-class passage, why shehad no trunks, they could not guess, for though she had little money inher pocket she had that about her which would have fetched it. 'Weburied her at sea, ' continued the captain. 'A young parson, one of thecabin-passengers, read the burial-service over her, I remember well. '

The whole scene and proceedings darted upon Alwyn's recollection in amoment. It was a fine breezy morning on that long-past voyage out, andhe had been told that they were running at the rate of a hundred and oddmiles a day. The news went round that one of the poor young women in theother part of the vessel was ill of fever, and delirious. The tidingscaused no little alarm among all the passengers, for the sanitaryconditions of the ship were anything but satisfactory. Shortly afterthis the doctor announced that she had died. Then Alwyn had learnt thatshe was laid out for burial in great haste, because of the danger thatwould have been incurred by delay. And next the funeral scene rosebefore him, and the prominent part that he had taken in that solemnceremony. The captain had come to him, requesting him to officiate, asthere was no chaplain on board. This he had agreed to do; and as the sunwent down with a blaze in his face he read amidst them all assembled: 'Wetherefore commit her body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body when the sea shall give up herdead. '

The captain also forwarded the addresses of the ship's matron and ofother persons who had been engaged on board at the date. To these Alwynwent in the course of time. A categorical description of the clothes ofthe dead truant, the colour of her hair, and other things, extinguishedfor ever all hope of a mistake in identity. 

At last, then, the course of events had become clear. On that unhappyevening when he left Emmeline in the shrubbery, forbidding her to followhim because it would be a sin, she must have disobeyed. She must havefollowed at his heels silently through the darkness, like a poor petanimal that will not be driven back. She could have accumulated nothingfor the journey more than she might have carried in her hand; and thuspoorly provided she must have embarked. Her intention had doubtless beento make her presence on board known to him as soon as she could mustercourage to do so. 

Thus the ten years' chapter of Alwyn Hill's romance wound itself up underhis eyes. That the poor young woman in the steerage had been the youngDuchess of Hamptonshire was never publicly disclosed. Hill had no longerany reason for remaining in England, and soon after left its shores withno intention to return. Previous to his departure he confided his storyto an old friend from his native town--grandfather of the person who nowrelates it to you. 

* * * * *

A few members, including the Bookworm, seemed to be impressed by thequiet gentleman's tale; but the member we have called the Spark--who, bythe way, was getting somewhat tinged with the light of other days, andowned to eight-and-thirty--walked daintily about the room instead ofsitting down by the fire with the majority and said that for his part hepreferred something more lively than the last story--something in whichsuch long-separated lovers were ultimately united. He also liked storiesthat were more modern in their date of action than those he had heard to-day. 

Members immediately requested him to give them a specimen, to which theSpark replied that he didn't mind, as far as that went. And though theVice-President, the Man of Family, the Colonel, and others, looked attheir watches, and said they must soon retire to their respectivequarters in the hotel adjoining, they all decided to sit out the Spark'sstory. 

DAME THE TENTH--THE HONOURABLE LAURABy the Spark

It was a cold and gloomy Christmas Eve. The mass of cloud overhead wasalmost impervious to such daylight as still lingered on; the snow layseveral inches deep upon the ground, and the slanting downfall whichstill went on threatened to considerably increase its thickness beforethe morning. The Prospect Hotel, a building standing near the wild northcoast of Lower Wessex, looked so lonely and so useless at such a time asthis that a passing wayfarer would have been led to forget summerpossibilities, and to wonder at the commercial courage which could investcapital, on the basis of the popular taste for the picturesque, in acountry subject to such dreary phases. That the district was alive withvisitors in August seemed but a dim tradition in weather so totallyopposed to all that tempts mankind from home. However, there the hotelstood immovable; and the cliffs, creeks, and headlands which were theprimary attractions of the spot, rising in full view on the opposite sideof the valley, were now but stern angular outlines, while the townlet infront was tinged over with a grimy dirtiness rather than the pearly graythat in summer lent such beauty to its appearance. 

Within the hotel commanding this outlook the landlord walked idly aboutwith his hands in his pockets, not in the least expectant of a visitor, and yet unable to settle down to any occupation which should compensatein some degree for the losses that winter idleness entailed on hisregular profession. So little, indeed, was anybody expected, that thecoffee-room waiter--a genteel boy, whose plated buttons in summer were asclose together upon the front of his short jacket as peas in a pod--nowappeared in the back yard, metamorphosed into the unrecognizable shape ofa rough country lad in corduroys and hobnailed boots, sweeping the snowaway, and talking the local dialect in all its purity, quite oblivious ofthe new polite accent he had learned in the hot weather from the well-behaved visitors. The front door was closed, and, as if to express stillmore fully the sealed and chrysalis state of the establishment, a sand-bag was placed at the bottom to keep out the insidious snowdrift, thewind setting in directly from that quarter. 

The landlord, entering his own parlour, walked to the large fire which itwas absolutely necessary to keep up for his comfort, no such blazeburning in the coffee-room or elsewhere, and after giving it a stirreturned to a table in the lobby, whereon lay the visitors' book--nowclosed and pushed back against the wall. He carelessly opened it; not aname had been entered there since the 19th of the previous November, andthat was only the name of a man who had arrived on a tricycle, who, indeed, had not been asked to enter at all. 

While he was engaged thus the evening grew darker; but before it was asyet too dark to distinguish objects upon the road winding round the backof the cliffs, the landlord perceived a black spot on the distant white, which speedily enlarged itself and drew near. The probabilities werethat this vehicle--for a vehicle of some sort it seemed to be--would passby and pursue its way to the nearest railway-town as others had done. But, contrary to the landlord's expectation, as he stood conning itthrough the yet unshuttered windows, the solitary object, on reaching thecorner, turned into the hotel-front, and drove up to the door. 

It was a conveyance particularly unsuited to such a season and weather, being nothing more substantial than an open basket-carriage drawn by asingle horse. Within sat two persons, of different sexes, as could soonbe discerned, in spite of their muffled attire. The man held the reins, and the lady had got some shelter from the storm by clinging close to hisside. The landlord rang the hostler's bell to attract the attention ofthe stable-man, for the approach of the visitors had been deadened tonoiselessness by the snow, and when the hostler had come to the horse'shead the gentleman and lady alighted, the landlord meeting them in thehall. 

The male stranger was a foreign-looking individual of about eight-and-twenty. He was close-shaven, excepting a moustache, his features beinggood, and even handsome. The lady, who stood timidly behind him, seemedto be much younger--possibly not more than eighteen, though it wasdifficult to judge either of her age or appearance in her presentwrappings. 

The gentleman expressed his wish to stay till the morning, explainingsomewhat unnecessarily, considering that the house was an inn, that theyhad been unexpectedly benighted on their drive. Such a welcome beinggiven them as landlords can give in dull times, the latter ordered firesin the drawing and coffee-rooms, and went to the boy in the yard, whosoon scrubbed himself up, dragged his disused jacket from its box, polished the buttons with his sleeve, and appeared civilized in the hall. The lady was shown into a room where she could take off her snow-dampedgarments, which she sent down to be dried, her companion, meanwhile, putting a couple of sovereigns on the table, as if anxious to makeeverything smooth and comfortable at starting, and requesting that aprivate sitting-room might be got ready. The landlord assured him thatthe best upstairs parlour--usually public--should be kept private thisevening, and sent the maid to light the candles. Dinner was prepared forthem, and, at the gentleman's desire, served in the same apartment;where, the young lady having joined him, they were left to the rest andrefreshment they seemed to need. 

That something was peculiar in the relations of the pair had more thanonce struck the landlord, though wherein that peculiarity lay it was hardto decide. But that his guest was one who paid his way readily had beenproved by his conduct, and dismissing conjectures, he turned to practicalaffairs. 

About nine o'clock he re-entered the hall, and, everything being done forthe day, again walked up and down, occasionally gazing through the glassdoor at the prospect without, to ascertain how the weather wasprogressing. Contrary to prognostication, snow had ceased falling, and, with the rising of the moon, the sky had partially cleared, light fleecesof cloud drifting across the silvery disk. There was every sign that afrost was going to set in later on. For these reasons the distant risingroad was even more distinct now between its high banks than it had beenin the declining daylight. Not a track or rut broke the virgin surfaceof the white mantle that lay along it, all marks left by the latelyarrived travellers having been speedily obliterated by the flakes fallingat the time. 

And now the landlord beheld by the light of the moon a sight very similarto that he had seen by the light of day. Again a black spot wasadvancing down the road that margined the coast. He was in a moment ortwo enabled to perceive that the present vehicle moved onward at a moreheadlong pace than the little carriage which had preceded it; next, thatit was a brougham drawn by two powerful horses; next, that this carriage, like the former one, was bound for the hotel-door. This desirablefeature of resemblance caused the landlord to once more withdraw the sand-bag and advance into the porch. 

An old gentleman was the first to alight. He was followed by a youngone, and both unhesitatingly came forward. 

'Has a young lady, less than nineteen years of age, recently arrived herein the company of a man some years her senior?' asked the old gentleman, in haste. 'A man cleanly shaven for the most part, having the appearanceof an opera-singer, and calling himself Signor Smithozzi?'

'We have had arrivals lately, ' said the landlord, in the tone of havinghad twenty at least--not caring to acknowledge the attenuated state ofbusiness that afflicted Prospect Hotel in winter. 

'And among them can your memory recall two persons such as those Idescribe?--the man a sort of baritone?'

'There certainly is or was a young couple staying in the hotel; but Icould not pronounce on the compass of the gentleman's voice. '

'No, no; of course not. I am quite bewildered. They arrived in a basket-carriage, altogether badly provided?'

'They came in a carriage, I believe, as most of our visitors do. '

'Yes, yes. I must see them at once. Pardon my want of ceremony, andshow us in to where they are. '

'But, sir, you forget. Suppose the lady and gentleman I mean are not thelady and gentleman you mean? It would be awkward to allow you to rush inupon them just now while they are at dinner, and might cause me to losetheir future patronage. '

'True, true. They may not be the same persons. My anxiety, I perceive, makes me rash in my assumptions!'

'Upon the whole, I think they must be the same, Uncle Quantock, ' said theyoung man, who had not till now spoken. And turning to the landlord:'You possibly have not such a large assemblage of visitors here, on thissomewhat forbidding evening, that you quite forget how this couplearrived, and what the lady wore?' His tone of addressing the landlordhad in it a quiet frigidity that was not without irony. 

'Ah! what she wore; that's it, James. What did she wear?'

'I don't usually take stock of my guests' clothing, ' replied the landlorddrily, for the ready money of the first arrival had decidedly biassed himin favour of that gentleman's cause. 'You can certainly see some of itif you want to, ' he added carelessly, 'for it is drying by the kitchenfire. '

Before the words were half out of his mouth the old gentleman hadexclaimed, 'Ah!' and precipitated himself along what seemed to be thepassage to the kitchen; but as this turned out to be only the entrance toa dark china-closet, he hastily emerged again, after a collision with theinn-crockery had told him of his mistake. 

'I beg your pardon, I'm sure; but if you only knew my feelings (which Icannot at present explain), you would make allowances. Anything I havebroken I will willingly pay for. '

'Don't mention it, sir, ' said the landlord. And showing the way, theyadjourned to the kitchen without further parley. The eldest of the partyinstantly seized the lady's cloak, that hung upon a clothes-horse, exclaiming: 'Ah! yes, James, it is hers. I knew we were on their track. '

'Yes, it is hers, ' answered the nephew quietly, for he was much lessexcited than his companion. 

'Show us their room at once, ' said the old man. 

'William, have the lady and gentleman in the front sitting-room finisheddining?'

'Yes, sir, long ago, ' said the hundred plated buttons. 

'Then show up these gentlemen to them at once. You stay here to-night, gentlemen, I presume? Shall the horses be taken out?'

'Feed the horses and wash their mouths. Whether we stay or not dependsupon circumstances, ' said the placid younger man, as he followed hisuncle and the waiter to the staircase. 

'I think, Nephew James, ' said the former, as he paused with his foot onthe first step--'I think we had better not be announced, but take them bysurprise. She may go throwing herself out of the window, or do someequally desperate thing!'

'Yes, certainly, we'll enter unannounced. ' And he called back the ladwho preceded them. 

'I cannot sufficiently thank you, James, for so effectually aiding me inthis pursuit!' exclaimed the old gentleman, taking the other by the hand. 'My increasing infirmities would have hindered my overtaking herto-night, had it not been for your timely aid. '

'I am only too happy, uncle, to have been of service to you in this orany other matter. I only wish I could have accompanied you on apleasanter journey. However, it is advisable to go up to them at once, or they may hear us. ' And they softly ascended the stairs. 

* * * * *

On the door being opened, a room too large to be comfortable, lit by thebest branch-candlesticks of the hotel, was disclosed, before the fire ofwhich apartment the truant couple were sitting, very innocently lookingover the hotel scrap-book and the album containing views of theneighbourhood. No sooner had the old man entered than the young lady--whonow showed herself to be quite as young as described, and remarkablyprepossessing as to features--perceptibly turned pale. When the nephewentered, she turned still paler, as if she were going to faint. Theyoung man described as an opera-singer rose with grim civility, andplaced chairs for his visitors. 

'Caught you, thank God!' said the old gentleman breathlessly. 

'Yes, worse luck, my lord!' murmured Signor Smithozzi, in native London-English, that distinguished alien having, in fact, first seen the lightin the vicinity of the City Road. 'She would have been mine to-morrow. And I think that under the peculiar circumstances it would bewiser--considering how soon the breath of scandal will tarnish a lady'sfame--to let her be mine to-morrow, just the same. '

'Never!' said the old man. 'Here is a lady under age, withoutexperience--child-like in her maiden innocence and virtue--whom you haveplied by your vile arts, till this morning at dawn--'

'Lord Quantock, were I not bound to respect your gray hairs--'

'Till this morning at dawn you tempted her away from her father's roof. What blame can attach to her conduct that will not, on a full explanationof the matter, be readily passed over in her and thrown entirely on you?Laura, you return at once with me. I should not have arrived, after all, early enough to deliver you, if it had not been for the disinterestednessof your cousin, Captain Northbrook, who, on my discovering your flightthis morning, offered with a promptitude for which I can neversufficiently thank him, to accompany me on my journey, as the only malerelative I have near me. Come, do you hear? Put on your things; we areoff at once. '

'I don't want to go!' pouted the young lady. 

'I daresay you don't, ' replied her father drily. 'But children neverknow what's best for them. So come along, and trust to my opinion. '

Laura was silent, and did not move, the opera gentleman lookinghelplessly into the fire, and the lady's cousin sitting meditativelycalm, as the single one of the four whose position enabled him to surveythe whole escapade with the cool criticism of a comparative outsider. 

'I say to you, Laura, as the father of a daughter under age, that youinstantly come with me. What? Would you compel me to use physical forceto reclaim you?'

'I don't want to return!' again declared Laura. 

'It is your duty to return nevertheless, and at once, I inform you. '

'I don't want to!'

'Now, dear Laura, this is what I say: return with me and your cousinJames quietly, like a good and repentant girl, and nothing will be said. Nobody knows what has happened as yet, and if we start at once, we shallbe home before it is light to-morrow morning. Come. '

'I am not obliged to come at your bidding, father, and I would rathernot!'

Now James, the cousin, during this dialogue might have been observed togrow somewhat restless, and even impatient. More than once he had partedhis lips to speak, but second thoughts each time held him back. Themoment had come, however, when he could keep silence no longer. 

'Come, madam!' he spoke out, 'this farce with your father has, in myopinion, gone on long enough. Just make no more ado, and step downstairswith us. '

She gave herself an intractable little twist, and did not reply. 

'By the Lord Harry, Laura, I won't stand this!' he said angrily. 'Come, get on your things before I come and compel you. There is a kind ofcompulsion to which this talk is child's play. Come, madam--instantly, Isay!'

The old nobleman turned to his nephew and said mildly: 'Leave me toinsist, James. It doesn't become you. I can speak to her sharplyenough, if I choose. '

James, however, did not heed his uncle, and went on to the troublesomeyoung woman: 'You say you don't want to come, indeed! A pretty story totell me, that! Come, march out of the room at once, and leave thathulking fellow for me to deal with afterward. Get on quickly--come!' andhe advanced toward her as if to pull her by the hand. 

'Nay, nay, ' expostulated Laura's father, much surprised at his nephew'ssudden demeanour. 'You take too much upon yourself. Leave her to me. '

'I won't leave her to you any longer!'

'You have no right, James, to address either me or her in this way; sojust hold your tongue. Come, my dear. '

'I have every right!' insisted James. 

'How do you make that out?'

'I have the right of a husband. '

'Whose husband?'

'Hers. '

'What?'

'She's my wife. '

'James!'

'Well, to cut a long story short, I may say that she secretly married me, in spite of your lordship's prohibition, about three months ago. And Imust add that, though she cooled down rather quickly, everything went onsmoothly enough between us for some time; in spite of the awkwardness ofmeeting only by stealth. We were only waiting for a convenient moment tobreak the news to you when this idle Adonis turned up, and afterpoisoning her mind against me, brought her into this disgrace. '

Here the operatic luminary, who had sat in rather an abstracted andnerveless attitude till the cousin made his declaration, fired up andcried: 'I declare before Heaven that till this moment I never knew shewas a wife! I found her in her father's house an unhappy girl--unhappy, as I believe, because of the loneliness and dreariness of thatestablishment, and the want of society, and for nothing else whatever. What this statement about her being your wife means I am quite at a lossto understand. Are you indeed married to him, Laura?'

Laura nodded from within her tearful handkerchief. 'It was because of myanomalous position in being privately married to him, ' she sobbed, 'thatI was unhappy at home--and--and I didn't like him so well as I did atfirst--and I wished I could get out of the mess I was in! And then I sawyou a few times, and when you said, "We'll run off, " I thought I saw away out of it all, and then I agreed to come with you--oo-oo!'

'Well! well! well! And is this true?' murmured the bewildered oldnobleman, staring from James to Laura, and from Laura to James, as if hefancied they might be figments of the imagination. 'Is this, then, James, the secret of your kindness to your old uncle in helping him tofind his daughter? Good Heavens! What further depths of duplicity arethere left for a man to learn!'

'I have married her, Uncle Quantock, as I said, ' answered James coolly. 'The deed is done, and can't be undone by talking here. '

'Where were you married?'

'At St. Mary's, Toneborough. '

'When?'

'On the 29th of September, during the time she was visiting there. '

'Who married you?'

'I don't know. One of the curates--we were quite strangers to the place. So, instead of my assisting you to recover her, you may as well assistme. '

'Never! never!' said Lord Quantock. 'Madam, and sir, I beg to tell youthat I wash my hands of the whole affair! If you are man and wife, as itseems you are, get reconciled as best you may. I have no more to say ordo with either of you. I leave you, Laura, in the hands of your husband, and much joy may you bring him; though the situation, I own, is notencouraging. '

Saying this, the indignant speaker pushed back his chair against thetable with such force that the candlesticks rocked on their bases, andleft the room. 

Laura's wet eyes roved from one of the young men to the other, who nowstood glaring face to face, and, being much frightened at their aspect, slipped out of the room after her father. Him, however, she could heargoing out of the front door, and, not knowing where to take shelter, shecrept into the darkness of an adjoining bedroom, and there awaited eventswith a palpitating heart. 

Meanwhile the two men remaining in the sitting-room drew nearer to eachother, and the opera-singer broke the silence by saying, 'How could youinsult me in the way you did, calling me a fellow, and accusing me ofpoisoning her mind toward you, when you knew very well I was as ignorantof your relation to her as an unborn babe?'

'Oh yes, you were quite ignorant; I can believe that readily, ' sneeredLaura's husband. 

'I here call Heaven to witness that I never knew!'

'Recitativo--the rhythm excellent, and the tone well sustained. Is itlikely that any man could win the confidence of a young fool her age, andnot get that out of her? Preposterous! Tell it to the most improved newpit-stalls. '

'Captain Northbrook, your insinuations are as despicable as your wretchedperson!' cried the baritone, losing all patience. And springing forwardhe slapped the captain in the face with the palm of his hand. 

Northbrook flinched but slightly, and calmly using his handkerchief tolearn if his nose was bleeding, said, 'I quite expected this insult, so Icame prepared. ' And he drew forth from a black valise which he carriedin his hand a small case of pistols. 

The baritone started at the unexpected sight, but recovering from hissurprise said, 'Very well, as you will, ' though perhaps his tone showed aslight want of confidence. 

'Now, ' continued the husband, quite confidingly, 'we want no parade, nononsense, you know. Therefore we'll dispense with seconds?'

The signor slightly nodded. 

'Do you know this part of the country well?' Cousin James went on, in thesame cool and still manner. 'If you don't, I do. Quite at the bottom ofthe rocks out there, just beyond the stream which falls over them to theshore, is a smooth sandy space, not so much shut in as to be out of themoonlight; and the way down to it from this side is over steps cut in thecliff; and we can find our way down without trouble. We--we two--willfind our way down; but only one of us will find his way up, youunderstand?'

'Quite. '

'Then suppose we start; the sooner it is over the better. We can ordersupper before we go out--supper for two; for though we are three atpresent--'

'Three?'

'Yes; you and I and she--'

'Oh yes. '

'--We shall be only two by and by; so that, as I say, we will ordersupper for two; for the lady and a gentleman. Whichever comes back alivewill tap at her door, and call her in to share the repast with him--she'snot off the premises. But we must not alarm her now; and above allthings we must not let the inn-people see us go out; it would look so oddfor two to go out, and only one come in. Ha! ha!'

'Ha! ha! exactly. '

'Are you ready?'

'Oh--quite. '

'Then I'll lead the way. '

He went softly to the door and downstairs, ordering supper to be ready inan hour, as he had said; then making a feint of returning to the roomagain, he beckoned to the singer, and together they slipped out of thehouse by a side door. 

* * * * *

The sky was now quite clear, and the wheelmarks of the brougham which hadborne away Laura's father, Lord Quantock, remained distinctly visible. Soon the verge of the down was reached, the captain leading the way, andthe baritone following silently, casting furtive glances at hiscompanion, and beyond him at the scene ahead. In due course they arrivedat the chasm in the cliff which formed the waterfall. The outlook herewas wild and picturesque in the extreme, and fully justified the manypraises, paintings, and photographic views to which the spot had givenbirth. What in summer was charmingly green and gray, was now renderedweird and fantastic by the snow. 

From their feet the cascade plunged downward almost vertically to a depthof eighty or a hundred feet before finally losing itself in the sand, andthough the stream was but small, its impact upon jutting rocks in itsdescent divided it into a hundred spirts and splashes that sent up a mistinto the upper air. A few marginal drippings had been frozen intoicicles, but the centre flowed on unimpeded. 

The operatic artist looked down as he halted, but his thoughts wereplainly not of the beauty of the scene. His companion with the pistolswas immediately in front of him, and there was no handrail on the side ofthe path toward the chasm. Obeying a quick impulse, he stretched out hisarm, and with a superhuman thrust sent Laura's husband reeling over. Awhirling human shape, diminishing downward in the moon's rays farther andfarther toward invisibility, a smack-smack upon the projecting ledges ofrock--at first louder and heavier than that of the brook, and thenscarcely to be distinguished from it--then a cessation, then thesplashing of the stream as before, and the accompanying murmur of thesea, were all the incidents that disturbed the customary flow of thelittle waterfall. 

The singer waited in a fixed attitude for a few minutes, then turning, herapidly retraced his steps over the intervening upland toward the road, and in less than a quarter of an hour was at the door of the hotel. Slipping quietly in as the clock struck ten, he said to the landlord, over the bar hatchway--

'The bill as soon as you can let me have it, including charges for thesupper that was ordered, though we cannot stay to eat it, I am sorry tosay. ' He added with forced gaiety, 'The lady's father and cousin havethought better of intercepting the marriage, and after quarrelling witheach other have gone home independently. '

'Well done, sir!' said the landlord, who still sided with this customerin preference to those who had given trouble and barely paid for baitingthe horses. '"Love will find out the way!" as the saying is. Wish youjoy, sir!'

Signor Smithozzi went upstairs, and on entering the sitting-room foundthat Laura had crept out from the dark adjoining chamber in his absence. She looked up at him with eyes red from weeping, and with symptoms ofalarm. 

'What is it?--where is he?' she said apprehensively. 

'Captain Northbrook has gone back. He says he will have no more to dowith you. '

'And I am quite abandoned by them!--and they'll forget me, and nobodycare about me any more!' She began to cry afresh. 

'But it is the luckiest thing that could have happened. All is just asit was before they came disturbing us. But, Laura, you ought to havetold me about that private marriage, though it is all the same now; itwill be dissolved, of course. You are a wid--virtually a widow. '

'It is no use to reproach me for what is past. What am I to do now?'

'We go at once to Cliff-Martin. The horse has rested thoroughly theselast three hours, and he will have no difficulty in doing an additionalhalf-dozen miles. We shall be there before twelve, and there are latetaverns in the place, no doubt. There we'll sell both horse and carriageto-morrow morning; and go by the coach to Downstaple. Once in the trainwe are safe. '

'I agree to anything, ' she said listlessly. 

In about ten minutes the horse was put in, the bill paid, the lady'sdried wraps put round her, and the journey resumed. 

When about a mile on their way, they saw a glimmering light in advance ofthem. 'I wonder what that is?' said the baritone, whose manner hadlatterly become nervous, every sound and sight causing him to turn hishead. 

'It is only a turnpike, ' said she. 'That light is the lamp kept burningover the door. '

'Of course, of course, dearest. How stupid I am!'

On reaching the gate they perceived that a man on foot had approached it, apparently by some more direct path than the roadway they pursued, andwas, at the moment they drew up, standing in conversation with thegatekeeper. 

'It is quite impossible that he could fall over the cliff by accident orthe will of God on such a light night as this, ' the pedestrian wassaying. 'These two children I tell you of saw two men go along the pathtoward the waterfall, and ten minutes later only one of 'em came back, walking fast, like a man who wanted to get out of the way because he haddone something queer. There is no manner of doubt that he pushed theother man over, and, mark me, it will soon cause a hue and cry for thatman. '

The candle shone in the face of the Signor and showed that there hadarisen upon it a film of ghastliness. Laura, glancing toward him for afew moments observed it, till, the gatekeeper having mechanically swungopen the gate, her companion drove through, and they were soon againenveloped in the white silence. 

Her conductor had said to Laura, just before, that he meant to inquirethe way at this turnpike; but he had certainly not done so. 

As soon as they had gone a little farther the omission, intentional ornot, began to cause them some trouble. Beyond the secluded districtwhich they now traversed ran the more frequented road, where progresswould be easy, the snow being probably already beaten there to someextent by traffic; but they had not yet reached it, and having no one toguide them their journey began to appear less feasible than it had donebefore starting. When the little lane which they had entered ascendedanother hill, and seemed to wind round in a direction contrary to theexpected route to Cliff-Martin, the question grew serious. Ever sinceoverhearing the conversation at the turnpike, Laura had maintained aperfect silence, and had even shrunk somewhat away from the side of herlover. 

'Why don't you talk, Laura, ' he said with forced buoyancy, 'and suggestthe way we should go?'

'Oh yes, I will, ' she responded, a curious fearfulness being audible inher voice. 

After this she uttered a few occasional sentences which seemed topersuade him that she suspected nothing. At last he drew rein, and theweary horse stood still. 

'We are in a fix, ' he said. 

She answered eagerly: 'I'll hold the reins while you run forward to thetop of the ridge, and see if the road takes a favourable turn beyond. Itwould give the horse a few minutes' rest, and if you find out no changein the direction, we will retrace this lane, and take the other turning. '

The expedient seemed a good one in the circumstances, especially whenrecommended by the singular eagerness of her voice; and placing the reinsin her hands--a quite unnecessary precaution, considering the state oftheir hack--he stepped out and went forward through the snow till shecould see no more of him. 

No sooner was he gone than Laura, with a rapidity which contrastedstrangely with her previous stillness, made fast the reins to the cornerof the phaeton, and slipping out on the opposite side, ran back with allher might down the hill, till, coming to an opening in the fence, shescrambled through it, and plunged into the copse which bordered thisportion of the lane. Here she stood in hiding under one of the largebushes, clinging so closely to its umbrage as to seem but a portion ofits mass, and listening intently for the faintest sound of pursuit. Butnothing disturbed the stillness save the occasional slipping of gatheredsnow from the boughs, or the rustle of some wild animal over the crispflake-bespattered herbage. At length, apparently convinced that herformer companion was either unable to find her, or not anxious to do so, in the present strange state of affairs, she crept out from the bushes, and in less than an hour found herself again approaching the door of theProspect Hotel. 

As she drew near, Laura could see that, far from being wrapped indarkness, as she might have expected, there were ample signs that all thetenants were on the alert, lights moving about the open space in front. Satisfaction was expressed in her face when she discerned that noreappearance of her baritone and his pony-carriage was causing thissensation; but it speedily gave way to grief and dismay when she saw bythe lights the form of a man borne on a stretcher by two others into theporch of the hotel. 

'I have caused all this, ' she murmured between her quivering lips. 'Hehas murdered him!' Running forward to the door, she hastily asked of thefirst person she met if the man on the stretcher was dead. 

'No, miss, ' said the labourer addressed, eyeing her up and down as anunexpected apparition. 'He is still alive, they say, but not sensible. He either fell or was pushed over the waterfall; 'tis thoughted he waspushed. He is the gentleman who came here just now with the old lord, and went out afterward (as is thoughted) with a stranger who had come alittle earlier. Anyhow, that's as I had it. '

Laura entered the house, and acknowledging without the least reserve thatshe was the injured man's wife, had soon installed herself as head nurseby the bed on which he lay. When the two surgeons who had been sent forarrived, she learned from them that his wounds were so severe as to leavebut a slender hope of recovery, it being little short of miraculous thathe was not killed on the spot, which his enemy had evidently reckoned tobe the case. She knew who that enemy was, and shuddered. 

Laura watched all night, but her husband knew nothing of her presence. During the next day he slightly recognized her, and in the evening wasable to speak. He informed the surgeons that, as was surmised, he hadbeen pushed over the cascade by Signor Smithozzi; but he communicatednothing to her who nursed him, not even replying to her remarks; henodded courteously at any act of attention she rendered, and that wasall. 

In a day or two it was declared that everything favoured his recovery, notwithstanding the severity of his injuries. Full search was made forSmithozzi, but as yet there was no intelligence of his whereabouts, though the repentant Laura communicated all she knew. As far as could bejudged, he had come back to the carriage after searching out the way, andfinding the young lady missing, had looked about for her till he wastired; then had driven on to Cliff-Martin, sold the horse and carriagenext morning, and disappeared, probably by one of the departing coacheswhich ran thence to the nearest station, the only difference from hisoriginal programme being that he had gone alone. 

* * * * *

During the days and weeks of that long and tedious recovery, Laurawatched by her husband's bedside with a zeal and assiduity which wouldhave considerably extenuated any fault save one of such magnitude ashers. That her husband did not forgive her was soon obvious. Nothingthat she could do in the way of smoothing pillows, easing his position, shifting bandages, or administering draughts, could win from him morethan a few measured words of thankfulness, such as he would probably haveuttered to any other woman on earth who had performed these particularservices for him. 

'Dear, dear James, ' she said one day, bending her face upon the bed in anexcess of emotion. 'How you have suffered! It has been too cruel. I ammore glad you are getting better than I can say. I have prayed forit--and I am sorry for what I have done; I am innocent of the worst, and--I hope you will not think me so very bad, James!'

'Oh no. On the contrary, I shall think you very good--as a nurse, ' heanswered, the caustic severity of his tone being apparent through itsweakness. 

Laura let fall two or three silent tears, and said no more that day. 

Somehow or other Signor Smithozzi seemed to be making good his escape. Ittranspired that he had not taken a passage in either of the suspectedcoaches, though he had certainly got out of the county; altogether, thechance of finding him was problematical. 

Not only did Captain Northbrook survive his injuries, but it soonappeared that in the course of a few weeks he would find himself littleif any the worse for the catastrophe. It could also be seen that Laura, while secretly hoping for her husband's forgiveness for a piece of follyof which she saw the enormity more clearly every day, was in great doubtas to what her future relations with him would be. Moreover, to add tothe complication, whilst she, as a runaway wife, was unforgiven by herhusband, she and her husband, as a runaway couple, were unforgiven by herfather, who had never once communicated with either of them since hisdeparture from the inn. But her immediate anxiety was to win the pardonof her husband, who possibly might be bearing in mind, as he lay upon hiscouch, the familiar words of Brabantio, 'She has deceived her father, andmay thee. '

Matters went on thus till Captain Northbrook was able to walk about. Hethen removed with his wife to quiet apartments on the south coast, andhere his recovery was rapid. Walking up the cliffs one day, supportinghim by her arm as usual, she said to him, simply, 'James, if I go on as Iam going now, and always attend to your smallest want, and never think ofanything but devotion to you, will you--try to like me a little?'

'It is a thing I must carefully consider, ' he said, with the same gloomydryness which characterized all his words to her now. 'When I haveconsidered, I will tell you. '

He did not tell her that evening, though she lingered long at her routinework of making his bedroom comfortable, putting the light so that itwould not shine into his eyes, seeing him fall asleep, and then retiringnoiselessly to her own chamber. When they met in the morning atbreakfast, and she had asked him as usual how he had passed the night, she added timidly, in the silence which followed his reply, 'Have youconsidered?'

'No, I have not considered sufficiently to give you an answer. '

Laura sighed, but to no purpose; and the day wore on with intenseheaviness to her, and the customary modicum of strength gained to him. 

The next morning she put the same question, and looked up despairingly inhis face, as though her whole life hung upon his reply. 

'Yes, I have considered, ' he said. 

'Ah!'

'We must part. '

'O James!'

'I cannot forgive you; no man would. Enough is settled upon you to keepyou in comfort, whatever your father may do. I shall sell out, anddisappear from this hemisphere. '

'You have absolutely decided?' she asked miserably. 'I have nobody nowto c-c-care for--'

'I have absolutely decided, ' he shortly returned. 'We had better parthere. You will go back to your father. There is no reason why I shouldaccompany you, since my presence would only stand in the way of theforgiveness he will probably grant you if you appear before him alone. Wewill say farewell to each other in three days from this time. I havecalculated on being ready to go on that day. '

Bowed down with trouble, she withdrew to her room, and the three dayswere passed by her husband in writing letters and attending to otherbusiness-matters, saying hardly a word to her the while. The morning ofdeparture came; but before the horses had been put in to take the severedtwain in different directions, out of sight of each other, possibly forever, the postman arrived with the morning letters. 

There was one for the captain; none for her--there were never any forher. However, on this occasion something was enclosed for her in his, which he handed her. She read it and looked up helpless. 

'My dear father--is dead!' she said. In a few moments she added, in awhisper, 'I must go to the Manor to bury him . . . Will you go with me, James?'

He musingly looked out of the window. 'I suppose it is an awkward andmelancholy undertaking for a woman alone, ' he said coldly. 'Well, well--my poor uncle!--Yes, I'll go with you, and see you through thebusiness. '

So they went off together instead of asunder, as planned. It isunnecessary to record the details of the journey, or of the sad weekwhich followed it at her father's house. Lord Quantock's seat was a fineold mansion standing in its own park, and there were plenty ofopportunities for husband and wife either to avoid each other, or to getreconciled if they were so minded, which one of them was at least. Captain Northbrook was not present at the reading of the will. She cameto him afterward, and found him packing up his papers, intending to startnext morning, now that he had seen her through the turmoil occasioned byher father's death. 

'He has left me everything that he could!' she said to her husband. 'James, will you forgive me now, and stay?'

'I cannot stay. '

'Why not?'

'I cannot stay, ' he repeated. 

'But why?'

'I don't like you. '

He acted up to his word. When she came downstairs the next morning shewas told that he had gone. 

* * * * *

Laura bore her double bereavement as best she could. The vast mansion inwhich she had hitherto lived, with all its historic contents, had gone toher father's successor in the title; but her own was no unhandsome one. Around lay the undulating park, studded with trees a dozen times her ownage; beyond it, the wood; beyond the wood, the farms. All this fair andquiet scene was hers. She nevertheless remained a lonely, repentant, depressed being, who would have given the greater part of everything shepossessed to ensure the presence and affection of that husband whose veryausterity and phlegm--qualities that had formerly led to the alienationbetween them--seemed now to be adorable features in his character. 

She hoped and hoped again, but all to no purpose. Captain Northbrook didnot alter his mind and return. He was quite a different sort of man fromone who altered his mind; that she was at last despairingly forced toadmit. And then she left off hoping, and settled down to a mechanicalroutine of existence which in some measure dulled her grief; but at theexpense of all her natural animation and the sprightly wilfulness whichhad once charmed those who knew her, though it was perhaps all the whilea factor in the production of her unhappiness. 

To say that her beauty quite departed as the years rolled on would be tooverstate the truth. Time is not a merciful master, as we all know, andhe was not likely to act exceptionally in the case of a woman who hadmental troubles to bear in addition to the ordinary weight of years. Bethis as it may, eleven other winters came and went, and Laura Northbrookremained the lonely mistress of house and lands without once hearing ofher husband. Every probability seemed to favour the assumption that hehad died in some foreign land; and offers for her hand were not few asthe probability verged on certainty with the long lapse of time. But theidea of remarriage seemed never to have entered her head for a moment. Whether she continued to hope even now for his return could not bedistinctly ascertained; at all events she lived a life unmodified in theslightest degree from that of the first six months of his absence. 

This twelfth year of Laura's loneliness, and the thirtieth of her lifedrew on apace, and the season approached that had seen the unhappyadventure for which she so long had suffered. Christmas promised to berather wet than cold, and the trees on the outskirts of Laura's estatedripped monotonously from day to day upon the turnpike-road whichbordered them. On an afternoon in this week between three and fouro'clock a hired fly might have been seen driving along the highway atthis point, and on reaching the top of the hill it stopped. A gentlemanof middle age alighted from the vehicle. 

'You need drive no farther, ' he said to the coachman. 'The rain seems tohave nearly ceased. I'll stroll a little way, and return on foot to theinn by dinner-time. '

The flyman touched his hat, turned the horse, and drove back as directed. When he was out of sight, the gentleman walked on, but he had not gonefar before the rain again came down pitilessly, though of this thepedestrian took little heed, going leisurely onward till he reachedLaura's park gate, which he passed through. The clouds were thick andthe days were short, so that by the time he stood in front of the mansionit was dark. In addition to this his appearance, which on alighting fromthe carriage had been untarnished, partook now of the character of adrenched wayfarer not too well blessed with this world's goods. Hehalted for no more than a moment at the front entrance, and going roundto the servants' quarter, as if he had a preconceived purpose in sodoing, there rang the bell. When a page came to him he inquired if theywould kindly allow him to dry himself by the kitchen fire. 

The page retired, and after a murmured colloquy returned with the cook, who informed the wet and muddy man that though it was not her custom toadmit strangers, she should have no particular objection to his dryinghimself; the night being so damp and gloomy. Therefore the wayfarerentered and sat down by the fire. 

'The owner of this house is a very rich gentleman, no doubt?' he asked, as he watched the meat turning on the spit. 

''Tis not a gentleman, but a lady, ' said the cook. 

'A widow, I presume?'

'A sort of widow. Poor soul, her husband is gone abroad, and has neverbeen heard of for many years. '

'She sees plenty of company, no doubt, to make up for his absence?'

'No, indeed--hardly a soul. Service here is as bad as being in anunnery. '

In short, the wayfarer, who had at first been so coldly received, contrived by his frank and engaging manner to draw the ladies of thekitchen into a most confidential conversation, in which Laura's historywas minutely detailed, from the day of her husband's departure to thepresent. The salient feature in all their discourse was her unflaggingdevotion to his memory. 

Having apparently learned all that he wanted to know--among other thingsthat she was at this moment, as always, alone--the traveller said he wasquite dry; and thanking the servants for their kindness, departed as hehad come. On emerging into the darkness he did not, however, go down theavenue by which he had arrived. He simply walked round to the frontdoor. There he rang, and the door was opened to him by a man-servantwhom he had not seen during his sojourn at the other end of the house. 

In answer to the servant's inquiry for his name, he said ceremoniously, 'Will you tell The Honourable Mrs. Northbrook that the man she nursedmany years ago, after a frightful accident, has called to thank her?'

The footman retreated, and it was rather a long time before any furthersigns of attention were apparent. Then he was shown into the drawing-room, and the door closed behind him. 

On the couch was Laura, trembling and pale. She parted her lips and heldout her hands to him, but could not speak. But he did not requirespeech, and in a moment they were in each other's arms. 

Strange news circulated through that mansion and the neighbouring town onthe next and following days. But the world has a way of getting used tothings, and the intelligence of the return of The Honourable Mrs. Northbrook's long-absent husband was soon received with comparative calm. 

A few days more brought Christmas, and the forlorn home of LauraNorthbrook blazed from basement to attic with light and cheerfulness. Notthat the house was overcrowded with visitors, but many were present, andthe apathy of a dozen years came at length to an end. The animationwhich set in thus at the close of the old year did not diminish on thearrival of the new; and by the time its twelve months had likewise runthe course of its predecessors, a son had been added to the dwindled lineof the Northbrook family. 

* * * * *

At the conclusion of this narrative the Spark was thanked, with a mannerof some surprise, for nobody had credited him with a taste fortale-telling. Though it had been resolved that this story should be thelast, a few of the weather-bound listeners were for sitting on into thesmall hours over their pipes and glasses, and raking up yet more episodesof family history. But the majority murmured reasons for soon getting totheir lodgings. 

It was quite dark without, except in the immediate neighbourhood of thefeeble street-lamps, and before a few shop-windows which had been hardilykept open in spite of the obvious unlikelihood of any chance customertraversing the muddy thoroughfares at that hour. 

By one, by two, and by three the benighted members of the Field-Club rosefrom their seats, shook hands, made appointments, and dropped away totheir respective quarters, free or hired, hoping for a fair morrow. Itwould probably be not until the next summer meeting, months away in thefuture, that the easy intercourse which now existed between them allwould repeat itself. The crimson maltster, for instance, knew that onthe following market-day his friends the President, the Rural Dean, andthe bookworm would pass him in the street, if they met him, with thebarest nod of civility, the President and the Colonel for social reasons, the bookworm for intellectual reasons, and the Rural Dean for moral ones, the latter being a staunch teetotaller, dead against John Barleycorn. Thesentimental member knew that when, on his rambles, he met his friend thebookworm with a pocket-copy of something or other under his nose, thelatter would not love his companionship as he had done to-day; and thePresident, the aristocrat, and the farmer knew that affairs political, sporting, domestic, or agricultural would exclude for a long time allrumination on the characters of dames gone to dust for scores of years, however beautiful and noble they may have been in their day. 

The last member at length departed, the attendant at the museum loweredthe fire, the curator locked up the rooms, and soon there was only asingle pirouetting flame on the top of a single coal to make the bones ofthe ichthyosaurus seem to leap, the stuffed birds to wink, and to draw asmile from the varnished skulls of Vespasian's soldiery.