THE GOLDEN CALF

 _A Novel_

 BY M. E. BRADDON

 AUTHOR OF

 'LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET, ' 'AURORA FLOYD, ' 'VIXEN, ' 'ISHMAEL, ' ETC. , ETC. 

[Illustration: "Ida stood with clasped hands, and lips moving dumbly inprayer. "]

CONTENTS

CHAP. 

 I. THE ARTICLED PUPIL

 II. 'I AM GOING TO MARRY FOR MONEY'

 III. AT THE KNOLL

 IV. WENDOVER ABBEY

 V. DR. RYLANCE ASSERTS HIMSELF

 VI. A BIRTHDAY FEAST

 VII. IN THE RIVER-MEADOW

 VIII. AT THE LOCK-HOUSE

 IX. A SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT

 X. A BAD PENNY

 XI. ACCOMPLISHMENTS AT A DISCOUNT

 XII. THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES

 XIII. KINGTHORPE SOCIETY

 XIV. THE TRUE KNIGHT

 XV. MR. WENDOVER PLANS AN EXCURSION

 XVI. THICKER THAN WATER

 XVII. OUGHT SHE TO STAY?

 XVIII. AFTER A STORM COMES A CALM

 XIX. AFTER A CALM A STORM

 XX. WAS THIS THE MOTIVE?

 XXI. TAKING LIFE QUIETLY

 XXII. LADY PALLISER STUDIES THE UPPER TEN

 XXIII. 'ALL OUR LIFE is MIXED WITH DEATH'

 XXIV. 'FRUITS FAIL AND LOVE DIES AND TIME RANGES'

 XXV. 'MY SEED WAS YOUTH, MY CROP WAS ENDLESS CARE'

 XXVI. 'AND, IF I DIE, NO SOUL WILL PITY ME'

 XXVII. JOHN JARDINE SOLVES THE MYSTERY

 XXVIII. AN ENGLISHMAN'S HOUSE IS HIS CASTLE

 XXIX. 'AS ONE DEAD IN THE BOTTOM OF A TOMB'

 XXX. A FIERY DAWN

 XXXI. 'SOLE PARTNER AND SOLE PART OF ALL THESE JOYS'

THE GOLDEN CALF

CHAPTER I. 

THE ARTICLED PUPIL. 

'Where is Miss Palliser?' inquired Miss Pew, in that awful voice of hers, at which the class-room trembled, as at unexpected thunder. A murmur ranalong the desks, from girl to girl, and then some one, near that end ofthe long room which was sacred to Miss Pew and her lieutenants, said thatMiss Palliser was not in the class-room. 

'I think she is taking her music lesson, ma'am, ' faltered the girl whohad ventured diffidently to impart this information to theschoolmistress. 

'Think?' exclaimed Miss Pew, in her stentorian voice. 'How can you thinkabout an absolute fact? Either she is taking her lesson, or she is nottaking her lesson. There is no room for thought. Let Miss Palliser besent for this moment. '

At this command, as at the behest of the Homeric Jove himself, half adozen Irises started up to carry the ruler's message; but again MissPew's mighty tones resounded in the echoing class-room. 

'I don't want twenty girls to carry one message. Let Miss Rylance go. '

There was a grim smile on the principal's coarsely-featured countenanceas she gave this order. Miss Rylance was not one of the six who hadstarted up to do the schoolmistress's bidding. She was a young lady whoconsidered her mission in life anything rather than to carry a message--ayoung lady who thought herself quite the most refined and elegant thingat Mauleverer Manor, and so entirely superior to her surroundings as tobe absolved from the necessity of being obliging. But Miss Pew's voice, when fortified by anger, was too much even for Miss Rylance's calm senseof her own merits, and she rose at the lady's bidding, laid down herivory penholder on the neatly written exercise, and walked out of theroom quietly, with the slow and stately deportment imparted by a longcourse of instruction from Madame Rigolette, the fashionabledancing-mistress. 

'Rylance won't much like being sent on a message, ' whispered MissCobb, the Kentish brewer's daughter, to Miss Mullins, the Northamptoncarriage-builder's heiress. 

'And old Pew delights in taking her down a peg, ' said Miss Cobb, who wasshort, plump, and ruddy, a picture of rude health and unrefined goodlooks--a girl who bore 'beer' written in unmistakable characters acrossher forehead, Miss Rylance had observed to her own particular circle. 'Iwill say that for the old lady, ' added Miss Cobb, 'she never cottons tostuckupishness. '

Vulgarity of speech is the peculiar delight of a schoolgirl off duty. Shespends so much of her life under the all-pervading eye of authority, sheis so drilled, and lectured, and ruled and regulated, that, when the eyeof authority is off her, she seems naturally to degenerate into licence. No speech so interwoven with slang as the speech of a schoolgirl--exceptthat of a schoolboy. 

There came a sudden hush upon the class-room after Miss Rylance haddeparted on her errand. It was a sultry afternoon in late June, and thefour rows of girls seated at the two long desks in the long bare room, with its four tall windows facing a hot blue sky, felt almost asexhausted by the heat as if they had been placed under an air-pump. MissPew had a horror of draughts, so the upper sashes were only lowered acouple of inches, to let out the used atmosphere. There was no chance ofa gentle west wind blowing in to ruffle the loose hair upon the foreheadsof those weary students. 

Thursday afternoons were devoted to the study of German. The sandy-hairedyoung woman at the end of the room furthest from Miss Pew's throne wasFräulein Wolf, from Frankfort, and it was Fräulein Wolf's mission to goon eternally explaining the difficulties of her native language to thepupils at Mauleverer Manor, and to correct those interesting exercises ofOllendorff's which ascend from the primitive simplicity of goldencandlesticks and bakers' dogs, to the loftiest themes in romanticliterature. 

For five minutes there was no sound save the scratching of pens, and theplacid voice of the Fräulein demonstrating to Miss Mullins that in anexercise of twenty lines, ten words out of every twenty were wrong, andthen the door was opened suddenly--not at all in the manner so carefullyinstilled by the teacher of deportment. It was flung back, rather, as ifwith an angry hand, and a young woman, taller than the generality of hersex, walked quickly up the room to Miss Pew's desk, and stood before thatbar of justice, with head erect, and dark flashing eyes, the incarnationof defiance. 

_'Was für ein Mädchen. '_ muttered the Fräulein, blinking at that distantfigure, with her pale gray-green eyes. 

Miss Pew pretended not to see the challenge in the girl's angry eyes. Sheturned to her subordinate, Miss Pillby, the useful drudge who did alittle indifferent teaching in English grammar and geography, lookedafter the younger girls' wardrobes, and toadied the mistress of thehouse. 

'Miss Pillby, will you be kind enough to show Ida Palliser the state ofher desk?' asked Miss Pew, with awe-inspiring politeness. 

'She needn't do anything of the kind, 'said Ida coolly. 'I know the stateof my desk quite as well as she does. I daresay it's untidy. I haven'thad time to put things straight. '

'Untidy!' exclaimed Miss Pew, in her appalling baritone; 'untidy is notthe word. It's degrading. Miss Pillby, be good enough to call over thevarious articles which you have found in Ida Palliser's desk. '

Miss Pillby rose to do her employer's bidding. She was a dull piece ofhuman machinery to which the idea of resistance to authority wasimpossible. There was no dirty work she would not have done meekly, willingly even, at Miss Pew's bidding. The girls were never tired ofexpatiating upon Miss Pillby's meanness; but the lady herself did noteven know that she was mean. She had been born so. 

She went to the locker, lifted the wooden lid, and proceeded in a flat, drawling voice to call over the items which she found in that receptacle. 

'A novel, "The Children of the Abbey, " without a cover. '

'Ah!' sighed Miss Pew. 

'One stocking with a rusty darning-needle sticking in it. Five apples, two mouldy. A square of hardbake. An old neck-ribbon. An odd cuff. Sevenletters. A knife, with the blade broken. A bundle of pen-and-ink--well, Isuppose they are meant for sketches. '

'Hand them over to me, ' commanded Miss Pew. 

She had seen some of Ida Palliser's pen-and-ink sketches beforeto-day--had seen herself represented in every ridiculous guise andattitude by that young person's facile pen. Her large cheeks reddened inanticipation of her pupil's insolence. She took the sheaf of crumpledpaper and thrust it hastily into her pocket. 

A ripple of laughter swept over Miss Palliser's resolute face; but shesaid not a word. 

'Half a New Testament--the margins shamefully scribbled over, ' pursuedMiss Pillby, with implacable monotony. 'Three Brazil nuts. A piece ofslate-pencil. The photograph of a little boy--'

'My brother, ' cried Ida hastily. 'I hope you are not going to confiscatethat, Miss Pew, as you have confiscated my sketches. '

'It would be no more than you deserve if I were to burn everything inyour locker, Miss Palliser, ' said the schoolmistress. 

'Burn everything except my brother's portrait. I might never get another. Papa is so thoughtless. Oh, please, Miss Pillby, give me back the photo. '

'Give her the photograph, ' said Miss Pew, who was not all inhuman, although she kept a school, a hardening process which is supposed todeaden the instincts of womanhood. 'And now, pray, Miss Palliser, whatexcuse have you to offer for your untidiness?'

'None, ' said Ida, 'except that I have no time to be tidy. You can'texpect tidiness from a drudge like me. '

And with this cool retort Miss Palliser turned her back upon her mistressand left the room. 

'Did you ever see such cheek?' murmured the irrepressible Miss Cobb toher neighbour. 

'She can afford to be cheeky, ' retorted the neighbour. 'She has nothingto lose. Old Pew couldn't possibly treat her any worse than she does. Ifshe did, it would be a police case. '

When Ida Palliser was in the little lobby outside the class room, shetook the little boy's photograph from her pocket, and kissed itpassionately. Then she ran upstairs to a small room on the landing, wherethere was nothing but emptiness and a worn-out old square piano, and satdown for her hour's practice. She was always told off to the worst pianosin the house. She took out a book of five-finger exercises, by a Leipsicprofessor, placed it on the desk, and then, just as she was beginning toplay, her whole frame was shaken like a bulrush in a sudden gust of wind;she let her head fall forward on the desk, and burst into tears, hot, passionate tears, that came like a flood, in spite of her determinationnot to cry. 

What was the matter with Ida Palliser? Not much, perhaps. Only poverty, and poverty's natural corollary, a lack of friends. She was thehandsomest girl in the school, and one of the cleverest--clever in anexceptional way, which claimed admiration even from the coldest. Sheoccupied the anomalous position of a pupil teacher, or an articled pupil. Her father, a military man, living abroad on his half pay, with a youngsecond wife, and a five-year old son, had paid Miss Pew a lump sum offifty pounds, and for those fifty pounds Miss Pew had agreed to maintainand educate Ida Palliser during the space of three years, to give her thebenefit of instruction from the masters who attended the school, and tobefit her for the brilliant and lucrative career of governess in agentleman's family. As a set-off against these advantages, Miss Pew hadfull liberty to exact what services she pleased from Miss Palliser, stopping short, as Miss Green had suggested, of a police case. 

Miss Pew had not shown herself narrow in her ideas of the articledpupil's capacity. It was her theory that no amount of intellectuallabour, including some manual duties in the way of assisting in thelavatory on tub-nights, washing hair-brushes, and mending clothes, couldbe too much for a healthy young woman of nineteen. She always talked ofIda as a young woman. The other pupils of the same age she called girls;but of Ida she spoke uncompromisingly as a 'young woman. '

'Oh, how I hate them all!' said Ida, in the midst of her sobs. 'I hateeverybody, myself most of all!'

Then she pulled herself together with an effort, dried her tearshurriedly, and began her five-finger exercises, _tum, tum, tum, _ with thelittle finger, all the other fingers pinned resolutely down upon thekeys. 

'I wonder whether, if I had been ugly and stupid, they would have been alittle more merciful to me?' she said to herself. 

Miss Palliser's ability had been a disadvantage to her at MaulevererManor. When Miss Pew discovered that the girl had a knack of teaching sheenlarged her sphere of tuition, and from taking the lowest class only, asformer articled pupils had done, Miss Palliser was allowed to presideover the second and third classes, and thereby saved her employers fortypounds a year. 

To teach two classes, each consisting of from fifteen to twenty girls, was in itself no trifling labour. But besides this Ida had to give musiclessons to that lowest class which she had ceased to instruct in Englishand French, and whose studies were now conducted by Miss Pillby. She hadher own studies, and she was eager to improve herself, for that career ofgoverness in a gentleman's family was the only future open to her. Sheused to read the advertisements in the governess column of the _Times_supplement, and it comforted her to see that an all-accomplished teacherdemanded from eighty to a hundred a year for her services. A hundred ayear was Ida's idea of illimitable wealth. How much she might do withsuch a sum! She could dress herself handsomely, she could save enoughmoney for a summer holiday in Normandy with her neglectful father and herweak little vulgar step-mother, and the half-brother, whom she lovedbetter than anyone else in the world. 

The thought of this avenue to fortune gave her fortitude. She bracedherself up, and set herself valourously to unriddle the perplexities of anocturne by Chopin. 

'After all I have only to work on steadily, ' she told herself; 'therewill come an end to my slavery. '

Presently she began to laugh to herself softly:

'I wonder whether old Pew has looked at my caricatures, ' she thought, 'and whether she'll treat me any worse on account of them?'

She finished her hour's practice, put her music back into her portfolio, which lived in an ancient canterbury under the ancient piano, and went tothe room where she slept, in company with seven other spirits, asmischievous and altogether evilly disposed as her own. 

Mauleverer Manor had not been built for a school, or it would hardly havebeen called a manor. There were none of those bleak, bare dormitories, specially planned for the accommodation of thirty sleepers--none of thosebarrack-like rooms which strike desolation to the soul. With theexception of the large classroom which had been added at one end of thehouse, the manor was very much as it had been in the days of theMauleverers, a race now as extinct as the Dodo. It was a roomy, ramblingold house of the time of the Stuarts, and bore the date of its erectionin many unmistakable peculiarities. There were fine rooms on the groundfloor, with handsome chimney-pieces and oak panelling. There were smalllow rooms above, curious old passages, turns and twists, a short flightof steps here, and another flight there, various levels, irregularitiesof all kinds, and, in the opinion of every servant who had ever lived inthe house, an unimpeachable ghost. All Miss Pew's young ladies believedfirmly in that ghost; and there was a legend of a frizzy-haired girlfrom Barbados who had seen the ghost, and had incontinently gone outof one epileptic fit into another, until her father had come in afly--presumably from Barbados--and carried her away for ever, epilepticto the last. 

Nobody at present located at Mauleverer Manor remembered that young ladyfrom Barbados, nor had any of the existing pupils ever seen the ghost. But the general faith in him was unshaken. He was described as an elderlyman in a snuff-coloured, square-cut coat, knee-breeches, and silkstockings rolled up over his knees. He was supposed to be one of theextinct Mauleverers; harmless and even benevolently disposed; givento plucking flowers in the garden at dusk; and to gliding alongpassages, and loitering on the stairs in a somewhat inane manner. Thebolder-spirited among the girls would have given a twelve-month'spocket money to see him. Miss Pillby declared that the sight of thatsnuff-coloured stranger would be her death. 

'I've a weak 'art, you know, ' said Miss Pillby, who was not mistressof her aspirates, --she managed them sometimes, but they often evadedher, --'the doctor said so when I was quite a little thing. '

'Were you ever a little thing, Pillby?' asked Miss Rylance with superbdisdain, the present Pillby being long and gaunt. 

And the group of listeners laughed, with that frank laughter of schoolgirls keenly alive to the ridiculous in other people. There was as muchdifference in the standing of the various bedrooms at Mauleverer Manor asin that of the London squares, but in this case it was the inhabitantswho gave character to the locality. The five-bedded room off the frontlanding was occupied by the stiffest and best behaved of the firstdivision, and might be ranked with Grosvenor Square or Lancaster Gate. There were rooms on the second floor where girls of the second and thirddivision herded in inelegant obscurity, the Bloomsbury and Camden Townof the mansion. On this story, too, slept the rabble of girls undertwelve--creatures utterly despicable in the minds of girls in theirteens, and the rooms they inhabited ranked as low as St. Giles's. 

Ida Palliser was fortunate enough to have a bed in the butterfly-room, socalled on account of a gaudy wall paper, whereon Camberwell Beautiesdisported themselves among roses and lilies in a strictly conventionalstyle of art. The butterfly-room was the most fashionable and altogetherpopular dormitory at the Manor. It was the May Fair--a district notwithout a shade of Bohemianism, a certain fastness of tone. The wildestgirls in the school were to be found in the butterfly-room. 

It was a pleasant enough room in itself, even apart from its associationwith pleasant people. The bow window looked out upon the garden andacross the garden to the Thames, which at this point took a wide curvebetween banks shaded by old pollard willows. The landscape was purelypastoral. Beyond the level meadows came an undulating line of low hilland woodland, with here and there a village spire dark against the blue. 

Mauleverer Manor lay midway between Hampton and Chertsey, in a land ofmeadows and gardens which the speculating builder had not yet invaded. 

The butterfly-room was furnished a little better than the common run ofboarding-school bedchambers. Miss Pew had taken a good deal of theMauleverer furniture at a valuation when she bought the old house; andthe Mauleverer furniture being of a _rococo_ and exploded style, thevaluation had been ridiculously low. Thus it happened that a big wainscotwardrobe, with doors substantial enough for a church, projected itsenormous bulk upon one side of the butterfly-room, while a tall narrowcheval glass stood in front of a window. That cheval was the glory of thebutterfly-room. The girls could see how their skirts hung, and if thebacks of their dresses fitted. On Sunday mornings there used to be anincursion of outsiders, eager to test the effect of their Sabbathbonnets, and the sets of their jackets, by the cheval. 

And now Ida Palliser came into the butterfly-room, yawning wearily, tobrush herself up a little before tea, knowing that Miss Pew and heryounger sister, Miss Dulcibella--who devoted herself to dress and theamenities of life generally--would scrutinize her with eyes only tooready to see anything amiss. 

The butterfly-room was not empty. Miss Rylance was plaiting her longflaxen hair in front of the toilet table, and another girl, a plumplittle sixteen-year-old, with nut-brown hair, and a fresh complexion, wasadvancing and retiring before the cheval, studying the effect of acherry-coloured neck-ribbon with a gray gown. 

'Cherry's a lovely colour in the abstract, ' said this damsel, 'but itreminds one too dreadfully of barmaids. '

'Did you ever see a barmaid?' asked Miss Rylance, languidly, slowlywinding the long flaxen plait into a shining knob at the back of herhead, and contemplating her reflection placidly with large calm blue eyeswhich saw no fault in the face they belonged to. 

With features so correctly modelled, and a complexion so delicatelytinted, Miss Rylance ought to have been lovely. But she had escapedloveliness by a long way. There was something wanting, and that somethingwas very big. 

'Good gracious, yes; I've seen dozens of barmaids, ' answered BessieWendover, with her frank voice. 'Do you suppose I've never been into anhotel, or even into a tavern? When I go for a long drive with papa hegenerally wants brandy and soda, and that's how I get taken into the barand introduced to the barmaid. '

'When you say introduced, of course you don't mean it, ' said MissRylance, fastening her brooch. 'Calling things by their wrong names isyour idea of wit. '

'I would rather have a mistaken idea of wit than none at all, ' retortedMiss Wendover, and then she pirouetted on the tips of her toes, andsurveyed her image in the glass from head to foot, with an aggravatedair. 'I hope I'm not vulgar-looking, but I'm rather afraid I am, ' shesaid. 'What's the good of belonging to an old Saxon family if one has athick waist and large hands?'

'What's the good of anything at Mauleverer Manor?' asked Ida, coming intothe room, and seating herself on the ground with a dejected air. 

Bessie Wendover ran across the room and sat down beside her. 

'So you were in for it again this afternoon, you poor dear thing, ' shemurmured, in a cooing voice. 'I wish I had been there. It would have been"Up, guards, and at 'em!" if I had. I'm sure I should have said somethingcheeky to old Pew. The idea of overhauling your locker! I should justlike her to see the inside of mine. It would make her blood run cold. '

'Ah!' sighed Ida, 'she can't afford to make an example of you. You mean ahundred and fifty pounds a year. I am of no more account in her eyes thanan artist's lay figure, which is put away in a dark closet when it isn'tin use. She wanted to give you girls a lesson in tidiness, so she put meinto her pillory. Fortunately I'm used to the pillory. '

'But you are looking white and worried, you dear lovely thing, ' exclaimedBessie, who was Ida Palliser's bosom friend. 'It's too bad the way theyuse you. Have this neck-ribbon, ' suddenly untying the bow so carefullyelaborated five minutes ago. 'You must, you shall; I don't want it; Ihate it. Do, dear. '

And for consolation Miss Wendover tied the cherry-coloured ribbon underher friend's collar, patted Ida's pale cheeks, and kissed and hugged her. 

'Be happy, darling, do, ' she said, in her loving half-childish way, whileMiss Rylance looked on with ineffable contempt. 'You are so clever and sobeautiful; you were born to be happy. '

'Do you think so, pet?' asked Ida, with cold scorn; 'then I ought to havebeen born with a little more money. '

'What does money matter?' cried Bessie. 

'Not very much to a girl like you, who has never known the want of it. '

'That's not true, darling. I never go home for the holidays that I don'thear father grumble about his poverty. The rents are so slow to come in;the tenants are always wanting drain-pipes and barns and things. LastChristmas his howls were awful. We are positive paupers. Mother has towait ages for a cheque. '

'Ah, my pet, that's a very different kind of poverty from mine. You havenever known what it is to have only three pairs of wearable stockings. '

Bessie looked as if she were going to cry. 

'If you were not so disgustingly proud, you horrid thing, you need neverfeel the want of stockings, ' she said discontentedly. 

'If it were not for what you call my disgusting pride, I shoulddegenerate into that loathsome animal a sponge, ' said Ida, risingsuddenly from her dejected attitude, and standing up before her admiringlittle friend, 'A daughter of the gods, divinely tall And most divinely fair. '

That fatal dower of beauty had been given to Ida Palliser in fullestmeasure. She had the form of a goddess, a head proudly set upon shouldersthat were sloping but not narrow, the walk of a Moorish girl, accustomedto carrying a water-jug on her head, eyes dark as night, hair of a deepwarm brown rippling naturally across her broad forehead, a complexionof creamiest white and richest carnation. These were but the sensualparts of beauty which can be catalogued. But it was in the gloriouslight and variety of expression that Ida shone above all compeers. Itwas by the intellectual part of her beauty that she commanded theadmiration--enthusiastic in some cases, in others grudging andunwilling--of her schoolfellows, and reigned by right divine, despite hershabby gowns and her cheap ready-made boots, the belle of the school. 

CHAPTER II. 

'I AM GOING TO MARRY FOR MONEY. '

When a schoolgirl of sixteen falls in love with one of her schoolfellowsthere are no limits to her devotion. Bessie Wendover's adoration of MissPalliser was boundless. Ida's seniority of three years, her beauty, hertalent, placed her, as it were, upon a pinnacle in the eyes of theyounger girl. Her poverty, her inferior position in the school, only madeher more interesting to the warm-hearted Bessie, who passionatelyresented any slight offered to her friend. It was in vain that MissRylance took Bessie to task, and demonstrated the absurdity of thischildish fancy for a young person whose future sphere of life must benecessarily remote from that of a Hampshire squire's daughter. Bessiedespised this worldly wisdom. 

'What is the use of attaching yourself to a girl whom you are neverlikely to see after you leave school?' argued Miss Rylance. 

'I shall see her. I shall ask her home, ' said Bessie, sturdily. 

'Do you think your people will let you ?'

'Mother will do anything I ask her, and father will do anything motherasks him. I am going to have Ida home with me all the summer holidays. '

'How do you know that she will come?'

'I shall make her come. It is very nasty of you to insinuate that shewon't. '

'Palliser has a good deal of pride--pride and poverty generally gotogether, don't you know. I don't think she'll care about showing herselfat the Grange in her old clothes and her three pairs of stockings, oneon, one off, and one at the laundress's, ' said Miss Rylance, winding upwith a viperish little laugh as if she had said something witty. 

She had a certain influence with Bessie, whom she had known all her life. It was she who had inspired Bessie with the desks to come to MaulevererManor, to be finished, after having endured eight years of jog-troteducation from a homely little governess at home--who grounded the boysin Latin and mathematics before they went to Winchester, and made herselfgenerally useful. Miss Rylance was the daughter of a fashionablephysician, whose head-quarters were in Cavendish Square, but who spenthis leisure at a something which he called 'a place' at Kingthorpe, alovely little village between Winchester and Romsey, where the Wendoverswere indigenous to the soil, whence they seemed to have sprung, like thearmed men in the story; for remotest tradition bore no record of theirhaving come there from anywhere else, nor was there record of a time whenthe land round Kingthorpe belonged to any other family. 

Dr. Rylance, whose dainty verandah shaded cottage stood in gardens ofthree and a half acres, and who rented a paddock for his cow, was alwayslamenting that he could not buy more land. 

'The Wendovers have everything, ' he said. 'It is impossible for a new manto establish himself. '

It was to be observed, however, that when land within a reasonabledistance of Kingthorpe came into the market, Dr. Rylance did not puthimself forward as a buyer. His craving for more territory always endedin words. 

Urania Rylance had spent much of her girlhood at Kingthorpe, and hadalways been made welcome at The Knoll; but although she saw the Wendoversestablished upon their native soil, the rulers of the land, and reveredby all the parish, she had grown up with the firm conviction that Dr. Rylance, of Cavendish Square, and Dr. Rylance's daughter were altogethersuperior to these country bumpkins, with their narrow range of ideas andtheir strictly local importance. 

The summer days wore on at Mauleverer Manor, not altogether unpleasantlyfor the majority of the girls, who contrived to enjoy their lives inspite of Miss Pew's tyranny, which was considered vile enough to rankthat middle-aged, loud-voiced lady with the Domitians and Attilas ofhistory. There was a softening influence, happily, in the person of MissDulcibella, who was slim and sentimental, talked about sweetness andlight, loved modern poetry, spent all her available funds upon dress, andwas wonderfully girlish in her tastes and habits at nine-and-thirty yearsof age. 

It was a splendid summer, a time of roses and sunshine, and the girlswere allowed to carry on their studies in the noble old garden, in thesummer-houses and pleasure domes which the extinct Mauleverers had madefor themselves in their day of power. Grinding at history, grammar, andgeography did not seem so oppressive a burden when it could be doneunder the shade of spreading cedars, amid the scent of roses, in anatmosphere of colour and light. Even Ida's labours seemed a little easierwhen she and her pupils sat in a fast-decaying old summer-house in therose-garden, with a glimpse of sunlit river flashing athwart the roses. 

So the time wore on until the last week in July, and then all the schoolwas alive with excitement, and every one was looking forward to the greatevent of the term, 'breaking up. ' 'Old Pew, ' had sent out her invitationsfor a garden party, an actual garden party--not a mere namby-pambyentertainment among the girls themselves, in which a liberal supply ofblanc-mange and jam tarts was expected to atone for the absence of theoutside world. Miss Pew had taken it into her head that Mauleverer Manorought to be better known, and that a garden party would be a goodadvertisement. With this idea, she had ordered a hundred invitationcards, and had disseminated them among the most eligible of her oldpupils, and the parents and guardians of those damsels now at the Manor. The good old gardens, where velvet greensward and cedars of Lebanon costlittle labour to maintain in perfect order, were worthy to be exhibited. The roses, Miss Dulcibella's peculiar care, were, in that lady's opinion, equal to anything outside Chatsworth or Trentham. A garden party, by allmeans, said Miss Dulcibella, and she gave the young ladies to understandthat the whole thing was her doing. 

'I waited till Sarah was in a good temper, ' she told her satellites, halfa dozen or so of the elder girls who worshipped her, and who, in theslang phraseology of the school, were known as Miss Dulcie's 'cracks, ''and then I proposed a garden party. It required a great deal of talkingto bring her even to think about such a thing. You see the expense willbe enormous! Ices, tea and coffee, cakes, sandwiches, claret-cup. Thankgoodness it's too late in the year for people to expect strawberries. Yes, my dears, you may thank me for your garden party. '

'Dear Miss Dulcibella, ' exclaimed one. 

'You too delicious darling, ' cried another. 

'What will you wear?' asked a third, knowing that Miss Dulcie was weakabout dress, and had a morbid craving for originality. 

'Well, dears, ' began Miss Dulcie, growing radiant at the thrillingquestion, 'I have been thinking of making up my art needlework tunic--thepale green, you know, with garlands of passion flowers, worked increwels--over a petticoat of the faintest primrose. '

'That will be quite too lovely, ' exclaimed four enthusiasts in a chorus. 

'You know how fond I am of those delicate tints in that soft Indiancashmere, that falls in such artistic folds. '

'Heavenly, ' sighed the chorus, and Miss Dulcie went on talking forhalf-an-hour by Chertsey clock, in fact till the tea-bell broke up thelittle conclave. 

What was Ida Palliser going to wear at the garden party? The question wasfar more serious for her than for Miss Dulcibella, who had plenty ofmoney to spend upon her adornment. In Ida the necessity for a new gownmeant difficulty, perhaps mortification. 

'Why should I not spend the day in one of the garrets, darning stockingsand packing boxes?' she said bitterly, when a grand discussion about thegarden party was being held in the butterfly-room; 'nobody will want me. I have no relations coming to admire me. '

'You know you don't mean what you say, ' said Miss Rylance. 'You expect tohave half-a-dozen prizes, and to lord it over all of us. '

'I have worked hard enough for the prizes, ' answered Ida. 'I don't thinkyou need grudge me them. '

'I do not, ' said Miss Rylance, with languid scorn. 'You know I never goin for prizes. My father looks upon school as only a preliminary kind ofeducation. When I am at home with him in the season I shall have lessonsfrom better masters than any we are favoured with here. '

'What a comfort it is for us to know that!' retorted Ida, her eyesdancing mischievously. 

It was now within a week of the garden party. Miss Pew was grimmer ofaspect and louder of voice than usual, and it was felt that, at theslightest provocation, she might send forth an edict revoking all herinvitations, and the party might be relegated to the limbo of unrealizedhopes. Never had the conduct of Miss Pew's pupils been so irreproachable, never had lessons been learned, and exercises prepared, so diligently. 

Ida had received a kind little note from Mrs. Wendover, asking her tospend her summer holidays at Kingthorpe, and at Bessie's earnest desirehad accepted the cordial invitation. 

'You don't know what a foolish thing you are doing, Bess, ' said MissPalliser, when--reluctant to the last--she had written her acceptance, Bessie looking over her shoulder all the while. 'Foolish for you, foolishfor me. It is a mistake to associate yourself with paupers. You will feelashamed of me half-a-dozen times a day at Kingthorpe. '

'No, no, no!' cried the energetic Bessie; 'I shall never feel anythingbut pride in you. I shall be proud to show my people what a beautiful, brilliant, wonderful friend I have chosen for myself. '

'Ardent child!' exclaimed Ida, with a touch of sadness even in hermockery. 'What a pity you have not a bachelor brother to fall in lovewith me!'

'Never mind the brother. I have two bachelor cousins. '

'Of course! The rich Brian, and the poor Brian, whose histories I haveheard almost as often as I heard the story of "Little Red Ridinghood" inmy nursery days. Both good-looking, both clever, both young. One a man oflanded estate. All Kingthorpe parish belongs to him, does it not?'

'All except the little bit that belongs to papa. '

'And Dr. Rylance's garden and paddock; don't forget that. '

'Could I forget the Rylances? Urania says that although her father has noland at Kingthorpe, he has influence. '

'The other cousin dependent on his talents, and fighting his way at theBar. Is not that how the story goes, Bess?'

'Yes, darling. I am afraid poor Brian has hardly begun fighting yet. Heis only eating his terms. I have no idea what that means, but it soundsrather low. '

'Well, Bess, if I am to marry either of your cousins, it must be the richone, ' said Ida, decisively. 

'Oh, Ida, how can you say so? You can't know which you will like best. '

'My likes and dislikes have nothing to do with it. I am going to marryfor money. '

Miss Rylance had brought her desk to that end of the table where the twogirls were sitting, during the latter part of the conversation. It wasevening, the hour or so of leisure allowed for the preparation of studiesand the writing of home letters. Miss Rylance unlocked her desk, and tookout her paper and pens; but, having got so far as this, she seemed ratherinclined to join in the conversation than to begin her letter. 

'Isn't that rather a worldly idea for your time of life?' she asked, looking at Ida with her usual unfriendly expression. 

'No doubt. I should be disgusted if you or Bessie entertained such anotion. But in me it is only natural. I have drained the cup of povertyto the dregs. I thirst for the nectar of wealth. I would marry asoap-boiler, a linseed-crusher, a self-educated navvy who had developedinto a great contractor--any plebian creature, always provided that hewas an honest man. '

'How condescending!' said Miss Rylance. 'I suppose, Bessie, you know thatMiss Pew has especially forbidden us all to indulge in idle talk aboutcourtship and marriage?'

'Quite so, ' said Bessie; 'but as old Pew knows that we are human, I've nodoubt she is quite aware that this is one of her numerous rules which wediligently set at nought. '

Urania began her letter, but although her pen moved swiftly over herpaper in that elegant Italian hand which was, as it were, a badge ofhonour at Mauleverer Manor, her ears were not the less open to theconversation going on close beside her. 

'Marry a soap-boiler, indeed!' exclaimed Bessie, indignantly; 'you oughtto be a duchess!'

'No doubt, dear, if dukes went about the world, like King Cophetua, onthe look out for beggar-maids. '

'I am so happy to think you are coming to Kingthorpe! It is the dearestold place. We shall be so happy!'

'It will not be your fault if we are not, darling, ' said Ida, lookingtenderly at the loving face, uplifted to hers. 'Well, I have written tomy father to ask him for five pounds, and if he sends the five pounds Iwill go to Kingthorpe. If not, I must invent an excuse--mumps, ormeasles, or something--for staying away. Or I must behave so badly forthe last week of the term that old Pew will revoke her sanction of theintended visit. I cannot come to Kingthorpe quite out at elbows. '

'You look lovely even in the gown you have on, ' said Bessie. 

'I don't know anything about my loveliness, but I know that this gown isabsolutely threadbare. '

Bessie, sighed despondently. She knew her friend's resolute temper, andthat any offer of clothes or money from her would be worse than useless. It would make Ida angry. 

'What kind of man is your father, darling?' she asked, thoughtfully. 

'Very good-natured. '

'Ah! Then he will send the five pounds. '

'Very weak. '

'Ah! Then he may change his mind about it. '

'Very poor. '

'Then he may not have the money. '

'The lot is in the urn of fate, Bess, We must take our chance. I think, somehow, that the money will come. I have asked for it urgently, for I dowant to come to Kingthorpe. ' Bessie kissed her. 'Yes, dear, I wish withall my heart to accept your kind mother's invitation; though I know, inmy secret soul, that it is foolishness for me to see the inside of ahappy home, to sit beside a hospitable hearth, when it is my mission inlife to be a dependent in the house of a stranger. If you had half adozen small sisters, now, and your people would engage me as a nurserygoverness--'

'You a nursery governess!' cried Bessie, 'you who are at the top of everyclass, and who do everything better than the masters who teach you?'

'Well, if my perfection prove worth seventy pounds a-year when I go outinto the world, I shall be satisfied, ' said Ida. 

'What will you buy with your five pounds?' asked Bessie. 

'A black cashmere gown, as plain as a nun's, a straw hat, and as manycollars, cuffs, and stockings as I can get for the rest of the money. '

Miss Rylance listened, smiling quietly to herself as she bent over herdesk. To the mind of an only daughter, who had been brought up in asupremely correct manner, who had had her winter clothes and summerclothes at exactly the right season, and of the best that money couldbuy, there was a piteous depth of poverty and degradation in IdaPalliser's position. The girl's beauty and talents were as nothing whenweighed against such sordid surroundings. 

The prize-day came, a glorious day at the beginning of August, and thegardens of Mauleverer Manor, the wide reach of blue river, the meadows, the willows, the distant woods, all looked their loveliest, as if Naturewas playing into the hands of Miss Pew. 

'I am sure you girls ought to be very happy to live in such a place!'said one of the mothers, as she strolled about the velvet lawn with herdaughters, 'instead of being mewed up in a dingy London square. '

'You wouldn't say that if you saw the bread and scrape and the sloppy teawe have for breakfast, ' answered one of the girls, 'It's all very well for you, who see this wretched hole in the sunshine, and old Pew in her best gown and her company manners. The place is awhited sepulchre. I should like you to have a glimpse behind the scenes, ma. '

'Ma' smiled placidly, and turned a deaf ear to these aspersions of theschoolmistress. Her girls looked well fed and healthy. Bread and scrapeevidently agreed with them much better than that reckless consumption ofbutter and marmalade which swelled the housekeeping bills during theholidays. 

It was a great day. Miss Pew the elder was splendid in apple-green moiréantique; Miss Pew the younger was elegant in pale and flabby raiment ofcashmere and crewel-work. The girls were in that simple white muslin ofthe _jeune Meess Anglaise_, to which they were languishing to bid aneternal adieu. There were a great many pretty girls at Mauleverer Manor, and on this day, when the white-robed girlish forms were flitting to andfro upon the green lawns, in the sweet summer air and sunshine, it seemedas if the old manorial mansion were a bower of beauty. Among the parentsof existing pupils who had accepted the Misses Pew's invitation was Dr. Rylance, the fashionable physician, whose presence there conferreddistinction upon the school. It was Miss Rylance's last term, and thedoctor wished to assist at those honours which she would doubtless reapas the reward of meritorious studies. He was not blindly devoted to hisdaughter, but he was convinced that, like every thing else belonging tohim, she was of the best quality; and he expected to see her appreciatedby the people who had been privileged to educate her. 

The distribution of prizes was the great feature of the day. It was totake place at four o'clock, in the ball room, a fine old panelled saloon, in which the only furniture was a pair of grand pianos, somewhat theworse for wear, a table at the end of the room on which the prizes werearranged, and benches covered with crimson cloth for the accommodation ofthe company. 

There was to be a concert before the distribution. Four of the bestpianoforte players in the school were to hammer out an intensely noisyversion of the overture to _Zampa_, arranged for eight hands on twopianos. The crack singer was to sing 'Una voce, ' and Ida Palliser was toplay the 'Moonlight Sonata. '

Dr. Rylance had come early, on purpose to be present at this ceremonial. He was the most important guest who had yet arrived, and Miss Pew devotedherself to his entertainment, and went rustling up and down the terracein front of the ballroom windows in her armour of apple-green moiré, listening deferentially to the physician's remarks. 

Dr. Rylance was a large fair-complexioned man, who had been handsome inhis youth, and who at seven-and-forty was still remarkably good-looking. He had fine teeth, good hair, full blue eyes, capable of the hardest, coldest stare that ever looked out of a human countenance. Mr. Darwin hastold us that the eyes do not smile, that the radiance we fancy we see inthe eye itself is only produced by certain contractions of the musclessurrounding it. Assuredly there was no smile in the eyes of Dr. Rylance. His smile, which was bland and frequent, gave only a vague impression ofwhite teeth and brown whiskers. He had a fine figure, and was proud ofhis erect carriage. He dressed carefully and well, and was as particularas Brummel about his laundress. His manners were considered pleasing bythe people who liked him; while those who disliked him accused him of anundue estimate of his own merits, and a tendency to depreciate the restof humanity. His practice was rather select than extensive, for Dr. Rylance was a specialist. He had won his reputation as an adviser incases of mental disease; and as, happily, mental diseases are less commonthan bodily ailments, Dr. Rylance had not the continuous work of a Gullor a Jenner. His speciality paid him remarkably well. His cases hung longon hand, and when he had a patient of wealth and standing Dr. Rylanceknew how to keep him. His treatment was soothing and palliative, asbefitted an enlightened age. In an age of scepticism no one could expectDr. Rylance to work miraculous cures. It is in no wise to his discreditto say that he was more successful in sustaining and comforting thepatient's friends than in curing the patient. 

This was Laurence Rylance, a man who had begun life in a very humble way, had raised himself by his own efforts, if not to the top of the medicaltree, certainly to a very comfortable and remunerative perch among itsupper branches; a man thoroughly satisfied with himself and with whatdestiny had done for him; a man who, to be a new Caesar, would hardlyhave foregone the privilege of being Laurence Rylance. 

'My daughter has done well during this last term, I hope, Miss Pew?' hesaid, interrogatively, but rather as if the question were needless, as hewalked beside the rustling moiré. 

'She has earned my entire approval, ' replied Miss Pew, in her oiliestaccents. 'She has application. ' Dr. Rylance nodded assentingly. 'She hasa charming deportment. I know of no girl in the school more thoroughlyladylike. I have never seen her with a collar put on crookedly, or withrough hair. She is a pattern to many of my girls. '

'That is all gratifying to my pride as a father; but I hope she has madeprogress in her studies. '

Miss Pew coughed gently behind a mittened hand. 

'She has not made quite so great an advance as I should have wished. Shehas talent, no doubt; but it is hardly of a kind that comes into playamong other girls. In after-life, perhaps, there may be development. I amsorry to say she is not in our roll-call of honour to-day. She has won noprize. '

'Perhaps she may have hardly thought it worth her while to compete, ' saidDr. Rylance, hurt in his own individual pride by the idea that hisdaughter had missed distinction, just as he would have been hurt ifanybody had called one of his pictures a copy, or made light of his bluechina. 'With the Rylances it has always been Caesar or nothing. '

'I regret to say that my three most important prizes have been won by ayoung woman whom I cannot esteem, ' said Miss Pew, bristling in herpanoply of apple-green, at the thought of Ida Palliser's insolence. 'Ihope I shall ever be just, at whatever sacrifice of personal feeling. Ishall to-day bestow the first prize for modern languages, for music, andfor English history and literature, upon a young person of whose moralcharacter I have a very low opinion. '

'And pray who is this young lady?' asked Dr. Rylance. 

'Miss Palliser, the daughter of a half-pay officer residing in theneighbourhood of Dieppe--for very good reasons, no doubt. 

'Palliser; yes, I have heard my daughter talk of her. An insolent, ill-bred girl. I have been taught to consider her somewhat a disgrace toyour excellent and well-managed school. '

'Her deportment is certainly deplorable, ' admitted Miss Pew; 'but thegirl has remarkable talents. '

More visitors were arriving from this time forward, until everyone wasseated in the ball-room. Miss Pew was engaged in receiving people, andushering them to their seats, always assisted by Miss Dulcibella--animage of limp gracefulness--and the three governesses--all as stiff asperambulating black-boards. Dr. Rylance strolled by himself for a littlewhile, sniffed at the great ivory cup of a magnolia, gazed dreamily atthe river--shining yonder across intervening gardens and meadows--andultimately found his daughter. 

'I am sorry to find you are not to be honoured with a prize, Ranie, ' hesaid, smiling at her gently. 

In no relation of life had he been so nearly perfect as in his conduct asa father. Were he ever so disappointed in his daughter, he could notbring himself to be angry with her. 

'I have not tried for prizes, papa. Why should I compete with such a girlas Ida Palliser, who is to get her living as a governess, and who knowsthat success at school is a matter of life and death with her?'

'Do you not think it might have been worth your while to work as hard asMiss Palliser, for the mere honour and glory of being first in yourschool?'

'Did you ever work for mere honour and glory, papa?' asked Urania, withher unpleasant little air of cynicism. 

'Well, my love, I confess there has been generally a promise of solidpudding in the background. Pray, who is this Miss Palliser, whom I hearof at every turn, and whom nobody seems to like?'

'There you are mistaken, papa. Miss Palliser has her worshippers, thoughshe is the most disagreeable girl in the school. That silly little Bessieraves about her, and has actually induced Mrs. Wendover to invite her toThe Knoll!'

'That is a pity, if the girl is ill-bred and unpleasant, ' said Dr. Rylance. 

'She's a horror, ' exclaimed Urania, vindictively. 

Five minutes later Dr. Rylance and his daughter made their entrance intothe ball-room, which was full of people, and whence came the openingcrash of an eight-handed 'Zampa. ' Father and daughter went in softly, andwith a hushed air, as if they had been going into church; yet the firingof a cannon or two more or less would hardly have disturbed theperformers at the two pianos, so tremendous was their own uproar. Theywere taking the overture in what they called orchestral time; though itis doubtful whether even their playing could have kept pace with thehurrying of excited fiddles in a presto passage, or the roll of the bigdrum, simulating distant thunder. Be that as it may, the four performerswere pounding along at a breathless pace; and if their pianissimopassages failed in delicacy, there was no mistake about their fortissimo. 

'What an abominable row!' whispered Dr. Rylance. 'Is this what they callmusic?'

Urania smiled, and felt meritorious in that, after being chosen as one ofthe four for this very 'Zampa, ' she had failed ignominiously as a timist, and had been compelled to cede her place to another pupil. 

'I might have toiled for six weeks at the horrid thing, ' she thought, 'and papa would have only called it a row. '

'Zampa' ended amidst polite applause, the delighted parents of the fourplayers feeling that they had not lived in vain. And now the musicmistress took her place at one of the pianos, the top of the instrumentwas lowered, and Miss Fane, a little fair girl with a round face andfrizzy auburn hair, came simpering forward to sing 'Una voce, ' in a reedysoprano, which had been attenuated by half-guinea lessons from an Italianmaster, and which frequently threatened a snap. 

Happily on this occasion the thin little voice got through its workwithout disaster; there was a pervading sense of relief when the crisiswas over, and Miss Fane had simpered her acknowledgments of the applausewhich rewarded a severely conscientious performance. 

'Any more singing?' inquired Dr. Rylance of his daughter, not with theair of a man who pants for vocal melody. 

'No, the next is the "Moonlight Sonata. "'

Dr. Rylance had a dim idea that he had heard of this piece before. Hewaited dumbly, admiring the fine old room, with its lofty ceiling, andflorid cornice, and the sunny garden beyond the five tall windows. 

Presently Ida Palliser came slowly towards the piano, carrying herselflike an empress. Dr. Rylance could hardly believe the evidence of hiseyes. Was this the girl whose deportment had been called abominable, whomUrania had denounced as a horror? Was this the articled pupil, the girldoomed to life-long drudgery as a governess, this superb creature, withher noble form and noble face, looking grave defiance at the world whichhitherto had not used her too kindly?

She was dressed in black, a sombre figure amidst the white muslins andrainbow sashes of her comrades. Her cashmere gown was of the simplestfashion, but it became the tall full figure to admiration. Below herlinen collar she wore a scarlet ribbon, from which hung a silver locket, the only ornament she possessed. It was Bessie Wendover who had insistedon the scarlet ribbon, as a relief to that funereal gown. 

'I was never so surprised in my life, ' whispered Dr. Rylance to hisdaughter. 'She is the handsomest girl I ever saw. '

'Yes, she is an acknowledged beauty, said Urania, with a contraction ofher thin lips; 'nobody disputes her good looks. It is a pity her mannersare so abominable. '

'She moves like a lady. '

'She has been thoroughly drilled, ' sneered Urania. 'The original savagein her has been tamed as much as possible. '

'I should like to know more of that girl, ' said Dr. Rylance, 'for shelooks as if she has force of character. I'm sorry you and she are notbetter friends. '

Ida seated herself at the piano and began to play, without honouring theassembly with one glance from her dark eyes. She sat looking straightbefore her, like one whose thoughts are far away. She played by memory, and at first her hands faltered a little as they touched the keys, as ifshe hardly knew what she was going to play. Then she recollected herselfin a flash, and began the firm, slow, legato movement with the touch of amaster hand, the melody rising and falling in solemn waves of sound, likethe long, slow roll of a calm sea. 

The 'Moonlight Sonata' is a composition of some length. Badly, or evenindifferently performed, the 'Moonlight Sonata' is a trial; but no onegrew weary of it to-day, though the strong young hands which gaveemphasis to the profound beauties of that wonderful work were only thehands of a girl. Those among the listeners who knew least about music, knew that this was good playing; those who cared not at all for theplaying were pleased to sit and watch the mobile face of the player asshe wove her web of melody, her expression changing with every change inthe music, but unmoved by a thought of the spectators. 

Presently, just as the sonata drew to its close, an auburn head wasthrust between Dr. Rylance and his daughter, and a girl's voicewhispered, 'Is she not splendid? Is she not the grandest creature you ever saw?'

The doctor turned and recognized Bessie Wendover. 

'She is, Bessie, ' he said, shaking hands with her. 'I never was so struckby anyone in my life. '

Urania grew white with anger. Was it not enough that Ida Palliser shouldhave outshone her in every accomplishment upon which school-girls pridethemselves? Was it not enough that she should have taken completepossession of that foolish little Bessie, and thus ingratiated herselfinto the Wendover set, and contrived to get invited to Kingthorpe? No. Here was Urania's own father, her especial property, going over to theenemy. 

'I am glad you admire her so much, papa, ' she said, outwardly calm andsweet, but inwardly consumed with anger; 'for it will be so pleasant foryou to see more of her at Kingthorpe. '

'Yes, ' he said heartily, 'I am glad she is coming to Kingthorpe. That wasa good idea of yours, Bessie. '

'Wasn't it? I am so pleased to find you like her. I wish you could getRanie to think better of her. '

Now came the distribution of prizes and accessits. Miss Pew took her seatbefore the table on which the gaudily-bound books were arranged, andbegan to read out the names. It was a hard thing for her to have to awardthe three first prizes to a girl she detested; but Miss Pew knew thelittle world she ruled well enough to know that palpable injustice wouldweaken her rule. Ninety-nine girls who had failed to win the prize wouldhave resented her favouritism if she had given the reward to a hundredthgirl who had not fairly won it. The eyes of her little world were uponher, and she was obliged to give the palm to the real victor. So, in herdull, hard voice, looking straight before her, with cold, unfriendlyeyes, she read out--

'The prize for modern languages has been obtained by Miss Palliser!' andIda came slowly up to the table and received a bulky crimson volume, containing the poetical works of Sir Walter Scott. 

'The prize for proficiency in instrumental music is awarded to MissPalliser!'

Another bulky volume was handed to Ida. For variety the binding wasgreen, and the inside of the book was by William Cowper. 

'The greatest number of marks for English history and literature navebeen obtained by Miss Palliser. '

Miss Palliser was now the happy possessor of a third volume bound inblue, containing a selection from the works of Robert Southey. 

With not one word of praise nor one smile of approval did Miss Pewsweeten the gifts which she bestowed upon the articled pupil. She gavethat which justice, or rather policy, compelled her to give. No more. Kindliness was not in the bond. 

Ida came slowly away from the table, laden with her prizes, her head heldhigh, but not with pride in the trophies she carried. Her keenest feelingat this moment was a sense of humiliation. The prizes had been given heras a bone might be flung to a strange dog, by one whose heart held nolove for the canine species. An indignant flush clouded the creamywhiteness of her forehead, angry tears glittered in her proud eyes. Shemade her way to the nearest door, and went away without a word to thecrowd of younger girls, her own pupils, who had crowded round tocongratulate and caress her. She was adored by these small people, and itwas her personal influence as much as her talent which made her sosuccessful a teacher. 

Dr. Rylance followed her to the door with his eyes. He was not capable ofwide sympathies, or of projecting himself into the lives of other people;but he did sympathize with this girl, so lonely in the splendour of herbeauty, so joyless in her triumph. 

'God help her, poor child, in the days to come!' he said to himself. 

CHAPTER III. 

AT THE KNOLL. 

Between Winchester and Romsey there lies a region of gentle hills andgrassy slopes shadowed by fine old yew trees, a land of verdure, lonelyand exceeding fair; and in a hollow of this undulating district nestlesthe village of Kingthorpe, with its half-dozen handsome old houses, itsrichly cultivated gardens, and quaint old square-towered church. It is aprosperous, well-to-do little settlement, where squalor and want areunknown. Its humbler dwellings belong chiefly to the labourers on theWendover estate, and those are liberally paid and well cared for. Anagricultural labourer's wages at Kingthorpe might seem infinitely smallto a London mechanic; but when it is taken into account that the tillerof the fields has a roomy cottage and an acre of garden for sixpencea-week, his daily dole of milk from the home farm, as much wood as he canburn, blankets and coals at Christmas, and wine and brandy, soup andbread from the great house, in all emergencies, he is perhaps not so verymuch worse off than his metropolitan brother. 

There was an air of comfort and repose at Kingthorpe which made the placedelightful to the eye of a passing wanderer--a spot where one wouldgladly have lain down the burden of life and rested for awhile in one ofthose white cottages that lay a little way back from the high road, shadowed by a screen of tall elms. There was a duck-pond in front of alow red-brick inn which reminded one of Birkett Foster, and made thecentral feature of the village; a spot of busy life where all else wasstillness. There were accommodation roads leading off to distant farms, above which the tree-tops interlaced, and where the hedges were richin blackberry and sloe, dog-roses and honeysuckle, and the banks inspring-time dappled with violet and primrose, purple orchids and wildcrocus, and all the flowers that grow for the delight of villagechildren. 

Ida Palliser sat silent in her corner of the large landau which wastaking Miss Wendover and her schoolfellows from Winchester station toKingthorpe. Miss Rylance had accepted a seat in the Wendover landau ather father's desire; but she would have preferred to have had her ownsmart little pony-carriage to meet her at the station. To drive her owncarriage, were it ever so small, was more agreeable to Urania's temperthan to sit behind the over-fed horses from The Knoll, and to be thus, insome small measure, indebted to Bessie Wendover. 

Ida Palliser's presence made the thing still more odious. Bessie wasradiant with delight at taking her friend home with her. She watchedIda's eyes as they roamed over the landscape. She understood the girl'ssilent admiration. 

'They are darling old hills, aren't they, dear?' she asked, squeezingIda's hand, as the summer shadows and summer lights went dancing over thesward like living things. 

'Yes, dear, they are lovely, ' answered Ida, quietly. 

She was devouring the beauty of the scene with her eyes. She had seennothing like it in her narrow wanderings over the earth--nothing sosimple, so beautiful, and so lonely. She was sorry when they left thatopen hill country and came into a more fertile scene, a high road, whichwas like an avenue in a gentleman's park, and then the village duck-pondand red homestead, the old gray church, with its gilded sun-dial, markingthe hour of six, the gardens brimming over with roses, and as full ofsweet odours as those spicy islands which send their perfumed breath togreet the seaman as he sails to the land of the Sun. 

The carriage stopped at the iron gate of an exquisitely kept garden, surrounding a small Gothic cottage of the fanciful order ofarchitecture, --a cottage with plate-glass windows, shaded by Spanishblinds, a glazed verandah sheltering a tesselated walk, sloping banks andterraces, on a very small scale, stone vases full of flowers, a tinyfountain sparkling in the afternoon sun. 

This was Dr. Rylance's country retreat. It had been a yeoman's cottage, plain, substantial and homely as the yeoman and his household. The doctorhad added a Gothic front, increased the number of rooms, but not thegeneral convenience of the dwelling. He had been his own architect, andthe result was a variety of levels and a breakneck arrangement of stairsat all manner of odd corners, so ingenious in their peril to life andlimb that they might be supposed to have been designed as traps for theignorant stranger. 

'Don't say good-bye, Ranie, ' said Bessie, when Miss Rylance had alighted, and was making her adieux at the carriage door; 'you'll come over todinner, won't you, dear? Your father won't be down till Saturday. You'llbe dreadfully dull at home. '

'Thanks, dear, no; I'd rather spend my first evening at home. I'm neverdull, ' answered Urania, with her air of superiority. 

'What a queer girl you are!' exclaimed Bessie, frankly. 'I should bewretched if I found myself alone in a house. Do run over in the evening, at any rate. We are going to have lots of fun. '

Miss Rylance shuddered. She knew what was meant by lots of fun at TheKnoll; a romping game at croquet, or the newly-established lawn-tennis, with girls in short petticoats and boys in Eton jackets; a raid uponthe plum-trees on the crumbling red brick walls of the fine oldkitchen-garden; winding up with a boisterous bout at hide-and-seek in thetwilight; and finally a banquet of sandwiches, jam tarts, and syllabub inthe shabby old dining-room. 

'I'll come over to see Mrs. Wendover, if I am not too tired, ' she said, with languid politeness, and then she closed the gate, and the carriagedrove on to The Knoll. 

Colonel Wendover's house was a substantial dwelling of the Queen Anneperiod, built of unmixed red brick, with a fine pediment, a stone shellover the entrance, four long narrow windows on each side of the talldoor, and nine in each upper story, a house that looked all eyes, and wasa blaze of splendour when the western sun shone upon its many windows. The house stood on a bit of rising ground at the end of the village, anddominated all meaner habitations. It was the typical squire's house, andColonel Wendover was no bad representative of the typical squire. 

A fine old iron gate opened upon a broad gravel drive, which made thecircuit of a well-kept _parterre_, where the flowers grew as they onlygrow for those who love them dearly. This gate stood hospitably open atall times, and many were the vehicles which drove up to the tall door ofThe Knoll, and friendly the welcome which greeted all comers. 

The door, like the gate, stood open all day long--indeed, open doorswere the rule at Kingthorpe. Ida saw a roomy old hall, paved with blackand white marble, a few family portraits, considerably the worse forwear, against panelled walls painted white, a concatenation of guns, fishing-rods, whips, canes, cricket-bats, croquet-mallets, and all thingsappertaining to the out-door amusements of a numerous family. A largetiger skin stretched before the drawing-room door was one memorial ofColonel Wendover's Indian life; a tiger's skull gleaming on the wall, between a pair of elephant's ears, was another. One side of the wall wasadorned with a collection of Indian arms, showing all those variouscurves with which oriental ingenuity has improved upon the straightsimplicity of the western sword. 

It was not a neatly kept hall. There had been no careful study of colourin the arrangement of things--hats and caps were flung carelessly on theold oak chairs--there was a licentious mixture of styles in thefurniture--half Old English, half Indian, and all the worse for wear: butIda Palliser thought the house had a friendly look, which made it betterthan any house she had ever seen before. 

Through an open door at the back of the hall she saw a broad gravel walk, long and straight, leading to a temple or summer-house built of redbrick, like the mansion itself. On each side of the broad walk there wasa strip of grass, just about wide enough for a bowling-green, and on thegrass were orange-trees in big wooden tubs, painted green. Slowlyadvancing along the broad walk there came a large lady. 

'Is that you mother?' asked Ida. 

'No, it's Aunt Betsy. You ought to have known Aunt Betsy at a glance. I'msure I've described her often enough. How good of her to be here towelcome us!' and Bessie flew across the hall and rushed down the broadwalk to greet her aunt. 

Ida followed at a more sober pace. Yes, she had heard of Aunt Betsy--amaiden aunt, who lived in her own house a little way from The Knoll. Alady who had plenty of money and decidedly masculine tastes, which sheindulged freely; a very lovable person withal, if Bessie might bebelieved. Ida wondered if she too would be able to like Aunt Betsy. 

Miss Wendover's appearance was not repulsive. She was a woman of heroicmould, considerably above the average height of womankind, with a largehead nobly set upon large well-shaped shoulders. Bulky Miss Wendoverdecidedly was, but she carried her bulkiness well. She still maintained awaist, firmly braced above her expansive hips. She walked well, and wasmore active than many smaller women. Indeed, her life was full ofactivity, spent for the most part in the open air, driving, walking, gardening, looking after her cows and poultry, and visiting thelabouring-classes round Kingthorpe, among whom she was esteemed anoracle. 

Bessie hung herself round her large aunt like ivy on an oak, and the twothus united came up the broad walk to meet Ida, Bessie chattering all theway. 

'So this is Miss Palliser, ' said Aunt Betsy heartily, and in a deepmasculine voice, which accorded well with her large figure. 'I have hearda great deal about you from this enthusiastic child, --so much that I wasprepared to be disappointed in you. It is the highest compliment I canpay you to say I am not. '

'Where's mother?' asked Bessie. 

'Your father drove her to Romsey to call on the new vicar. There's thephaeton driving in at the gate. '

It was so. Before Ida had had breathing time to get over the introductionto Aunt Betsy, she was hurried off to see her host and hostess. 

They were very pleasant people, who did not consider themselves called onto present an icy aspect to a new acquaintance. 

The Colonel was the image of his sister, tall and broad of figure, withan aquiline nose and a commanding eye, thoroughly good-natured withal, and a man whom everybody loved. Mrs. Wendover was a dumpy little woman, who had brought dumpiness and a handsome fortune into the family. She hadbeen very pretty in girlhood, and was pretty still, with a round-facedinnocent prettiness which made her look almost as young as her eldestdaughter. Her husband loved her with a fondly protecting and almostpaternal affection, which was very pleasant to behold; and she held himin devoted reverence, as the beginning and end of all that was worthloving and knowing in the Universe. She was not an accomplished woman, and had made the smallest possible use of those opportunities whichcivilization affords to every young lady whose parents have plenty ofmoney; but she was a lady to the marrow of her bones--benevolent, kindly. Thinking no evil, rejoicing in the truth--an embodiment of domestic love. 

Such a host and hostess made Ida feel at home in their house in less thanfive minutes. If there had been a shade of coldness in their greeting herpride would have risen in arms against them, and she would have madeherself eminently disagreeable. But at their hearty welcome she expandedlike a beautiful flower which opens its lovely heart to the sunshine. 

'It is so good of you to ask me here, ' she said, when Mrs. Wendover hadkissed her, 'knowing so little of me. '

'I know that my daughter loves you, ' answered the mother, 'and it is notin Bessie's nature to love anyone who isn't worthy of love. '

Ida smiled at the mother's simple answer. 

'Don't you think that in a heart so full of love some may run over andget wasted on worthless objects?' she asked. 

'That's very true, ' cried a boy in an Eton jacket, one of a troop thathad congregated round the Colonel and his wife since their entrance. 'Youknow there was that half-bred terrier you doted upon, Bess, though Ishowed you that the roof of his mouth was as red as sealing-wax. '

'I hope you are not going to compare me to a half-bred terrier, ' saidIda, laughing. 

'If you were a terrier, the roof of your mouth would be as black as myhat, ' said the boy decisively. It was his way of expressing hisconviction that Ida was thoroughbred. 

The ice being thus easily broken, Ida found herself received into thebosom of the family, and at once established as a favourite with all. There were two boys in Eton jackets, answering to the names of Reginaldand Horatio, but oftener to the friendly abbreviations Reg and Horry. Both had chubby faces, liberally freckled, warts on their hands, andrumpled hair; and it was not easy for a new comer to distinguish Horatiofrom Reginald, or Reginald from Horatio. There was a girl of fourteenwith flowing hair, who looked very tall because her petticoats were veryshort, and who always required some one to hug and hang upon. If shefound herself deprived of human support she lolled against a wall. 

This young person at once pounced upon Ida, as a being sent into theworld to sustain her. 

'Do you think you shall like me?' she asked, when they had all swarmed upto the long corridor, out of which numerous bedrooms opened. 

'I like you already, ' answered Ida. 

'Do thoo like pigs?' asked a smaller girl, round and rosy, in a hollandpinafore, putting the question as if it were relevant to her sister'sinquiry. 

'I don't quite know, ' said Ida doubtfully. 

''Cos there are nine black oneths, tho pwutty. Will thoo come and theethem?'

Ida said she would think about it: and then she received variouspressing invitations to go and see lop-eared rabbits, guinea-pigs, a tamewater-rat in the rushes of the duck-pond, a collection of eggs in theschoolroom, and the new lawn-tennis ground which father had made in thepaddock. 

'Now all you small children run away!' cried Bessie, loftily. 'Ida and Iare going to dress for dinner. '

The crowd dispersed reluctantly, with low mutterings about rabbits, pigs, and water-rats, like the murmurs of a stage mob; and then Bessie led herfriend into a large sunny room fronting westward, a room with threewindows, cushioned window-seats, two pretty white-curtained beds, and agood deal of old-fashioned and heterogeneous furniture, half English, half Indian. 

'You said you wouldn't mind sleeping in my room, ' said Bessie, as sheshowed her friend an exclusive dressing-table, daintily draperied, andenlivened with blue satin bows, for the refreshment of the visitor's eye. 

While the girls were contemplating this work of art the door was suddenlyopened and Blanche's head was thrust in. 

'I did the dressing-table, Miss Palliser, every bit, on purpose for you. '

And the door then slammed to, and Bessie rushed across the room and drewthe bolt. 

'We shall have them all one after another, ' she said. 

'Don't shut them out on my account. '

'Oh, but I must. You would have no peace. I can see they are going to beappallingly fond of you. '

'Let them like me as much as they can. Do you know, Bessie, this is myfirst glimpse into the inside of a home!'

'Oh, Ida, dear, but your father, ' remonstrated Bessie. 

'My father has never been unkind to me, but I have had no home with him. When my mother brought me home from India--she died very soon after wegot home, you know'--Ida strangled a sob at this point--'I was placedwith strangers, two elderly maiden ladies, who reared me very well, nodoubt, in their stiff business-like way, and who really gave me a verygood education. That went on for nine years, --a long time to spend withtwo old maids in a dull little house at Turnham Green, --and then I had aletter from my father to say he had come home for good. He had sold hiscommission and meant to settle down in some quiet spot abroad. His firstduty would be to make arrangements for placing me in a high-class school, where I could finish my education; and he told me, quite at the end ofhis letter, that he had married a very sweet young lady, who was ready togive me all a mother's affection, and who would be able to receive me inmy holidays, when the expense of the journey to France and back wasmanageable. '

'Poor darling!' sighed Bessie. 'Did your heart warm to the sweet younglady?'

'No, Bess; I'm afraid it must be an unregenerate heart, for I took afurious dislike to her. Very unjust and unreasonable, wasn't it?Afterwards, when my father took me over to his cottage, near Dieppe, tospend my holidays, I found that my stepmother was a kind-hearted, prettylittle thing, whom I might look down upon for her want of education, butwhom I could not dislike. She was very kind to me; and she had a babyboy. I have told you about him, and how he and I fell in love with eachother at first sight. '

'I am horribly jealous of that baby boy, ' protested Bessie. 'How old ishe now?'

'Nearly five. He was two years and a half old when I was at LesFontaines, and that was before I went to Mauleverer Manor. '

'And you have been at Mauleverer Manor more than two years without oncegoing home for the holidays, ' said Bessie. 'That seems hard. '

'My dear, poverty is hard. It is all of a piece. It means deprivation, humiliation, degradation, the severance of friends. My father would havehad me home if he could have afforded it; but he couldn't. He has onlyjust enough to keep himself and his wife and boy. If you were to see thelittle box of a house they inhabit in that tiny French village, you wouldwonder that anybody bigger than a pigeon could live in so small a place. They have a narrow garden, and there is an orchard on the slope of a hillbehind the cottage, and a long white road leading to nowhere in front. Itis all very nice in the summer, when one can live half one's life out ofdoors, but I am sure I don't know how they manage to exist through thewinter. '

'Poor things!' sighed Bessie, who had a large stock of compassion alwayson hand. 

And then she tied a bright ribbon at the back of Ida's collar, by way offinishing touch to the girl's simple toilet, which had been going onwhile they talked, and then, Bessie in white and Ida in black, likesunlight and shadow, they went downstairs to the drawing-room, whereColonel Wendover was stretched on his favourite sofa, reading a countypaper. Since his retirement from active service into domestic idlenessthe Colonel had required a great deal of rest, and was to be found at allhours of the day extended at ease on his own particular sofa. During hisintervals of activity he exhibited a large amount of energy. When he wasindoors his stentorian voice penetrated from garret to cellar; when hewas out of doors the same deep-toned thunder could be heard across acouple of paddocks. He pervaded the gardens and stables, supervised thehome farm, and had a finger in every pie. 

Mrs. Wendover was sitting in her own particular arm-chair, close to herhusband's sofa--they were seldom seen far apart--with a large basket ofcrewel-work beside her, containing sundry squares of kitchen towellingand a chaos of many-coloured wools, which never seemed to arrive at anyresult. 

The impression which Mrs. Wendover's drawing-room conveyed to a strangerwas a general idea of homeliness and comfort. It was not fine, it was notaesthetic, it was not even elegant. A great bay window opened upon thegarden, a large old-fashioned fireplace, with carved wooden chimney-piecefaced the bay. The floor was polished oak, with only an island of fadedPersian carpet in the centre, and Indian prayer rugs lying about here andthere. There were chairs and tables of richly carved Bombay blackwood, Japanese cabinets in the recesses beside the fire-place, a five-leavedIndian screen between the fire-place and the door. There was just enoughOriental china to give colour to the room, and to relieve by glowing redsand vivid purples the faded dead-leaf tint of curtains and chair covers. 

The gong began to boom as the two girls came into the room, and the restof the family dropped in through the open windows at the same moment, Aunt Betsey bringing up the rear. There was no nursery dinner at TheKnoll. Colonel Wendover allowed his children to dine with him from theday they were able to manage their knives and forks. Save on stateoccasions, the whole brood sat down with their father and mother to theseven o'clock dinner; as the young sprigs of the House of Orleans used tosit round good King Louis Philippe in his tranquil retirement atClaremont. Even the lisping girl who loved pigs had her place at theboard, and knew how to behave herself. There was a subdued struggle forthe seat next Ida, whom the Colonel had placed on his right, butReginald, the elder of the Winchester boys, asserted his claim with aquiet firmness that proved irresistible. Grace was said with solemnbrevity by the Colonel, whose sum total of orthodoxy was comprised inthat brief grace, and in regular attendance at church on Sunday mornings;and then there came a period of chatter and laughter which might havebeen a little distracting to a stranger. Each of the boys and girls hadsome wonderful fact, usually about his or her favourite animal, tocommunicate to the father. Aunt Betsy broke in with her fine manly voiceat every turn in the conversation. Ripples of laughter made a runningaccompaniment to everything. It was a new thing to Ida Palliser to findherself in the midst of so much happiness. 

After dinner they all rushed off to play lawn tennis, carrying Ida alongwith them. 

'It's a shame, ' protested Bessie. 'I know you're tired, darling. Come andrest in a shady corner of the drawing-room. '

This sounded tempting, but it was not to be. 

'No she's not, ' asserted Blanche, boldly. 'You're not tired, are you, Miss Palliser?'

'Not too tired for just one game, ' replied Ida. 'But you are never tocall me Miss Palliser. '

'May I really call you Ida? That's too lovely. '

'May we all call you Ida?' asked Horatio. 'Don't begin by makingdistinctions. Blanche is no better than the rest of us. '

'Don't be jealous, ' said Miss Palliser, laughing. 'I am going to beeverybody's Ida. '

On this she was borne off to the garden as in a whirlwind. 

There were some bamboo chairs and sofas on the grass in front of the baywindow, and here the elder members of the family established themselves. 

'I like that schoolfellow of Bessie's, ' said Aunt Betsy, with her decidedair, whereupon the Colonel and his wife assented, as they always did toany proposition of Miss Wendover's. 

'She is remarkably handsome, ' said the Colonel. 

'She is good and thorough, and that's of much more consequence, ' said hissister. 

'She takes to the children, and that is so truly nice in her' murmuredMrs. Wendover. 

CHAPTER IV. 

WENDOVER ABBEY. 

The next day was fine. The children had all been praying for fineweather, that they might entertain Miss Palliser with an exploration ofthe surrounding neighbourhood. Loud whoops of triumph and sundrybreakdown dances were heard in the top story soon after five o'clock, forthe juvenile Wendovers were early risers, and when in high spirits madethemselves distinctly audible. 

The eight o'clock breakfast in the old painted dining-room--all oakpanelling, but painted stone colour by generations of Goths andVandals--was even more animated than the seven o'clock dinner. 

Such a breakfast, after the thick bread and butter and thin coffee atMauleverer. Relays of hot buttered cakes, and eggs and bacon, fish, honey, fresh fruit from the garden, a picturesque confusion of form andcolour on the lavishly-furnished table, and youthful appetites ready todo justice to the good cheer. 

'What are you going to do with Miss Palliser?' asked the Colonel. 'Am Ito take her for a drive?'

'No, father, you can't have Miss Palliser to-day. She's going in thejaunting-car, ' said Reginald, talking of the lady as if she were a horse. 'We're going to take her over to the Abbey. '

The Abbey was the ancestral home of the Wendovers, now in possession ofBrian Wendover, only son of the Colonel's eldest brother, and head of thehouse. 

'Well, don't upset her oftener than you can help, ' replied the father. 'Isuppose you don't much mind being spilt off an outside car, MissPalliser? I believe young ladies of your age rather relish theexcitement. '

'She needn't be afraid, ' said Reginald; 'I am going to drive. '

'Then we are very likely to find ourselves reposing in a ditch before theday is over, ' retorted Bessie. 'I hope you--or the pony--will choose adry one. '

'I'll risk it, ditches and all, ' said Ida, good-naturedly. 'I am longingto see the Abbey. '

'The rich Brian's Abbey, ' said Bessie, laughing. 'What a pity he is notat home for you to see him too! Do you think Brian will be back beforeIda's holidays are over, father?'

'I never know what that young man is going to do, ' answered the Colonel. 'When last I heard from him he was fishing in Norway. He doesn't caremuch about the sport, he tells me; indeed, he was never a veryenthusiastic angler; but he likes the country and the people. He ought tostay at home, and stand for the county at the next election. A young manin his position has no business to be idle. '

'Is he clever?' asked Ida. 

'Too clever for my money, ' answered the Colonel. 'He has too muchbook-learning, and too little knowledge of men and things. What is thegood of a man being a fine Greek scholar if he knows nothing about theland he owns, or the cattle that graze upon it, and has not enough tactto make himself popular in his own neighbourhood? Brian is a man whowould starve if his bread depended on his own exertions. '

'He's a jolly kind of cousin for a fellow to have, ' suggested Horry, looking up from his eggs and bacon. 'He lets us do what we like at theAbbey. By the way, Blanche, have you packed the picnic basket?'

'Yes. '

'What have you put in?'

'That's my secret, ' answered Blanche. 'Do you think I am going to tellyou what you are to have for lunch? That would spoil all the fun. '

'Blanche isn't half a bad caterer, ' said Reg. 'I place myself in herhands unreservedly; I will only venture to hint that I hope she hasn'tforgotten the chutnee, Tirhoot, and plenty of it. What's the good ofhaving a father who was shoulder to shoulder with Gough in the Punjab, ifwe are to run short of Indian condiments?'

At nine o'clock the young people were all ready to start. Thejaunting-car held five, including the driver; Bessie and her friend wereto occupy one side, Eva, the round child who loved pigs, was to have aseat, and a place was to be kept for Miss Rylance, who was to be invitedto join the exploration party, much to the disgust of the Winchesterlads, who denounced her as a stuck-up minx, and distinguished her withvarious other epithets of an abusive character selected from a vocabularyknown only to Wyckhamists. Blanche and Horatio and a smaller boy, calledErnest, who was dressed like a gillie, and had all the wildness of ayoung Highlander, were to walk, with the occasional charity of a lift. 

The jaunting-car was drawn by a large white pony, fat and pampered, overfed with dainties from the children's tables, and petted and playedwith until he had become almost human in his intelligence, and a matchfor his youthful masters in cunning and mischief. This impish animal hadbeen christened Robin Goodfellow, a name that was shortened forconvenience to Robin. Robin's eagerness to depart was now made known tothe family by an incessant rattling of his bit. 

Reginald took the reins, and got into his seat with the quiet grandeur ofa celebrity in the four-in-hand club. Ida and Bessie were handed to theirplaces by Horatio, the chubby Eva scrambled into her seat, with a liberaldisplay of Oxford blue stocking, under the shortest of stripedpetticoats; and off they drove to the cottage, Dr. Rylance's miniaturedwelling, where the plate-glass windows were shining in the morning sun, and the colours of the flower-beds were almost too bright to be lookedat. 

Bessie found Miss Rylance in the dainty little drawing-room, all ebonizedwood and blue china, as neat as an interior by Mieris. The fair Uraniawas yawning over a book of travels--trying to improve a mind which wasnot naturally fertile--and she was not sorry to be interrupted by anirruption of noisy Wendovers, even though they left impressions of theirboots on the delicate tones of the carpet, and made havoc of the cretonnechair-covers. 

Miss Rylance had no passion for country life. Fields and trees, hills andwinding streams, even when enlivened by the society of the lower animals, were not all-sufficient for her happiness. It was all very well for herfather to oscillate between Cavendish Square and Kingthorpe, avoiding theexpense and trouble of autumn touring, and taking his rest and hispleasure in this rustic retreat. But her summer holidays for the lastthree years had been all Kingthorpe, and Miss Rylance detested thepicturesque village, the busy duck-pond, the insignificant hills, whichnobody had ever heard of, and the monotonous sequence of events. 

'We are going to the Abbey for a nice long day, taking our dinner withus, and coming round to Aunt Betsy's to tea on our way home, ' saidBessie, as if she were proposing an entirely novel excursion; 'and wewant you to come with us, Ranie. '

Miss Rylance stifled a yawn. She had been trying to pin her thoughts to aparticular tribe of Abyssinians, who fought all the surrounding tribes, and always welcomed the confiding stranger with a shower of poisonedarrows. She did not care for the Wendover children, but they were betterthan those wearisome Abyssinians. 

'You are very kind, but I know the Abbey so well, ' she said, determinedto yield her consent as a favour. 

'Never mind that. Ida has never seen it. We are going to show hereverything. We want her to feel one of us. '

'We shall have a jolly lunch, ' interjected Blanche. 'There are some lemoncheesecakes that I made myself yesterday afternoon. Cook was in a goodtemper, and let me do it. '

'I hope you washed your hands first, ' said Horatio. 'I'd sooner cook hadmade the cheesecakes. '

'Of course I washed my hands, you too suggestive pig. But I should-hopethat in a general way my hands are cleaner than cook's. It is onlyschoolboys who luxuriate in dirt. '

'You'll come, Ranie?' pleaded Bess. 

'If you really wish it. '

'I do, or I shouldn't be here. But I hope you wish it too. You ought tobe longing to get out of doors on such a lovely morning. Houses werenever intended for such weather as this Come and join the birds andbutterflies, and all the happiest things in creation. '

'I must go for my hat and sunshade. I wasn't born full-dressed, like thebirds and butterflies, ' replied Urania. 

She ran away, leaving Bessie and Ida in the drawing-room. The youngerchildren having rushed in and left their mark upon the room, had nowrushed out again to the jaunting-car. 

'A pretty drawing-room, isn't it?' asked Bess. 'It looks so neat andfresh and bright after ours. '

'It doesn't look half so much like home, ' said Ida. 

'Perhaps not. But I believe it is just the exact thing a drawing-roomought to be in this latter part of the nineteenth century; or, at least, so Dr. Rylance says. How do you like the blue china? Dr. Rylance is anamateur of blue china. He will have no other. Dresden and Sevres have noexistence for him. He recognizes nothing beyond his own particular breedof ginger-jars. '

Miss Rylance came back, dressed as carefully as if she had been going fora morning lounge in Hyde Park, hat and feather, pongee sunshade, mousquetaire gloves. The Wendovers all wore their gloves in theirpockets, and cultivated blisters on the palms of their hands, as a markof distinction, which implied great feats in rowing, or the pulling in ofdesperate horses. 

Now they were all mounted on the car, just as the church clock struckten. Reginald gave the reins a shake, cracked his whip, and Robin, whoalways knew where his young friends wanted to go, twisted the vehiclesharply round a corner and started at an agreeable canter, expressive ofgood spirits. 

Robin carried them joltingly along a lovely lane till they came to agentle acclivity, by which time, having given vent to his exuberance, thepony settled down into a crawl. Vainly did Reginald crack his whip--vaineven stinging switches on Robin's fat sides. Out of that crawl nothingcould move him. The sun was gaining power with every moment, and blazingdown upon the occupants of the car; but Robin cared not at all. He was ananimal of tropical origin, and had no apprehension of sunshine; his eyeswere so constructed as to accommodate themselves to a superfluity oflight. 

'I think we shall be tolerably well roasted by the time we get to theAbbey, ' said Bessie. 'Don't you think if we were all to get down and pushthe back of the car, Robin might go a little faster?'

'He'll go fast enough when he has blown a bit, ' said Reg. 'Can't youadmire the landscape?'

'We could, if we were not being baked, ' replied Ida. 

Miss Rylance sat silent under her pongee umbrella, and wished herself inCavendish Square; even though western London were as empty and barren asthe great wilderness. 

They were on the ridge of a hill, overlooking undulating pastures andquiet sheep-walks, fair hills on which the yew-trees cast their darkshadows, a broad stretch of pastoral country with sunny gleams of watershining low in the distance. 

Suddenly the road dipped, and Robin was going downhill with alarmingspeed. 

'This means that we shall all be in the ditch presently, ' said Bessie. 'Never mind. It's only a dry bed of dock and used-up stinging nettles. Weshan't be much hurt. '

After two or three miraculous escapes they landed at the bottom of thehill, and Ida beheld the good old gates of Kingthorpe Abbey, low irongates that stood open, between tall stone pillars supporting thesculptured escutcheon of the Wendovers. There was a stone lodge on eachside of the gate, past which the car drove in triumph into an avenue ofancient yew-trees, low and wide-spreading, with a solemn gloom that wouldbetter have become a churchyard than a gentleman's park. 

It was a noble old park, richly timbered with oaks as old as thoseimmemorial trees that make the glory of Stoneleigh. There was a lake in awooded hollow in front of the Abbey, a long low pile of stone, the newestpart of which was as old as the days of the last Tudor. Nor had muchmoney been spent on the restoration or decorative repair of that fine oldhouse. It had been kept wind and weather proof. It had been protectedagainst the injuries of time; and that was all. There it stood, a braveand solid monument of the remote past, grand in its stern simplicity andits historic associations. 

'Oh, what a dear old house!' cried Ida, clasping her hands, as the carcame out of the yew-tree avenue into the open space in front of theAbbey; a wide lawn, where four mighty cedars of Lebanon spread theirdense shadows--grave old trees--which were in somewise impostors, as theylooked older than the house, and yet had been saplings in the days ofQueen Anne. 'What a sweet old place!' repeated Ida; 'and how I envy therich Brian!'

'Don't you think the rich Brian's wife will be still more enviablesneered Miss Rylance. 

'That depends. She may be a Vere-de-Vereish kind of person, and pineamongst her halls and towers, ' said Ida. 

'Not if she had been brought up in poverty. She would revel in theadvantages of her position as Mrs. Wendover of the Abbey, ' asserted MissRylance. 

'Would she? The Earl of Burleigh's wife had been poor, and yet did notenjoy being rich and great, ' said Bessie. 'It killed her, poor thing. Andyet she had married for love, and had no remorse of conscience to weighher down. '

'She was a sensitive little fool, ' said Ida; 'I have no patience withher. '

'Modern young ladies are not easily crushed, ' remarked Miss Rylance;'they make marrying for money a profession. '

'Is that your idea of life?' asked Ida. 

'No; but I understand it is yours. I heard you say you meant to marry formoney. '

'Then you must have been listening to a conversation in which you had noconcern, ' Ida answered coolly. 'I never said as much to you. '

The three girls, and the chubby Eva, had alighted from the car, which wasbeing conveyed to the stables at a hand-gallop, and this conversation wascontinued on the broad gravel sweep in front of the Abbey. Just as thediscussion was intensifying in unpleasantness, the arrival of thepedestrians made an agreeable diversion. Blanche and her two brothers hadcome by a short cut, across fields and common, had given chase tobutterflies, experimented with tadpoles, and looked for hedge-birds' eggsin the course of their journey, and were altogether in a state ofdilapidation--perspiration running down their sunburnt faces--their hatsanyhow--their hands embellished with recent scratches--their boots coatedwith clay. 

'Did ever anyone see such objects?' exclaimed Bessie, who had imbibedcertain conventional ideas of decency at Mauleverer Manor: 'you ought tobe ashamed of yourselves. '

'I daresay we ought, but we aren't, ' retorted Horatio. 'I found a tadpolein an advanced stage of transmutation, Miss Palliser, and it has almostconverted me to Darwinism. Given a single step and you may accept thewhole ladder. If from tadpoles frogs, why not from monkeys man?'

'Go and be a Darwinian, and don't prose, ' said Blanche, impatiently. 'Weare going to show Ida the Abbey. How do you like the outside, darling?'asked the too-affectionate girl, favouring Miss Palliser with the fullweight of her seven stone and three-quarters. 

'I adore it. It is like a page out of an old chronicle. '

'Isn't it?' gasped Blanche; 'and you can fancy the fat old monks sittingon those stone benches, nodding in the sunshine. The house is hardlyaltered a bit since it was an actual abbey, except that half a dozencells have been knocked into one comfortable bedroom. The long darkpassages are just the same as they were when those sly old monks wentgliding up and down them--such dear old passages, smelling palpably ofghosts. '

'Mice, ' said Horatio. 

'No, sir, ghosts. Do you suppose my sense of smell is of such inferiorquality that I can't distinguish a ghost from a mouse?'

'Now, how about luncheon?' demanded Horatio. 'I propose that we all goand sit under that prime old cedar and discuss the contents of the picnicbasket before we discuss the Abbey. '

'Why, it isn't half-past eleven, ' said Bessie. 

'Ah, ' sighed Blanche, 'I'm afraid it's too early for lunch. We shouldhave nothing left to look forward to all the rest of the day. '

'There'd be afternoon tea at Aunt Betsy's to build upon, said Horry. 'Igave her to understand we were to have something good: blue gages fromthe south wall, cream to a reckless extent. '

'Strawberry jam and pound-cake, ' suggested Eva. 

'If you go on like that you'll make me distracted with hunger, ' saidBlanche, a young person who at the seaside wanted twopence to buy bunsdirectly after she had swallowed her dinner. 

Bessie and Miss Rylance had been walking up and down the velvet swardbeside the beds of dwarf roses and geraniums, with a ladylike statelinesswhich did credit to their training at Mauleverer. Ida was the centre ofthe juvenile group. 

'Come and see the Abbey, ' exclaimed Horry, putting his arm through MissPalliser's, 'and at the stroke of one we will sit down to lunch under thebiggest of the cedars--the tree which according to tradition was plantedby John Evelyn himself, when he came on a visit to Sir TristramWendover. '

They all trooped into the Abbey, the hall door standing open, as in afairy tale. Bessie and Urania followed at a more sober pace; but Ida hadgiven herself over to the children, and they did what they liked withher, Blanche hanging on her bodily all the time. 

They were now joined by Reginald, who appeared mysteriously from the backpremises, where he had been seeing Robin eat his corn, having a fixedidea that it was in the nature of all grooms and stablemen to cheathorses. 

The Abbey was furnished with a sober grandeur, in perfect tone with itsarchitecture. Everything was solid and ponderous, save here and there, where in some lady's bower there appeared the spindle-legged tables andinlaid cabinets of the Chippendale period, which had an air of newnesswhere all else was so old. The upper rooms were low and somewhat dark, the heavily mullioned windows being designed to exclude rather than toadmit light. There was much tapestry, subdued in hue, but in goodcondition, and as frankly uninteresting in subject as the generality ofold English needlework. 

Below, the rooms were large and lofty, rich in carved chimney pieces, well preserved panelling, and old oak furniture. There were some finepictures, from Holbein downwards, and the usual array of familyportraits, which the boys and girls explained and commented uponcopiously. 

'There's my favourite ancestor, Sir Tristram, ' cried Blanche pointing toa dark-eyed cavalier, with strongly-marked brow and bronzed visage. 'Hewas middle-aged when that picture was painted, but I know he was handsomein his youth. The face is still in the family. '

'Of course it is, ' said Horatio--'on my shoulders. '

'Your shoulders!' ejaculated Blanche, contemptuously. 'As if my SirTristram ever resembled you. He fought in all the great battles, fromEdgehill to Worcester, ' continued the girl; 'and he was wounded seventimes; and he was true to his master through every trial; and he had allthe Wendover plate melted down; and he followed Charles the Second intoexile; he mortgaged his estate to raise money for the king; and hemarried a very lovely French woman, who introduced turned-up noses intothe family, ' concluded Blanche, giving her tip-tilted nose a complacenttoss. 

'I thought it was a mercy that we were spared the old housekeeper, ' saidUrania, 'but really Blanche is worse. '

'Ida doesn't know all about our family, if you do, ' protested Blanche. 'It is all new to her. '

'Yes, dear, it is all new and interesting to me, ' said Ida. 

'How much more deeply you would have been interested if Mr. Wendover hadbeen here to expatiate upon his family tree, ' said Urania. 

'That might have made it still more interesting, ' admitted Ida, with afrankness which took the sting out of Miss Rylance's remark. 

The young Wendovers had shown Ida everything. They had opened cabinets, peered into secret drawers, sniffed at the stale _pot-pourri_ in oldcrackle vases; they had dragged their willing victim through all the longslippery passages, by all the mysterious stairs and by-ways; they hadobliged her to look at the interior of ghostly closets, where the ladiesof old had stored their house linen or hung their mantuas andfarthingales; they had made her look out of numerous windows to admirethe prospect; they had introduced her to the state bedroom in which theheads of the Wendover race made a point of being born; they made her peepshuddering into the death-chamber where the family were laid in theirlast slumber. The time thus pleasantly occupied slipped away unawares;and the chapel clock was striking one as they all went trooping down thebroad oak staircase for about the fifteenth time. 

A gentleman was entering the hall as they came down. They could only seethe top of his hat. 

'It's father, ' cried Eva. 

'You little idiot; did you ever see my father in a stove-pipe hat on aweek-day?' cried Reg, with infinite scorn. 

'Then it's Brian. '

'Brian is in Norway. '

The gentleman looked up and greeted them all with a comprehensive smile. It was Dr. Rylance. 

'So glad I have found you, young people, ' he said blandly. 

'Papa, ' exclaimed Urania, in a tone which did not express unmitigatedpleasure, 'this is a surprise. You told me you would not be down tilllate in the evening. '

'Yes, my dear: but the fine morning tempted me. I found my engagementswould stand over till Monday or Tuesday, so I put myself into the eighto'clock train, and arrived at The Cottage just an hour after you and yourfriends had left for your picnic. So I walked over to join you. I hope Iam not in the way. '

'Of course not, ' said Bessie. 'I'm afraid you'll find us hardly the kindof company you are accustomed to; but if you will put up with ourroughness and noise we shall feel honoured. '

'We are going to get lunch ready, ' said Blanche. 'You grown-ups will findus under Evelyn's tree when you're hungry, and you'd better accommodateyourselves to be hungry soon. '

'Or you may find a dearth of provisions, ' interjected Reg. 'I feel in ademolishing humour. '

The troop rushed off, leaving the three elder girls and Dr. Rylancestanding in the hall, listlessly contemplative of Sir Tristram's dintedbreast-plate, hacked by Roundhead pikes at Marston Moor. 

CHAPTER V. 

DR. RYLANCE ASSERTS HIMSELF. 

The luncheon under Evelyn's tree took a cooler shade from Dr. Rylance'spresence than from the far-reaching branches of the cedar. His politenessmade the whole business different from what it would have been withouthim. 

Blanche and the boys, accustomed to abandon themselves to franticjoviality at any outdoor feast of their own contriving, now withdrew intothe background, and established themselves behind the trunk of the tree, in which retirement they kept up an insane giggling, varied by low andsecret discourse, and from which shelter they issued forth stealthily, one by one, to pounce with crafty hands upon the provisions. Theseunmannerly proceedings were ignored by the elders, but they exercised aharassing influence upon poor little Eva, who had been told to sitquietly by Bessie, and who watched her brothers' raids with round-eyedwonder, and listened with envious ears to that distracting laughterbehind the tree. 

'Did you see Horry take quite half the cake, just now?' she whispered toBessie, in the midst of a polite conversation about nothing particular. 

And anon she murmured in horrified wonder, after a stolen peep behind thetree, ' Reg is taking off Dr. Rylance. '

The grown-up luncheon party was not lively. Tongue and chicken, pigeon-pie, cheese-cakes, tarts, cake, fruit--all had been neatly spreadupon a tablecloth laid on the soft turf. Nothing had been forgotten. There were plates and knives and forks enough for everybody--picnickingbeing a business thoroughly well understood at The Knoll; but there was agood deal wanting in the guests. 

Ida was thoughtful, Urania obviously sullen, Bessie amiably stupid; butDr. Rylance appeared to think that they were all enjoying themselvesintensely. 

'Now this is what I call really delightful, ' he said, as he poured outthe sparkling Devonshire cider with as stately a turn of his wrist as ifthe liquor had been Cliquot or Roederer. 'An open-air luncheon on such aday as this is positively inspiring, and to a man who has breakfasted atseven o'clock on a cup of tea and a morsel of dry toast--thanks, yes, Iprefer the wing if no one else, will have it--such an unceremonious mealis doubly welcome. I'm so glad I found you. Lucky, wasn't it, Ranie?'

He smiled at his daughter, as if deprecating that stolid expression ofhers, which would have been eminently appropriate to the funeral of anindifferent acquaintance, --a total absence of all feeling, a gravenullity. 

'I don't see anything lucky in so simple a fact, ' answered Urania. 'Youwere told we had come here, and you came here after us. '

'You might have changed your minds at the last moment and gone somewhereelse. Might you not, now, Miss Palliser?'

'Yes, if we had been very frivolous people; but as to-day's explorationof the Abbey was planned last night, it would have indicated greatweakness of mind if we had been tempted into any other direction, 'answered Ida, feeling somewhat sorry for Dr. Rylance. 

The coldest heart might compassionate a man cursed in such a disagreeabledaughter. 

'I am very glad you were not weak-minded, and that I was so fortunate asto find you, ' said the doctor, addressing himself henceforwardexclusively to Ida and her friend. 

Bessie took care of his creature-comforts with a matronly hospitalitywhich sat well upon her. She cut thin slices of tongue, she fished outsavouriest bits of pigeon and egg, when he passed, by a naturaltransition, from chicken to pie. She was quite distressed because he didnot care for tarts or cake. But the doctor's appetite, unlike that of theyoung people on the other side of the cedar, had its limits. He hadsatisfied his hunger long before they had, and was ready to show MissPalliser the gardens. 

'They are fine old gardens, ' he said, approvingly. 'Perhaps their chiefbeauty is that they have not a single modern improvement. They are asold-fashioned as the gardens of Sion Abbey, before the good queen Bessousted the nuns to make room for the Percies. '

They all rose and walked slowly away from the cedar, leaving thefragments of the feast to Blanche and her three brothers. Eva stayedbehind, to make one of that exuberant group, and to see Reg 'take off'Urania and her father. His mimicry was cordially admired, though it wasnot always clear to his audience which was the doctor and which was hisdaughter. A stare, a strut, a toss, an affected drawl were the leadingfeatures of each characterization. 

'I had no opportunity of congratulating you on your triumphs the otherday, Miss Palliser, ' said Dr. Rylance, who had somehow managed that Idaand he should be side by side, and a little in advance of the other two. 'But, believe me, I most heartily sympathized with you in the delight ofyour success. '

'Delight?' echoed Ida. 'Do you think there was any real pleasure for mein receiving a gift from the hands of Miss Pew, who has done all shecould do to make me feel the disadvantages of my position, from the day Ifirst entered her house to the day I last left it? The prizes gave me nopleasure. They have no value in my mind, except as an evidence that Ihave made the most of my opportunities at Mauleverer, in spite of mycontempt for my schoolmistress. '

'You dislike her intensely, I see. '

'She has made me dislike her. I never knew unkindness till I knew her. Inever felt the sting of poverty till she made me feel all its sharpness. I never knew that I was steeped in sinful pride until she humiliated me. '

'Your days of honour and happiness will come, said the doctor, 'days whenyou will think no more of Miss Pew than of an insect which once stungyou. '

'Thank you for the comforting forecast, ' answered Ida, lightly. 'But itis easy to prophesy good fortune. '

'Easy, and safe, in such a case as yours. I can sympathize with youbetter than you may suppose, Miss Palliser. I have had to fight mybattle. I was not always Dr. Rylance, of Cavendish Square; and I did notenter a world in which there was a fine estate waiting for me, like theowner of this place. '

'But you have conquered fortune, and by your own talents, ' said Ida. 'That must be a proud thought. '

Dr. Rylance, who was not utterly without knowledge of himself, smiled atthe compliment. He knew it was by tact and address, smooth speech andclean linen, that he had conquered fortune, rather than by shiningabilities. Yet he valued himself not the less on that account. In hismind tact ranked higher than genius, since it was his own peculiar gift:just as blue ginger-jars were better than Sevres, because he, Dr. Rylance, was a collector of ginger-jars. He approved of himself socompletely that even his littlenesses were great in his own eyes. 

'I have worked hard, ' he said, complacently, 'and I have been patient. But now, when my work is done, and my place in the world fixed, I beginto find life somewhat barren. A man ought to reap some reward--somethingfairer and sweeter than pounds, shillings, and pence, for a life oflabour and care. '

'No doubt, ' assented Ida, receiving this remark as abstract philosophy, rather than as having a personal meaning. 'But I think I should considerpounds, shillings, and pence a very fair reward, if I only had enough ofthem. '

'Yes, now, when you are smarting under the insolence of a purse-proudschoolmistress; but years hence, when you have won independence, you willfeel disappointed if you have won nothing better. '

'What could be better?'

'Sympathetic companionship--a love worthy to influence your life. '

Ida looked up at the doctor with naïve surprise. Good heavens, was thismiddle-aged gentleman going to drop into sentiment, as Silas Wegg droppedinto poetry? She glanced back at the other two. Happily they were closeat hand. 

'What have you done with the children, Bessie?' asked Ida, as if she weresuddenly distracted with anxiety about their fate. 

'Left them to their own devices. I hope they will not quite killthemselves. We are all to meet in the stable yard at four, so that we maybe with Aunt Betsy at five. '

'Don't you think papa and I had better walk gently home?' suggestedUrania; 'I am sure it would be cruel to inflict such an immense partyupon Miss Wendover. '

'Nonsense, ' exclaimed Bessie. 'Why, if all old Pew's school was to marchin upon her, without a moment's notice Aunt Betsy would not be put out ofthe way one little bit. If Queen Victoria were to drop in unexpectedly toluncheon, my aunt would be as cool as one of her own early cucumbers, andwould insist on showing the Queen her stables, and possibly her pigs. '

'How do you know that?' asked Ida. 

'Because she never had a visitor yet whom she did not drag into herstables, from archbishops downwards; and I don't suppose she'd draw theline at a queen, ' answered Bessie, with conviction. 

'I am going to drink tea with Miss Wendover, whatever Urania may do, 'said Dr. Rylance, who felt that the time had come when he must asserthimself. 'I am out for a day's pleasure, and I mean to drink the cup tothe dregs. '

Urania looked at her father with absolute consternation. He wastransformed; he had become a new person; he was forgetting himself in aridiculous manner; letting down his dignity to an alarming extent. Dr. Rylance, the fashionable physician, the man whose nice touch adjusted thenerves of the aristocracy, to disport himself with unkempt, bare-handedyoung Wendovers! It was an upheaval of things which struck horror toUrania's soul. Easy, after beholding such a moral convulsion, to believethat the Wight had once been part of the mainland; or even that Irelandhad originally been joined to Spain. 

They all roamed into the rose-garden, where there were alleys of standardrose-trees, planted upon grass that was soft and springy under the foot. They went into the old vineries, where the big bunches of grapes werepurpling in the gentle heat. Dr. Rylance went everywhere, and hecontrived always to be near Ida Palliser. 

He did not again lapse into sentiment, and he made himself fairlyagreeable, in his somewhat stilted fashion. Ida accepted his attentionwith a charming unconsciousness; but she was perfectly conscious ofUrania's vexation, and that gave a zest to the whole thing. 

'Well, Ida, what do you think of Kingthorpe Abbey?' asked Bessie, whenthey had seen everything, even to the stoats and weasles, and variousvermin nailed flat against the stable wall, and were waiting for Robin tobe harnessed. 

'It is a noble old place. It is simply perfect. I wonder your cousin canlive away from it. '

'Oh, Brian's chief delight is in roaming about the world. The Abbey isthrown away upon him. He ought to have been an explorer or a missionary. However, he is expected home in a month, and you will be able to judgefor yourself whether he deserves to be master of this old place. I onlywish it belonged to the other Brian. '

'The other Brian is your favourite. '

'He is ever so much nicer than his cousin--at least, the children and Ilike him best. My father swears by the head of the house. '

'I think I would rather accept the Colonel's judgment than yours, Bess, 'said Ida. 'You are so impulsive in your likings. '

'Don't say that I am wanting in judgment, ' urged Bessie, coaxingly, 'foryou know how dearly I love you. You will see the two Brians, I hope, before your holidays are over; and then you can make your own selection. Brian Walford will be with us for my birthday picnic, I daresay, whereverhe may be now. I believe he is mooning away his time in Herefordshire, with his mother's people. '

'Is his father dead?'

'Yes, mother and father both, ages ago, in the days when I was ahard-hearted little wretch, and thought it a treat to go into mourning, and rather nice to be able to tell everybody, "Uncle Walford's dead. Hehad a fit, and he never speaked any more. " It was news, you know, and ina village that goes for something. '

After a lengthy discussion, and some squabbling, it was decided that thechildren were to have the benefit of the jaunting-car for the homewardjourney, and that Dr. Rylance and the three young ladies were to walk, attended by Reginald, who insisted upon attaching himself to theirservice, volunteering to show them the very nearest way through a wood, and across a field, and over a common, and down a lane, which ledstraight to the gate of Aunt Betsy's orchard. 

Urania wore fashionable boots, and considered walking exercise asuperstition of medical men and old-fashioned people; yet she stoutlyrefused a seat in the car. 

'No, thanks, Horatio; I know your pony too well. I'd rather trust myselfupon my own feet. '

'There's more danger in your high heels than in my pony, retortedHoratio. 'I shouldn't wonder if you dropped in for a sprained anklebefore you got home. '

Urania risked the sprained ankle. She began to limp before she hademerged from the wood. She hobbled painfully along the rugged footpathbetween the yellow wheat. She was obliged to sit down and rest upon afurzy hillock on the common, good-natured Bess keeping her company, whileIda and Reginald were half a mile ahead with Dr. Rylance. Her delicatecomplexion was unbecomingly flushed by the time she and Bessie arrivedwearily at the little gate opening into Miss Wendover's orchard. 

There were only some iron hurdles between Aunt Betsy's orchard and thelawn before Aunt Betsy's drawing-room. The house was characteristic ofthe lady. It was a long red-brick cottage, solid, substantial, roomy, eschewing ornament, but beautified in the eyes of most people by an airof supreme comfort, cleanliness, and general well-being. In allKingthorpe there were no rooms so cool as Aunt Betsy's in summer--none sowarm in winter. The cottage had originally been the homestead of a smallgrass-farm, which had been bequeathed to Betsy Wendover by her father, familiarly known as the Old Squire, the chief landowner in that part ofthe country. With this farm of about two hundred and fifty acres of themost fertile pasture land in Hampshire and an income of seven hundred ayear from consols, Miss Wendover found herself passing rich. She built adrawing-room with wide windows opening on to the lawn, and a bed-roomwith a covered balcony over the drawing-room. These additional rooms madethe homestead all-sufficient for a lady of Aunt Betsy's simple habits. She was hospitality itself, receiving her friends in a large-hearted, gentleman-like style, keeping open house for man and beast, proud of herwine, still prouder of her garden and greenhouses, proudest of herstables; fond of this life, and of her many comforts, yet without aparticle of selfishness; ready to leave her cosy fireside at a moment'snotice on the bitterest winter night, to go and nurse a sick child, orcomfort a dying woman; religious without ostentation, charitable withoutweakness, stern to resent an injury, implacable against an insult. 

A refreshing sight, yet not altogether a pleasant one for Miss Rylance, met the eyes of the two young ladies as they neared the little iron gateopening from the orchard to the lawn. A couple of tea-tables had beenbrought out upon the grass before the drawing-room window. The youngsterswere busily engaged at one table, Blanche pouring out tea, while herbrothers and small sister made havoc with cake and fruit, home-made breadand butter, and jams of various hues. At the other table, less lavishlybut more elegantly furnished, sat Miss Wendover and Ida Palliser, withDr. Rylance comfortably established in a Buckinghamshire wickerwork chairbetween them. 

'Does not that look a picture of comfort?' exclaimed Bessie. 

'My father seems to be making himself very comfortable, ' said Urania. 

She hobbled across the lawn, and sank exhausted into a low chair, nearher parent. 

'My poor child, how dilapidated you look after your walk, ' said Dr. Rylance; 'Miss Palliser and I enjoyed it immensely. '

'I cannot boast of Miss Palliser's robust health, ' retorted Uraniacontemptuously, as if good health were a sign of vulgarity. 'I had myneuralgia all last night. '

Whenever the course of events proved objectionable, Miss Rylance tookrefuge in a complaint which she called her neuralgia, indicating that itwas a species of disorder peculiar to herself, and of a superior qualityto everybody else's neuralgia. 

'You should live in the open air, like my sunburnt young friends yonder, 'said the doctor, with a glance at the table where the young Wendoverswere stuffing themselves; 'I am sure they never complain of neuralgia. '

Urania looked daggers but spoke none. 

It was a wearisome afternoon for that injured young lady. Dr. Rylancedawdled over his tea, handed teacups and bread and butter, was assiduouswith the sugar basin, devoted with the cream jug, talked and laughed withMiss Palliser, as if they had a world of ideas in common, and madehimself altogether objectionable to his only child. 

By-and-by, when there was a general adjournment to the greenhouses andstables, Urania contrived to slip her arm through her father's. 

'I thought I told you that Miss Palliser was my favourite aversion, papa, ' she said, tremulous with angry feeling. 

'I have some faint idea that you did express yourself unfavourably abouther, ' answered the doctor, with his consulting-room urbanity, 'but I amat a loss to understand your antipathy. The girl is positively charming, as frank as the sunshine, and full of brains. '

'I know her. You do not, ' said Urania tersely. 

'My dear, it is the speciality of men in my profession to make rapidjudgments. '

'Yes, and very often to make them wrong. I was never so much annoyed inmy life. I consider your attention to that girl a deliberate insult tome; a girl with whom I never could get on--who has said the rudest thingsto me. '

'Can I be uncivil to a friend of your friend Bessie?'

'There is a wide distance between being uncivil and being obsequiously, ridiculously attentive. '

'Urania, ' said the doctor in his gravest voice, 'I have allowed you tohave your own way in most things, and I believe your life has been apleasant one. '

'Of course, papa. I never said otherwise. '

'Very well, my dear, then you must be good enough to let me take my ownway of making life pleasant to myself, and you must not take uponyourself to dictate what degree of civility I am to show to MissPalliser, or to any other lady. '

Urania held her peace after this. It was the first deliberate snub shehad ever received from her father, and she added it to her lengthy scoreagainst Ida. 

CHAPTER VI. 

A BIRTHDAY FEAST. 

Ida Palliser's holidays were coming to an end, like a tale that is told. There was only one day more left, but that day was to be especiallyglorious; for it was Bessie Wendover's birthday, a day which from timeimmemorial--or, at all events, ever since Bessie was ten years old--hadbeen sacred to certain games or festivities--a modernized worship of thegreat god Pan. 

Sad was it for Bessie and all the junior Wendovers when the seventh ofSeptember dawned with gray skies, or east winds, rain, or hail. It wasusually a brilliant day. The clerk of the weather appeared favourablydisposed to the warm-hearted Bessie. 

On this particular occasion the preparations for the festival were on agrander scale than usual, in honour of Ida, who was on the eve ofdeparture. A cruel, cruel car was to carry her off to Winchester at sixo'clock on the morning after the birthday; the railway station was toswallow her up alive; the train was to rush off with her, like a fierydragon carrying off the princess of fairy tale; and the youthfulWendovers were to be left lamenting. 

In six happy weeks their enthusiasm for their young guest had known noabatement. She had realized their fondest anticipations. She had enteredinto their young lives and made herself a part of them. She had givenherself up, heart and soul, to childish things and foolish things, toplease these devoted admirers; and the long summer holiday had been verysweet to her. The open-air life--the balmy noontides in woods andmeadows, beside wandering trout streams--on the breezy hill-tops--theafternoon tea-drinking in gardens and orchards--the novels read aloud, seated in the heart of some fine old tree, with her auditors perched onthe branches round about her, like gigantic birds--the boating excursionson a river with more weeds than water in it--the jaunts to Winchester, and dreamy afternoons in the cathedral--all had been delicious. She hadlived in an atmosphere of homely domestic love, among people who valuedher for herself, and did not calculate the cost of her gowns, or despiseher because she had so few. The old church was lovely in her eyes; theold vicar and his wife had taken a fancy to her. Everything at Kingthorpewas delightful, except Urania. She certainly was a drawback; but she hadbeen tolerably civil since the first day at the Abbey. 

Ida had spent many an hour at the Abbey since that first inspection. Sheknew every room in the house--the sunniest windows--the books in the longlibrary, with its jutting wings between the windows, and cosy nooks forstudy. She knew almost every tree in the park, and the mild faces of thedeer looking gravely reproachful, as if asking what business she hadthere. She had lain asleep on the sloping bank above the lake on drowsyafternoons, tired by wandering far a-field with her young esquires. Sheknew the Abbey by heart--better than even Urania knew it; though she hadused that phrase to express utter satiety. Ida Palliser had a deeper loveof natural beauty, a stronger appreciation of all that made the old placeinteresting. She had a curious feeling, too, about the absent master ofthat grave, gray old house--a fond, romantic dream, which she would notfor the wealth of India have revealed to mortal ear, that in the days tocome Brian's life would be in somewise linked with hers. Perhaps thisfoolish thought was engendered of the blankness of her own life, a stageon which the players had been so few that this figure of an unknown youngman assumed undue proportions. 

Then, again, the fact that she could hear very little about Mr. Wendoverfrom his cousins, stimulated her curiosity about him, and intensified herinterest in him. Brian's merits were a subject which the Wendoverchildren always shirked, or passed over so lightly that Ida was no wiserfor her questioning; and maidenly reserve forbade her too eager inquiry. 

About Brian Walford, the son of Parson Wendover, youngest of the threebrothers, for seven years vicar of a parish near Hereford, and for thelast twelve years at rest in the village churchyard, the young Wendovershad plenty to say. He was good-looking, they assured Ida. She wouldinevitably fall in love with him when they met. He was the cleverestyoung man in England, and was certain to finish his career as LordChancellor, despite the humility of his present stage of being. 

'He has no fortune, I suppose?' hazarded Ida, in a conversation withHoratio. 

She did not ask the question from any interest in the subject. BrianWalford was a being whose image never presented itself to her mind. Sheonly made the remark for the sake of saying something. 

'Not a denarius, ' said Horry, who liked occasionally to be classical. 'But what of that? If I were as clever as Brian I shouldn't mind how poorI was. With his talents he is sure to get to the top of the tree. '

'What can he do?' asked Ida. 

'Ride a bicycle better than any man I know. '

'What else?'

'Sing a first-rate comic song. '

'What else?'

'Get longer breaks at billiards than any fellow I ever played with. '

'What else?'

'Pick the winner out of a score of race-horses in the preliminarycanter. '

'Those are great gifts, I have no doubt, ' said Ida. 'But do eminentlawyers, in a general way, win their advancement by riding bicycles andsinging comic songs?'

'Don't sneer, Ida. When a fellow is clever in one thing he is clever inother things. Genius is many-sided, universal. Carlyle says as much. IfNapoleon Bonaparte had not been a great general, he would have been agreat writer like Voltaire--or a great lawyer like Thurlow. '

From this time forward Ida had an image of Brian Walford in her mind. Itwas the picture of a vapid youth, fair-haired, with thin moustacheelaborately trained, and thinner whiskers--a fribble that gave half itslittle mind to its collar, and the other half to its boots. Such imagesare photographed in a flash of lightning on the sensitive brain of youth, and are naturally more often false guesses than true ones. 

There was delightful riot in the house of the Wendovers on the nightbefore the picnic. The Colonel had developed a cold and cough within thelast week, so he and his wife had jogged off to Bournemouth, in theT-cart, with one portmanteau and one servant, leaving Bessie mistress ofall things. It was a grief to Mrs. Wendover to be separated from home andchildren at any time, and she was especially regretful at being absent onher eldest daughter's birthday; but the Colonel was paramount. If hiscough could be cured by sea air, to the sea he must go, with his faithfulwife in attendance upon him. 

'Don't let the children turn the house quite out of windows, darling, 'said Mrs. Wendover, at the moment of parting. 

'No, mother dear, we are all going to be goodness itself. '

'I know, dears, you always are. And I hope you will all enjoyyourselves. '

'We're sure to do that, mother, ' answered Reginald, with a cheerfulnessthat seemed almost heartless. 

The departing parent would not have liked them to be unhappy, but a fewnatural tears would have been a pleasing tribute. Not a tear was shed. Even the little Eva skipped joyously on the doorstep as the phaeton droveaway. The idea of the picnic was all-absorbing. 

The Colonel and his wife were to spend a week, at Bournemouth. Ida wouldsee them no more this year. 

'You must come again next summer, Mrs. Wendover said heartily, as shekissed her daughter's friend. 

'Of course she must, ' cried Horry. 'She is coming every summer. She isone of the institutions of Kingthorpe. I only wonder how we ever managedto get on so long without her. '

All that evening was devoted to the packing of hampers, and to generalskirmishing. The picnic was to be held on the highest hill-top betweenKingthorpe and Winchester, one of those little Lebanons, fair and green, on which the yew-trees flourished like the cedars of the East, but with asturdy British air that was all their own. 

The birthday dawned with the soft pearly gray and tender opal tints whichpresage a fair noontide. Before six o'clock the children had all besiegedBessie's door, with noisy tappings and louder congratulations. At seven, they were all seated at breakfast, the table strewn with birthday gifts, mostly of that useless and semi-idiotic character peculiar to suchtributes-ormolu inkstands, holding a thimbleful of ink--penholderswarranted to break before they have been used three times--purses withimpossible snaps--photograph frames and pomatum-pots. 

Bessie pretended to be enraptured with everything. The purse Horry gaveher was 'too lovely. ' Reginald's penholder was the very thing she hadbeen wanting for an age. Dear little Eva's pomatum-pot was perfection. The point-lace handkerchief Ida had worked in secret was exquisite. Blanche's crochet slippers were so lovely that their not being big enoughwas hardly a fault. They were much too pretty to be worn. Uraniacontributed a more costly gift, in the shape of a perfume cabinet, allcut-glass, walnut-wood, and ormolu. 

'Urania's presents are always meant to crush one, ' said Blanchedisrespectfully; 'they are like the shields and bracelets those rudesoldiers flung at poor Tarpeia. '

Urania was to be one of the picnic party. She was to be the only strangerpresent. There had been a disappointment about the two cousins. NeitherBrian had accepted the annual summons. One was supposed to be still inNorway, the other had neglected to answer the letter which had been sentmore than a week ago to his address in Herefordshire. 

'I'm afraid you'll find it dreadfully like our every-day picnics, ' Bessiesaid to Ida, as they were starting. 

'I shall be satisfied if it be half as pleasant. '

'Ah, it would have been nice enough if the two Brians had been with us. Brian Walford is so amusing. '

'He would have sung comic songs, I suppose?' said Ida rathercontemptuously. 

'Oh, no; you must not suppose that he is always singing comic songs. Heis one of those versatile people who can do anything. '

'I don't want to be rude about your own flesh and blood Bess, but in ageneral way I detest versatile people, ' said Ida. 

'What a queer girl you are, Ida! I'm afraid you have taken a dislike toBrian Walford, ' complained Bessie. 

'No, ' said Ida, deep in thought, --the two girls were standing at thehall-door, waiting for the carriage, --'it is not that. '

'You like the idea of the other Brian better?'

Ida's wild-rose bloom deepened to a rich carnation. 

'Oh, Ida, ' cried Bessie; 'do you remember what you said about marryingfor money?'

'It was a revolting sentiment; but it was wrung from me by the infinitevexations of poverty. '

'Wouldn't it be too lovely if Brian the Great were to fall in love withyou, and ask you to be mistress of that dear old Abbey which you admireso much?

'Don't be ecstatic, Bessie. I shall never be the mistress of the Abbey. Iwas not born under a propitious star. There must have been a very uglyconcatenation of planets ruling the heavens at the hour of my birth. Yousee, Brian the Great does not even put himself in the way of fallingcaptive to my charms. '

This was said half in sport, half in bitterness; indeed, there was abitter flavour in much of Ida Palliser's mirth. She was thinking of thestories she had read in which a woman had but to be young and lovely, andall creation bowed down to her. Yet her beauty had been for the most parta cause of vexation, and had made people hate her. She had beeninfinitely happy during the last six weeks; but embodied hatred had beenclose at hand in the presence of Miss Rylance; and if anyone had fallenin love with her during that time, it was the wrong person. 

The young ladies were to go in the landau, leaving the exclusiveenjoyment of Robin's variable humours to Horatio and the juveniles. Therewas a general idea that Robin, in conjunction with a hilly country, mightbe sooner or later fatal to the young Wendovers; but they went on drivinghim, nevertheless, as everybody knew that if he did ultimately provedisastrous to them it would be with the best intentions and without lossof temper. 

Bessie and Ida took their seats in the roomy carriage, Reginald mountedto the perch beside the coachman, and they drove triumphantly through thevillage to the gate of Dr. Rylance's cottage, where Urania stood waitingfor them. 

'I hope we haven't kept you long?' said Bessie. 

'Not more than a quarter of an hour, ' answered Urania, meekly; 'but thatseems rather long in a broiling sun. You always have such insufferablyhot weather on your birthdays, Bessie. '

'It will be cool enough on the hills by-and-by, ' said Bess, apologetically. 

'I daresay there will be a cold wind, ' returned Urania, who wore anunmistakable air of discontent. 'There generally is on these unnaturalSeptember days. '

'One would think you bore a grudge against the month of September becauseI was born in it, ' retorted Bessie. And then, remembering herobligations, she hastened to add, 'How can I thank you sufficiently forthat exquisite scent-case? It is far too lovely. '

'I am very glad you like it. One hardly knows what to choose. '

Miss Rylance had taken her seat in the landau by this time, and they werebowling along the smooth high road at that gentle jog-trot pace affectedby a country gentleman's coachman. 

The day was heavenly; the wind due south; a day on which life--meresensual existence--is a delight. The landscape still wore its richestsummer beauty--not a leaf had fallen. They were going upward, to thehilly region between Kingthorpe and Winchester, to a spot where there wasa table-shaped edifice of stones, supposed to be of Druidic origin. 

The young Wendovers were profoundly indifferent to the Druids, and tothat hypothetical race who lived ages before the Druids, and have brokenout all over the earth in stony excrescences, as yet vaguely classified. That three-legged granite table, whose origin was lost in the remotenessof past time, seemed to the young Wendovers a thing that had been createdexpressly for their amusement, to be climbed upon or crawled under as thefancy moved them. It was a capital rallying-point for a picnic or a gipsytea-drinking. 

'We are to have no grown-ups to-day, ' said Reginald, looking down fromhis place beside the coachman. 'The pater and mater are away, and AuntBetsy has a headache; so we can have things all our own way. '

'You are mistaken, Reginald, ' said Urania; 'my father is going to join usby-and-by. I hope he won't be considered an interloper. I told him thatit was to be a young party, and that I was sure he would be in the way;but he wouldn't take my advice. He is going to ride over in the broilingsun. Very foolish, I think. '

'I thought Dr. Rylance was in London?'

'He was till last night. He came down on purpose to be at your picnic. '

'I am sure I feel honoured, ' said Bessie. 

'Do you? I don't think _you_ are the attraction, ' answered Urania, with acantankerous glance at Miss Palliser. 

Ida's dark eyes were looking far away across the hills. It seemed as ifshe neither heard Miss Rylance's speech nor saw the sneer whichemphasized it. 

Dr. Rylance's substantial hunter came plodding over the turfy ridgebehind them five minutes afterwards, and presently he was riding at ameasured trot beside the carriage door, congratulating Bessie on thebeauty of the day, and saying civil things to every one. 

'I could not resist the temptation to give myself a day's idleness in theHampshire air, ' he said. 

Reginald felt an utterably savage. What a trouble-feast the man was. Theywould have to adapt the proceedings of the day to his middle-aged goodmanners. There could be no wild revelry, no freedom. Dr. Rylance was anembodiment of propriety. 

Half-an-hour after dinner they were all scattered upon the hills. 

Reginald, who cherished a secret passion for Ida, which was considerablyin advance of his years, and who had calculated upon being her guide, philosopher, and friend all through the day, found himself ousted by theWest End physician, who took complete possession of Miss Palliser, underthe pretence of explaining the history--altogether speculative--of thespot. He discoursed eloquently about the Druids, expatiated upon the Cityof Winchester, dozing in the sunshine yonder, among its fat watermeadows. He talked of the Saxons and the Normans, of William of Wykeham, and his successors, until poor Ida felt sick and faint from veryweariness. It was all very delightful talk, no doubt--the polishedutterance of a man who read his _Saturday Review_ and _Athenaeum_diligently, saw an occasional number of _Fors Clavigera_, and evenskimmed the more aesthetic papers in the _Architect_; but to Ida thisexpression of modern culture was all weariness. She would rather havebeen racing those wild young Wendovers down the slippery hill-side, onwhich they were perilling their necks; she would rather have been lyingbeside the lake in Kingthorpe Park, reading her well-thumbed Tennyson, orher shabby little Keats. 

Her thoughts had wandered ever so far away when she was called back tothe work-a-day world by finding that Dr. Rylance's conversation hadsuddenly slipped from archaeology into a more personal tone. 

'Are you really going away to-morrow?' he asked. 

'Yes, ' answered Ida, sadly, looking at one of the last of thebutterflies, whose brief summertide of existence was wearing to itsclose, like her own. 

'You are going back to Mauleverer Manor?'

'Yes. I have another half-year of bondage, I am going back to drudgeryand self-contempt, to be brow-beaten by Miss Pew, and looked down upon bymost of her pupils. The girls in my own class are very fond of me, butI'm afraid their fondness is half pity. The grown-up girls with happyhomes and rich fathers despise me. I hardly wonder at it. Genteel povertycertainly is contemptible. There is nothing debasing in a smock-frock ora fustian jacket. The labourers I see about Kingthorpe have a gloriousair of independence, and I daresay are as proud, in their way, as if theywere dukes. But shabby finery--genteel gowns worn threadbare: there is adeep degradation in those. '

'Not for you, ' answered Dr. Rylance, earnestly, with an admiring look inhis blue-gray eyes. They were somewhat handsome eyes when they did notput on their cruel expression. 'Not for you. Nothing could degrade, nothing could exalt you. You are superior to the accident of yoursurroundings. '

'It's very kind of you to say that; but it's a fallacy, all the same, 'said Ida. 'Do you think Napoleon at St. Helena, squabbling with SirHudson Lowe, is as dignified a figure as Napoleon at the Tuileries, inthe zenith of his power? But I ought not to be grumbling at fate. I havebeen happy for six sunshiny weeks. If I were to live to be a century old, I could never forget how good people at Kingthorpe have been to me. Iwill go back to my old slavery, and live upon the memory of thathappiness. '

'Why should you go back to slavery?' asked Dr. Rylance, taking her handin his and holding it with so strong a grasp that she could hardly havewithdrawn it without violence. 'There is a home at Kingthorpe ready toreceive you. If you have been happy there in the last few weeks, why nottry if you can be happy there always? There is a house in CavendishSquare whose master would be proud to make you its mistress. Ida, we haveseen very little of each other, and I may be precipitate in hazardingthis offer; but I am as fond of you as if I had known you half alifetime, and I believe that I could make your life happy. '

Ida Palliser's heart thrilled with a chill sense of horror and aversion. She had talked recklessly enough of her willingness to marry for money, and, lo! here was a prosperous man laying two handsomely furnished housesat her feet--a man of gentlemanlike bearing, good-looking, well-informed, well-spoken, with no signs of age in his well-preserved face and figure;a man whom any woman, friendless, portionless, a mere waif upon earth'ssurface, at the mercy of all the winds that blow, ought proudly andgladly to accept for her husband. 

No, too bold had been her challenge to fate. She had said that she wouldmarry any honest man who would lift her out of the quagmire of poverty:but she was not prepared to accept Dr. Rylance's offer, generous as itsounded. She would rather go back to the old treadmill, and her oldfights with Miss Pew, than reign supreme over the dainty cottage atKingthorpe and the house in Cavendish Square. Her time had not come. 

Dr. Rylance had not risen to eloquence in making his offer; and Ida'sreply was in plainest words. 

'I am very sorry, ' she faltered. 'I feel that it is very good of you tomake such a proposal; but I cannot accept it. '

'There is some one else, ' said the doctor. 'Your heart is given awayalready. '

'No, ' she answered sadly; 'my heart is like an empty sepulchre. '

'Then why should I not hope to win you? I have been hasty, no doubt: butI want if possible to prevent your return to that odious school. If youwould but make me happy by saying yes, you could stay with your kindfriends at The Knoll till the day that makes you mistress of my house. Wemight be married in time to spend November in Italy. It is the nicestmonth for Rome. You have never seen Italy, perhaps?'

'No. I have seen very little that is worth seeing. '

'Ida, why will you not say yes? Do you doubt that I should try myuttermost to make you happy?'

'No, ' she answered gravely, but I doubt my own capacity for that kind ofhappiness. '

Dr. Rylance was deeply wounded. He had been petted and admired by womenduring the ten years of his widowhood, favoured and a favouriteeverywhere. He had made up his mind deliberately to marry this pennilessgirl. Looked at from a worldling's point of view, it would seem, at thefirst glance, an utterly disadvantageous alliance: but Dr. Rylance had aneye that could sweep over horizons other than are revealed to the averagegaze, and he told himself that so lovely a woman as Ida Palliser mustinevitably become the fashion in that particular society which Dr. Rylance most affected: and a wife famed for her beauty and eleganceWould assuredly be of more advantage to a fashionable physician than acommon-place wife with a fortune. Dr. Rylance liked money; but he likedit only for what it could buy. He had no sons, and he was much too fondof himself to lead laborious days in order to leave a large fortune tohis daughter. He had bought a lease of his London house, which would lasthis time; he had bought the freehold of the Kingthorpe cottage; and hewas living up to his income. When he died there would be two houses offurniture, plate, pictures, horses and carriages, and the Kingthorpecottage, to be realized for Urania. He estimated these roughly as worthbetween six and seven thousand pounds, and he considered seven thousandpounds an ample fortune for his only daughter. Urania was in happyignorance of the modesty of his views. She imagined herself an heiress ona much larger scale. 

To offer himself to a penniless girl of whose belongings he knewabsolutely nothing, and to be peremptorily refused! Dr. Rylance couldhardly believe such a thing possible. The girl must be trifling with him, playing her fish, with the fixed intention of landing him presently. Itwas in the nature of girls to do that kind of thing. 'Why do you rejectme?' he asked seriously 'is it because I am old enough to be yourfather?'

'No, I would marry a man old enough to be my grandfather if I loved him, 'answered Ida, with cruel candour. 

'And I am to understand that your refusal is irrevocable? he urged. 

'Quite irrevocable. But I hope you believe that I am grateful for thehonour you have done me. '

'That is the correct thing to say upon such occasions, answered Dr. Rylance, coldly; 'I wonder the sentence is not written in your copybooks, among those moral aphorisms which are of so little use in afterlife. '

'The phrase may seem conventional, but in my case it means much more thanusual, ' said Ida; 'a girl who has neither money nor friends has goodreason to be grateful when a gentleman asks her to be his wife. '

'I wish I could be grateful for your gratitude, ' said Dr. Rylance, 'but Ican't. I want your love, and nothing else. Is it on Urania's account thatyou reject me?' he urged. 'If you think that she would be a hindrance toyour happiness, pray dismiss the thought. If she did not accommodateherself pleasantly to my choice her life would have to be spent apartfrom us. I would brook no rebellion. '

The cruel look had come into Dr. Rylance's eyes. He was desperatelyangry. He was surprised, humiliated, indignant. Never had the possibilityof rejection occurred to him. It had been for him to decide whether hewould or would not take this girl for his wife; and after dueconsideration of her merits and all surrounding circumstances, he haddecided that he would take her. 

'Is my daughter the stumbling-block?' he urged. 

'No, ' she answered, 'there is no stumbling-block. I would marry youto-morrow, if I felt that I could love you as a wife ought to love herhusband. I said once--only a little while ago--that I would marry formoney. I find that I am not so base as I thought myself. '

'Perhaps the temptation is not large enough, ' said Dr. Rylance. 'If I hadbeen Brian Wendover, and the owner of Kingthorpe Abbey, you would hardlyhave rejected me so lightly. '

Ida crimsoned to the roots of her hair. The shaft went home. It was as ifDr. Rylance had been inside her mind and knew all the foolish day-dreamsshe had dreamed in the idle summer afternoons, under the spreading cedarbranches, or beside the lake in the Abbey grounds. Before she had time toexpress her resentment a cluster of young Wendovers came sweeping downthe greensward at her side, and in the next minute Blanche was hangingupon her bodily, like a lusty parasite strangling a slim young tree. 

'Darling, ' cried Blanche gaspingly, 'such news. Brian has come--cousinBrian--after all, though he thought he couldn't. But he made a greateffort, and he has come all the way as fast as he could tear to be hereon Bessie's birthday. Isn't it too jolly?'

'All the way from Norway?' asked Ida. 

'Yes, ' said Urania, who had been carried down the hill with the torrentof Wendovers, 'all the way from Norway. Isn't it nice of him?'

Blanche's frank face was brimming over with smiles. The boys were alllaughing. How happy Brian's coming had made them!

Ida looked at them wonderingly. 

'How pleased you all seem!' she said. 'I did not know you were so fond ofyour cousin. I thought it was the other you liked. '

'Oh, we like them both, ' said Blanche, 'and it is so nice of Brian tocome on purpose for Bessie's birthday. Do come and see him. He is on thetop of the hill talking to Bess; and the kettle boils, and we are justgoing to have tea. We are all starving. '

'After such a dinner!' exclaimed Ida. 

'Such a dinner, indeed!--two or three legs of fowls and a plate or so ofpie!' ejaculated Reginald, contemptuously. 'I began to be hungry aquarter of an hour afterwards. Come and see Brian. '

Ida looked round her wonderingly, feeling as if she was in a dream. 

Dr. Rylance had disappeared. Urania was smiling at her sweetly, moresweetly than it was her wont to smile at Ida Palliser. 

'One would think she knew that I had refused her father, ' mused Ida. 

They all climbed the hill, the children talking perpetually, Idaunusually silent. The smoke of a gipsy fire was going up from a hollownear the Druid altar, and two figures were standing beside the altar;one, a young man, with his arm resting on the granite slab, and his headbent as he talked, with seeming earnestness, to Bessie Wendover. Heturned as the crowd approached, and Bessie introduced him to MissPalliser. 'My cousin Brian--my dearest friend Ida, ' she said. 

'She is desperately fond of the Abbey, ' said Blanche; 'so I hope she willlike you. "Love me, love my dog, " says the proverb, so I suppose onemight say, "Love my house, love me. "'

Ida stood silent amidst her loquacious friends, looking at the strangerwith a touch of wonder. No, this was not the image which she had picturedto herself. Mr. Wendover was very good-looking--interesting even; he hadthe kind of face which women call nice--a pale complexion, dreamy grayeyes, thin lips, a well-shaped nose, a fairly intellectual forehead. Butthe Brian of her fancies was a man of firmer mould, larger features, amore resolute air, an eye with more fire, a brow marked by strongerlines. For some unknown reason she had fancied the master of the Abbeylike that Sir Tristram Wendover who had been so loyal a subject and sobrave a soldier, and before whose portrait she had so often lingered indreamy contemplation. 

'And you have really come all the way from Norway to be at Bessie'spicnic?' she faltered at last, feeling that she was expected to saysomething. 

'I would have come a longer distance for the sake of such a pleasantmeeting, ' he answered, smiling at her. 

'Bessie, ' cried Blanche, who had been grovelling on her knees before thegipsy fire, 'the kettle will go off the boil if you don't make teainstantly. If it were not your birthday I should make it myself. '

'You may, ' said Bessie, 'although it is my birthday. '

She had walked a little way apart with Urania, and they two were talkingsomewhat earnestly. 

'Those girls seem to be plotting something, ' said Reginald; 'a charadefor to-night, perhaps. It's sure to be stupid if Urania's in it. '

'You mean that it will be too clever, ' said Horatio. 

'Yes, that kind of cleverness which is the essence of stupidity. '

While Bessie and Miss Rylance conversed apart, and all the youngerWendovers devoted their energies to the preparation of a tremendous meal, Ida and Brian Wendover stood face to face upon the breezy hill-top, thegirl sorely embarrassed, the young man gazing at her as if he had neverseen anything so lovely in his life. 

'I have heard so much about you from Bessie, ' he said after a silencewhich seemed long to both. 'Her letters for the last twelve months havebeen a perpetual paean--like one of the Homeric hymns, with you for theheroine. I had quite a dread of meeting you, feeling that, after havingmy expectations strung up to such a pitch, I must be disappointed. Nothing human could justify Bessie's enthusiasm. '

'Please don't talk about it. Bessie's one weak point is her affection forme. I am very grateful. I love her dearly, but she does her best to makeme ridiculous. '

'I am beginning to think Bessie a very sensible girl, ' said Brian, longing to say much more, so deeply was he impressed by this goddess in aholland gown, with glorious eyes shining upon him under the shadow of acoarse straw hat. 

'Have you come back to Hampshire for good?' asked Ida, as they strolledtowards Bessie and Urania. 

'For good! No, I never stay long. '

'What a pity that lovely old Abbey should be deserted!'

'Yes, it is rather a shame, is it not? But then no one could expect ayoung man to live there except in the hunting season--or for the sake ofthe shooting. '

'Could anyone ever grow tired of such a place?' asked Ida. 

She was wondering at the young man's indifferent air, as if that solemnabbey, those romantic gardens, were of no account to him. She supposedthat this was in the nature of things. A man born lord of such an elysiumwould set little value upon his paradise. Was it not Eve's weariness ofEden which inclined her ear to the serpent?

And now the banquet was spread upon the short smooth turf, and everybodywas ordered to sit down. They made a merry circle, with the tea-kettle inthe centre, piles of cake, and bread and butter, and jam-pots surroundingit. Blanche and Horatio were the chief officiators, and were tremendouslybusy ministering to the wants of others, while they satisfied their ownhunger and thirst hurriedly between whiles. The damsel sat on the grasswith a big crockery teapot in her lap, while her brother watched andmanaged the kettle, and ran to and fro with cups and saucers. Bessie, asthe guest of honour, was commanded to sit still and look on. 

'Dreadfully babyish, isn't it?' said Urania, smiling with her superiorair at Brian, who had helped himself to a crust of home-made bread, and aliberal supply of gooseberry jam. 

'Uncommonly jolly, ' he answered gaily. 'I confess to a weakness for breadand jam. I wish people always gave it at afternoon teas. '

'Has it not a slight flavour of the nursery?'

'Of course it has. But a nursery picnic is ever so much better than aswell garden-party, and bread and jam is a great deal more wholesome thansalmon-mayonaise and Strasbourg pie. You may despise me as much as youlike, Miss Rylance. I came here determined to enjoy myself. '

'That is the right spirit for a picnic, ' said Ida, 'People with grandideas are not wanted. '

'And I suppose in the evening you will join in the dumb charades, andplay hide-and-seek in the garden, all among spiders and cockchafers. '

'I will do anything I am told to do, ' answered Brian, cheerily. 'But Ithink the season of the cockchafer is over. '

'What has become of Dr. Rylance?' asked Bessie, looking about her as ifshe had only that moment missed him. 

'I think he went back to the farm for his horse, ' said Urania. 'I supposehe found our juvenile sports rather depressing. '

'Well, he paid us a compliment in coming at all, ' answered Bessie, 'so wemust forgive him for getting tired of us. '

The drive home was very merry, albeit Bessie and her friend were to partnext morning--Ida to go back to slavery. They were both young enough tobe able to enjoy the present hour, even on the edge of darkness. 

Bessie clasped her friend's hand as they sat side by side in the landau. 

'You must come to us at Christmas, ' she whispered: 'I shall ask mother toinvite you. '

Brian was full of talk and gaiety as they drove home through the dusk. Hewas very different from that ideal Brian of Ida's girlish fancy--theBrian who embodied all her favourite attributes, and had all the finestqualities of the hero of romance. But he was an agreeable, well-bredyoung man, bringing with him that knowledge of life and the active worldwhich made his talk seem new and enlightening after the strictly localand domestic intellects of the good people with whom she had been living. 

With the family at The Knoll conversation had been bounded by Winchesteron one side, and Romsey on the other. There was an agreeable freshness inthe society of a young man who could talk of all that was newest inEuropean art and literature, and who knew how the world was beinggoverned. 

But this fund of information was hinted at rather than expressed. To-night Mr. Wendover seemed most inclined to mere nonsense talk--thelively nothings that please children. Of himself and his Norwegianadventures he said hardly anything. 

'I suppose when a man has travelled so much he gets to look upon strangecountries as a matter of course, ' speculated Ida. 'If I had just comefrom Norway, I should talk of nothing else. '

The dumb-charades and hide-and-seek were played, but only by the lowerorders, as Bessie called her younger brothers and sisters. 

Ida strolled in the moonlit garden with Mr. Wendover, Bessie Urania, andMr. Ratcliffe, a very juvenile curate, who was Bessie's admirer andslave. Urania had no particular admirer She felt that every one atKingthorpe must needs behold her with mute worship; but there was no oneso audacious as to give expression to the feeling; no one of sufficientimportance to be favoured with her smiles. She looked forward to herfirst season in London next year, and then she would be called upon tomake her selection. 

'She is worldly to the tips of her fingers, ' said Ida, as she and Bessietalked apart from the others for a few minutes: 'I wonder she does nottry to captivate your cousin. '

'What--Brian? Oh, he is not at all in her line. He would not suit her abit. '

'But don't you think it would suit her to be mistress of the Abbey?'

Bessie gave a little start, as if the idea were new. 

'I don't think she has ever thought of him in that light, ' she said. 

'Don't you? If she hasn't she is not the girl I think her. '

'Oh, I know she is very worldly; but I don't think she's so bad as that. '

'Not so bad as to be capable of marrying for money--no, I suppose not, 'said Ida, thoughtfully. 

'I'm sure you would not, darling, said Bessie. 'You talked about it once, when you were feeling bitter; but I know that in your heart of hearts younever meant it. You are much too high-minded. '

'I am not a bit high-minded. All my high-mindedness, if I ever had any, has been squeezed out of me by poverty. My only idea is to escape fromsubjection and humiliation--a degrading bondage to vulgar-minded people. '

'But would the escape be worth having at the cost of your owndegradation?' urged Bessie, who felt particularly heroic this evening, exalted by the moonlight, the loveliness of the garden, the thought ofparting with her dearest friend. 'Marry for love, dearest. Sacrificeeverything in this world rather than be false to yourself. '

'You dear little enthusiast, I may never be asked to make any suchsacrifice. I have not much chance of suitors at Mauleverer, as youknow--and as for falling in love--'

'Oh, you never know when the fatal moment may come. How do you likeBrian?'

'He is very gentlemanlike; he seems very well informed. '

'He is immensely clever, ' answered Bessie, almost offended at thislanguid praise; 'he is a man who might succeed in any line he chose forhimself. Do you think him handsome?'

'He is certainly nice looking. '

'How cool you are! I had set my heart upon your liking him. '

'What could come of my liking?' asked Ida with a touch of bitterness. 'Isthere a portionless girl in all England who would not like the master ofWendover Abbey?'

'But for his own sake, ' urged Bessie, with a vexed air; 'surely he isworthy of being liked for his own sake, without a thought of the Abbey. '

'I cannot dissociate him from that lovely old house and gardens. Indeed, to my mind he rather belongs to the Abbey than the Abbey belongs to him. You see I knew the Abbey first. '

Here they were interrupted by Brian and Urania, and presently Ida foundherself walking in the moonlight in a broad avenue of standard roses, atthe end of the garden, with Mr. Wendover by her side, and the voices ofthe other three sounding ever so far away. On the other side of a lowquickset hedge stretched a wide expanse of level meadow land, while inthe farther distance rose the Wiltshire hills, and nearer the heathyhighlands of the New Forest. The lamp-lit windows of Miss Wendover'scottage glimmered a little way off, across gardens and meadows. 

'And so you are really going to leave us to-morrow morning?' said Brian, regretfully. 

'By the eight o'clock train from Winchester. To-morrow evening I shall besitting on a form in a big bare class-room, listening to the babble of alot of girls pretending to learn their lessons. '

'Are you fond of teaching?'

'Just imagine to yourself the one occupation which is most odious to you, and then you may know how fond I am of teaching; and of school-girls; andof school-life altogether. '

'It is very hard that you should have to pursue such an uncongenialcareer. '

'It seems so to me; but, perhaps, that is my selfishness. I suppose halfthe people in this world have to live by work they hate. '

'Allowing for the number of people to whom all kind of work is hateful, Idare say you are right. But I think, in a general way, congenial workmeans successful work. No man hates the profession that brings him fameand money; but the doctor without patients, the briefless barrister, canhardly love law or medicine. '

He beguiled Ida into talking of her own life, with all its bitterness. There was something in his voice and manner which tempted her to confidein him. He seemed thoroughly sympathetic. 

'I keep forgetting what strangers we are, ' she said, apologizing for herunreserve. 

'We are not strangers. I have heard of you from Bessie so much that Iseem to have known you for years. I hope you will never think of me as astranger. '

'I don't think I ever can, after this conversation. I am afraid you willthink me horribly egotistical. '

She had been talking of her father and stepmother, the little brother sheloved so fondly, dwelling with delight upon his perfections. 

'I think you all that is good and noble. How I wish this were not yourlast evening at the Knoll!'

'Do you think I do not wish it? Hark, there's Bessie calling us. '

They went back to the house, and to the drawing-room, which wore quite afestive appearance, in honour of Bessie's birthday; ever so many extracandles dotted about, and a table laid with fruit and sandwiches, cakeand claret-cup, the children evidently considering a superfluity of mealsindispensable to a happy birthday. Blanche and her juniors were sittingabout the room, in the last stage of exhaustion after hide-and-seek. 

'This has been a capital birthday, ' said Horatio, wiping the perspirationfrom his brow, and then filling for himself a bumper of claret-cup; 'andnow we are going to dance. Blanche, give us the Faust Waltz, and go onplaying till we tell you to leave off. '

Blanche, considerably blown, and with her hair like a mop, sat down andbegan to touch the piano with resolute fingers and forcible rhythm. ONE, two, three, ONE, two, three. The boys pushed the furniture into thecorners. Brian offered himself to Ida; Bessie insisted upon surrenderingthe curate to Urania, and took one of her brothers for a partner; and thethree couples went gliding round the pretty old room, the cool nightbreezes blowing in upon them from wide-open windows. 

They danced and played, and sang and talked, till midnight chimed fromthe old eight-day clock in the hall, --a sound which struck almost as muchconsternation to Bessie's soul as if she had been Cinderella at the royalball. 

'TWELVE O'CLOCK! and the little ones all up!' she exclaimed, lookinground the circle of towzled heads with remorseful eyes. 'What wouldmother say? And she told me she relied on my discretion! Go to bed, everyone of you, this instant!'

'Oh, come, now, ' remonstrated Blanche, 'there's no use in hustling us offlike that, after letting us sit up hours after our proper time. I'm goingto have another sandwich; and there's not a bit of good in leaving allthose raspberry tarts. The servants won't thank us. _They_ have as manyjam tarts as they like. '

'You greedy little wretches; you have been doing nothing but eat allday, ' said Ida. 'When I am back at Mauleverer I shall remember you onlyas machines for the consumption of pudding and jam. Obey your grown-upsister, and go to bed directly. '

'Grown up, indeed! How long has she been grown up, I should like toknow!' exclaimed Blanche vindictively. 'She's only an inch and a quartertaller than me, and she's a mere dumpling compared with Horry. '

The lower orders were got rid of somehow--driven to their quarters, as itwere, at the point of the bayonet; and then the grown-ups bade each othergood-night; the curate escorting Miss Rylance to her home, and Briangoing up to the top floor to a bachelor's room. 

'Who is going to drive Miss Palliser to the station?' he asked, as theystood, candlestick in hand, at the foot of the stairs. 

'I am, of course, ' answered Reginald. 'Robin will spin us over the hillsin no time. I've ordered the car for seven sharp. '

There was very little sleep for either Bessie or her guest that night. Both girls were excited by memories of the day that was past, and bythoughts of the day that was coming. Ida was brooding a little upon herdisappointment in Brian Wendover. He had very pleasant manners, he seemedsoft-hearted and sympathetic, he was very good-looking--but he was notthe Brian of her dreams. That ideal personage had never existed outsideher imagination. It was a shock to her girlish fancy. There was a senseof loss in her mind. 

'I must be very silly, ' she told herself, 'to make a fancy picture of aperson, and to be vexed with him because he does not resemble myportrait. '

She was disappointed, and yet she was interested in this newacquaintance. He was the first really interesting young man she had evermet, and he was evidently interested in her. And then she pictured him atthe Abbey, in the splendid solitude of those fine old rooms, leading thecalm, studious life which Bessie had talked of--an altogether enviablelife, Ida thought. 

Mr. Wendover was in the dining-room at half-past six when the two girlswent down to breakfast. All the others came trooping down a few minutesafterwards, Reginald got up to the last degree of four-in-handishnesswhich the resources of his wardrobe allowed, and with a flower in hisbuttonhole. There was a loud cry for eggs and bacon, kippered herrings, marmalade, Yorkshire cakes; but neither Ida nor Bessie could eat. 

'Do have a good breakfast, ' pleaded Blanche affectionately; 'you will behaving bread and scrape to-morrow. We have got a nice hamper for you, with a cake and a lot of jam puffs and things; but those will only last ashort time. '

'You dear child, I wouldn't mind the bread and scrape, if there were onlya little love to flavour it, ' answered Ida softly. 

The jaunting-car came to the door as the clock struck seven. Ida'sluggage was securely bestowed, then, after a perfect convulsion ofkissing, she was banded to her place, Reginald jumped into his seat andtook the reins, and Brian seated himself beside Ida. 

'You are not going with them?' exclaimed Bessie. 

'Yes I am, to see that Miss Palliser is not spilt on the hills. '

'What rot!' cried Reginald. 'I should be rather sorry for myself if Iwere not able to manage Robin. '

'This is a new development in you, who are generally the laziest ofliving creatures, ' said Bessie to Brian, and before he could reply, Robinwas bounding cheerily through the village, making very little account ofthe jaunting-car and its occupants. Urania was at her garden gate, freshand elegant-looking in pale blue cambric. She smiled at Ida, and wavedher a most gracious farewell. 

'I don't think I ever saw Miss Rylance look so amiable, ' said Ida. 'Shedoes not often favour me with her smiles. '

'Are you enemies?' asked Brian. 

'Not open foes; we have always maintained an armed neutrality. I don'tlike her, and she doesn't like me, and we both know it. But perhaps Iought not to be so candid. She may be a favourite of yours. '

'She might be, but she is not. She is very elegant, verylady-like--according to her own lights--very viperish. '

It was a lovely drive in the crisp clear air, across the breezy hills. Ida could not help enjoying the freshness of morning, the beauty ofearth, albeit she was going from comfort to discomfort, from love to coldindifference or open enmity. 

'How I delight in this landscape!' she exclaimed. 'Is it not ever so muchbetter than Norway?' appealing to Brian. 

'It is a milder, smaller kind of beauty, ' he answered. 'Would you notlike to see Norway?'

'I would like to see all that is lovely on earth; yet I think I could becontent to spend, a life-time here. This must seem strange to you, whogrow weary of that beautiful Abbey. '

'It is not of his house, but of himself, that a man grows weary, 'answered Brian. 

Robin was in a vivacious humour, and rattled the car across the hills ata good pace. They had a quarter of an hour to wait at the busy littlestation. Brian and Ida walked up and down the platform talking, whileReginald looked after the pony and the luggage. They found so much to sayto each other, that the train seemed to come too soon. 

They bade each other good-bye with a tender look on Brian's part, a blushon Ida's. Reginald had to push his cousin away from the carriage window, in order to get a word with the departing guest. 

'We shall all miss you awfully, ' he said; 'but mind, you must come backat Christmas. '

'I shall be only too glad, if Mrs. Wendover will have me. Good-bye. '

The train moved slowly forward, and she was gone. 

'Isn't she a stunner?' asked Reginald of his cousin, as they stood on theplatform looking at each other blankly. 

'She is the handsomest girl I ever saw, and out and away the nicest, 'answered Brian. 

CHAPTER VII. 

IN THE RIVER-MEADOW. 

The old hackneyed round of daily life at Mauleverer Manor seemed just alittle worse to Ida Palliser after that happy break of six weeks' pureand perfect enjoyment. Miss Pew was no less exacting than of old. MissPillby, for whose orphaned and friendless existence there had been nosuch thing as a holiday, and who had spent the vacation at Maulevererdiligently employed in mending the house-linen, resented Ida's visit toThe Knoll as if it were a personal injury, and vented her envy in sneersand innuendoes of the coarsest character. 

'If _I_ were to spoon upon one of the rich pupils, I dare say I could getinvited out for the holidays, ' she said, _apropos_ to nothing particular;'but I am thankful to say I am above such meanness. '

'I never laid myself under an obligation I didn't feel myself able toreturn, ' said Miss Motley, the English governess, who had spent herholidays amidst the rank and fashion of Margate. 'When I go to thesea-side with my sister and her family, I pay my own expenses, and I feelI've a right to be made comfortable. '

Miss Pillby, who had flattered and toadied every well-to-do pupil, andlaboured desperately to wind herself into the affections of BessieWendover, that warm-hearted young person seeming particularly accessibleto flattery, felt herself absolutely injured by the kindness that hadbeen lavished upon Ida. She drank in with greedy ears Miss Palliser'sdescription of The Knoll and its occupants--the picnics, carpet-dances, afternoon teas; and the thought that all these enjoyments andfestivities, the good things to eat and drink, the pleasant society, ought to have been hers instead of Ida's, was wormwood. 

'When I think of my kindness to Bessie Wendover, ' she said to MissMotley, in the confidence of that one quiet hour which belonged to themistresses after the pupils' curfew-bell had rung youth and hope andgaiety into retirement, 'when I think of the mustard poultices I have putupon her chest, and the bronchial troches I have given her when she hadthe slightest touch of cold or cough, I am positively appalled at theingratitude of the human race. '

'I don't think she likes bronchial troches, ' said Miss Motley, a verymatter-of-fact young person who saved money, wore thick boots, and wasnever unprovided with an umbrella: 'I have seen her throw them awaydirectly after you gave them to her. '

'She ought to have liked them, ' exclaimed Miss Pillby, sternly. 'They arevery expensive. '

'No doubt she appreciated your kindness, ' said Miss Motley, absently, being just then absorbed in an abstruse calculation as to how many yardsof merino would be required for her winter gown. 

'No, she did not, ' said Miss Pillby. 'If she had been grateful she wouldhave invited me to her home. I should not have gone, but the act wouldhave given me a higher idea of her character. '

'Well, she is gone, and we needn't trouble ourselves any more about her, 'retorted Miss Motley, who hated to be plagued about abstract questions, being a young woman of an essentially concrete nature, born to consumeand digest three meals a day, and having no views that go beyond thatfunction. 

Miss Pillby sighed at finding herself in communion with so coarse anature. 

'I don't easily get over a blow of that sort, ' she said; 'I am tootender-hearted. '

'So you are, ' acquiesced Miss Motley. 'It doesn't pay in a bigboarding-school, however it may answer in private families. '

Ida, having lost her chief friend and companion, Bessie Wendover, foundlife at Mauleverer Manor passing lonely. She even missed the excitementof her little skirmishes, her passages-at-arms, with Urania Rylance, inwhich she had generally got the best of the argument. There had been lifeand emotion in these touch-and-go speeches, covert sneers, quick retorts, innuendoes met and flung back in the very face of the sneerer. Now therewas nothing but dull, dead monotony. Many of the old pupils had departed, and many new pupils had come, daughters of well-to-do parents, prosperous, well-dressed, talking largely of the gaieties enjoyed bytheir elder sisters, of the wonderful things done by their brothers atOxford or Cambridge, and of the grand things which were to happen two orthree year hence, when they themselves should be 'out. ' Ida took nointerest in their prattle. It was so apt to sting her with the reminderof her own poverty, the life of drudgery and dependence that was to beher portion till the end of her days. She did not, in the Maulevererphraseology, 'take to' the new girls. She left them to be courted by MissPillby, and petted by Miss Dulcibella. She felt as lonely as one who hasoutlived her generation. 

Happily the younger girls in the class which she taught were fond of her, and when she wanted company she let these juveniles cluster round her inher garden rambles; but in a general way she preferred loneliness, and towork at the cracked old piano in the room where she slept. Beethoven andChopin, Mozart and Mendelssohn were companions of whom she never grewweary. 

So the slow days wore on till nearly the end of the month, and on onecool, misty, afternoon, when the river flowed sluggishly under a dullgrey sky she walked alone along that allotted extent of the river-sidepath which the mistresses and pupil-teachers were allowed to promenadewithout _surveillance_. This river walk skirted a meadow which was inMiss Pew's occupation, and ranked as a part of the Mauleverer grounds, although it was divided by the high road from the garden proper. 

A green paling, and a little green gate, always padlocked, secured thismeadow from intrusion on the road-side, but it was open to the river. Tobe entrusted with the key of this pastoral retreat was a privilege onlyaccorded to governesses and pupil-teachers. 

It was supposed by Miss Pew that no young person in her employment wouldbe capable of walking quite alone, where it was within the range ofpossibility that her solitude might be intruded upon by an unknown memberof the opposite sex. She trusted, as she said afterwards, in the refinedfeeling of any person brought into association with her, and, untilrudely awakened by facts, she never would have stooped from the loftypinnacle of her own purity to suspect the evil consequences which arosefrom the liberty too generously accorded to her dependents. 

Ida detested Miss Pillby and despised Miss Motley; and the greatestrelief she knew to the dismal monotony of her days was a lonely walk bythe river, with a shabby Wordsworth or a battered little volume ofShelley's minor poems for her companions. She possessed so few books thatit was only natural for her to read those she had until love ripened withfamiliarity. 

On this autumnal afternoon she walked with slow steps, while the riverwent murmuring by, and now and then a boat drifted lazily down thestream. The boating season was over for the most part--the season ofpicnics and beanfeasts, and Cockney holiday-making, and noisy revelry, smart young women, young men in white flannels, with bare arms andsunburnt noses. It was the dull blank time when everybody who couldafford to wander far from this suburban paradise, was away upon his andher travels. Only parsons, doctors, schoolmistresses, and poverty stayedat home. Yet now and then a youth in boating costume glided by, hisshoulders bending slowly to the lazy dip of his oars, his keel now andthen making a rushing sound among long trailing weeds. 

Such a youth presently came creeping along the bank, almost at Ida'sfeet, but passed her unseen. Her heavy lids were drooping, her eyesintent upon the familiar page. The young man looked up at her with keengray eyes, recognised her, and pushed his boat in among the rushes by thebank, moored it to a pollard willow, and with light footstep leaped onshore. 

He landed a few yards in the rear of Ida's slowly moving figure, followedsoftly, came close behind her, and read aloud across her shoulder:

'There was a Power in this sweet place, An Eve in this garden; a ruling graceWhich to the flowers, did they waken or dream, Was as God is to the starry scheme. '

Ida looked round, first indignant, then laughing. 

'How you startled me!' she exclaimed; 'I thought you were some horrid, impertinent stranger; and yet the voice had a familiar sound. How arethey all at The Knoll? It is nearly a fortnight since Bessie wrote to me. If she only knew how I hunger for her letters. '

'Very sweet of you, ' answered Mr. Wendover, holding the girl's hand witha lingering pressure, releasing it reluctantly when her rising colourtold him it would be insolent to keep it longer. 

How those large dark eyes beamed with pleasure at seeing him! Was it forhis own sake, or for love of her friends at Kingthorpe? The smile wasperhaps too frank to be flattering. 

'Very sweet of you to care so much for Bessie's girlish epistles, ' hesaid lazily; 'they are full of affection, but the style of compositionalways recalls our dear Mrs. Nickleby. "Aunt Betsy was asking after youthe other day: and that reminds me that the last litter of blackHampshires was sixteen--the largest number father ever remembers having. The vicar and his wife are coming to dinner on Tuesday, and do tell me ifthis new picture that everybody is talking about is really better thanthe Derby Day, " and that sort of thing. Not a very consecutive style, don't you know. '

'Every word is interesting to me, ' said Ida, with a look that told himshe was not one of those young ladies who enjoy a little good-naturedridicule of their nearest and dearest. 'Is it long since you leftKingthorpe?'

'Not four-and-twenty hours. I promised Bessie that my very firstoccupation on coming to London should be to make my way down here to seeyou, in order that I may tell her faithfully and truly whether you arewell and happy. She has a lurking conviction that you are unable to livewithout her, that you will incontinently go into a galloping consumption, and keep the fact concealed from all your friends until they receive atelegram summoning them to your death-bed. I know that is the pictureBessie's sentimental fancies have depicted. '

'I did not think Bessie was so morbid, ' said Ida, laughing. 'No, I am notone of those whom the gods love. I am made of very tough material, or Ishould hardly have lived till now. I see before me a perspective oflonely, loveless old age--finishing in a governess' almshouse. I hopethere are almshouses for governesses. 

'Nobody will pity your loneliness or lovelessness, ' retorted Brian, ' forthey will both be your own fault. '

She blushed, looking dreamily across the dark-gray river to the levelshores beyond--the low meadows--gentle hills in the back-ground--thewooded slopes of Weybridge and Chertsey. If this speaker, whose voicedropped to so tender a tone, had been like the Brian of herimaginings--if he had looked at her with the dark eyes of Sir Tristram'spicture, how differently his speech would have affected her! As it was, she listened with airy indifference, only blushing girlishly at hiscompliment, and wondering a little if he really admired her--he theowner of that glorious old Abbey--the wealthy head of the house ofWendover--the golden fish for whom so many pretty fishers must haveangled in days gone by. 

'Did you stay at The Knoll all the time, ' she inquired, her thoughtshaving flown back to Kingthorpe; 'or at the Abbey?'

'At The Knoll. It is ever so much livelier, and my cousins like to haveme with them. '

'Naturally. But I wonder you did not prefer living in that lovely oldhouse of yours. To occupy it must seem like living in the Middle Ages. '

'Uncommonly. One is twelve miles from a station, and four frompost-office, butcher, and baker. Very like the Middle Ages. There is nogas even in the offices, and there are as many rats behind the wainscotas there were Israelites in Egypt. All the rooms are draughty and someare damp. No servant who has not been born and bred on the estate willstay more than six months. There is a deficient water supply in drysummers, and there are three distinct ghosts all the year round. Extremely like the Middle Ages. '

'I would not mind ghosts, rats, anything, if it were my house' exclaimedIda, enthusiastically. 'The house is a poem. '

'Perhaps; but it is not a house; in the modern sense of the word, that isto say, which implies comfort and convenience. '

Ida sighed, deeply disgusted at this want of appreciation of the romanticspot where she had dreamed away more than one happy summer noontide, while the Wendover children played hide-and-seek in the overgrown oldshrubberies. 

No doubt life was always thus. The people to whom blind fortune gave suchblessings were unable to appreciate them, and only the hungry outsiderscould imagine the delight of possession. 

'Are you living in London now?' she asked, as Mr. Wendover lingered ather side, and seemed to expect the conversation to be continuedindefinitely. 

His boat was safe enough, moving gently up and down among the rushes, with the gentle flow of the tide. Ida looked at it longingly, thinkinghow sweet it would be to step into it and let it carry her--any whither, so long as it was away from Mauleverer Manor. 

'Yes, I am in London for the present. '

'But not for long, I suppose. '

'I hardly know. I have no plans. I won't say with Romeo that I amfortune's fool--but I am fortune's shuttlecock; and I suppose that meanspretty much the same. '

'It was very kind of you to come to see me, ' said Ida. 

'Kind to myself, for in coming I indulged the dearest wish of my soul, 'said the young man, looking at her with eyes whose meaning even herinexperience could not misread. 

'Please don't pay me compliments, ' she said, hastily, 'or I shall feelvery sorry you came. And now I must hurry back to the house--the tea-bellwill ring in a few minutes. Please tell Bessie I am very well, and onlylonging for one of her dear letters. Good-bye. '

She made him a little curtsey, and would have gone without shaking hands, but he caught her hand and detained her in spite of herself. 

'Don't be angry, ' he pleaded; 'don't look at me with such cold, proudeyes. Is it an offence to admire, to love you too quickly? If it is, Ihave sinned deeply, and am past hope of pardon. Must one serve anapprenticeship to mere formal acquaintance first, then rise step by stepto privileged friendship, before one dares to utter the sweet word love?Remember, at least, that I am your dearest friend's first cousin, andought not to appear to you as a stranger. '

'I can remember nothing when you talk so wildly, ' said Ida, crimson tothe roots of her hair. Never before had a young lover talked to her oflove. 'Pray let me go. Miss Pew will be angry if I am not at tea. '

'To think that such a creature as you should be under the control of anysuch harpy, ' exclaimed Brian. 'Well, if I must go, at least tell me I amforgiven, and that I may exist upon the hope of seeing you again. Isuppose if I were to come to the hall-door, and send in my card, I shouldnot be allowed to see you?'

'Certainly not. Not if you were my own cousin instead of Bessie's. Good-bye. '

'Then I shall happen to be going by in my boat every afternoon for thenext month or so. There is a dear good soul at the lock who letslodgings. I shall take up my abode there. '

'Please never land on this pathway again, ' said Ida earnestly 'Miss Pewwould be horribly angry if she heard I had spoken to you. And now I mustgo. '

She withdrew her hand from his grasp, and ran off across the meadow, light-footed as Atalanta. Her heart was beating wildly, beatingfuriously, when she flew up to her room to take off her hat and jacketand smooth her disordered hair. Never before had any man, exceptmiddle-aged Dr. Rylance, talked to her of love: and that this man of allothers, this man, sole master of the old mansion she so intenselyadmired, her friend's kinsman, owner of a good old Saxon name; this man, who could lift her in a moment from poverty to wealth, from obscurity toplace and station; that this man should look at her with admiring eyes, and breathe impassioned words into her ear, was enough to set her heartbeating tumultuously, to bring hot blushes to her cheeks. It was too wilda dream. 

True, that for the man himself, considered apart from his belongings, hisname and race, she cared not at all. But just now, in this tumult ofexcited feeling, she was disposed to confuse the man with hissurroundings--to think of him, not as that young man with gray eyes andthin lips, who had walked with her at The Knoll, who had stood beside herjust now by the river, but as the living embodiment of fortune, pride, delight. 

Perhaps the vision really dominant in her mind was the thought ofHerself as mistress of the Abbey, herself as living for ever among thepeople she loved, amidst those breezy Hampshire hills, in the odour ofpine-woods--rich, important, honoured, and beloved, doing good to all whocame within the limit of her life. Yes, that was a glorious vision, andits reflected light shone upon Brian Wendover, and in somewise glorifiedhim. 

She went down to tea with such a triumphant light in her eyes that thesmaller pupils who sat at her end of the table, so as to be under her_surveillance_ during the meal, exclaimed at her beauty. 

'What a colour you've got, Miss Palliser!' said Lucy Dobbs, 'and how youreyes sparkle! You look as if you'd just had a hamper. '

'I'm not quite so greedy as you, Lucy, ' retorted Ida; 'I don't think ahamper would make my eyes sparkle, even if there were anybody to send meone. '

'But there is somebody to send you one, ' argued Lucy, with her mouth fullof bread and butter; 'your father isn't dead?'

'No. '

'Then he might send you a hamper. '

'He might, if he lived within easy reach of Mauleverer Manor, ' repliedIda; 'but as he lives in France--'

'He could send a post-office order to a confectioner in London, and theconfectioner would send you a big box of cakes, and marmalade, and jam, and mixed biscuits, and preserved ginger, ' said Lucy, her cheeks glowingwith the rapture of her theme. 'That is what my mamma and papa did, whenthey were in Switzerland, on my birthday. I never had such a hamper asthat one. I was ill for a week afterwards. '

'And I suppose you were very glad your mother and father were away, ' saidIda, while the other children laughed in chorus. 

'It was a splendid hamper, ' said Lucy, stolidly. 'I shall never forgetit. So you see your father might send you a hamper, ' she went on, for thesake of argument, 'though he is in France. '

'Certainly, ' said Ida, 'if I were not too old to care about cakes andjam. '

'_We_ are not too old, ' persisted Lucy; 'you might share them among us. '

Ida's heart had not stilled its stormy vehemence yet. She talked likelyto her young companions, and tried to eat a little bread and butter, butthat insipid fare almost choked her. Her mind was overcharged withthought and wonder. 

Could he have meant all or half he said just now?--this young man withthe delicate features, pale complexion, and thin lips. He had seemedintensely earnest. Those gray eyes of his, somewhat too pale of hue forabsolutely beauty, had glowed with a fire which even Ida's inexperiencerecognised as something above and beyond common feeling. His hand hadtrembled as it clasped hers. Could there be such a thing as love at firstsight? and was she destined to be the object of that romantic passion?She had read of the triumphs of beauty, and she knew that she washandsome. She had been told the fact in too many ways--by praisesometimes, but much more often by envy--to remain unconscious of hercharms. She was scornful of her beauty, inclined to undervalue the giftas compared with the blessings of other girls--a prosperous home, theworld's respect, the means to gratify the natural yearnings of youth--butshe knew that she was beautiful. And now it seemed to her all at oncethat beauty was a much more valuable gift than she had supposedhitherto--indeed, a kind of talisman or Aladdin's lamp, which could winfor her all she wanted in this world--Wendover Abbey and the position ofa country squire's wife. It was not a dazzling or giddy height to whichto aspire; but to Ida just now it seemed the topmost pinnacle of socialsuccess. 

'Oh, what a wretch I am!' she said to herself presently; 'what adespicable, mercenary creature! I don't care a straw for this man; andyet I am already thinking of myself as his wife. '

And then, remembering how she had once openly declared her intention ofmarrying for money, she shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. 

'Ought I to hesitate when the chance comes to me?' she thought. 'I alwaysmeant to marry for money, if ever such wonderful fortune as a richhusband fell in my way. '

And yet she had refused Dr. Rylance's offer, without a moment'shesitation. Was it really as he had said, in the bitterness of his wrath, because the offer was not good enough, the temptation not large enough?No, she told herself, she had rejected the smug physician, with his WestEnd mansion and dainty Hampshire villa, his courtly manners, his perfectdress, because the man himself was obnoxious to her. Now, she did notdislike Brian Wendover--indeed, she was rather inclined to like him. Shewas only just a little disappointed that he was not the ideal Brian ofher dreams. The dark-browed cavalier, with grave forehead and eagle eyes. She had a vague recollection of having once heard Blanche say that hercousin Brian of the Abbey was like Sir Tristram's portrait; but this musthave been a misapprehension upon her part, since no two faces could havediffered more than the pale delicate-featured countenance of the livingman and the dark rugged face in the picture. 

She quieted the trouble of her thoughts as well as she could before teawas over and the evening task of preparation, --the gulfs and straits, thepredicates and noun sentences, rule of three, common denominators, andall the dry-as-dust machinery was set in motion again. 

Helping her pupils through their difficulties, battling with theirstupidities, employed her too closely for any day-dreams of her own. Butwhen prayers had been read, and the school had dispersed, and thebutterfly-room was hushed into the silence of midnight, Ida Palliser laybroad awake, wondering at what Fate was doing for her. 

'To think that perhaps I am going to be rich after all--honoured, lookedup to, able to help those I love, ' she thought, thrilling at thesplendour of her visions. 

Ah! if this thing were verily to come to pass, how kind, how good shewould be to others! She would have them all at the Abbey, --the shabby oldhalf-pay father, shabby no longer in those glorious days; the vulgarlittle stepmother, improved into elegance; the five-year old brother, that loveliest and dearest of created beings. How lovely to see himrioting in the luxuriance of those dear old gardens, rolling on thatvelvet sward, racing his favourite dogs round and round the grand oldcedars! What a pony he should ride! His daily raiment should be Genoavelvet and old point lace. He should be the admiration and delight ofhalf the county. And Bessie--how kind she could be to Bessie, repayingin some small measure that which never could be fully repaid--thekindness shown by the prosperous girl to the poor dependent. And aboveall, --vision sweeter even than the thought of doing good, --how she wouldtrample on Urania Rylance--how the serpentine coils of that damsel'smalice and pride could be trodden under foot! Not a ball, not a dinner, not a garden-party given at the Abbey that would not be a thorn inUrania's side, a nail in Urania's coffin. 

So ran her fancies--in a very fever--all through the troubled night; butwhen the first streak of the autumn dawn glimmered coldly in the east, dismal presage of the discordant dressing-bell, then she turned upon herpillow with a weary sigh, and muttered to herself:--

'After all I daresay Mr. Wendover is only fooling me. Perhaps it is hishabit to make love to every decent-looking girl he meets. '

The next day Ida walked on the same riverside path, but this timenot alone. Her natural modesty shrank from the possibility of a second_tête-à-tête_ with her admirer, and she stooped from her solitary stateto ask Fräulein Wolf to accompany her in her afternoon walk. 

Fräulein was delighted, honoured even, by the request. She was awishy-washy person, sentimental, vapourish, altogether feeble, and sheintensely admired Ida Palliser's vigorous young beauty. 

The day was bright and sunny, the air deliciously mild, the river simplydivine. The two young women paced the path slowly, talking of Germanpoetry. The Fräulein knew her Schiller by heart, having expounded himdaily for the last four years, and she fondly believed that afterShakespeare Schiller was the greatest poet who had ever trodden thisglobe. 

'And if God had spared him for twenty more years, who knows if he wouldnot have been greater than Shakespeare? inquired the Fräulein, blandly. 

She talked of Schiller's idea of friendship, as represented by theMarquis of Posa. 

'Ah, ' sighed Ida, 'I doubt if there is any such friendship as that out ofa book. '

'I could be like the marquis, ' said the Fräulein, smiling tenderly. ' Oh, Ida, you don't know what I would do for anyone I loved--for a dear andvalued friend, like you for instance, if you would only let me love you;but you have always held me at arm's length. '

'I did not mean to do so, ' answered Ida, frankly; 'but perhaps I am notparticularly warm-hearted. It is not in my nature to have many friends. Iwas very fond of Bessie Wendover, but then she is such a dear clingingthing, like a chubby child that puts its fat arms round your neck--anirresistible creature. She made me love her in spite of myself. '

'Why cannot I make you love me?' asked the fair Gertrude, with alanguishing look. 

Ida could have alleged several reasons, but they would have beenunflattering, so she only said feebly, --

'Oh, I really like you very much, and I enjoy talking about Germanliterature with you. Tell me more about Schiller--you know his poetry sowell--and Jean Paul. I never can quite understand the German idolatry ofhim. He is too much in the clouds for me. '

'Too philosophic, you mean, ' said Fräulein. 'I love philosophy. '

'"Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, it helps not, it avails not, "'said a manly voice from the river close by, and Brian Wendover shot hisboat in against the bank and leapt up from among the rushes like ariver-god. 

Miss Palliser blushed crimson, but it hardly needed her blushes toconvince Fräulein Wolf that this young stranger was a lover. Hersentimental soul thrilled at the idea of having plunged into the verymidst of an intrigue. 

Ida's heart throbbed heavily, not so much with emotion at beholding heradmirer as at the recollection of her visions last night. She tried tolook calm and indifferent. 

'How do you do?' she said, shaking hands with him. 'Mr. Wendover--MissWolf, our German mistress. '

The Fräulein blushed, sniggered, and curtseyed. 

'This gentleman is Bessie Wendover's first cousin, Fräulein, ' said Ida, with an explanatory air. 'He was staying at The Knoll during the lastpart of my visit. '

'Yes, and you saw much of each other, and you became heart-friends, 'gushed Miss Wolf, beaming benevolently at Brian with her pale green orbs. 

Brian answered in very fair German, sinking his voice a little so as onlyto be heard by the Fräulein, who was in raptures with this youngstranger. So good-looking, so elegant, and speaking Hanoverian German. Hetold her that he had seen only too little of Ida at The Knoll, but enoughto know that she was his 'Schicksal'; and then he took the Fräulein'shand and pressed it gently. 

'I know you are our friend, ' he said. 

'Bis den Tod, ' gasped Gertrude. 

After this no one felt any more restraint. The Fräulein dropped into herplace of confidante as easily as possible. 

'What brings you here again this afternoon, Mr. Wendover?' asked Ida, trying to sustain the idea of being unconcerned in the matter. 

'My load-star; the same that drew me here yesterday, and will draw mehere to-morrow. '

'You had better not come here any more; you have no idea what a terribleperson Miss Pew is. These river-side fields are her own particularproperty. Didn't you see the board, "Trespassers will be prosecuted"?'

'Let her prosecute. If her wrath were deadly, I would risk it You knowwhat Borneo says--

"Wert thou as farAs that vast shore washed with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandize"

And shall I be afraid of Miss Pew, when the path to my paradise lies sonear?'

'Please don't talk such nonsense, ' pleaded Ida; 'Fräulein will think youa very absurd person. '

But Miss Wolf protested that she would think nothing of the sort. Sentiment of that kind was her idea of common sense. 

'I am established at Penton Hook, ' said Brian. 'I live on the water, andmy only thought in life is to be near you. I shall know every stump ofwillow--every bulrush before I am a month older. '

'But surely you are not going to stay at Penton Hook for a month!'exclaimed Ida, 'buried alive in that little lock-house?'

'I shall have my daily resurrection when I see you. '

'But you cannot imagine that I shall walk upon this path every afternoon, in order that you may land and talk nonsense?' protested Ida. 

'I only imagine that this path is your daily walk, and that you would notbe so heartless as to change your habits in order to deprive me of thesunshine of your presence, ' replied Brian, gazing at her tenderly, as ifMiss Wolf counted for nothing, and they two were standing alone among thereeds and willows. 

'You will simply make this walk impossible for me. It is quite out of thequestion that I should come here again so long as you are likely to belying in wait for me. Is it not so, Fräulein? You know Miss Pew's way ofthinking, and how she would regard such conduct. '

Fräulein shook her head dolefully, and admitted that in Miss Pew'ssocial code such a derogation from maiden dignity would be, in a manner, death--an offence beyond all hope of pardon. 

'Hang Miss Pew!' exclaimed Brian. 'If Miss Pew were Minerva, with all theweight and influence of her father, the Thunderer, to back her up, Iwould defy her. Confess now, dear Fräulein--liebste Fräulein'--how tenderhis accents sounded in German!--'_you_ do not think it wrong for me tosee the lady of my love for a few all-too-happy moments once a day?'

The Fräulein declared that it was the most natural thing in the world forthem thus to meet, and that she for her part would be enchanted to playpropriety, and to be her dearest Ida's companion on all such occasions, nor would thumbscrew or rack extort from her the secret of their loves. 

'Nonsense!' exclaimed Ida, 'in future I shall always walk in the kitchengarden; the walls are ten feet high, and unless you had a horse thatcould fly, like Perseus, you would never be able to get at me. '

'I will get a flying horse, ' answered Brian. 'Don't defy me. Rememberthere are things that have been heard of before now in love-stories, called ladders. '

After this their conversation became as light and airy as that dandelionseed which every breath of summer blows across the land. They were allthree young, happy in health and hope despite of fortune. Ida began tothink that Brian Wendover, if in nowise resembling her ideal, was a veryagreeable young man. He was full of life and spirits; he spoke Germanadmirably. He had the Fräulein's idolized Schiller on the tip of histongue. He quoted Heine's tenderest love songs. Altogether his societywas much more intellectual and more agreeable than any to be had atMauleverer Manor. Miss Wolf parted from him reluctantly, and thought thatIda was unreasonably urgent when she insisted on leaving him at the endof half an hour's dawdling walk up and down the river path. 

'Ach, how he is handsome! how he is clever! What for a man!' exclaimedMiss Wolf, as they went back to the Manor grounds, across the dustyhigh-road, the mere passage over which had a faint flavour of excitement, as a momentary escape into the outside world. 'How proud you must be ofhis devotion to you!'

'Indeed I am not, ' answered Ida, frankly. 'I only wonder at it. We haveseen so little of each other; we have known each other so short a time. '

'I don't think time counts for lovers, ' argued the romantic Gertrude. 'One sees a face which is one's fate, and only wonders how one can havelived until that moment, since life must have been so empty without_him_. '

'Have you done that sort of thing often?' asked Ida, with rather acynical air. 'You talk as if it were a common experience of yours. '

Fräulein Wolf blushed and simpered. 

'There was one, ' she murmured, 'when I was very young. He was to me as abright particular star. His father kept a shop, but, oh, his soul wouldhave harmonized with the loftiest rank in the land. He was in theLandwehr. If you had seen him in his uniform--ach, Himmel! He went awayto the Franco-Prussian war. I wept for him; I thought of him as Leonoraof her Wilhelm. He came back. Ach!'

'Was he a ghost? Did he carry you off to the churchyard?'

'Neither to churchyard nor church, ' sighed Gertrude. 'He was false! Hemarried his father's cook--a fat, rosy-cheeked Swabian. All that wasdelicate and refined in his nature, every poetical yearning of his soul, had been trampled out of him in that hellish war!'

'I dare say he was hungry after a prolonged existence upon wurst, ' saidIda, 'and that instinct drew him to the cook-maid. '

After this there came many afternoons on which the Fräulein and Idawalked in the meadow path by the river, and walk there when they would, the light wherry always came glancing along the tide, and shot in amongthe reeds, and Miss Palliser's faithful swain was in attendance upon her. On doubtful afternoons, when Ida was inclined to stay indoors, thesentimental Fräulein was always at her side to urge her to take theaccustomed walk. Not only was Mr. Wendover's society agreeable to herpoetic soul, but he occasionally brought some tender offering in theshape of hothouse grapes or Jersey pears, which were still more welcometo the fair German. 

The governesses, Miss Motley, Miss Pillby, and Mademoiselle were alwayson duty on fine afternoons, in attendance upon the pupils' regulationwalks--long dusty perambulations of dull high roads; and thus it happenedthat Ida and the Fräulein had the meadow path to themselves. 

Nothing occurred during the space of a fortnight to disturb their senseof security. The river-side seemed a kind of Paradise, without thepossibility of a serpent. Ida's lover had not yet made her anycategorical and formal offer of marriage. Indeed, he had never been oneminute alone with her since their first meeting; but he talked as if itwas a settled thing that they two were to be man and wife in the days tocome. He did not speak as if their marriage were an event in the nearfuture; and at this Ida wondered a little, seeing that the owner ofWendover Abbey could have no need to wait for a wife--to consider waysand means--and to be prudently patient, as struggling professional youthmust be. This was curious; for that he loved her passionately there couldbe little doubt. Every look, every tone told her as much a hundred timesin an hour. Nor did she make any protest when he spoke of her as onepledged to him, though no formal covenant had been entered upon. Sheallowed him to talk as he pleased about their future; and her only wonderwas, that in all his conversation he spoke so little of the house inwhich he was born, and indeed of his belongings generally. 

Once she expatiated to Fräulein Wolf in Brian's presence upon thepicturesque beauties of the Abbey. 

'It is the dearest, noblest old house you can conceive, ' she said; 'andthe old, old gardens and park are something too lovely: but I believe Mr. Wendover does not care a straw about the place. '

'You know what comes of familiarity, ' answered Brian, carelessly. 'I haveseen too much of the Abbey to be moved to rapture by its Gothic charmsevery time I see it after the agony of separation. '

'But you would like to live there?'

'I would infinitely prefer living anywhere else. The place is too remotefrom civilization. A spot one might enjoy, perhaps, on the downhill sideof sixty; but in youth or active middle age every sensible man shouldshun seclusion. A man has to fight against an inherent tendency to lapseinto a vegetable. '

'Fox did not become a vegetable, ' said Ida; 'yet how he adored St. Ann'sHill!'

'Fox was a hard drinker and a fast liver, ' answered Brian. 

'If he had not let the clock run down now and then, the works would haveworn out sooner than they did. '

'But do you never feel the need of rest?' asked Ida. 

Brian stifled a yawn. 

'No; I'm afraid I have never worked hard enough for that. The need willcome, perhaps, later--when the work comes. '

On more than one occasion when Ida talked of the Abbey, Mr. Wendoverreplied in the same tone. It was evident that he was indifferent to thefamily seat, or that he even disliked it. He had no pride in surroundingswhich might have inspired another man. 

'One would think you had been frightened by the family ghost, ' Ida saidlaughingly, 'you so studiously avoid talking about the Abbey. '

'I have not been frightened by the ghost--I am too modern to believe inghosts. '

'Oh, but it is modern to believe in everythingimpossible--spirit-rapping, thought-reading. '

'Perhaps; but I am not of that temper. ' And then, with a graver look thanIda had ever seen in his face, he said, 'You are full of enthusiasm aboutthat old place among the hills, Ida. I hope you do not care more for theAbbey than for me. '

She crimsoned and looked down. The question touched her weakness toonearly. 

'Oh, no, ' she faltered; 'what are cedars and limestone as compared withhumanity?'

'And if I were without the Abbey--if the Abbey and I were nothing to eachother--should I be nobody in your sight?'

'It is difficult to dissociate a man from his surroundings, ' sheanswered; 'but I suppose you would be just the same person?'

'I hope so, ' said Brian. '"The rank is but the guinea stamp, the man's aman for a' that. " But the guinea stamp is an uncommonly good thing in itsway, I admit. '

These afternoon promenades between four and five o'clock, while the restof the school was out walking, had been going on for a fortnight, and noharm to Ida had come of her indiscretion. Perhaps she hardly consideredhow wrong a thing she was doing in violating Miss Pew's confidence byconduct so entirely averse from Miss Pew's ideas of good behaviour. Theconfidence had been so grudgingly given, Miss Pew had been sosystematically unkind, that the girl may be forgiven for detesting her, nay, even for glorying in the notion of acting in a manner which wouldshock all Miss Pew's dearest prejudices. Her meeting with her lover couldscarcely be called clandestine, for she took very little pains to concealthe fact. If the affair had gone on secretly for so long, it was becauseof no artifice on her part. 

But that any act of any member of the Mauleverer household could remainlong unknown was almost an impossibility. If there had been but one pairof eyes in the establishment, and those the eyes of Miss Pillby, thething would have been discovered; for those pale unlovely orbs were asthe eyes of Argus himself in their manifold power to spy out theproceedings of other people--more especially of any person whom theirowner disliked. 

Now Miss Pillby had never loved Ida Palliser, objecting to her on broadgrounds as a person whose beauty and talents were an indirect injury tomediocre people. Since Ida's visit to The Knoll her angry feeling hadintensified with every mention of the pleasures and comforts of thatabode. Miss Pillby, who never opened a book for her own pleasure, whocared nothing for music, and whose highest notion of art was allblacklead pencil and bread-crumbs, had plenty of vacant space in hermind for other people's business. She was a sharp observer of thefiddle-faddle of daily life; she had a keen scent for evil motivesunderlying simple actions. Thus when she perceived the intimacy which hadnewly arisen between the Fräulein and Miss Palliser, she told herselfthat there must be some occult reason for the fact. Why did those twoalways walk together? What hidden charm had they discovered in theriver-meadow?

For this question, looked at from Miss Pillby's point of view, therecould be only one answer. The attraction was masculine. One or other ofthe damsels must have an admirer whom she contrived to see somehow, or tocorrespond with somehow, during her meadow walk. That the thing had goneso far as it really had gone, that any young lady at Mauleverer coulddare to walk and talk with an unlicensed man in the broad light of day, was more than Miss Pillby's imagination could conceive. But shespeculated upon some transient glimpse of a man on the opposite bank, orin the middle distance of the river--a handkerchief waved, a signalgiven, perhaps a love-letter hidden in a hollow bree. This was about theculminating point to which any intrigue at Mauleverer had ever reachedhitherto. Beyond this Miss Pillby's fancy ventured not. 

It was on the second Sunday in October, when the Mauleverer pupils werebeginning to look forward, almost hopefully, to the Christmas vacation, that a flood of light streamed suddenly upon Miss Pillby's troubled mind. The revelation happened in this wise. Evening service at a smart littlenewly-built church, where the function was Anglican to the verge ofRitualism, was a privilege reserved for the elder and more favoured ofthe Mauleverer flock. All the girls liked this evening service at St. Dunstan's. It had a flavour of dissipation. The lamps, the music, thegaily decorated altar, the Saint's-day banners and processional hymn, were faintly suggestive of the opera. The change from the darkness of thecountry road to the glow and glitter of the tabernacle was thrilling. Evening service at St. Dunstan's was the most exciting event of the week. There was a curate who intoned exquisitely, with that melodious snuffleso dear to modern congregations, and whose voice had a dying fall when hegave out a hymn which almost moved girl-worshippers to tears. He wasthought to be in a consumption--had a little dry hacking cough, actuallycaused by relaxed tonsils, but painfully recalling her of the camelias. The Mauleverer girls called him interesting, and hoped that he wouldnever marry, but live and die like St. Francis de Sales. On thisparticular Sunday, Miss Pew--vulgarly Old Pew--happened to be unusuallyamiable. That morning's post had brought her the promise of three newpupils, daughters of a mighty sheep farmer lately returned fromAustralia, and supposed to be a millionaire. He was a widower, and wantedmotherly care for his orphans. They were to be clothed as well as fed atMauleverer; they were to have all those tender cares and indulgenceswhich a loving mother could give them. This kind of transaction waseminently profitable to the Miss Pews. Maternal care meant a tremendouslist of extra charges--treats, medical attendance, little comforts of allkinds, from old port to lamb's-wool sleeping-socks. Orphans of this kindwere the pigeons whose tender breasts furnished the down with which thatexperienced crow, Miss Pew, feathered her nest. She had read theAustralian's letter over three times before evening service, and she wasinclined to think kindly of the human race; so when Miss Palliser askedif she too--she, the Pariah, might go to St. Dunstan's--she, whosegeneral duty of a Sunday evening was to hear the little ones theircatechism, or keep them quiet by reading aloud to them 'Pilgrim'sProgress' or 'Agathos, ' perhaps--Miss Pew said, loftily, 'I do not seeany objection. '

There was no kindness, no indulgence in her tone, but she said she saw noobjection, and Ida flew off to put on her bonnet, --that poor little blacklace bonnet with yellow rosebuds which had done duty for so manyservices. 

It was a relief to get a way from school, and its dull monotony, even fora couple of hours; and then there was the music. Ida loved music toopassionately to be indifferent to the harmony of village voices, carefully trained to sing her favourite hymns to the sound of a small butexcellent organ. 

The little church was somewhat poorly attended on this fine autumnevening, when the hunter's moon hung like a big golden shield above theriver, glorifying the dipping willows, the narrow eyots, haunts of swanand cygnet, and the distant woodlands of Surrey. It was a night whichtempted the free to wander in the cool shadowy river-side paths, ratherthan to worship in the warm little temple. 

The Mauleverer girls made a solid block of humanity on one side of thenave, but on the other side the congregation was scattered thinly in theopen oaken seats. 

Miss Pillby, perusing those figures within her view, as she stood in theback row of the school seats, perceived a stranger--a stranger of elegantand pleasing appearance, who was evidently casting stolen glances at thelambs of the Mauleverer fold. Nor was Miss Pillby's keen eye slow todiscover for which lamb those ardent looks were intended. The object ofthe stranger's admiration was evidently Ida Palliser. 

'I thought as much, ' mused Miss Pillby, as she listened, or seemed tolisten, to the trials and triumphs of the children of Israel, chanted byfresh young voices with a decidedly rural twang; 'this explainseverything. '

When they left the church, Miss Pillby was perfectly aware of thestranger following the Mauleverer flock, evidently in the hope of gettingspeech with Miss Palliser. He hung on the pathway near them, he shotahead of them, and then turned and strolled slowly back. All in vain. Idawas too closely hemmed in and guarded for him to get speech of her; andthe maiden procession passed on without any violation of the proprieties. 

'Did you see that underbred young man following us as we came home?'asked Miss Pillby, with a disgusted air, as she shared an invigoratingrepast of bread and butter and toast and water with the pupils who hadbeen to church. 'Some London shopman, no doubt, by his bad manners. ' Shestole a look at Ida, who flushed ever so slightly at hearing BrianWendover thus maligned. 

Fräulein Wolf slept in the room occupied by Miss Pillby and MissMotley--three narrow iron bedsteads in a particularly inconvenient room, always devoted to governesses, and supposed to be a temple of learning. 

While Miss Motley was saying her prayers, Miss Pillby wriggled up to theFräulein, who was calmly brushing her flaxen tresses, and whisperedimpetuously, 'I have seen him! I know all about it!'

'Ach, Himmel, ' cried the Fräulein. 'Thou wouldst not betray?'

'Not for the world. '

'Is he not handsome, godlike?' demanded the Fräulein, still in German. 

'Yes, he is very nice-looking. Don't tell Palliser that I know anythingabout him. She mightn't like it. '

The Fräulein shook her head, and put her finger to her lips, just as MissMotley rose from her knees, remarking that it was impossible for anybodyto pray in a proper business-like manner with such whispering andchattering going on. 

Next day Miss Pillby contrived to get a walk in the garden before theearly dinner. Here among the asparagus beds she had a brief conversationwith a small boy employed in the kitchen-garden, a youth whose motherwashed for the school, and had frequent encounters with Miss Pillby, thatlady having charge of the linen, and being, in the laundress's eye, apower in the establishment. Miss Pillby had furthermore been what shecalled 'kind' to the laundress's hope. She had insisted upon his learninghis catechism, and attending church twice every Sunday, and she hadknitted him a comforter, the material being that harsh and scrubbyworsted which makes the word comforter a sound of derision. 

Strong in the sense of these favours, Miss Pillby put it upon the boy asa duty which he owed to her and to society to watch Ida Palliser'sproceedings in the river-meadow. She also promised him sixpence if hefound out anything bad. 

The influence of the Church Catechism, learned by rote, parrot fashion, had not awakened in the laundress's boy any keen sense of honour. He hada dim feeling that it was a shabby service which he was called upon toperform; but then of course Miss Pillby, who taught the young ladies, andwho was no doubt a wise and discreet personage, knew best; and a possiblesixpence was a great temptation. 

'Them rushes and weeds down by the bank wants cutting. Gar'ner told meabout it last week, ' said the astute youth. 'I'll do 'em this veryafternoon. '

'Do, Sam. Be there between four and five. Keep out of sight as much asyou can, but be well within hearing. I want you to tell me all that goeson. '

'And when shall I see you agen, miss?'

'Let me see. That's rather difficult. I'm afraid it can't be managed tillto-morrow. You are in the house at six every morning to clean the boots?'

'Yes, miss. '

'Then I'll come down to the boot-room at half-past six to-morrow morningand hear what you've got to tell me. '

'Lor, miss, it's such a mucky place--all among the coal-cellars. '

'I don't mind, ' said Miss Pillby; which was quite true. There was noamount of muckiness Miss Pillby would not have endured in order to injurea person she disliked. 

'I have never shrunk from my duty, however painful it might be, Sam!' shesaid, and left the youth impressed by the idea of her virtues. 

In the duskiness of the October dawn Miss Pillby stole stealthily down byback stairs and obscure passages to the boot-room, where she found Samhard at work with brushes and blacking, by the light of a tallow candle, in an atmosphere flavoured with coals. 

'Well, Sam?' asked the vestal, eagerly. 

'Well, miss, I seed 'em and I heerd 'em, ' answered the boy; 'such goin'son. Orful?'

'What kind of thing, Sam?'

'Love-makin, ' miss; keepin' company. The young ladies hadn't been therefive minutes when a boat dashes up to the bank, and a young gent jumpsashore. My, how he went on! I was down among the rushes, right under hisfeet, as you may say, most of the time, and I heerd him beautiful. How hedid talk; like a poetry book!'

'Did he kiss her?'

'Yes, miss, just one as they parted company. She was very stand-offishwith him, but he catched hold of her just as she was wishing of himgood-bye. He gave her a squeedge like, and took her unawares. It was onlyone kiss, yer know, miss, but he made it last as long as he could. Theforeigner looked the other way. '

'Shameful creatures, both of them!' exclaimed Miss Pillby. 'There's yoursixpence, Sam, and don't say a word to anybody about what you've seen, till I tell you. I may want you to repeat it all to Miss Pew. If I do, I'll give you another sixpence. '

'Lawks, miss, that would be cheap at a shilling, ' said the boy. 'It wouldfreeze my blood to have to stand up to talk before Miss Pew. '

'Nonsense, Sam, you will be only telling the truth, and there can benothing to frighten you. However, I dare say she will be satisfied withmy statement. She won't want confirmation from you. '

'Confirmation from me, ' muttered Sam, as Miss Pillby left his den. 'No, Ishould think not. Why, that's what the bishops do. Fancy old Pew beingconfirmed too--old Pew in a white frock and a veil. That is a good'un, 'and Sam exploded over his blacking-brush at the preposterous idea. 

It was Miss Pew's habit to take a cup of tea and a square of butteredtoast every morning at seven, before she left her pillow; in order tofortify herself for the effort of getting up and dressing, so as to be inher place, at the head of the chief table in the school dining-room, wheneight o'clock struck. Had Miss Pew consulted her own inclination shewould have reposed until a much later hour; but the maintenance ofdiscipline compelled that she should be the head and front of allvirtuous movements at Mauleverer Manor. How could she inveigh with dueforce against the sin of sloth if she were herself a slug-a-bed?Therefore did Miss Pew vanquish the weakness of the flesh, and rise at aquarter past seven, summer and winter. But this struggle between duty andinclination made the lady's temper somewhat critical in the morninghours. 

Now it was the custom for one of the mistresses to carry Miss Pew'stea-tray, and to attend at her bedside while she sipped her bohea andmunched her toast. It was a delicate attention, a recognition of herdignity, which Miss Pew liked. It was the _lever du roi_ upon a smallscale. And this afforded an opportunity for the mistress on duty toinform her principal of any small fact in connection with the school orhousehold which it was well for Miss Pew to know. Not for worlds wouldSarah Pew have encouraged a spy, according to her own view of her owncharacter; but she liked people with keen eyes, who could tell hereverything that was going on under her roof. 

'Good morning, Pillby, ' said Miss Pew, sitting up against a massivebackground of pillows, like a female Jove upon a bank of clouds, an awfulfigure in frilled white raiment, with an eye able to command, but hardlyto flatter; 'what kind of a day in it?'

'Dull and heavy, ' answered Miss Pillby; 'I shouldn't wonder if there wasa thunderstorm. '

'Don't talk nonsense, child; it's too late in the year for thunder. Weshall have the equinoctial gales soon, I dare say. '

'No doubt, ' replied Miss Pillby, who had heard about the equinox and itscarryings on all her life without having arrived at any clear idea of itsnature and properties. 'We shall have it very equinoctial before the endof the month, I've no doubt. '

'Well, is there anything going on? Any of the girls bilious? One of myblack draughts wanted anywhere?'

Miss Pew was not highly intellectual, but she was a great hand atfinance, household economies, and domestic medicine. She compounded mostof the doses taken at Mauleverer with her own fair hands, and her blackdraughts were a feature in the school. The pupils never forgot them. However faint became the memory of youthful joys in after years, theflavour of Miss Pew's jalap and senna was never obliterated. 

'No; there's nobody ill this morning, ' answered Miss Pillby, with a faintgroan. 

'Ah, you may well sigh, ' retorted her principal; 'the way those girls ateveal and ham yesterday was enough to have turned the school into ahospital--and with raspberry jam tart after, too. '

Veal with ham was the Sunday dinner at Mauleverer, a banquet upon whichMiss Pew prided herself, as an instance of luxurious living rarely to bemet with in boarding-schools. If the girls were ill after it, that wastheir look out. 

'There's something wrong, I can see by your face, said Miss Pew, aftershe had sipped half her tea and enjoyed the whole of her toast; 'is itthe servants or the pupils?'

Strange to say, Miss Pew did not look grateful to the bearer of eviltidings. This was one of her idiosyncrasies. She insisted upon being keptinformed of all that went wrong in her establishment, but she was apt tobe out of temper with the informant. 

'Neither, ' answered Miss Pillby, with an awful shake of her sandy locks;'I don't believe there is a servant in this house who would so far forgetherself. And as to the pupils--'

'We know what they are, ' snapped Miss Pew; 'I never heard of anything badenough to be beyond their reach. Who is it?'

'Your clever pupil teacher, Ida Palliser. '

'Ah, ' grunted Miss Pew, setting down her cup; 'I can believe anything ofher. That girl was born to be troublesome. What has she done now?'

Miss Pillby related the circumstances of Miss Palliser's crime settingforth her own cleverness in the course of her narrative--how hermisgivings had been excited by the unwonted familiarity between Ida andthe Fräulein--a young person always open to suspicion as a stranger inthe land--how her fears had been confirmed by the conduct of an unknownman in the church; and how, urged by her keen sense of duty, she hademployed Mrs. Jones's boy to watch the delinquents. 

'I'll make an example of her, ' said Miss Pew, flinging back thebed-clothes with a tragic air as she rose from her couch. 'That will do, Pillby. I want no further details. I'll wring the rest out of thatbold-faced minx in the face of all the school. You can go. '

And without any word of praise or thanks from her principal, Miss Pillbyretired: yet she knew in her heart that for this piece of ill news MissPew was not ungrateful. 

Never had Sarah Pew looked more awful than she appeared that morning atthe breakfast table, clad in sombre robes of olive green merino, and acap bristling with olive-green berries and brambly twigs--a cap which tothe more advanced of the pupils suggested the head-gear of Medusa. 

Miss Dulcibella, gentle, limp, sea-greeny, looked at her stronger-mindedsister, and was so disturbed by the gloom upon that imperial brow as tobe unable to eat her customary rasher. Not a word did Miss Pew speak tosister or mistresses during that brief but awful meal; but when the delftbreakfast cups were empty, and the stacks of thick bread and butter haddiminished to nothingness, and the girls were about to rise and dispersefor their morning studies, Miss Pew's voice arose suddenly amidst themlike the sound of thunder. 

'Keep your seats, if you please, young ladies. I am about to make anexample; and I hope what I have to say and do may be for the generalgood. Miss Palliser, stand up. '

Ida rose in her place, at that end of the table where she was supposed toexercise a corrective influence upon the younger pupils. She stood upwhere all the rest were seated, a tall and perfect figure, a beautifulstatuesque head, supported by a neck like a marble column. She stood upamong all those other girls the handsomest of them all, pale, withflashing eyes, feeling very sure that she was going to be ill-treated. 

'Pray, Miss Palliser, who is the person whom it is your daily habit tomeet and converse with in my grounds? Who is the man who has dared totrespass on my meadow at your invitation?'

'Not at my invitation, ' answered Ida, as calm as marble 'The gentlemancame of his own accord. His name is Brian Wendover, and he and I areengaged to be married. '

Miss Pew laughed a loud ironical laugh, a laugh which froze the blood ofall the seventeen-year-old pupils who were not without fear or reproachupon the subject of clandestine glances, little notes, or girlishcarryings-on in the flirtation line. 

'Engaged?' she exclaimed, in her stentorian voice, 'That is really toogood a joke. Engaged? Pray, which Mr. Brian Wendover is it?

'Mr. Wendover of the Abbey. '

'Mr. Wendover of the Abbey, the head of the Wendover family?' cried MissPew. 'And you would wish us to believe that Mr. Wendover, of WendoverAbbey--a gentleman with an estate worth something like seven thousanda year, young ladies--has engaged himself to the youngest of mypupil-teachers, whose acquaintance he has cultivated while trespassing onmy meadow? Miss Palliser, when a gentleman of Mr. Wendover's means andsocial status wishes to marry a young person in your position--aconcatenation which occurs very rarely in the history of the humanrace--he comes to the hall door. Mr. Wendover no more means to marry youthan he means to marry the moon. His views are of quite a different kind, and you know it. '

Ida cast a withering look at her tyrant, and moved quickly from herplace. 

'You are a wretch to say such a thing to me, ' she cried passionately; 'Iwill not stay another hour under your roof to be so insulted. '

'No, you will not stay under my roof, Miss Palliser, ' retorted Miss Pew. 'My mind was made up more than an hour ago on that point. You will not beallowed to stay in this house one minute longer than is needed for thepacking up of your clothes, and that, I take it, ' added theschoolmistress, with an insolent laugh, 'will not be a lengthy operation. You are expelled, Miss Palliser--expelled from this establishment forgrossly improper conduct; and I am only sorry for your poor father's sakethat you will have to begin your career as a governess with disgraceattached to your name. '

'There is no disgrace, except in your own foul mind, ' said Ida. 'I canimagine that as nobody ever admired you or made love to you when youwere young, you may have mistaken ideas as to the nature of lovers andlove-making'--despite the universal awe, this provoked a faint, irrepressible titter--'but it is hard that you should revenge yourignorance upon me. Mr. Wendover has never said a word to me which agentleman should not say. Fräulein Wolf, who has heard his every word, knows that this is true. '

'Fräulein will leave this house to-morrow, if she is not careful, ' saidMiss Pew, who had, however, no intention of parting with so useful andcheap a teacher. 

She could afford to revenge herself upon Ida, whose period of tutelagewas nearly over. 

'Fräulein knows that Mr. Wendover speaks of our future as the future ofman and wife. '

'Ja wohl, ' murmured the Fräulein, 'that is true; ganz und gan. '

'I will not hear another word!' cried Miss Pew, swelling with rage, whileevery thorn and berry on her autumnal cap quivered. 'Ungrateful, impudentyoung woman! Leave my house instantly. I will not have these innocentgirls perverted by your vile example. In speech and in conduct you arealike detestable. '

'Good-bye, girls, ' cried Ida, lightly: 'you all know how much harm myspeech and my example have done you. Good-bye, Fräulein; don't you beafraid of dismissal, --you are too well worth your salt. '

Polly Cobb, the brewer's daughter, sat near the door by which Ida had tomake her exit. She was quite the richest, and perhaps the best-naturedgirl in the school. She caught hold of Ida's gown and thrust a littleRussia-leather purse into her hand, with a tender squeeze. 

'Take it, dear, ' she whispered; 'I don't want it, I can get plenty more. Yes, yes, you must; you shall. I'll make a row, and get myself intodisgrace, if you refuse. You can't go to France without money. '

'God bless you, dear. I'll send it you back, ' answered Ida. 

'Don't; I shall hate you if you do. '

'Is that young woman gone?' demanded Miss Pew's awful voice. 

'Going, going, gone!' cried Miss Cobb, forgetting herself in herexcitement, as the door closed behind Ida. 

'Who was that?' roared Miss Pew. 

Half a dozen informants pronounced Miss Cobb's name. 

Now Miss Cobb's people were wealthy, and Miss Cobb had younger sisters, all coming on under a homely governess to that critical stage in whichthey would require the polishing processes of Mauleverer Manor: so SarahPew bridled her wrath, and said quietly--

'Kindly reserve your jocosity for a more appropriate season, Miss Cobb. Young ladies, you may proceed with your matutinal duties. '

CHAPTER VIII. 

AT THE LOCK-HOUSE. 

Miss Pew had argued rightly that the process of packing would not be along one with Ida Palliser. The girl had come to Mauleverer with thesmallest number of garments compatible with decency; and her stock hadbeen but tardily and scantily replenished during her residence in thatmanorial abode. It was to her credit that she had contrived still to beclean, still to be neat, under such adverse conditions; it was Nature'sroyal gift that she had looked grandly beautiful in the shabbiest gownsand mantles ever seen at Mauleverer. 

She huddled her poor possessions into her solitary trunk--a battered hairtrunk which had done duty ever since she came as a child from India. Sheput a few necessaries into a convenient morocco bag, which the girls inher class had clubbed their pocket-money to present to her on her lastbirthday; and then she washed the traces of angry tears from her face, put on her hat and jacket, and went downstairs, carrying her bag andumbrella. 

One of the housemaids met her in the hall, a buxom, good-natured countrygirl. 

'Is it true that you are going to leave us, miss?' she asked. 

'What! you all know it already?' exclaimed Ida. 

'Everybody is talking about it, miss. The young ladies are all on yourside; but they dare not speak up before Miss Pew. '

'I suppose not. Yes, it is quite true; I am expelled, Eliza; sent outinto the world without a character, because I allowed Mr. Wendover towalk and talk with the Fräulein and me for half an hour or so in theriver-meadow! Mr. Wendover, my best, my only friend's first cousin. Rather hard, isn't it?'

Hard? it's shameful, ' cried the girl. 'I should like to see old Pewturning me off for keeping company with my young man. But she daren't doit. Good servants are hard to get nowadays; or any servants, indeed, forthe paltry wages she gives. '

'And governesses are a drug in the market, ' said Ida, bitterly. 'Good-bye, Eliza. '

'Where are you going, miss? Home?'

'Yes; I suppose so. '

The reckless tone, the careless words alarmed the good-hearted housemaid. 

'Oh, miss, pray go home, straight home--wherever your home is. You aretoo handsome to be going about alone among strangers. It's a wickedworld, miss--wickeder than you know of, perhaps. Have you got moneyenough to get you home comfortable?'

'I'll see, ' answered Ida, taking out Miss Cobb's fat little purse andlooking into it. 

There were two sovereigns and a good deal of silver--a tremendous fortunefor a schoolgirl; but then it was said that Cobb Brothers coined money bythe useful art of brewing. 

'Yes; I have plenty of money for my journey, ' said Ida. 

'Are you certain sure, now, miss?' pleaded the housemaid; 'for if youain't, I've got a pound laid by in my drawer ready to put in the PostOffice Savings Bank, and you're as welcome to it as flowers in May, ifyou'll take it off me. '

'God bless you, Eliza. If I were in any want of money, I'd gladly borrowyour sovereign; but Miss Cobb has lent me more than I want. Good-bye. '

Ida held out her hand, which the housemaid, after wiping her own paw uponher apron, clasped affectionately. 

'God bless you, Miss Palliser, ' she said fervently; 'I shall miss thesight of your handsome face when I waits at table. '

A minute more and Ida stood in the broad carriage sweep, with her back tothe stately old mansion which had sheltered her so long, and in which, despite her dependency and her poverty, she had known some light-heartedhours. Now, where was she to go? and what was she to do with her life?She stood with the autumn wind blowing about her--the fallen chestnutleaves drifting to her feet--pondering that question. 

Was she or was she not Brian Wendover's affianced wife? How far was sheto trust in him, to lean upon him, in this crucial hour of her life?There had been so much playfulness in their love-making, his tone hadbeen for the most part so light and sportive, that now, when she stood, as it were, face to face with destiny, she hardly knew how to think ofhim, whether as a rock that she might lean upon, or as a reed that wouldgive way at her touch. Rock or reed, womanly instinct told her that itwas not to this fervent admirer she must apply for aid or counsel yetawhile. Her duty was to go home at once--to get across the Channel, ifpossible, as quickly as Miss Pew's letter to her father. 

Intent on doing this, she walked along the dusty high road by the river, in the direction of the railway station. This station was more than twomiles distant, a long, straight walk by the river, and then a mile or soacross fields and by narrow lanes to an arid spot, where some newly-builthouses were arising round a hopeless-looking little loop-line station ina desert of agricultural land. 

She had walked about three-quarters of a mile, when she heard the rapiddip of oars, as if in pursuit of her, and a familiar voice calling toher. 

It was Brian, who almost lived in his boat, and who had caught sight ofher in the distance, and followed at racing speed. 

'What are you doing?' he asked, coming up close to the bank, and standingup in his boat. 'Where are you going at such a pace? I don't think I eversaw a woman walk so fast. '

'Was I walking fast?' she asked, unconscious of the impetus whichexcitement had given to her movements. 

She knew in her heart of hearts that she did not love him--that love--thepassion which she had read of in prose and poetry was still a stranger toher soul: but just at this Moment, galled and stung by Miss Pew'sunkindness, heart-sick at her own absolute desolation, the sound of hisvoice was sweet in her ears, the look of the tall slim figure, thefriendly face turned towards her, was pleasant to her eyes. No, he wasnot a reed, he was a rock. She felt protected and comforted by hispresence. 

'Were you walking fast! Galloping like a three-year-old--_quoe velutlatis equa trima campis_, ' quoted Brian. 'Are you running away fromMauleverer Manor?'

'I am going away, ' she answered calmly. 'I have been expelled. '

'Ex--what?' roared Brian. 

'I have been expelled--sent away at a minute's notice--for theimpropriety of my conduct in allowing you to talk to me in theriver-meadow. '

Brian had been fastening his boat to a pollard willow as he talked. Heleapt on to the bank, and came close to Ida's side. 

'My darling, my dearest love, what a burning shame! What a villainous oldhag that Pew woman must be! Bessie told me she was a Tartar, but thisbeats everything. Expelled! Your conduct impeached because you let metalk to you--I, Bessie's cousin, a man who at the worst has some claim tobe considered a gentleman, while you have the highest claim to beconsidered a lady. It is beyond all measure infamous. '

'It was rather hard, was it not?' said Ida quietly. 

'Abominable, insufferable! I--well. I'll call upon the lady thisafternoon, and make her acquainted with my sentiments upon the subject. The wicked old harridan. '

'Please don't, ' urged Ida, smiling at his wrath; 'it doesn't give me anyconsolation to hear you call her horrid names. '

'Did you tell her that I had asked you to be my wife?'

'I said something to that effect--in self-defence--not from any wish tocommit you: and she told me that a man in your position, who intended tomarry a girl in my position, would act in a very different manner fromthe way in which you have acted. '

'Did she? She is a wise judge of human nature--and of a lover's nature, above all. Well, Ida, dearest, we have only one course open to us, andthat is to give her the lie at once--by our conduct. Deeds, not words, shall be our argument. You do care for me--just a little--don't you, pet?just well enough to marry me? All the rest will come after?'

'Whom else have I to care for?' faltered Ida, with downcast eyes andpassionately throbbing heart. 'Who else has ever cared for me?'

'I am answered. So long as I am the only one I will confide all the restto Fate. We will be married to-morrow. '

'To-morrow! No, no, no. '

'Yes, yes, yes. What is there to hinder our immediate marriage? And whatcan be such a crushing answer to that old Jezebel! We will be married atthe little church where I saw you last Sunday night, looking like St. Cecilia when you joined in the Psalms. We have been both living in thesame parish for the last fortnight. I will run up to Doctors' Commonsthis afternoon, bring back the licence, interview the parson, and haveeverything arranged for our being married at ten o'clock to-morrowmorning. '

'No, no, not for the world. '

For some time the girl was firm in her refusal of such a hasty union. Shewould not marry her lover except in the face of the world, with the fullconsent of his friends and her own. Her duty was to go by the first trainand boat that would convey her to Dieppe, and to place herself in herfather's care. 

'Do you think your father would object to our marriage?' asked Brian. 

'No, I am sure he would not object, ' she answered, smiling within herselfat the question. 

As if Captain Palliser, living upon his half-pay, and the occasionalbenefactions of a rich kinsman, could by any possibility object to amatch that would make his daughter mistress of Wendover Abbey!

'Then why delay our marriage, in order to formally obtain a consent whichyou are sure of beforehand! As for my friends, Bessie's people are thenearest and dearest, and you know what their feelings are on yourbehalf. '

'Bessie likes me as her friend. I don't know how she might like me as hercousin's wife, ' said Ida. 

'Then I will settle your doubts by telling you a little secret. Bessiesent me here to try and win you for my wife. It was her desire as well asmine. '

More arguments followed, and against the lover's ardent pleading therewas only a vague idea of duty in the girl's mind, somewhat weakened by aninstinctive notion that her father would think her an arrant fool fordelaying so grand a triumph as her marriage with a man of fortune andposition. Had he not often spoken to her wistfully of her beauty, and thedim hope that her handsome face might some day win her a rich husband?

'It's a poor chance at the best, ' he told her. 'The days of the MissGunnings have gone by. The world has grown commercial. Nowadays moneymarries money. '

And this chance, which her father had speculated upon despondently as aremote contingency, was now at her feet. Was she to spurn it, and then goback to the shabby little villa near Dieppe, and expect to be praised forher filial duty?

While she wavered, Brian urged every argument which a lover could bringto aid his suit. To-morrow they might be married, and in the meanwhileIda could be safely and comfortably housed with the good woman at thelock-house. Brian would give up his lodgings to her, and would stay atthe hotel at Chertsey. Ida listened, and hesitated: before her lay thedry, dusty road, the solitary journey by land and sea, the doubtfulwelcome at home. And here by her side stood the wealthy lover, the veryembodiment of protecting power--is not every girl's first lover in hereyes as Olympian Jove?--eager to take upon himself the burden of herlife, to make her footsteps easy. 

'Step into the boat, dearest, ' he said; 'I know your heart has decidedfor me. You are not afraid to trust me, Ida?'

'Afraid? no, ' she answered, frankly, looking at him with heavenlyconfidence in her large dark eyes; 'I am only afraid of doing wrong. '

'You can do no wrong with me by your side, your husband to-morrow, responsible for all the rest of your existence. '

'True, after to-morrow I shall be accountable to no one but you, ' shesaid, thoughtfully. 'How strange it seems!'

'At the worst, I hope you will find me better than old Pew, ' answeredBrian, lightly. 

'You are too good--too generous, ' she said; 'but I am afraid you areacting too much from impulse. Have you considered what you are going todo? have you thought what it is to marry a penniless girl, who can giveyou none of the things which the world cares for in exchange for yourdevotion?'

'I have thought what it is to marry the woman I fondly love, theloveliest girl these eyes ever looked upon. Step into my boat, Ida; Imust row you up to the lock, and then start for London by the first trainI can catch. I don't know how early the licence-shop closes. '

She obeyed him, and sank into a seat in the stern of the cockle-shellcraft, exhausted, mentally and physically, by the agitation of the lasttwo hours, She felt an unspeakable relief in sitting quietly in the boat, the water rippling gently past, like a lullaby, the rushes and willowswaving in the mild western breeze. Henceforth she had little to do inlife but to be cared for and cherished by an all-powerful lord andmaster. Wealth to her mind meant power; and this devoted lover was rich. Fate had been infinitely kind to her. 

It was a lovely October morning, warm and bright as August. The riverbanks still seemed to wear their summer green, the blue bright waterreflected the cloudless blue above. The bells were ringing for asaint's-day service as Brian's boat shot past the water-side village, with its old square-towered church. All the world had a happy look, as ifit smiled at Ida and her choice. 

They moved with an easy motion past the pastoral banks, here and there avilla garden, here and there a rustic inn, and so beneath Chertsey'swooded heights to the level fields beyond, and to a spot where the Thamesand the Abbey River made a loop round a verdant little marshy island; andhere was the silvery weir, brawling noisily in its ceaseless fall, andthe lockhouse, where Mr. Wendover had lodgings. 

The proprietress of that neat abode had just been letting a boat throughthe lock, and stood leaning lazily against the woodwork, tasting themorning air. She was a comfortable, well-to-do person, who rented apaddock or two by the towing-path, and owned cows. Her little garden wasgay with late geraniums and many-coloured asters. 

'Mrs. Topman, I have brought you a young lady to take care of for thenext twenty-four hours, ' said Brian, coolly, as he handed Ida out of theboat. 'Miss Palliser and I are going to be married to-morrow morning;and, as her friends all live abroad, I want you to take care of her, in anice, motherly way, till she and I are one. You can give her my rooms, and I can put up at the inn. '

Mrs. Topman curtseyed, and gazed admiringly at Ida. 

'I shall be proud to wait upon such a sweet young lady, ' she said. 'Butisn't it rather sudden? You told me there was a young lady in the case, but I never knowed you was going to be married off-hand like this. '

'I never knew it myself till an hour ago, Mrs. Topman, answered Brian, gaily. 'I knew that I was to be one of the happiest of men some day; butI did not know bliss was so near me. And now I am off to catch the nexttrain from Chertsey. Be sure you give Miss Palliser some breakfast; Idon't think she has had a very comfortable one. '

He dashed into the cottage, and came out again five minutes afterwards, having changed his boating clothes for a costume more appropriate to thestreets of London. He clasped Ida's hand, murmured a loving good-bye, andthen ran with light footsteps along the towing-path, while Ida stoodleaning against the lock door looking dreamily down at the water. 

How light-hearted he was! and how easily he took life! This marriage, which was to her an awful thing, signifying fate and the unknown future, seemed to him as a mere whim of the hour, a caprice, a fancy. And yetthere could be no doubt of his affection for her. Even if his nature wassomewhat shallow, as she feared it must be, he was at least capable of awarm and generous attachment. To her in her poverty and her disgrace hehad proved himself nobly loyal. 

'I ought to be very grateful to him, ' she said to herself; and then inher schoolgirl phrase she added, 'and he is very nice. '

Mrs. Topman was in the house, tidying and smartening that rusticsitting-room, which had not been kept too neatly during Mr. Wendover'soccupation. Presently came the clinking of cups and saucers, and anonMrs. Topman appeared on the doorstep, and announced that breakfast wasready. 

What a luxurious breakfast it seemed to the schoolgirl after a month ofthe Mauleverer bread and scrape! Frizzled bacon, new laid eggs, cream, marmalade, and a dainty little cottage loaf, all served with exquisitecleanliness. Ida was too highly strung to do justice to the excellentfare, but she enjoyed a cup of strong tea, and ate one of the eggs, tooblige Mrs. Topman, who waited upon her assiduously, palpably pantingwith friendly curiosity. 

'Do take off your hat, miss, ' she urged; 'you must be very tired afteryour journey--a long journey, I daresay. Perhaps you would like me tosend a boy with a barrow for your luggage directly after breakfast. Isuppose your trunks are at the station?'

'No; Mr. Wendover will arrange about my trunk by-and-by, ' faltered Ida;and then looking down at her well-worn gray cashmere gown, she thoughtthat it was hardly a costume in which to be married. Yet how was she toget her box from Mauleverer Manor without provoking dangerous inquiries?And even if she had the box its contents would hardly solve the questionof a wedding gown. Her one white gown would be too cold for the season;her best gown was black. Would Brian feel very much ashamed of her, shewondered, if she must needs be married in that shabby gray cashmere?

And then it occurred to her that possibly Brian, while procuring thelicence, might have a happy thought about a wedding gown, and buy her oneready made at a London draper's. He, to whom money was no object, couldso easily get an appropriate costume. It would be only for him to go intoa shop and say, 'I want a neat, pretty travelling dress for a tall, slimyoung lady, ' and the thing would be packed in a box and put into his cabin a trice. Everything in life is made so easy for people with amplemeans. 

It was some time before Mrs. Topman would consent to leave her newlodger. She was so anxious to be of use to the sweet young lady, andthrew out as many feelers as an octopus in the way of artfully-devisedconjectures and suppositions calculated to extract information. But MissPalliser was not communicative. 

'You _must_ be tired after your journey. Those railways are so hot and sodusty, ' said Mrs. Topman, with a despairing effort to discover whence herunexpected guest had come that morning. 

'I am rather tired, ' admitted Ida; 'I think, if you don't mind, I'll takea book and lie down on that comfortable sofa for an hour or two. '

'Do miss. You'll find some books of Mr. Wendover's on the cheffonier. Butperhaps you'll be glad to take a little nap. Shall I draw down the blindand darken the room for you?'

'No, thanks; I like the sunshine. '

Mrs. Topman unwillingly withdrew, and Ida was alone in the sitting-roomwhich her lover had occupied for the last fortnight. 

Much individuality can hardly be expected in a temporary lodging--a merecaravansary in life's journey; and yet, even in the brief space of afortnight, a room takes some colour from the habits and ideas of thebeing who has lived in it. 

Ida looked round curiously, wondering whether she would discover anyindications of her lover's character in Mrs. Topman's parlour. The room, despite its open casements, smelt strongly of tobacco. That was a smallthing, for Ida knew that her lover smoked. She had seen him several timesthrow away the end of his cigar as he sprang from his boat by the rivermeadow. But that array of various pipes and cigar-holders--that cedarcigar box--that brass tobacco jar on the mantelpiece, hinted at an ardentdevotion to the nymph Nicotina such as is rarely pleasing to woman. 

'I am sorry he is so wedded to his pipes, ' thought Ida with a faint sigh. 

And then she turned to the cheffonier to inspect her lover's stock ofliterature. 

A man who loves his books never travels without a few oldfavourites--Horace or Montaigne, Elia, an odd volume of De Quincey, abattered Don Juan, a worn-out Faust, a shabby Shelley, or a ponderousBurton in his threadbare cloth raiment. 

But there was not one such book among Mr. Wendover's possessions. Hissupply of mental food consisted of a half a dozen shilling magazines, thetwo last numbers of _Punch_, and three or four sporting papers. Idaturned from them with bitter disappointment. She seemed to take themeasure of Brian Wendover's mind in that frivolous collection, and shewas deeply pained at the idea of his shallowness. 

'What has he done with himself in the long evenings?' she asked herself. 'Has he done nothing but smoke and read those magazines?'

She took up the _Cornhill_, and found its graver essays uncut. It was thesame with the other magazines. Only the most frivolous articles had beenlooked at. Mr. Wendover was evidently anything but a reading man. 

'No wonder he does not like the Abbey, ' she thought. 'The country mustalways seem dull to a man who does not care for books. '

And then she reminded herself remorsefully of his generous affection, hissingle-minded devotion to her, and how much gratitude she owed him. 

She read all that was worth reading in the magazines, she laughed at allthat was laughable in _Punch, _ and the long, slow day wore on somehow. Mrs. Topman brought her lunch, and consulted her about dinner. 

'You will not dine until Mr. Wendover comes back, I suppose, miss? Youand he can have a nice little dinner together at seven. '

Ida blushed at the mere notion of hobnobbing alone with a gentleman inthat water-side lodging. 

'No thanks; this will be my dinner, ' she answered quietly. 'Please don'tget anything more for me. No doubt Mr. Wendover will dine at the hotel, if he has not dined in London. I shall want nothing more except a cup oftea. '

After luncheon Ida went out and strolled by the river, that river ofwhich no one ever seems to grow weary. She wandered about the levelmeadows, where the last of the wild-flowers were blooming, or she sat onthe bank, watching the ripple of the water, the slow smooth passage ofpleasure-boat or barge, and the day was long but not dreary. It was sonew to her to be idle, to be able to fold her hands and watch the stream, and not to fear reproof because she had ceased from toil. At Mauleverer, at this tranquil afternoon hour, while those rooks were sailing so calmlyhigh above her head--yonder belated butterfly fluttering so happily overthe feathery grasses--all nature so full of rest--they were grinding awayin the hot schoolroom, grinding at the weekly geography lesson, addlingtheir brains with feeble efforts to repeat by rote dry-as-dustexplanations about the equator and the torrid zone, latitude, longitude, winds and tides, the height of mountains, the population of towns, manufactures, creeds; not trying in the least to understand, or caring toremember; only intent on getting over to-day's trouble and preparing insome wise to meet the debts of to-morrow. 

'Oh, thank God, to have got away from that treadmill, ' said Ida, lookingup at the bright blue sky;' can I ever be sufficiently grateful toProvidence, and to the man whose love has rescued me?'

Her deliverer came strolling across the fields in quest of her presently, tired and dusty, but delighted to be with her again. He sat down by herside, and put his arm round her waist for the first time in his life. 

'Don't, ' he said, as she instinctively recoiled from him; 'you are almostmy own now. I have got the licence, I have seen the parson, and he isquite charmed at the idea of marrying us to-morrow morning. He had heardof your little escapade, it seems, and he thinks we are doing quite thewisest thing possible. '

'He had heard--already!' exclaimed Ida, deeply mortified. 'Has Miss Pewbeen calling out my delinquencies from the house-top? Oh, no, --Iunderstand. Tuesday is Mr. Daly's afternoon for Bible class, and he hasbeen at the school. '

'Exactly; and Miss Pew unburdened her mind to him. '

'Did he think me a dreadful creature?'

'He thinks you charming, but that I ought to have gone to the hall-doorwhen I courted you; as I should have done, dearest, only I wanted to besure of you first. He was all kindness, and will marry us quietly at nineo'clock to-morrow, just after Matins, when there will be nobody about tostare at us; and he has promised to say nothing about our marriage untilwe give him leave to make the fact public. '

'I am glad of that, ' said Ida, looking at her shabby gown. 'Do you thinkit will matter much--will you be very much ashamed of me, if I am marriedin this threadbare old cashmere?'

She had a faint hope that he would exclaim, 'My love, I have brought youa wedding dress from Regent Street; come and see it. ' But he only smiledat her tenderly, and said--

'The gown does not matter a jot; you are lovelier in your shabby frockthan any other bride in satin and pearls. And some of these days youshall have smart frocks. '

He said it hopefully, but as if it were a remote contingency. 

He spoke very much as her impecunious father might have spoken. He, themaster of Wendover Abbey, to whom the possession of things that moneycould buy must needs be a dead certainty. But it was evidently a part ofhis character to make light of his wealth; assuredly a pleasantidiosyncrasy. 

They dawdled about on the bank for half an hour or so, talking somewhatlistlessly, for Ida was depressed and frightened by the idea of thatfateful event, giving a new colour to all her life to come, which was sosoon to happen. Brian was very kind, very good to her; she wished withall her heart that she had loved him better; yet it seemed to her thatshe did love him--a little. Surely this feeling was love, this keen senseof obligation, this warm admiration for his generous and loyal conduct. Yes, this must be love. And why, loving him, should she feel thisprofound melancholy at the idea of a marriage which satisfied herloftiest ambition?

Perhaps the cause of her depression lay in the strangeness of this suddenunion, its semi-clandestine character, her loneliness at a crisis in lifewhen most girls are surrounded by friends. Often in her reckless talkwith Bessie Wendover she had imagined her marriage. She would marry formoney. Yes, the soap-boiler, the candlestick maker--anybody. It should bea splendid wedding--a dozen of the prettiest girls at Mauleverer for herbridesmaids, bells ringing, flowers strewn upon her pathway, carriage andfour, postilions in blue jackets and white favours, all the world and hiswife looking on and wondering at her high fortune. This is how fancyhad painted the picture when Ida discoursed of her future in thebutterfly-room at Mauleverer; Miss Rylance listening and making sarcasticcomments; Bessie in fits of smothered laughter at all the comic touchesin the description; for did not true-hearted Bessie know that the thingwas a joke, and that her noble Ida would never so degrade herself as tomarry for money? And now Ida was going to do this thing, scarcely knowingwhy she did it, not at all secure in her own mind of future happiness;not with unalloyed pride in her conquest, but yielding to her loverbecause he was the first who had ever asked her; because he was warm andtrue when all else in life seemed cold and false; and because thealternative--return to the poor home--was so dreary. 

The conversation flagged as the lovers walked in the twilight. The sunwas sinking behind the low hedge of yonder level meadow. Far away inmountainous regions the same orb was setting in rocky amphitheatres, distant, unapproachable. Here in this level land he seemed to be goingdown into a grave behind that furthest hedge. 

It was a lovely evening--orange and rosy lights reflected on the glassyriver, willows stirred with a murmurous movement by faintest zephyrs--awind no louder than a sigh. Brian proposed that they should go on theriver; his boat was there ready, it was only to step into the lightskiff, and drift lazily with the stream. 

They got into the Abbey river, among water-lilies whose flowers had alldied long ago, face downwards. The season of golden flowers, buttercup, marsh-mallow, was over. The fields were grayish-green, with ruddy tingeshere and there. The year was fading. 

Ida sat in dead silence watching the declining light, one listless handdipping in the river. 

Brian was thoughtful, more thoughtful than she had known him in anyperiod of their acquaintance. 

'Where shall we go for our honeymoon? he asked abruptly, jingling someloose coins in his pocket. 

'Oh, that is for you to decide. I--I know what I should like best, 'faltered Ida. 

'What is that?'

'I should like you to take me to Dieppe, where we could see my father, and explain everything to him. '

'Did you write to him to-day?'

'No; I thought I would tell him nothing till after our marriage. Youmight change your mind at the last. '

'Cautious young party, ' said Brian, laughing. 'There is no fear of that. I am too far gone in love for that. For good or ill I am your faithfulslave. Yes, we will go to Dieppe if you like. It is late in the year fora place of that kind; but what do we care for seasons? Do you think yourfather and I will be able to get on?'

'My father is the soul of good nature. He would get on with anyone whois a gentleman, and I am sure he will like you very much. My stepmotheris--well, she is rather vulgar. But I hope you won't mind that. She isvery warm-hearted. '

'Vulgarians generally are, I believe, ' answered Brian lightly. 'At least, one is always told as much. It is hard that the educated classes shouldmonopolize all the cold hearts. Vulgar but warm-hearted--misplaces heraspirates--but affectionate! That is the kind of thing one is told whenAchilles marries a housemaid. Never mind, Ida, dearest, I feel sure Ishall like your father; and for his sake I will try to make myselfagreeable to his wife. And your little brother is perfection. I haveheard enough about him from those dear lips of yours. '

'He is a darling little fellow, and I long to see him again. How I wishthey could all be with me to-morrow!'

'It would make our wedding more domestic, but don't you think it wouldvulgarize it a little?' said Brian. 'There is something so sweet to me inthe idea of you and me alone in that little church, with no witnesses butthe clerk and the pew-opener. '

'And God!' said Ida, looking upward. 

'Did you ever read the discourses of Colonel Bob Ingersoll?' asked Brian, smiling at her. 

'No; what has that to do with it?'

'He has curious ideas of omnipotence; and I fancy he would say that theInfinite Being who made every shining star is hardly likely to be on thelook-out for our wedding. '

'He cares for the lilies and the sparrows. '

'That's a gospel notion. Colonel Bob is not exactly a gospel teacher, '

'Then don't you learn of him, Brian, ' said Ida, earnestly. 

CHAPTER IX. 

A SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT. 

The sun shone upon Ida's wedding morn. She was dressed and down beforeseven--her shabby cashmere gown carefully brushed, her splendid hairneatly arranged, her linen collar and cuffs spotlessly clean. This wasall she could do in the way of costume in honour of this solemn day. Shehad not even a new pair of gloves. Mrs. Topman, who was to go to churchwith her in a fly from Chertsey, was gorgeous in purple silk and a summerbonnet--a grand institution, worn only on Sundays. Breakfast was ready inthe neat little parlour, but Ida would only take a cup of tea. Shewandered out to the river-side, and looked at the weir and the littlegreen island round which the shining blue water twined itself like acaress. All things looked lovely in the pure freshness of morning. 

'What a sweet spot it is!' said Ida to Mrs. Topman, who stood at hergate, watching for the fly, which was not due for half an hour; 'I shouldalmost like to spend my life here. '

'Almost, but not quite, ' answered the matron. 'Young folks like you wantschange. But I hope you and Mr. Wendover will come here sometimes in theboating season, in memory of old times. '

'We'll come often, ' said Ida; 'I hope I shall always remember how kindyou have been to me. '

A distant church clock struck the half hour. 

'Only half-past seven, ' exclaimed Mrs. Topman, 'and Simmons's fly is notto be here till eight. Well, we _are_ early. '

Ida strolled a little way along the bank, glad to be alone. It was anawful business, this marriage, when she came to the very threshold ofHymen's temple. Yesterday it had seemed to her that she and BrianWendover were familiar friends; to-day she thought of him almost as astranger. 

'How little we know of each other, and yet we are going to take the mostsolemn vow that ever was vowed, ' she thought, as she read the marriageservice in a Prayer-book which Mrs. Topman had lent her for that purpose. 

'It's as well to read it over and understand what you're going to bindyourself to, ' said the matron; 'I did before I married Topman. It made mefeel more comfortable in my mind to know what I was doing. But I must sayit's high time there was a change made in the service. It never can havebeen intended by Providence for all the obedience to be on the wife'sside, or God Almighty wouldn't have made husbands such fools. If Topmanhadn't obeyed me he'd have died in a workhouse; and if I'd obeyed his Ishouldn't have a stick of furniture belonging to me. '

Ida was not deeply interested in the late Mr. Topman's idiosyncrasies, but she was interested in the marriage bond, which seemed to her a verysolemn league and covenant, as she read the service beside the quietlyflowing river. 

'For better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part. '

Yes, those were awful words--words to be pronounced by her presently, binding her for the rest of her life. She who was marrying a rich man forthe sake of his wealth was to swear to be true to him in poverty. She whowas marrying youth and good spirits was to swear to be true to sicknessand feeble age. A terrible covenant! And of this man for whom she was toundertake so much she knew so little. 

The fly drove along the towing-path, and drew up in front of Mrs. Topman's garden gate as the Chertsey clocks struck the hour, and Mrs. Topman and her charge took their places in that vehicle, and were joltedoff at a jog-trot pace towards the town, and then on by a dusty high roadtowards that new church in the fields at which the Mauleverer girlsdeemed it such a privilege to worship. 

It was about forty minutes' drive from the lock to the church, and Matinswere only just over when the fly drew up at the Gothic door. 

The incumbent was hovering near in his surplice, and the pew-opener wasall in a fluster at the idea of a runaway marriage. Brian came out of thedusky background--the daylight being tempered by small painted windows inheavy stone mullions--as Ida entered the church. Everything was ready. Before she knew how it came to pass, she was standing before the altar, and the fatal words were being spoken. 

'Brian Walford, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?'

'Brian Walford!' she heard the words as in a dream. Surely Walford wasthe second name of Bessie's other cousin, the poor cousin! Ida had heardBessie so distinguish him from the master of the Abbey. But no doubtWalford was some old family name borne by both cousins. 

Brian Walford! She had not much time to think about this, when the samesolemn question was asked of her. 

And then in a low and quiet voice the priest read the rest of thetime-hallowed ceremonial, and Brian and Ida, glorified by a broad ray ofmorning sunshine streaming through an open window, stood up side by sideman and wife. 

Then came the signing of the register in the snug little vestry, Mrs. Topman figuring largely as witness. 

'I did not know your name was Walford, ' said Ida, looking over herhusband's shoulder as he wrote. 

'Didn't you? Second names are of so little use to a man, unless he hasthe misfortune to be Smith or Jones, and wants to borrow dignity from aprefix. Wendover is good enough for me. '

The young couple bade Mrs. Topman good-bye at the churchdoor. The fly wasto take them straight to the station, on the first stage of theirhoneymoon trip. 

'You know where to send my luggage, ' Brian said to his landlady atparting. 

'Yes, sir, I've got the address all right;' and the fly drove alonganother dusty high road, still within sight of the river, till it turnedat right angles into a bye road leading to the station. 

At that uncongenial place they had to wait a quarter of an hour, walkingup and down the windy platform, where the porter abandoned himself to thecontemplation of occasional rooks, and was sometimes surprised by thearrival of a train for which he had waited so long as to have becomesceptical as to the existence of such things as trains in the scheme ofthe universe. The station was a terminus, and the line was a loop, forwhich very few people appeared to have any necessity. 

'Would you mind telling me where we are going, Brian?' Ida asked herhusband presently, when they had discussed the characteristics of thestation, and Brian had been mildly facetious about the porter. 

She had grown curiously shy since the ceremonial. Her lover seemed to hertransformed into another person by those fateful words. He was now thecustodian of her life, the master of her destiny. 

'Would I mind telling you, my dearest? What a question! You proposedDieppe for our honeymoon, and we are going to Dieppe. '

'Does this train go to Newhaven?'

'Not exactly. Nothing in this life is so convenient as that. This trainwill deposit us at Waterloo Station. The train for Newhaven leaves LondonBridge at seven, in time for the midnight boat. We will go to my chambersand have some lunch. '

'Chambers!' exclaimed Ida, wonderingly. 'Have you really chambers inLondon?'

'Yes. '

'What a strange man you are!'

'That hardly indicates strangeness. But here at last is our train. '

A train had come slowly in and deposited its handful of passengers aboutten minutes ago, and the same train was now ready to start in theopposite direction. 

Ida and her husband got into an empty first-class compartment and thetrain moved slowly off. And now that they were alone, as it were withinfour walls, she summoned up courage to say something that had been on hermind for the last quarter of an hour--a very hard thing for a bride of anhour old to say, yet which must be said somehow. 

'Would you mind giving me a little money, while we are in London, to buysome clothes?' she began hesitatingly. 'It is a dreadful thing to have toask you, when, if I were not like the beggar girl in the ballad, I shouldhave a trousseau. But I don't know when I may get my box from Mauleverer, and when I do most of the things in it are too shabby for your wife; andin the meantime I have nothing, and I should not like to disgrace you, tomake you feel ashamed of me while we are on our honeymoon tour. '

She sat with downcast eyes and flaming cheeks, deeply humiliated by herposition, hating her poverty more than she had ever hated it in her lifebefore. She felt that this rich husband of hers had not been altogetherkind to her--that he might by a little forethought have spared her thisshame. He must have known that she had neither clothes nor money. He whohad such large means had done nothing to sweeten her poverty. On this herwedding morning he had brought her no gift save the ring which the lawprescribed. He had not brought her so much as a flower by way ofgreeting; yet she knew by the gossip of her schoolfellows that it was thecustom for a lover to ratify his engagement by some splendid ring, whichwas ever afterwards his betrothed's choicest jewel. The girls had talkedof their elder sisters' engagement-rings: how one had diamonds, anotherrubies, another catseyes, more distinguished and artistic than either. 

And now she sat with drooping eyelids, expecting her lover-husband tobreak into an outburst of self-reproach, then pour a shower of gold intoher lap. But he did neither. He rattled some loose coins in his pocket, just as he had done yesterday when he talked of the honeymoon; and heanswered hesitatingly, with evident embarrassment. 

'Yes, you'll want some new clothes, I daresay. All girls do when theymarry, don't they? It's a kind of unwritten law--new husband, new gowns. But I'm sure you can't look better than you do in that gray gown, andit looks to me just the right thing for travelling. And for any otherlittle things you may want for the moment, if a couple of sovereigns willdo'--producing those coins--'you can get anything you like as we drive tomy chambers. We could stop at a draper's on our way. '

Ida was stricken dumb by this reply. Her cheeks changed from crimson topale. Her wealthy husband--the man whose fortune was to give her allthose good things she had ever pictured to herself in the airy visions ofa splendid future--offered her, with a half-reluctant air, as if offeringhis life's blood, two sovereigns with which to purchase a travellingoutfit. What could she buy for two sovereigns? Not all the economy of hergirlhood could screw half the things she wanted out of that pitiful sum. 

She thought of all those descriptions of weddings which were so eagerlydevoured at Mauleverer, whenever a fashionable newspaper fell in the wayof those eager neophytes. She recalled the wonderful gifts which thebridegroom and the bridegroom's friends showered on the bride--theglorious gown and bonnet in which the bride departed on her honeymoonjourney. And she was offered two sovereigns, wherewith to supply herselfwith all things needful for comfort and respectability. 

Pride gave her strength to refuse the sordid boon. She had the contentsof her small travelling bag, and she was going to her father's house, where her step-mother would, perhaps, contrive to provide what wasabsolutely necessary. Anything was better than to be under an obligationto this rich husband who so little understood her needs. 

Could she have married that most detestable of all monsters, a miser? No, she could hardly believe that. It was not in a Wendover to be mean. Andall that she had observed hitherto of Brian's way of acting and thinkingrather indicated a recklessness about money than an undue care of pounds, shillings, and pence. 

'If you don't object to this gown and hat, I can manage very well till weget to my father's house, ' she said quietly. 

'I adore you in that hat and gown, ' replied Brian, eagerly, dropping thesovereigns back into his pocket; and so the question was settled. 

An elderly lady came into the carriage at the next station, and there wasno renewal of confidences between bride and bridegroom till they came toWaterloo, nor even then, for there is not much opportunity forconfidential utterances in a hansom, and it was that convenient vehiclewhich carried Brian and his bride to the Temple. 

They alighted at a gate on the Embankment, and made their way by a gardento a row of grave old houses, with a fine view of the river. Brian ledhis wife into one of these houses and up the uncarpeted stair to thethird floor, where he ushered her into a room with two old-fashionedwindows looking out upon grass, and trees, and old-fashioned buildings, all grave and gray, and having an air of sober peacefulness, as of acollegiate or monastic seclusion, while beyond the broad green lawn shonethe broad blue river. 

'What a nice old place!' said Ida, looking down at the garden. 'Howquiet, how grave, how learned-looking! I don't wonder you like this_pied-à-terre_ in London, as a change from your grand old Abbey. '

Brian gave a little nervous cough, as if something were choking him. Hecame to the window, and put his arm round his wife's waist. 

'Ida, ' he began, somewhat huskily, 'I am going to tell you a secret. '

'What is that?' she asked, turning and looking at him. 

'The Abbey does not belong to me!'

'What?' she cried, with wide-open eyes. 

'You have been rather fond of talking about the Abbey; but I hope yourheart is not too much set upon it. You told me the other day, you know, that you did not value me upon account of the Abbey or my position as itsowner. I hope that was the truth, Ida; for Wendover Abbey belongs to mycousin. You have married the poor Brian and not the rich one!'

'What?' she cried. 'You have lied to me all this time--you have fooledand deluded me!'

She turned and faced him with eyes that flamed indignant fire, lips thatquivered with unrestrained passion. 

'It was not my doing, ' he faltered, shrinking before her like the veriestcraven; 'it was the girls--Urania and Bessie--who started the notion as apractical joke, just to see what you would think of me, believing me tobe my cousin. And when you seemed to like me--a little--Bessie, who isfond of me and who adores you, urged me to follow up my advantage. '

'But not to cheat me into a marriage. No; it is not in Bessie to suggestsuch falsehood. '

'She hardly contemplated an immediate marriage. I was to win your heart, and when I was sure of that--'

'You were to tell me the truth, ' said Ida, looking him straight in theeyes. 

His head drooped upon his breast. 

'And you did not tell me. You knew that I saw in you Brian Wendover, thehead of the family, the owner of a great estate; that I was proud ofbeing loved and sought by a man who stooped from such a high position tolove me, who renounced the chance of a brilliant marriage to marry me, apenniless body! You knew that it was in that character I admired youand respected you, and was grateful to you! Not as the brieflessbarrister--the man without means or position!'

'You harped a good deal upon the Abbey. But I had some right to supposeyou liked me for my own sake, and that you would forgive me for astratagem which was prompted by my love for you. How could I know thatyou looked upon marriage as a matter of exchange and barter?'

'No, ' said Ida, bitterly. 'You are right. You could not know how mean Iam. I did not know it myself till now. And now, ' she pursued, withflashing eyes, with a look in her splendid face that seemed to blight andwither him, with all her beauty, all her womanhood, up in arms againsthim, 'and now to punish you for having kept the truth from me, I willtell _you_ the truth--plainly. I have never cared one straw for you. Ithought I did while I still believed you Brian Wendover of the Abbey. Iwas dazzled by your position; I was grateful in advance for all the goodthings that your wealth was to bring me. I tried to delude myself intothe belief that I really loved you; but the voice of my conscience toldme that it was not so, that I was, in sober truth, the basest ofcreatures--a woman who marries for money. And now, standing here beforeyou, I know what a wretch I seem--what a wretch I am. '

'You are my wife, ' said Brian, trying to take her hand; 'and we must bothmake the best of a bad bargain. '

'Your wife?' she echoed, in a mocking voice. 

'Yes, my very wife, Ida. The knot that was tied to-day can only beloosened by death--or dishonour. '

'You have married me under a false name. '

'No, I have not. You married Brian Walford Wendover. There is no otherman of that name. '

'You have cheated me into a miserable marriage. I will never forgive thatcheat. I will never acknowledge you as my husband. I will never bear yourname, or be anything to you but a stranger, except that I shall hate youall the days of my life. That will be the only bond between us, ' sheadded, with a bitter laugh. 

'Come, Ida, ' said Brian, soothingly, feeling himself quite able to facethe situation now the first shock was over, 'I was prepared for you to bedisappointed--to be angry, even; but you are carrying matters a littletoo far. Even your natural disappointment can hardly excuse such languageas this. I am the same man I was yesterday morning when I asked you tomarry me. '

'No, you are not. I saw you in a false light--glorified by attributesthat never belonged to you. '

'In plain words, you thought me the owner of a big house and a fineincome. I am neither; but I am the same Brian Wendover, for all that--abriefless barrister, but with some talent; not without friends; and withas fair a chance of success as most young men of my rank. '

'You are an idler--I have heard that from your uncle--self-indulgent, fond of trivial pleasures. Such men never succeed in life. But if youwere certain to be Lord Chancellor--if you could this moment proveyourself possessed of a splendid fortune--my feelings would be unchanged. You have lied to me as no gentleman would have lied. I will own nohusband who is not a gentleman. '

'You carry things with a high hand, ' said Brian, with sullen wrath; andthen love prevailed over anger, and he flung himself on his knees at herfeet, clasping her reluctant hands, urging every impassioned argumentwhich young lips could frame; but to all such prayers she was marble. 'You are my wife, ' he pleaded; 'you are my snared bird; your wings arenetted, darling. Do you think I will let you go? Yes, I was false, but itwas love made me deceive you. I loved you so well that I dared not risklosing you. '

'You have lost me for ever, ' she cried, breaking from him and movingtowards the door; 'perhaps, had you been loyal and true, you might havetaught me to love you for your own sake. Women are easier won by truththan falsehood. '

'It seems to me they are easier won by houses and lands, ' answered Brian, with a sneer. 

And then he followed her to the door, caught her in his arms, and heldher against his passionately beating heart, covering her angry face withkisses. 

'Let me go!' she cried, tearing herself from his arms, with a shriek ofhorror; 'your kisses are poison to me. I hate you--I hate you!'

He recoiled a few paces, and stood looking at her with a countenance inwhich the passionate love of a moment ago gave place to gloomy anger. 

'So be it, ' he said; 'if we cannot be friends we must be enemies. Youreveal your character with an admirable candour. You did not mindmarrying a man who was absolutely repulsive to you--whose kisses arepoison--so long as you thought he was rich. But directly you are told heis poor you inform him of your real sentiments with a delightfulfrankness. Suppose this confession of mine were a hoax, and that I reallywere the wealthy Brian after all--playing off a practical joke to testyour feelings--what a sorry figure you would cut!'

'Despicable, ' said Ida, with her hand on the handle of the door. 'Yes, Iknow that. I despise and loathe myself as much as I despise and loatheyou. I have drained the cup of poverty to the dregs, and I languished forthe elixir of wealth. When you asked me to marry you, I thought Fate hadthrown prosperity in my way--that it would be to lose the golden chanceof a lifetime if I refused you. '

'Not much gold about it, ' said Brian, lightly. 

He had one of those shallow natures to which the tragedy of life isimpossible. He was disappointed--angry at the turn which affairs hadtaken; but he was not reduced to despair. To take things easily had beenhis complete code of morals and philosophy from earliest boyhood. He wasnot going to break his heart for any woman, were she the loveliest, thecleverest, the noblest that ever the gods endowed with their choicestgifts. She might be ever so fair, but if she were not fair for him shewas, in a manner, non-existent. Life, in his philosophy, was too short tobe wasted in following phantoms. 

'You must have thought me a mean cad this morning, when I offered you acouple of sovereigns, ' he said; 'yet they constituted a third of myworldly possessions, and I was sorely puzzled how we were to get toDieppe on less than four pounds. I have been living from hand to mouthever since I left the university, picking up a few pounds now and then byliterature, writing criticisms for a theatrical journal, and so on--by nomeans a brilliant living. Perhaps, after all, it is as well you takethings so severely, ' he added, with a sneer. 'If we had been welldisposed towards each other, we must have starved. '

'I could have lived upon a crust with a husband whom I loved andrespected; but not with a man who could act a lie, as you did, ' said Ida. 

She took her bag from the chair where Brian had thrown it as they enteredthe room, and went out on the landing. 

'Good-bye, Mrs. Wendover, ' he called after her; 'let me know if I canever be of any use to you. '

She was going downstairs by this time, and he was looking down at heracross the heavy old banister rail. 

'I suppose you are going straight to your father's?'

'Yes. '

'Hadn't you better stop and have some lunch? The train doesn't go forhours. '

'No, thanks. '

The gray gown fluttered against the sombre brown panelling as hiswife turned the corner of the lower landing and disappeared from hisview--perhaps for ever. 

Brian went back to his room, and stood in the middle of it, lookinground him with a contemplative air. It was a pleasant room, arrangedwith rather a dandified air--pipes, walking-sticks, old engravings, _bric-à-brac_--the relics of his college life. 

'Well, if she had been more agreeable, I should have had to get newrooms, and that would have been a bore, ' he said to himself; and then hesank into a chair, gave a laugh that was half a sob, and wiped a mist oftears from his eyes. 

'What fools we have both been!' he muttered to himself, 'I knew she wasin love with the Abbey; but I don't believe a word she says about hatingme!'

And yet--and yet--she had seemed very much in earnest when she toreherself from his arms with that agonized shriek. 

CHAPTER X. 

A BAD PENNY. 

Ida made her way back to the Embankment somehow, hardly knowing where shewas going or what she was going to do. The airy castle which she hadbuilt for herself had fallen about her ears, and she was left standingamidst the ruins. Wendover Abbey, wealth, position, independence, theworld's respect, were all as far from her as they had been a month ago. Her sense of disappointment was keen, but not so keen as the sense of herself-abasement. Her own character stood revealed, to herself in all itsmeanness--its sordid longing for worldly wealth--its willingness tostoop to falsehood in the pursuit of a woman's lowest aim, a goodestablishment. Seen in the light of abject failure, the scheme of herlife seemed utterly detestable. Success would have gilded everything. Asthe wife of the rich Brian she would have done her duty in all wifelymeekness and obedience, and would have gone down to the grave underthe comforting delusion that she had in no wise forfeited honour orself-respect. Cheated, duped, degraded, she now felt all the infamyimplied in her willingness to marry a man for whom she cared not a straw. 

'Oh, it was cruel, iniquitous, ' she said to herself, as she hurried alongthe dusty pavement, impelled by agitated thoughts, 'to trade upon myweakness--my misery--to see me steeped to the lips in odious poverty, and to tempt me with the glitter of wealth. I never pretended to lovehim--never--thank God for that! I let him tell me that he loved me, and Iconsented to be his wife; but I pretended no love on my side. Thank Godfor that! He cannot say that I lied to him. '

She hurried along, citywards, following the stream of people, and foundherself presently in broad, busy Queen Victoria Street, with all thetraffic hastening by her, staring helplessly at the cabs, and omnibuses, waggons, carriages streaming east and west under the murky London sky, vaguely wondering what she was to do next. 

He--her husband--had asked her if she were going back to her father, andshe had said 'Yes. ' Indeed it was the only course open to her. She mustgo home and face the situation, and accept any paternal reproof thatmight be offered her. She had lost a day. No doubt Miss Pew's indictmentwould have arrived before her; and she would have to explain her conductto father and step-mother. But the little white-walled house near Dieppewas the only shelter the universe held for her, and she must go there. 

'Wendover Abbey!' she repeated to herself. I the mistress of WendoverAbbey! That was too good a joke, 'Why did I not see the folly of such adream? But it was just like other dreams. When one dreams one is a queen, or that one can fly, there is no consciousness of the absurdity of thething. '

She stood staring at the omnibuses till the conductor of one that wasnearly empty murmured invitingly in her ear, 'London Bridge?'

It was the place to which she wanted to go. She nodded to the man, whoopened his door and let her in. 

She was at the station at a quarter to four, and the train for Newhavendid not leave till seven--a long dismal stretch of empty time to be livedthrough. But she could not improve her situation by going anywhere else. The station, with its dingy waiting-rooms and garish refreshment-room, was as good an hotel for her as any other. She was faint for want offood, having taken nothing since her apology for breakfast at seveno'clock. 

'Can one get a cup of tea here?' she asked of the dry-as-dust matron incharge of the waiting-room; whereupon the matron good-naturedly offeredto fetch her some tea. 

'If you would be so kind, ' she faltered, too exhausted to speak above awhisper; 'I don't like going into that crowded refreshment-room. '

'No, to be sure--not much used to travelling alone, I daresay. You willbe better when you've had a cup of tea. '

The tea, with a roll and butter, revived exhausted nature. Ida paid forthis temperate refreshment, went to the booking-office, made someinquiries about her ticket, and bought herself a book at the stall, wherewith to beguile the time and to distract her mind from brooding onits own miseries. 

She felt it was a frightful extravagance as she paid away two of MissCobb's shillings for Bulwer's 'Caxtons;' but she felt also that to livethrough those three tedious hours without such aid would be a step on theroad to a lunatic asylum. 

Armed with her book, she went back to the waiting-room, settled herselfin a corner of the sofa, and remained there absorbed, immovable; whiletravellers came and went, all alike fussy, flurried, and full of theirown concerns--not one of them stopping to notice the pale, tired-lookinggirl reading in the remotest corner of the spacious room. 

A somewhat stormy passage brought the boat which carried Ida and herfortunes to straggling, stony, smelly Dieppe, now abandoned to its nativepopulation, and deprived of that flavour of fashion which pervades itsbeach in the brighter months of August and September. The town lookedgray, cold, and forbidding in the bleak October morning, when Ida foundherself alone amidst its stoniness, the native population only justbeginning to bestir itself in the street above the quay, and makingbelieve, by an inordinate splashing and a frantic vehemence in the use ofbirch-brooms, to be the cleanest population under the sun; an assertionof superiority somewhat belied by an all-pervading odour of decomposedvegetable matter, a small heap of which refuse, including egg-shells andfishy offal--which the town in the matutinal cleansing process offered upto the sun-god as incense upon an altar--lay before every door, to becollected by the local scavenger at his leisure, or to be blown about anddisseminated by the winds of heaven. 

Alone upon the stony quay, in the freshness and chilliness of earlymorning, Ida took temporary refuge in the humblest _café_ she could find, where a feeble old woman was feebly brooming the floor, and where therewas no appearance of any masculine element. Here she expended another ofMiss Cobb's shillings upon a cup of coffee and a roll. She had spent fiveand twenty shillings for her second-class ticket. The debt to Miss Cobbnow amounted to a sovereign and a half; and Ida Palliser thought of itwith an aching sense of her own helplessness to refund so large a sum. Yesterday morning, believing herself about to become the wife of a richman, she had thought what fun it would be to send 'Cobby' a five-poundnote in the prettiest of ivory purses from one of those shops in thestreet yonder. 

She drank her coffee slowly, not anxious to hasten the hour of ahome-coming which could not be altogether pleasant. She was as fond ofher father as adverse circumstances had allowed her to be; she adored herhalf-brother, and was not unkindly disposed towards her step-mother. Butto go back to them penniless, threadbare, disgraced--go back to be aburden upon their genteel poverty. That was bitter. 

She had made up her mind to walk to Les Fontaines rather than make anyfurther inroad upon Miss Cobb's purse for coach-hire. What was she thatshe should be idle or luxurious, or spare the labour of her young limbs?She went along the narrow stony street where the shops were only nowbeing opened, past the wide market where the women were setting out theirstalls in front of the fine old church, and where Duguesclin, heroic andgigantic, defied the stormy winds that had ruffled his sculptured hair. 

Two years and a half ago it had been a treat to her to walk in thatmarket-place, hanging on her father's arm, to stand in the sombrestillness of that solemn cathedral, while the organ rolled itsmagnificent music along the dusky aisles. They two had chaffered forfruit at those stalls, laughing gaily with the good-temperedcountrywomen. They had strolled on the beach and amused themselveseconomically, from the outside, with the diversions of the_établissement_. An afternoon in Dieppe had meant fun and holiday-making. Now she looked at the town with weary eyes, and thought how dull andshabby it had grown. 

The walk to Les Fontaines, along a white dusty road, seemed interminable. If she had not been told again and again that it was only four miles fromthe town to the village, she would have taken the distance for eight--solong, so weary, seemed the way. There were hills in the background, hillsright and left of her, orchards, glimpses of woodland--here and there apeep of sea--pretty enough road to be whirled along in a comfortablecarriage with a fast horse, but passing flat, stale, and unprofitable tothe heavy-hearted pedestrian. 

At last the little straggling village, the half-dozen new houses--squarewhite boxes, which seemed to have been dropped accidentally in squareenclosures of ragged garden--white-walled penitentiaries on a smallscale, deriving an air of forced liveliness from emerald-green shutters, here a tree, and there a patch of rough grass, but never a flower--forthe scarlet geraniums in the plaster vases on the wall of the grandest ofthe mansions had done blooming, and beyond scarlet geraniums on the wallthe horticultural taste of Les Fontaines had never risen. The oldcottages, with heavy thatched roofs and curious attic windows, with fruittrees sprawling over the walls, and orchards in the rear, were betterthan the new villas; but even these lacked the neatness and picturesquebeauty of an English cottage in a pastoral landscape. There was a shabbydustiness, a barren, comfortless look about everything; and the height ofugliness was attained in the new church, a plastered barn, with a gaudilypainted figure of our Blessed Lady in a niche above the door, all red andblue and gold, against the white-washed wall. 

Ida thought of Kingthorpe, --the rustic inn with its queer old gables, shining lattices, quaint dovecots, the green, the pond, with its willowyisland, the lovely old Gothic church--solid, and grave, and gray--calmamidst the shade of immemorial yews. The country about Les Fontaines wasalmost as pretty as that hilly region between Winchester and Romsey; butthe English village was like a gem set in the English landscape, whilethe French village was a wart on the face of a smiling land. 

'Why call it Les Fontaines?' Ida wondered, in her parched and dustyweariness. 'It is the dryest village I ever saw; and I don't believethere is anything like a fountain within a mile. '

Her father's house was one of the white boxes with green shutters. Itenjoyed a dignified seclusion behind a plaster wall, which looked as ifanyone might knock it down in very wantonness. The baby-boy had variedthe monotony of his solitary sports by picking little bits out of it. There was a green door opening into this walled forecourt or garden, but the door was not fastened, so Ida pushed it open and went in. Thebaby-boy, now a sturdy vagabond of five years old, was digging an emptyflower-bed. He caught sight of his sister, and galloped off into thehouse before she could take him in her arms, shouting, 'Maman, unedame--une dame! lady, lady, lady!' exercising his lungs upon both thoselanguages which were familiar to his dawning intelligence. 

His mother came out at his summons, a pretty, blue-eyed woman with anuntidy gown and towzley hair, aged and faded a little since Ida had seenher. 

'Oh, Ida, ' she said, kissing her step-daughter heartily enough, despiteher reproachful tone, 'how could you go on so! We have had such a letterfrom Miss Pew. Your father is awfully cut up. And we were expecting youall yesterday. He went to Dieppe to meet the afternoon boat. Where haveyou been since Tuesday?'

'I slept at the lock-house with a nice civil woman, who gave me a night'slodging, ' said Ida, somewhat embarrassed by this question. 

'But why not have come home at once, dear?' asked the step-mother mildly. She always felt herself a poor creature before her Juno-like daughter. 

'I was flurried and worried--hardly knew what I was doing for the firstfew hours after I left Mauleverer; and I let the time slip by till it wastoo late to think of travelling yesterday, ' answered Ida. 'Old Pew is ademon. '

'She seems to be a nasty, unkind old thing, ' said Mrs. Palliser; 'for, after all, the worst she can bring against you is flirting with yourfriend's cousin. I hope you are engaged to him, dear; for that willsilence everybody. '

'No, I am not engaged to him--he is nothing to me, ' answered Ida, crimsoning; 'I never saw him, except in Fräulein's company. Neither younor my father would like me to marry a man without sixpence. '

'But in Miss Pew's letter she said you declared you were engaged to Mr. Wendover of the Abbey, a gentleman of wealth and position. She was wickedenough to say she did not believe a word you said; but still, Ida, I dohope you were not telling falsehoods. '

'I hardly knew what I said, ' replied Ida, feeling the difficulties of herposition rising up on every side and hemming her in. She had nevercontemplated this kind of thing when she repudiated her marriage andturned her face homewards. 'She maddened me by her shameful attack, talking to me as if I were dirt, degrading me before the whole school. Ifyou had been treated as I was you would have been beside yourself. '

'I might have gone into hysterics, ' said Mrs. Palliser, 'but I don'tthink I should have told deliberate falsehoods: and to say that you wereengaged to a rich man when you were not engaged, and the man hasn't asixpence, was going a little too far. But don't fret, dear, ' added thestep-mother, soothingly, as the tears of shame and anger--anger againstfate, life, all things--welled into Ida's lovely eyes. 'Never mind. We'llsay no more about it. Come upstairs to your own room--it's Vernie'sday-nursery now, but you won't mind that, I know--and take off your hat. Poor thing, how tired and ill you look!'

'I feel as if I was going to be ill and die, and I hope I am, ' said Ida, petulantly. 

'Don't, dear; it's wicked to say such a thing as that. You needn't beafraid of your poor pa; he takes everything easily. '

'Yes, he is always good. Where is he?'

'Not up yet. He comes down in time for his little _déjeûner à lafourchette_. Poor fellow, he had to get up so early in India. '

Captain Palliser had for the last seven years been trying to recoverthose arrears of sleep incurred during his Eastern career. He had beenactive enough under a tropical sky, when his mind was kept alive by amodicum of hard work and a very wide margin of sport--pig-sticking, peacock-shooting, paper-chases, all the delights of an Indian life. Butnow, vegetating on a slender pittance in the semi-slumberous idleness ofLes Fontaines, he had nothing to do and nothing to think about; and hewas glad to shorten his days by dozing away the fresher hours of themorning, while his wife toiled at the preparation of that elaborate mealwhich he loved to talk about as tiffin. 

Poor little Mrs. Palliser made strenuous efforts to keep the sparselyfurnished dusty house as clean and trim as it could be kept; but her lifewas a perpetual conflict with other people's untidiness. 

The house was let furnished, and everything was in the third-rate Frenchstyle--inferior mahogany and cheap gilding, bare floors with gaudy littlerugs lying about here and there, tables with flaming tapestry covers, chairs cushioned with red velvet of the commonest kind, shamtortoiseshell clock and candelabra on the dining-room chimney-piece, alabaster clock and candelabra in the drawing-room. There was nothinghome-like or comfortable in the house to atone for the smallness of therooms, which seemed mere cells to Ida after the spaciousness ofMauleverer Manor and The Knoll. She wondered how her father and mothercould breathe in such rooms. 

That bed-chamber to which Mrs. Palliser introduced her step-daughter waseven a shade shabbier than the rest of the house. The boy had run riothere, had built his bricks in one corner, had stabled a headless woodenhorse and cart in another, and had scattered traces of his existenceeverywhere. There were his little Windsor chair, the nurse-girl's rockingchair, a battered old table, a heap of old illustrated newspapers, andtorn toy-books. 

'You won't mind Vernon's using the room in the day, dear, will you?' saidMrs. Palliser, apologetically. 'It shall be tidied for you at night. '

This meant that in the daytime Ida would have no place for retreat, nonook or corner of the house which she might call her own. She submittedmeekly even to this deprivation, feeling that she was an intruder who hadno right to be there. 

'I should like to see my father soon, ' she said, with a trembling lip, stooping down to caress Vernon, who had followed them upstairs. 

He was a lovely, fair-haired boy, with big candid blue eyes, a lovable, confiding child, full of life and spirits and friendly feeling towardsall mankind and the whole animal creation, down to its very lowest forms. 

'You shall have your breakfast with him, ' said Mrs. Palliser, feelingthat she was conferring a great favour, for the Captain's breakfast was ameal apart. 'I don't say but what he'll be a little cross to you atfirst; but you must put up with that. He'll come round afterwards. '

'He has not seen me for two years and a half, ' said Ida, thinking thatfatherly affection ought to count for something under such circumstances. 

'Yes, it's only two years and a half, ' sighed Mrs. Palliser, 'and youwere to have stayed at Mauleverer Manor three years. Miss Pew is a wickedold woman to cheat your father out of six months' board and tuition. Hepaid her fifty pounds in one lump when he articled you--fifty pounds--aheap of money for people in our position; and here you are, come back tous like a bad penny. '

'I am very sorry, ' faltered Ida, reddening at that unflatteringcomparison. 'But I worked very hard at Mauleverer, and am tolerablyexperienced in tuition. I must try to get a governess's situationdirectly, and then I shall be paid a salary, and shall be able to giveyou back the fifty pounds by degrees. '

'Ah, that's the dreadful part of it all, ' sighed Mrs. Palliser, who wasvery seldom in the open air, and had that despondent view of life commonto people who live within four narrow walls. 'Goodness knows how you areever to get a situation without references. Miss Pew says you are not torefer to her; and who else is there who knows anything of you or yourcapacity?'

'Yes, there is some one else. Bessie Wendover and her family. '

'The people you went to visit in Hampshire. Ah! there went another fivepounds in a lump. You have been a heavy expense to us, Ida. I don't knowwhether anyone wanting to employ you as a governess would take such areference as that. People are so particular. But we must hope for thebest, and in the meantime you can make yourself useful at home in takingcare of Vernon and teaching him his letters. He is dreadfully backward. '

'He is an angel, ' said Ida, lifting the cherub in her arms, and lettingthe fair, curly head nestle upon her shoulder. 'I will wait upon him likea slave. You do love me, don't you, pet?'

'Ess, I love 'oo, but I don't know who 'oo is. _Connais pas_, ' saidVernon, shaking his head vehemently. 

'I am your sister, darling, your only sister. '

'My half-sister, ' said Vernon. 'Maman said I had a half-sister, and shewas naughty. _Dites donc_, would a whole sister be twice as big as you?'

Thus in his baby language, which may be easier imagined than described, gravely questioned the boy. 

'I am your sister, dearest, heart and soul. There is no such thing ashalf-love or half-sisterhood between us. You should not have talked tohim like that, mother, ' said Ida, turning her reproachful gaze upon herstep-mother, who was melted to tears. 

'Your father was so upset by Miss Pew's letter, ' she murmuredapologetically. 'To pay fifty pounds for you, and for it to end in suchhumiliation as that. You must own that it was hard for us. '

'It was harder for me, ' said Ida; 'I had to stand up and face that wickedwoman, who knew that I had done no wrong, and who wreaked her malignityupon me because I am cleverer and better-looking than ever she was in herlife. '

'I must go and make your father's omelette, ' said the stepmother, 'whileyou tidy yourself for breakfast. I think there's some water on thewashstand, and Vernon shall bring you a clean towel. '

The little fellow trotted out after his mother, and trotted backpresently with the towel--one towel, which was about in proportion to thewater-jug and basin. Ida shuddered, remembering the plentitude of waterand towels at The Knoll. She made her toilet as well as she could, withthe scantiest materials, as she might have done on board ship; shook andbrushed the shabby gray cashmere--her wedding gown, she thought, with abitter smile--before she put it on again, and then went down the barenarrow deal staircase, superb in all the freshness of her youth andbeauty, which neither care nor poverty could spoil. 

Captain Palliser was pacing up and down his little dining parlour, looking flurried and anxious. He turned suddenly as Ida entered, andstood staring at her. 

'By Jove, how handsome you have grown!' he said, and then he look her inhis arms and kissed her. 'But you know, my dear, this is really too bad, 'he went on in a fretful tone, ' to come back upon us like a bad penny. '

'That is what my step-mother said just now. '

'My dear, how can one help saying it, when it's the truth? After mypaying fifty pounds, don't you know, and thinking that you werecomfortably disposed of for the next three years, and that at the expiryof the term Miss Pew would place you in a gentleman's family, where youwould receive from sixty to a hundred per annum, according to youracquirements--those were her very words--to have you sent back to us likethis, in disgrace, and to be told that you had been carrying on in anabsurd way with a young man on the bank of a river. It is mosthumiliating. And now my wife tells me the young man has not a sixpencewhich makes the whole thing so very culpable. '

'Please let me tell you the extent of my iniquity, father, and then youcan judge what right Miss Pew had to expel me. '

Whereupon Ida quietly described her afternoon promenades upon theriver-path, with the Fräulein always in her company, and how her friend'scousin had been permitted to walk up and down with them. 

'Nobody supposes there was any actual harm, ' replied Captain Palliser, 'but you must have been perfectly aware that you were actingfoolishly--that this kind of thing was a violation of the schooletiquette. Come, now, you knew Miss Pew would disapprove of such goingson, did you not?'

'Well, yes, no doubt I knew old Pew would be horrified. Perhaps it wasthe idea of that which gave a zest to the thing. '

'Precisely! and you never thought of my fifty pounds, and you ran thisrisk for the sake of a young man without a penny, who never could be yourhusband. '

Ida grew scarlet and then deadly pale. 

'There, don't look so distressed, child. I must try to forget my fiftypounds, and to think of your future career. It is a deuced awkwardbusiness--here come the omelette and the coffee--an escapade of this kindis always cropping up against a girl in after life--sit down and makeyourself comfortable--capital dish of kidneys--the world is so small; andof course every pupil at Mauleverer Manor will gabble about thisbusiness. No mushrooms!--what is the little woman thinking about?'

Captain Palliser seated himself, and arranged his napkin under his chin, French fashion. His features were of that aquiline type which seems tohave been invented on purpose for army men. His eyes were light blue, like his boy's--Ida's dark eyes were a maternal inheritance--his hair wasauburn, sprinkled with gray, his moustache straw-colour and with acarefully trained cavalry droop. His clothes and boots were perfect oftheir kind, albeit they had seen good wear. He had been heard to declarethat he had rather wear feathers and war-paint, like a red Indian, than acoat made by a third-rate tailor. He was tall and inclining to stoutness, broad-shouldered, and with an easy carriage and a nonchalant air, whichwere not without their charm. He had what most people called a patricianlook--that is to say the air of never having done anything useful in thewhole course of his existence--not such a patrician as a Palmerston, aRussell, a Derby, or a Salisbury, but the ideal lotus-eating aristocrat, who dresses, drives, and dines and gossips through a languid existence. 

The Captain's career in the East had not been particularly brilliant. Hislines had not lain in great battles or stirring campaigns. Except duringthe awful episode of the Mutiny, when he was still a young man, he hadseen little active service. His life, since his return from India, hadbeen a blank. 

His mind, never vigorous, had rusted slowly in the slow monotony of hisdays. He had come to accept the rhythmical ebb and flow of life's riveras all-sufficient for content. Breakfast and dinner were the chief eventsof his life--if it was well with these it was well with him. 

There was a rustic tavern where in summer a good many people came todine, either in the house or the garden, and in a room adjoining thekitchen there was a small French billiard-table with very big balls. Herethe Captain played of an evening with the _habitués_ of the place, andwas much looked up to for his superior skill. An occasional drive intoDieppe on the _banquette_ of the diligence, and a saunter by the sea, washis only other amusement. 

His daughter poured out his coffee, and ministered to his various wantsas he breakfasted, eating with but little appetite herself, albeit thefare was excellent. 

Captain Palliser talked in a desultory way as he ate, not often lookingup from his plate, but meandering on. Happily for Ida, who had beenreduced to the lowest stage of self-abasement by her welcome, he said nomore about Miss Pew or his daughter's gloomy prospects. It was notwithout a considerable mental effort that he was able to bring histhoughts to bear upon other people's business. He had strained his mind agood deal during the last twenty-four hours, and he was very glad torelax the tension of the bow. 

'Rather a dull kind of life for a man who has been used to society--eh, Ida?' he murmured, as he ate his omelette; 'but we contrive to rub onsomehow. Your step-mother likes it, and the boy likes it--wonderfulhealthy air, don't you know--no smoke--no fogs--only three miles from thesea, as the crow flies. It suits them, and it's cheap--a paramountconsideration with a poor devil on half-pay; and in the season there aresome of the best people in Europe to be seen at the _établissement_. '

'I suppose you go to Dieppe often in the season, father?' said Ida, pleased to find he had dropped Miss Pew and the governess question. 

'Well, yes; I wander in almost every fine day. '

'You don't walk?' exclaimed Ida, surprised at such activity in a man ofhis languid temper. 

'Oh, no; I never walk. I just wander in--on the diligence-or in, a returnfly. I wander in and look about me a little, and perhaps take a cup ofcoffee with a friend at the Hôtel des Bains. There is generally some oneI know at the Bains or the Royal. Ah, by-the-bye whom, do you think I sawthere a fortnight ago?'

'I haven't the least idea, ' answered Ida; 'I know so few of yourfriends. '

'No, of course not. You never saw Sir Vernon Palliser, but you've heardme talk about him. '

'Your rich brother, the wicked old baronet in Sussex, who never did you akindness in his life?'

'My dear, old Sir Vernon has been dead two years. '

'I never heard of his death. '

'No, by-the-bye. It wasn't worth while worrying you about it, especiallyas we could not afford to go into mourning. Your step-mother frettedabout that dreadfully, poor little woman; as if it could matter to her, when she had never seen the man in her life. She said if one had abaronet in one's family one ought to go into mourning for him. I can'tunderstand the passion some women have for mourning. They are eager tosmother themselves in crape at the slightest provocation, and for a meanold beggar like Vernon, who never gave me a sixpence. But as I wassaying, these two young fellows turned up the other day in front of theHôtel des Bains. '

'Which two young fellows, my dear father? I haven't the faintest idea ofwhom you are talking, ' protested Ida, who found her father's conversationvery difficult to follow. 

'Why, Sir Vernon, of course--the present Sir Vernon and his brotherPeter: ugly name, isn't it, Ida? but there has always been a Peter in thefamily; and as a rule, ' added Captain Palliser, growing slower anddreamier of speech as he fell into reminiscences of the past--'as arule the Peter Pallisers have gone to the dogs. There was MajorPalliser--fought in the Peninsula--knew George the Fourth--married a verypretty woman and beat her--died in the Bench. '

'Tell me about the present Sir Vernon, ' asked Ida, more interested in themoving, breathing life of to-day than in memories of the unknown dead. 'Is he nice?'

'He is a fine, broad-shouldered young fellow--seven or eight and twenty. No, not handsome--my brother Vernon was never distinguished for beauty, though he had all the markings of race. There is nothing like race, Ida;you see it in a man's walk; you hear it in every tone of a man's voice. '

'Dear father, I was asking about this particular Sir Vernon, ' urged Ida, with a touch of impatience, unaccustomed to this slow meandering talk. 

'And I was telling you about him, ' answered the Captain, slightlyoffended. His little low-born wife never hurried and hustled his thoughtsin this way. She was content to sit at his feet, and let him meander onfor hours. True that she did not often listen, but she was alwaysrespectful. 'I was remarking that Sir Vernon is a fine young fellow, andlikely to live to see himself a great-grandfather. His brother, too, isnearly as big and healthy--healthy to a degree. The breakfast I saw thosetwo young men devour at the hotel would have made your hair stand on end. But, thank heaven, I have never been the kind of man to wait for deadmen's shoes. '

'I see, ' said Ida. 'If these boys had been sickly and had died young, youwould have succeeded to the baronetcy. '

'To the baronetcy and to the estate in Sussex, which is a very fineestate, worth eight thousand a year. '

'Then, of course, they are strong, and likely to live to the age ofMethuselah!' exclaimed Ida, with a laugh of passing bitterness. 'Who everheard of luck coming our way? It is not in our race to be fortunate. '

The shame and agony of her own failure to win fortune were still strongupon her. 

'Who knows what might happen?' said the Captain, with amiablelistlessness. 'I have never allowed my thoughts to dwell upon thepossibilities of the future; yet it is a fact that, so long as thoseyoung men remain unmarried, there are only two lives between me andwealth. They feel the position themselves; for when Sir Vernon came overhere to lunch, he patted my boy on the head and said, in his joking way, "If Peter and I had fallen down a crevasse the other day in the Oberland, this little chap would have been heir to Wimperfield. "'

'No doubt Sir Vernon and his brother will marry and set up nurseries oftheir own within the next two or three years, ' said Ida, carelessly. Eager as she had been to be rich during those two and a half bitter yearsin which she had so keenly felt the sting of poverty, she was not capableof seeing her way to fortune through the dark gate of death. 

'Yes, I daresay they will both marry, ' replied Captain Palliser, gravely, folding his napkin and whisking an accidental crumb off his waistcoat. 'Young men always get drifted into matrimony. If they are rich all thewomen are after them, If they are poor--well, there is generally somewoman weak enough to prefer dual starvation to bread and cheese andsolitude. Vernon told me he had no idea of marriage. He and his brotherare both rovers--fond of mountain-climbing, yachting, every open-airamusement. '

'Did you see much of them while they were at Dieppe ?'

'They only stayed three days. They walked over here to lunch, put thepoor little woman in a fluster--although they were very pleasant and easyabout everything--invited me to dinner, tipped the boy munificently, andwent off by the night-boat, bound straight for Wimperfield and thepartridges. Very fine partridge shooting at Wimperfield! Vernon asked meto go across with him and stay at the old place for a week or two; but mysporting days are over. I can't get up early; and I can't walk inshooting-boots. Besides, the little woman would have fretted if I hadleft her alone so long. '

'But the change would have done you good, father. '

'No, my dear; any change of habits would worry me. I have dropped into mygroove and I must stay in it. What a pity you were not here when yourcousins called! Who knows what might have happened? Vernon might havefallen over head and ears in love with you. '

'Don't, father!' cried Ida, with absolute pain in her voice. 'Don't talkabout marrying for money. There is nothing in life so revolting, sodegrading. Be sure, it is a sin which always brings its own punishment. '

'My dear, ' said the Captain, gravely, 'there are so many love-matcheswhich bring their own punishment, that I am inclined to believe thatmarrying for money is a virtue which ought to ensure its own reward. Youmay depend, if we could get statistics upon the subject, one would findthat after ten years' marriage the couples who were drawn together byprudential motives are just as fond of each other as those more romanticpairs who wedded for love. A decade of matrimony rounds a good many sharpangles, and dispels a good many illusions. '

CHAPTER XI. 

ACCOMPLISHMENTS AT A DISCOUNT. 

Now began for Ida a life of supreme dullness--an empty, almost hopeless, life, waiting upon fortune. Her father was kind to her in his easy-going, lymphatic way, liking well enough to have her about him, pleased with heraffection for his boy, proud of her beauty and her talents, but with noearnest care for her welfare in the present or the future. What was tobecome of wife, son and daughter when he was dead and gone, was aquestion which Captain Palliser dared not ask himself. For the widowthere would be a pittance, for son and daughter nothing. It was thereforevital that Ida should either marry well or become a money-earningpersonage. Of marriage at Les Fontaines there seemed not the faintestprobability, since the experiences of the past afford so few instances ofwandering swains caught and won by a face at a window, or the casualappearance of a beautiful girl on a country road. 

Of friends or acquaintance, in his present abode, Captain Palliser hadnone. The only people he had ever cared for were the men and women he hadknown in India; and he had lost sight of those since his marriage. Theywere scattered; and he was too proud to expose his fallen fortunes tothose who had known him in his happier days, those days when the carelessexpenditure of his modest capital had given him a false air of easycircumstances. 

His life at Les Fontaines suited him well enough, individually. It was akind of hibernation. He slept a good deal, and ate a good deal, andsmoked incessantly, and took very little exercise. For all that is bestand noblest in life, Captain Palliser might just as well have been dead. He had outlived hope and ambition, thought, invention. He exercised noinfluence upon the lives of others, except upon the little homely wife, who was a slave to him. He was no possible good in the world. Yet hisdaughter was fond of him, and pleased to bear him company when he wouldhave her; and under her influence his sluggish intellect brightened alittle. 

For the first few weeks of her residence at Les Fontaines, Ida wastortured by a continually recurring fear of Brian Wendover's pursuit. Hehad let her go coolly enough; but what if he were to change his mind andfollow and claim her? She belonged to him. She was his goods, hischattels--to have and to hold till death did them part. Her life was nolonger her own to dispose of as she pleased. Would he let her alone?--hewho had held her in his arms with passionate force, who had entreated herto stay with him, and had surrendered her reluctantly in sullen anger. 

What if anger, which had been stronger with him than love at that lastmoment, should urge him to denounce her--to tell the world how base athing she was--a woman who had been eager to marry a rich man and hadbeen trapped by a pauper! She glanced with a sickening dread at everyletter which her father received, lest it should be from Brian, tellingher shameful story. She counted the days as they went by, saying toherself, 'A fortnight since we were married; surely if he had meant toclaim me he would have come before now. ' 'Three weeks! now I must besafe!' And then came the dull November morning which completed thecalendar month since her wedding-day, and her husband had made no sign. She began to feel easier, to believe that he repented his marriage asdeeply as she did, and that he was very glad to be free from its bondage. 

And now she was able to think more seriously of her future. She hadanswered a great many advertisements in the _Times_, wherein paragonswere demanded for the tuition of youth or the companionship of age; butas she saw the papers only on the day after their publication, otherparagons, on the spot, were beforehand with her. She did not receive asingle answer to those carefully written letters, setting forth herqualifications and her willingness to work hard. 

'I shall waste a small fortune in postage-stamps, father, ' she said atlast, 'and shall be no nearer the mark. My only chance is to advertise. Will you give me the money for an advertisement? I am sorry to ask you, but--'

'My dear, you are always asking me for money, ' replied Captain Palliser, peevishly; which was hardly fair, as she had asked him nothing sinceher return, except the sum of thirty shillings, being the exact amountof which she stood indebted to kind-hearted Miss Cobb. 'However, Isuppose you must have it. ' He produced a half sovereign from hismeagrely-furnished purse. 'It is only right you should do something;indeed, anything is better than wasting your life in such a hole as this. But what if you do get any answers to your advertisement? Who is to giveyou a character, since that old witch at Mauleverer Manor has chosen toput up her back against you?'

'That must be managed somehow, ' answered Ida, moodily. 'Will it not beenough for the people to know who you are, and that I have never been ina situation before? Why should they apply to the schoolmistress whofinished my education?'

'People are so suspicious, ' said the Captain, 'and the handsomer a girlis the more questions they ask. They seem to think she has no right to beso handsome. However you must risk it'

Ida wrote her advertisement, an unvarnished statement of herqualifications as a teacher, and of her willingness to be useful; not aword about references. The advertisement appeared a few days later, andthe little family at Les Fontaines anxiously awaited the result, evenlittle Vernon eagerly expressing himself on the subject, his youthfulears being open to every topic discussed in his presence, and hisyouthful mind quick to form opinions. 

'You shan't go away!' he exclaimed. 'Ma, she shan't go, shall she? ladyshan't have her; I want her always; you mustn't go, sissie, ' all in babylanguage, with a curious perversion of consonants. He had climbed on herknee, and had his arms round her neck--energetic young arms which almostthrottled her. She had been his chief companion and playfellow for thelast five weeks, had read him all his favourite fairy-tales over and overagain, had sat with him of an evening till he fell asleep, an invincibledefence against bogies and vague fears of darkness. She had taken him forlong rural rambles, over breezy downs towards the sea, had dug and delvedwith him on the lonely beach below the great white lighthouse, warmlycoated and shawled, and working hard in the November wind; and now, justwhen he had grown fonder of her than anyone else in the world, she wasgoing to leave him. He lifted up his head and howled, and refused allcomfort from mother or father. Ida cried with him. 'My pet, I can't bearto leave you, but I must; my darling, I shall come back, ' she protested, clasping him to her breast, kissing his fair tearful face, soft roundcheeks, lovely blue eyes swimming in tears. 

'To-morrow?' inquired Vernon, with a strangled sob. 

'No, darling, not to-morrow; there would be no use in my going just forone day; but I am not going yet--I don't know when I am going--Vernonmust not cry. See how unhappy he is making poor mamma. '

Mrs. Palliser put her hands before her face, and made a bohooing noise tokeep up the illusion; whereupon the affectionate little fellow slippedoff his sister's knee, and ran to his mother to administer comfort. 

'I am not going away yet, Vernon; indeed, I hardly know whether I am evergoing at all. I have come back like a bad penny, and I seem likely to beas difficult to get rid of as other bad pennies, ' said Ida, despondingly, for three posts had gone by since the insertion of her advertisement, andhad brought her nothing. The market was evidently overstocked with youngladies knowing French and German, able to play and sing, and willing tobe useful. 

After this Vernon would hardly let his sister out of his sight. He had asuspicion that she would leave him unawares--slip out of the door someday, and be gone without a moment's warning. That is how joy flees. 

'My pet, be reasonable, ' said Ida; 'I can't go away without my trunk. '

This comforted him a little, and he made a point of sitting upon one ofIda's trunks, when they two were alone in that barely furnished chamberwhich served for her bed-room and his day-nursery. 

She contrived to tell him fairy-tales, and to keep him amused; albeit shewas now busy at carefully overhauling, patching, and repairing her scantywardrobe--trying to make neat mending do duty for new clothes, andgetting ready against any sudden summons. She could not bring herself toask her father for money, sadly as she wanted new garments. He had givenher five pounds in August, and two sovereigns since her return, and theway he had doled out those sums indicated the low state of his funds. No, the gown that had been new at The Knoll must still be her best gown. Lastwinter's jacket, albeit threadbare in places, must do duty for thiswinter. Before the next summer she might be in the receipt of a salaryand able to clothe herself decently, and to send presents to this belovedboy, who was not much better clad than herself. 

But the days wore on, and brought no answer to her advertisement. 

'I shouldn't wonder if it were the foreign address, ' said CaptainPalliser, when they were all speculating upon the cause of this dismalsilence. 'People are suspicious of anyone living abroad. If you had beenable to advertise from a rectory in Lincolnshire, or even an obscurestreet at the west end of London, they'd have thought better of you. ButBoulogne, Calais, Dieppe, they all hint at impecuniosity and enforcedexile. It's very unlucky. '

The postman stopped at the little green gate next morning, and Ida flewto receive his packet. It was a letter for her--a bulky letter--in a handshe knew well, and her heart seemed to stop beating as she looked at theaddress. 

The hand was Bessie Wendover's. Who could tell what new trouble theletter might announce? Brian might have told his family the whole historyof his marriage and her unworthy conduct. Oh, what shame, what agony, ifthis were so! And how was she to face her father when he asked her thecontents of the letter? She ran out into the garden--the little bare, joyless garden--to read her letter alone, and to gain time. 

This is how the dreaded epistle ran:--

'My dear darling, ill-used, cruel thing, --

'However could you treat me so badly? What is friendship worth, if youset no higher value upon it than this? I don't believe you know whatfriendship means, or you never could act so. How miserable you have mademe! how wretched you must have been yourself! you proud, noble-mindeddarling--under the sting of such vile treatment. 

'I wrote to you three times last month, and could not imagine why myletters were unanswered. Brian had told me that you were perfectly well, and looking splendid when he saw you in October, so I did not think itcould be illness that kept you silent; and at last I began to feel angry, and to fancy you had forgotten me, and were ungrateful. No, I don't meanthat, dearest. What reason had you for gratitude? The obligation was allon my side. 

'Towards the end of October I wrote to Brian, telling him of yoursilence, and asking if he could find out if you were well. He answeredwith one of his short, unsatisfactory scrawls that he had reason to knowyou were quite well. After this I felt _really_ offended; for I thoughtyou must have deceived me all along, and that you had never cared a strawabout me; so I coiled myself up in my dignity, and, although I felt veryunhappy, I resolved never to write you another line till you wrote to me. I was very miserable, but still I felt that I owed a duty to my ownself-respect, don't you know; and just at thistimall went to Bournemouth, where we were very gay. Father and mother knew no end of people there, and I began to feel what it really is to be out, which no girl ever couldat Kingthorpe, where there are about three parties in a twelvemonth. 

'Well, darling, so I went on leading a frivolous life among people I didnot care twopence for, and hardening my heart against my dearest friend, when, on the day we came home, I happened to take up the _Times_ in therailway carriage. I hate newspapers in a common way, but one reads suchthings when one is travelling, and out of mere idleness I amused myselfskimming the advertisements, which I found ever so much more interestingthan the leading articles. What should my eye light upon but anadvertisement from a young lady wanting to go out as a governess--addressI. P. , Le Rosier, Les Fontaines, near Dieppe--and the whole murder wasout. You must have left old Pew's and be living with your father. I washorribly indignant with you--as, indeed, I am still--for not havingtold me anything about it; but directly I got home I telegraphed toPolly Cobb, as the best-natured girl I knew at Mauleverer, asking whereyou were, and why you had left. I had such a letter from her nextday--spelling bad, but full of kind feeling--giving me a full account ofthe row, and old Pew's detestable conduct. She told me that Fräuleinvouched for your having behaved with the most perfect propriety, andnever having seen Brian out of her presence; but Brian's meanness in nothaving told me about the trouble he had brought upon you is more than Ican understand. 

'Well, darling, I went off to Aunt Betsy, who is always my _confidante_in all delicate matters, because she's ever so much cleverer than dearwarm-hearted mother, who never could keep a secret in her life, sweetsoul, and is no better than a speaking-tube for conveying information tothe Colonel. I told Aunt Betsy everything--how it was all Brian's fault, and how I adore you, and how miserable I felt about you, and how you weretrying to get a situation as governess, in spite of that malignant oldPew--she must be a lineal descendant of the wicked fairy--having said shewould give you no certificate of character or ability. 

'Now, what do you think that sweetest and best of aunties said? "Let hercome to me, " she said; "I am getting old and dull, and I want somethingbright and clever about me, to cheer me and rouse me when I feeldepressed. Let her come to me as a companion and amanuensis, help me tolook after my cottagers, who are getting too much for me, and play to meof an evening. I like that girl, and I should like to have her in myhouse. "

'I was enchanted at the thought of your being always near us, and Ifancied you wouldn't altogether dislike it; although Kingthorpe certainlyis the dullest, sleepiest old hole in the universe. So I begged AuntBetsy to write to you _instanter_; said I knew you would be charmed toaccept such a situation, and that she would secure a treasure; and, inall probability, you'll have a letter from her to-morrow. 

'And now, dear, I must repeat that you have treated me shamefully. Whydid you not write to me directly you left Mauleverer? Could you thinkthat I could believe you had really done wrong--that I could possibly beinfluenced by the judgment of that old monster, Pew? If you could thinkso, you are not worthy to be loved as I love you. However, come to us, sweetest, directly you get auntie's letter, and all shall be forgiven andforgotten, as the advertisements say. '

Ida kissed the loving letter. So far, therefore, Brian had not betrayedher; and, having kept her secret so long, it might be supposed he wouldkeep it for all time. 

Poor little warm-hearted Bessie! Was not she by her foolishfalsification--a piece of mild jocosity, no doubt--the prime author ofall the evil that had followed? And yet Ida could not feel angry withher, any more than she could have been angry with Vernon for some pieceof sportive mischief. 

'Thank God, he has kept our wretched secret, ' she thought, as she foldedBessie's long letter, and went back to the house. 'I am grateful to himfor that. '

She went in radiant, gladdened at the thought of being able to relieveher father and step-mother of the burden of her maintenance; for the factthat she was a burden had not been hidden from her. They had been kind;they had given her to eat and to drink of their best, and had admired hertalents and accomplishments; but they had let her know at the same timethat she was a failure, and that her future was a dark problem still farfrom solution--a problem which troubled them in the silent watches of thenight. Nor did they forget to remind her from time to time that by herimprudence--pardonable although that imprudence might be--she hadforfeited six months' board and lodging, together with those educationaladvantages the Captain's fifty pounds had been intended to purchase forher. These facts had been reiterated, not altogether unkindly, but in amanner that made life intolerable; and she felt that were she to continueat Les Fontaines for the natural term of her existence, the same themewould still furnish the subject for parental harpings. 

'Father, ' she said, going behind Captain Palliser's chair, as he smokedhis after-breakfast cigar, and read yesterday's _Times_, 'I want you toread this letter. It is a foolish schoolgirl letter, perhaps; but it willshow you that my friends are not going to discard me on account of MissPew. '

The Captain laid down his paper, and slowly made his way through Bessie'slengthy epistle, which, although prettily written, with a good deal ofgrace in the slopes and curves of the penmanship, gave him considerabletrouble to decipher. It was only when he had discovered that all the B'slooked like H's, and that all the G's were K's, and all the L's S's, andhad, as it were, made a system for himself, that he was able to get oncomfortably. 

'Bless my soul, ' he murmured, 'why cannot girls write legibly?'

'It is the real Mauleverer hand, papa, and is generally thought verypretty, ' said Ida. 

'Pretty, yes; you might have a zigzag pattern over the paper that wouldbe just as pretty. One wants to be able to read a letter. This is almostas bad as Arabic. However, the girl seems a good, warm-hearted creature, and very fond of you; and I should think you could not do better thanaccept her aunt's offer. It will be a beginning. '

'It is Hobson's choice, papa; but I am sure I shall be happy with MissWendover, ' said Ida; and then she gave a faint sigh, and her heartsank at the thought of that Damoclesian sword always hanging over herhead--the possibility of her husband claiming her. 

Mrs. Palliser was much more rapturous when she heard the contents ofthe letter--much more interested in all details about Ida's future home. She wanted to know what Miss Wendover was like--how many servants shekept--whether carriage or no carriage--what kind of a house she lived in, and how it was furnished. 

'You will be quite a grand lady, ' she said, with a touch of envy, whenIda had described the cosy red-brick cottage, the verandahed drawing-roomand conservatory added by Miss Wendover, the pair of cobs which that ladydrove, the large well-kept gardens; 'you will look down upon us with ourpoor ways, and this house, in which all the rooms smell of whitewash. '

'No, indeed, mamma, I shall always think of you with affection; for youhave been very kind to me, although I know I have been a burden. '

'Everything is a burden when one is poor, ' sighed her stepmother; 'evenone extra in the washing-bills makes a difference; and we shall feel itawfully when Vernon grows up. Boys are so extravagant; and one cannottalk to them as one can to girls. '

'But I hope you will be better off then, mamma. '

'My dear, you might as well hope we should be dukes and duchesses. Whatchance is there of any improvement? Your poor papa has no idea of earningmoney. I'm sure I have said to him, often and often, "Reginald, do_something_. Write for the magazines! Surely you can do _that_? Other menin your position do it. " "Yes, " he growled, "and that's why the magazinesare so stupid. " No, Ida, your father's circumstances will never improve;and when the time comes for giving Vernon a proper education we shall bepaupers. '

'Poor papa!' sighed Ida; 'I am afraid he is not strong enough to make anygreat effort. '

'He has given way, my dear; that is the root of it all. We shall never bebetter off, unless those two healthy, broad-shouldered young men were togo and get themselves swallowed up by an earthquake; and that is rathertoo much for anyone to expect. '

'What young men?' asked Ida, absently. 

'Your two cousins. '

'Oh, Sir Vernon and his brother. No, I don't suppose they will die tooblige us poor creatures. '

'They went up the what's-its-name Horn, in Switzerland, ' said Mrs. Palliser, plaintively. 'It made my blood run cold to hear them talk aboutit. "By Jove, Peter, I thought it was all over with you, " said SirVernon, when he told us how foolhardy his brother had been. But you seethey got to the bottom all safe and sound, though ever so many peoplehave been killed on that very mountain. '

'I'm glad they did, mamma. We may want their money very badly, but we arenot murderers, even in thought. '

'God forbid!' sighed the little woman. 'They are fine-grown, gentlemanlyyoung men, too. Sir Vernon gave my Vernie a sovereign, and promised him apony next year; but, good gracious! how could we afford to keep a pony, even if we had a stable? "You had better make it the other kind of pony, "says your father, and then they all burst out laughing. '

'So little makes a man laugh!' said Ida, somewhat contemptuously. Thatpicture of her father making sport of his poverty irritated her. 'Well, dear mamma, ' she said presently, moved by one of those generous impulseswhich were a part of her frank, unwise nature, 'if ever I can earn ahundred a year-and there are many governesses who get as much--you shallhave fifty to help pay Vernon's schooling. '

'You are a dear generous 'arted girl, ' exclaimed the stepmother, and thetwo women kissed again with tears, an operation which they usuallyperformed in the hour of domestic trouble. 

Miss Wendover's letter came next day, a hearty, frank, affectionateletter, offering a home that was really meant to be like home, and asalary of forty pounds a year, 'just to buy your gowns, ' Miss Wendoversaid. 'I know it is not sufficient remuneration for such accomplishmentsas yours, but I want _you_ rather than your accomplishments and I am notrich enough to give as much as you are worth. But you will, at least, stave off the drudgery of a governess's life till you are older, andbetter able to cope with domineering mothers and insolent pupils. '

Such a salary was a long way off that hundred per annum which Ida had setbefore her eyes as the golden goal to be gained by laborious pianoforteathletics and patient struggles with the profundities of German grammar;but, as Captain Palliser paid, it was a beginning; and Ida was very gladso to begin. She wrote to Miss Wendover gratefully accepting her offer, and in a very humble spirit. 

'I fear it is pity that prompts your kind offer, ' she wrote, 'and thatyou take me because you know I left Mauleverer Manor in disgrace, andthat nobody else would have me. I am a bad penny. That is what my fathercalled me when I came home to him. And now I am to go back to Kingthorpeas a bad penny. But, please God, I will try to prove to you that I am notaltogether worthless; and, whatever may happen, I shall love you and begrateful to you till the end of my life. 

'As you are so kind as to say I may come as soon as I like, I shall bewith you on the day after you receive this letter. '

Ida's preparations for departure were not elaborate. Her scanty wardrobehad been put in the neatest possible order. A few hours sufficed forpacking trunk and bonnet-box. On the last afternoon Mrs. Palliser came toher highly elated, and proposed a walk to Dieppe, and a drive home in thediligence which left the Market Place at five o'clock. 

'I am going to give you a new hat, ' she said, triumphantly. 'You musthave a new hat. '

'But, dear mamma, I know you can't afford it. '

'I _will_ afford it, Ida. You will have to go to church atKingthorpe'--Mrs. Palliser regarded church-going as an oppressivecondition of prosperous respectability. One of the few privileges ofbeing hard up and quite out of society was that one need not go tochurch--'and I should like you to appear like a lady. You owe it to yourpa and I. A hat you must 'ave. I can pay for it out of the housekeepingmoney, and your pa will never know the difference. '

'No, mamma, but you and Vernon will have to pinch for it, ' said Ida, knowing that there was positively no margin to that household's narrowmeans of existence. 

'A little pinching won't hurt us. Vernie is as bilious as he can be; heeats too many compots and little fours. I shall keep him to plain breadand butter for a bit, and it will do him a world of good. There's no usetalking, Ida, I mean you to 'ave a 'at; and if you won't come and chooseit I must choose it myself, ' concluded the little woman, dropping moreaspirates as she grew more excited. 

So mother and daughter walked to Dieppe in the dull November afternoon, Vernon trudging sturdily by his sister's side. They bought the hat, agray felt with partridge plumage, which became Ida's rich dark bloom toperfection; and then they went to the Cathedral, and knelt in the duskyaisle, and heard the solemn melody of the organ, and the subdued voicesof the choir, in the plaintive music of Vesper Psalms, monotonoussomewhat, but with a sweet soothing influence, music that inspired gentlethoughts. 

Then they went back to the Market-Place, and were in time to get goodplaces on the _banquette_ of the diligence, before the big white Normanhorses trotted and ambled noisily along the stony street. 

Ida left Dieppe late on the following evening, by the same steamer thathad brought her from Newhaven. The British stewardess recognised her. 

'Why, you was only across the other day, miss!' she said; 'what agad-about you must be!'

She arrived in London by ten o'clock next morning, and left Waterloo at aquarter-past eleven, reaching Winchester early in the day. How differentwere her feelings this time, as the train wound slowly over those chalkyhills! how full of care was her soul! And yet she was no longer a visitorgoing among strangers--this time she went to an assured home, she was tobe received among friends. But the knowledge that her liberty wasforfeited for ever, that she was a free-agent only on sufferance, madeher grave and depressed. Never again could she feel as glad and frank acreature as she had been in the golden prime of the summer that was gone, when she and Bessie and Urania Rylance came by this same railway, overthose green English hill-sides, to the city that was once the chief seatof England's power and splendour. 

A young man in a plain gray livery and irreproachable top-boots stoodcontemplatively regarding the train as it came into the station. Hetouched his hat at sight of Miss Palliser, and she remembered him as MissWendover's groom. 

'Any luggage, ma'am?' he asked, as she alighted; as if it were as likelyas not that she had come without any. 

'There is one box, Needham. That is all besides these things. '

Her bonnet-box--frail ark of woman's pride--was in the carriage, with awrap and an umbrella, and her dressing bag. 

'All right, ma'am. If you'll show me which it is I'll tell the porter tobring it. I've got the cobs outside. '

'Oh, I am so sorry, --how good of Miss Wendover!'

'They wanted exercise, 'um. They was a bit above themselves, and thedrive has done 'em good. '

Miss Wendover's cherished brown cobs, animals which in the eyes ofKingthorpe were almost as sacred as that Egyptian beast whose profaneslaughter was more deeply felt than the nation's ruin--to think thatthese exalted brutes should have been sent to fetch that debasedcreature, a salaried companion. But then Aunt Betsy was never like anyoneelse. 

Needham took the cobs across the hills at a pace which he would havehighly disapproved in any other driver. Had Miss Wendover so driven them, he would have declared she was running them off their legs. But in hisown hands, Brimstone and Treacle--so called to mark their difference ofdisposition--could come to no harm. 'They wanted it, ' he told MissPalliser, when she remarked upon their magnificent pace, 'they never gothalf work enough. '

The hills looked lovely, even in this wintry season--yew trees and grassgave no token of November's gloom. The sky was bright and blue, a faintmist hung like a veil over the city in the valley, the low Norman towerof the cathedral, the winding river, and flat fertile meadows--a visionvery soon left far in the rear of Brimstone and Treacle. 

'How handsome they look!' said Ida, admiring their strong, bold crests, like war-horses in a Ninevite picture, their shining black-brown coats. 'Is Brimstone such a very vicious horse?'

'Vicious, mum? no, not a bit of vice about him, ' answered Needhampromptly, 'but he's a rare difficult horse to groom. There ain't none butme as dares touch him. I let the boy try it once, and I found the poorlad half an hour afterwards standing in the middle of the big loose boxlike a statter, while Brimstone raced round him as hard as he could go, just like one of them circus horses. The boy dursn't stir. If he'd moveda limb, Brimstone 'ud have 'molished him. '

'What an awful horse! But isn't that viciousness?'

'Lor', no mum. That ain't vice, ' answered the groom smiling amusedly atthe lady's ignorance. Vice is crib-biting, or jibbing, or boring orsummat o' that kind. Brimstone is a game hoss, and he's got a bit of atemper, but he ain't got no vice. '

Here was Kingthorpe, looking almost as pretty as it had looked when shegazed upon it with tearful eyes in her sad farewell at the close ofsummer. The big forest trees were bare, but there were flowers in all thecottage gardens, even late lingering roses on southern walls, and theclipped yew-tree abominations--dumb-waiters, peacocks, and othermonstrosities--were in their pride of winter beauty. The ducks wereswimming gaily in the village pond, and the village inn was stillglorious with red geraniums, in redder pots. The Knoll stood out grandlyabove all other dwellings--the beds full of chrysanthemums, and a bank ofbig scarlet geraniums on each side of the hall door. 

It seemed strange to be driven swiftly past the familiar carriage-drive, and round into the lane leading to Miss Wendover's cottage. It was onlyan accommodation lane--or a back-out lane, as the boys called it, sinceno two carriages could pass each other in that narrow channel--and in badweather the approach to the Homestead was far from agreeable. A carriageand horses had been known to stick there, with wheels hopelessly embeddedin the clay, while Miss Wendover's guests picked their footsteps throughthe mud. 

But the Homestead, when attained, was such a delightful house that oneforgot all impediments in the way thither. The red brick front--old redbrick, be it noted, which has a brightness and purity of colour neverretained for above a twelvemonth by the red brick of to-day--glowing, athwart its surrounding greenery, like the warm welcome of a friend; theexquisite neatness of the garden, where every flower that could be coaxedinto growing in the open air bloomed in perfection; the spick-and-spanbrightness of the windows; the elegant order that prevailed within, fromcellar to garret; the old, carefully-chosen furniture, which had for themost part been collected from other old-world homesteads; the artisticcolouring of draperies and carpets--all combined to make Miss Wendover'shouse delightful. 

'My house had need be orderly, ' she said, when her friends waxedrapturous; 'I have so little else to think about. '

Yet the sick and poor, within a radius of ten miles, might have testifiedthat Miss Wendover had thought and care for all who needed them, and thatshe devoted the larger half of her life to other people's interests. 

It was a clear, balmy day, one of those lovely autumn days which hangupon the edge of winter, and Miss Wendover was pacing her garden walksbare-headed, armed with gardening scissors and formidable brown leathergauntlets, nipping a leaf here, or a withered rosebud there, with eyeswhose eagle glance not so much as an aphis could escape. From the slopeof her lawn Aunt Betsy saw the cobs turn into the lane, and she wasstanding at the gate to welcome the traveller when the carriage drew up. 

There was no carriage-drive on this side of the house, only a lawn with aworld of flower-beds. Those visitors who wanted to enter in a ceremoniousmanner had to drive round by shrubbery and orchard to the back, wherethere were an old oak door and an entrance-hall. On this garden frontthere were only glass doors and long French windows, verandahs, and sunnyparlours, opening one out of another. 

'How do you do, my dear?' said the spinster heartily, as Ida alighted; 'Iam very glad to see you. Why, how bright and blooming you look--not a bitlike a sea-sick traveller. '

'Dear Miss Wendover, I ought to look bright when I am so glad to come toyou; and, as to the other thing, I am never sea-sick. '

'What a splendid girl! That unhappy little Bessie can't cross to theWight without being a martyr. But, Ida, I am not going to be called MissWendover. Only bishops and county magnates, and people of that kind, callme by that name. To you I am to be Aunt Betsy, as I am to the children atThe Knoll. '

'Is not that putting me too much on a level--'

'With my own flesh and blood? Nonsense! I mean you to be as my own fleshand blood. I could not bear to have anyone about me who was not. '

'You are too good, ' faltered Ida. 'How can I ever repay you?'

'You have only to be happy. It is your nature to be frank and truthful, so I will say nothing about that. '

Ida blushed deepest scarlet. Frank and truthful--she--whose very name wasa lie! And yet there could be no wrong done to Miss Wendover, she toldherself, by her suppression of the truth. It was a suppression thatconcerned only Brian Walford and herself. No one else could have anyinterest in the matter. 

Betsy Wendover herself led the way to the bed-chamber that had beenprepared for the new inmate. It was a dear old room, not spacious, butprovided with two most capacious closets, in each of which a small gangof burglars could have hidden--dear old closets, with odd little cornercupboards inside them, and a most elaborate system of shelves. One closethad a little swing window at the top for ventilation, and this, MissWendover told Ida, was generally taken for a haunted corner, as theventilating window gave utterance to unearthly noises in the dead watchesof the night, and sometimes gave entrance to a stray cat from adjacenttiles. A cat less agile than the rest of his species had been known toentangle himself in the little swing window, and to hang there all thenight, sending forth unearthly caterwaulings, to the unspeakable terrorof Miss Wendover's guest, unfamiliar with the mechanism of the room, andwondering what breed of Hampshire demon or afrit was thus making nighthideous. 

There was a painted wooden dado halfway up the wall, and a florid roseand butterfly paper above it. There was a neat little brass bedsteadon one side of the room, a tall Chippendale chest of drawers, withwriting-table and pigeon-holes on the other side; the dearest, oldestdressing-table and shield-shaped glass in front of the broad latticedwindow; while in another window there was a cushioned seat, such asMariana of the Moated Grange sat upon when she looked across the fens andbewailed her dead-and-gone joys. There were old cups and saucers on thehigh, narrow chimney-piece, below which a cosy fire burned in a littleold basket grate. Altogether the room was the picture of homely comfort. 

'Oh, what a lovely room!' cried Ida, inwardly contrasting this cheerychamber with that white-washed den at Lea Fontaines, with its tawdrymahogany and brass fittings, its florid six feet of carpet on a dealfloor stained brown, its alabaster clock and tin candelabra--a cheapcaricature of Parisian elegance. 

'I'm glad you like it, my dear, 'answered Miss Wendover. 'Bessie said itwould suit you; and all I ask you is to keep it tidy. I hope I am not atyrant; but I am an old maid. Of course, I shall never pry into yourroom; but I warn you that I have an eye which takes in everything at aflash; and if I happen to go past when your door is open, and see abonnet and shawl on your bed, or a gown sprawling on your sofa, my teethwill be set on edge for the next half-hour. '

'Dear Miss Wen--, dear Aunt Betsy, ' said Ida, corrected by a frown, 'Ihope you will come into my room every day, and give me a good scolding ifit is not exactly as you like. Everything in this house looks lovely. Iwant to learn your nice neat ways. '

'Well, my love, you might learn something worse, ' replied Miss Wendover, with innocent pride. 'And now come down to luncheon; I kept it back onpurpose for you, and I am sure you must be starving. '

The luncheon was excellent, served with a tranquil perfection only to beattained by careful training; and yet Miss Wendover's youthful butlerthree years ago had been a bird boy; while her rosy-cheeked parlour-maidwas only eighteen, and had escaped but two years from the primitivehabits of cottage life. Aunt Betsy had a genius for training youngservants. 

'You had better unpack your boxes directly after luncheon, said MissWendover, when Ida had eaten with very good appetite, 'and arrange yourthings in your drawers. That will take you an hour or so, I suppose--saytill five o'clock, when Bessie is coming over to afternoon tea. '

'Oh, I am so glad! I am longing to see Bessie. Is she as lovable andpretty as ever?'

'Well, yes, ' replied Aunt Betsy, with a critical air; 'I think she hasrather improved. She is plump enough still, in all conscience, but notquite so stumpy as she was last summer. Her figure is a little less likea barrel. '

'I hope she was very much admired at Bournemouth. '

'Yes, strange to say, she had a good many admirers, ' answered MissWendover coolly. 'She made a point of never being enthusiastic about herrelations. She had always partners at the dances, I am told, even whenthere was a paucity of dancing men; and she was considered ratherremarkable at lawn tennis. No doubt she will tell you all about it thisafternoon. I have some work to do in the village, and I shall leave youtwo girls together. '

This was a delicacy which touched Ida. She was very anxious to seeBessie, and to talk to her as they could only talk when they were alone. She wanted to know her faithful friend's motive for that cruel deceptionabout Brian Walford. That the frank, tender-hearted Bessie could have sodeceived her from any unworthy motive was impossible. 

Five o'clock struck, and Ida was sitting alone in the drawing-room, waiting to receive her friend, just as if she were the daughter of thehouse, instead of a salaried dependent. The pretty carved Indiantea-table--a gem in Bombay blackwood--was wheeled in front of thefire-place, which was old, as regarded the high wooden mantel-piece andcapacious breadth of the hearth, but essentially new in its glitteringtiles and dainty brass fire-irons. 

The clock had hardly finished striking when Bessie bounced into the room, rosy and smiling, in sealskin jacket and toque. 

'Oh, you darling! isn't this lovely?' she exclaimed, hugging Ida. 'Youare to live here for ever and ever, and never, never, never to leave usagain, and never to marry, unless you marry one of the Brians. Don'tshudder like that, pet, they are both nice! And I'm sure you like BrianWalford, though, perhaps, not quite so much as he liked you. You do likehim now, don't you, darling?' urged Bess. 

Ida had withdrawn from her embrace, and was seated before the low Bombaytable, occupied with the tea pot. There was no light but the fire and oneshaded lamp on a distant table. The curtains were not yet drawn, andwhite mists were rising in the garden outside, like a sea. 

'Bessie, ' Ida began, gravely, as her old schoolfellow sat on a low stoolin front of the fire, 'how could you deceive me like that? What could putsuch a thing in your head--_you_, so frank, so open?'

'I am sure I hardly know, ' answered Bess, innocently. 'It was mybirthday, don't you know, and we were all wild. Perhaps the champagne hadsomething to do with it, though I didn't take any. But that sort ofexcitement communicates itself; and running up and down hill gets intoone's head. We all thought it would be such fun to pass off penniless B. W. For his wealthy cousin--and just to see how you liked him, with thatextra advantage. But there was no harm in it, was there, dear? Of course, he told you afterwards, when you saw him at Mauleverer?

'Yes, he told me--afterwards. '

'Naturally; and having begun to like him as the rich Brian, you didn'tleave off liking him because of his poverty--did you, darling? The manhimself was the same. '

Ida was silent, remembering how, with the revelation of the fraud thathad been practised upon her, the very man himself had seemed to undergo atransformation--as if a disguise, altering his every characteristic, hadbeen suddenly flung aside. 

She did not answer Bessie's question, but, looking down at her withgrave, searching eyes, she said, --'Dear Bessie, it was a very foolishjest. I know it is not in your nature to mean unkindly to anyone, leastof all to me, to whom you have been an angel of light; but all practicaljokes of that kind are liable to inflict pain and humiliation upon thevictim--however innocently meant. Whose idea was it, Bess? Not yours, Ithink?'

'No; it was Urania who proposed it. She said it would be such fun. '

'Miss Rylance is not usually so--funny. '

'No; but she was particularly jolly that day, don't you remember? inpositively boisterous spirits--for her. '

'And the outcome of her amiability was this suggestion?'

'Yes, darling. She had noticed that you had a kind of romantic fancyabout Brian of the Abbey--that you had idealised his image, as itwere--and set him up as a kind of demi-god. Not because of his wealth, darling--don't suppose that we supposed that--but on account of that dearold Abbey and its romantic associations, which gave a charm to the owner. And so she said what fun it would be to pass off Brian Walford as hiscousin, and see if you fell in love with him. 'I know she is ready to layher heart at the feet of the owner of the Abbey, ' Urania said; and Ithought it would be too delicious if you were to fall in love with BrianWalford, who could not help falling in love with you, for of course itwould end in your marrying him, and his getting on splendidly at the Bar;for, with his talents, he must do well. He only wants a motive forindustry. And then you would be our very own cousin! I hope it wasn't avery wicked idea, Ida, and that you will find it in your heart to forgiveme, ' pleaded Bess, kneeling by her friend's chair, with clasped bandsupon Ida's knees, and sweet, half-tearful face looking up, 'My darling, Ihave never been angry with you, ' answered Ida, clasping the girl to herheart, with a stifled sob. 'But I don't think Miss Rylance meant sokindly. Her idea sprang from a malevolent heart. She wanted to humiliateme--to drag my most sordid characteristics into the light of day--to makeme more abject than poverty had made me already. That was the motive ofher joke. '

'Never mind her motive, dear. All I am interested in is your opinion ofBrian. I hope he behaved nicely at Mauleverer. '

'Very nicely. '

'Cobb says that Fräulein positively raves about him--declares he is quitethe most gentlemanly young man she ever saw--a godly young man she calledhim, in her funny English. And, she says, that he was madly in love withyou. Of course he made you an offer?'

'How could he do that when I was always with the Fräulein?'

'Oh, nonsense. Brian is not the kind of young man to be kept at bay by amild nonentity like the Fräulein. He told me before he left that he wasdesperately in love with you, and that he meant to win you for his wife. I asked him how he intended to keep a wife, and he said he should writefor the magazines, and do theatrical criticisms for the newspapers, tillbriefs began to drop in. He was determined to win you if you were to bewon. So I feel sure that he made you an offer, unless, indeed, thathorrid old Pew spoiled all by her venomous conduct. '

'That is it, dear. Miss Pew brought matters to an abrupt close. '

'And you are not engaged to Brian?' said Bess, dolefully. 

'No. '

'And he didn't follow you to Dieppe?'

'No. '

'Then he is not half so fine a fellow as I thought him. '

'Suppose, Bessie, that after a little mild flirtation, with Fräulein Wolffor an audience, we both discovered that our liking for each other was ofthe very coolest order, and that it was wiser to let the acquaintanceend?'

'You might feel that; but I would never believe it of Brian. Why, heraved about you; he was passionately in love. He told me there was nosacrifice he would not make to call you his wife. '

'He had so much to sacrifice, ' said Ida, with a cynical air. 

'Don't be unkind, Ida. Of course I know that he has his fortune to make;but he is so thoroughly nice--so full of fun. '

'Did you ever know him do anything good or great, anything worth beingremembered--anything that proved the depth and nobility of his nature?'asked Ida, earnestly. 

'Good gracious! no, not that I can remember. He is always nice, andamusing. He doesn't like carrying a basket, or skates, and things; but ofcourse, where there are younger boys one couldn't expect him to do that;and he hates plain girls and old women; but I suppose that is natural, for even father does it, in his secret soul, though he is always soutterly sweet to the poor things. But I am sure Brian Walford has atender heart, because he is so fond of kittens. '

'I didn't mean to insinuate that he was a modern Domitian, ' answered Ida, smiling at Bessie's childish earnestness. 'What I mean is that there isno depth in his nature, no nobility in his character. He is shallow, and, I fear, selfish. But, Bessie, my pet, I am going to ask you a favour. '

'Ask away, ' cried Bessie, cheerfully; 'I can't give you the moon, butanything which I really do possess is yours this instant. '

'Don't let us ever talk of Brian Walford. I can never get over thefeeling of humiliation which Miss Rylance's practical joke caused me; andmy only chance of forgetting it is to forget your cousin's existence. '

'Oh, but he will come to The Knoll, I hope, at Christmas, and then youwill think better of him. '

'If he should come I--I hope I shall not see him. '

'Has he offended you so deeply?'

'Don't let us talk about him, Bess. Tell me all about your Bournemouthtriumphs. I hear you were the belle of the place. '

'Then you have heard a most egregious fib. There were dozens of girlswith nineteen-inch waists, before whom I felt myself a monster ofdumpiness. But I got on pretty well. I don't pretend to be a good dancer, but I can generally adapt myself to the badness of other people's steps, and that goes for something. '

And now having got away from all painful subjects, Bessie rattled on at atremendous pace, describing girls and gowns, and partners, and tennistournaments, and yachting excursions, all in a breath, as she sat infront of the fire sipping her tea, and devouring a particular kind ofbuttered bun for which Miss Wendover's cook was famous. 

'Aunt Betsy's tea is always nicer than any one else's; and so are herbuns and her butter; in fact everything in this house is nicer than it isanywhere else, ' said Bessie, pausing in her reminiscences. 'You are inclover here, Ida. '

'Thanks to your goodness, Bess. '

'To mine? But I have positively nothing to do with it. '

'Yes, you have. It is from the wish to please her warm-hearted littleniece that Miss Wendover has been so good to me. '

'But if you had been plain or stupid she would have only been kind to youat a distance. Aunt Betsy has her idiosyncrasies, and one of them is aliking for beauty in individuals, as well as in chairs and tables andcups and saucers. You will see that all her servants are pretty. Shepicks them for their good looks, I believe, and trains them afterwards. She would not have so much as a bad-looking stable boy. '

'Hard upon ugliness to be shut out of this paradise, ' said Ida. 

'Oh, but she finds places for the ugly boys and girls, with people whoseteeth are not so easily set on edge, she says herself. And now I mustbe off, to change my frock for dinner. You know the back way to TheKnoll--across the fields to the little door in the kitchen-garden. Youwill always come that way, of course. When are you coming to see us?To-morrow?'

'You forget that my time is not my own. I will come whenever MissWendover can best spare me. '

'Oh, you will have plenty of spare time, I am sure. '

'I hope not too much, or I shall be too sharply reminded that MissWendover has taken me out of charity. '

'Charity fiddlestick! A prize-winner like you! And now good-bye, pet, orI shall be late for dinner, which offends the Colonel beyond measure. '

Bessie scampered off, Ida following her to the glass door, only in timeto see her running across the lawn as fast as her feet could carry her. It was characteristic of Bessie to cut everything very fine in the way oftime. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 

And now began for Ida a life of exceeding peacefulness, comfort, happiness even; for how could a girl fail to be happy among people whowere so friendly and kind, who so thoroughly respected her, and so warmlyadmired her for gifts altogether independent of fortune--who never, byword or look, reminded her that she was in anywise of less importancethan themselves?

Nor had the girl any cause to fear that she was a useless member of MissWendover's household. That lady found plenty of occupation for her youngcompanion--varied and pleasant duties, which made the days seem tooshort, and the leisure of the long winter evenings an agreeable relieffrom the busy hours of daylight. 

That exquisite neatness which gave such a charm to Wendover's house wasnot attained without labour. The polished surface of the old Chippendalebureaus, the inlaid Sheraton chairs and tables, could only be maintainedby daily care. A housemaid's perfunctory dusting was not sufficient here;and Miss Wendover, gloved and aproned, and armed with leathers andbrushes, gave at least half an hour every morning to the care of her oldfurniture. Another half hour was devoted to china; and the floralarrangements indoors, even in this wintry season, occupied half an hourmore. This was all active work, about which Aunt Betsy and Ida wentmerrily, talking tremendously as they polished and dusted, and upon allpossible subjects, for Miss Wendover's lonely evenings had enabled her toread almost as much as Southey, and she delighted in telling Ida thecurious out-of-the-way facts that were stored up in her memory. 

Sometimes there was an hour or so given to culinary matters--new dishes, new kickshaws, _hors d'oeuvres, _ savouries--to be taught the young, teachable cook-maid; for whenever Miss Wendover went to a great dinner, her eagle eye was on the alert to discover some modern improvement in thedishes or the table arrangements. 

Then there was gardening, which absorbed a good deal of time in fineweather; for Aunt Betsy held that no gardener, however honestly inclined, would long feel interested in a garden to which its owner wasindifferent. Miss Wendover knew every flower that grew--could bud, andgraft, and pot, and prune, and do everything that her youthful gardenerscould do, beside being ever so much more learned in the science ofgardening. 

Then there were inspections of piggery and poultry-yard, medicines andparticular foods to be prepared for the poultry, hospitals to beestablished and looked after in odd corners of the orchard, and thepropagation of species to be carried on by mechanical contrivances. 

On wet days there was art needlework, for which Miss Wendover had whatartists would call a great deal of feeling, without being very skilful asan executant. Under her direction, Ida began a mauresque border for atawny plush curtain which was to be a triumph of art when completed, andwhich was full of interest in progress. She worked at this of an evening, while Miss Wendover, who had a fine full voice, and a perfectenunciation, read aloud to her. Then, when Miss Wendover was tired, Idawent to the piano and played for an hour or so, while the elder lady gaveherself up to rare idleness and dreamy thought. 

These were home duties only. The two ladies had occupations abroad of amore exacting nature. Miss Wendover until now had given two botanylessons, and one physical science lesson, every week in the villageschool. The botany lessons she now handed over to Ida, whom she coachedfor that purpose. Summer or winter these lessons were always given out ofdoors, in the course of an hour's ramble in field, lane, or wood. ThenMiss Wendover had a weekly class for domestic economy, a class attendedby all the most promising girls, from thirteen years old upwards, withinfive miles. This class was held in the kitchen or housekeeper's room atthe Homestead; and many were the savoury messes of broth or soup, cheapstews and meat puddings, and the jellies and custards compounded at theselessons, to be fleut off next day to the sick poor upon Miss Wendover'slist. 

Then there was house to house visiting all over the widely-scatteredparish, much talk with gaffers and goodies, in all of which Ida assisted. She would have hated the work had Miss Wendover been a person of thePardiggle stamp; but as love was the governing principle of all AuntBetsy's work, her presence was welcome as sunshine or balmy air; sowelcome that her sharpest lectures (and she could lecture when there wasneed) were received with meekness and even gratitude. In these visits Idalearned to know a great deal about the ways and manners of theagricultural poor, all the weakness and all the nobility of the ruralnature. 

Every Saturday or half-holiday at the village school--blessed respitewhich gave the hard-worked mistress time to mend her clothes, and makeherself bright and trim for Sunday, and opened for the master brilliantpossibilities in the way of a jaunt to Bomsey or Winchester--MissWendover gave a dinner to all the school children under twelve. She hadtaken up Victor Hugo's theory that a substantial meat dinner, even on oneday out of seven, will do much to build up the youthful constitution andto prevent scrofulous diseases. Moved by these considerations, she hadfitted up a disused barn as a rustic dining-hall, the walls plastered andwhitewashed, or buff-washed, the massive cross timbers painted a darkred, a long deal table and a few forms the only furniture. Here everySaturday, at half-past one o'clock, she provided a savoury meat dinner;and very strong must be that temptation or that necessity which wouldinduce Aunt Betsy to abandon her duties as hostess at this weekly feast. It was she who said grace before and after meat--save when some sucklingparson was admitted to the meal; it was she who surveyed and improved themanners of her guests by sarcastic hints or friendly admonitions; and itwas she who furnished intellectual entertainment in the shape ofanecdote, historical story, or excruciating conundrum. 

Ida was allowed to assist at these banquets, and there was nothing in hernew life which she enjoyed more than the sight of all those glad youngfaces round the board, or the sound of that frank, rustic laughter. Somethere were naturally of a bovine dullness, in whom even Miss Wendovercould not awaken a ray of intelligence; but these were few. Thegenerality of the children were far above the average rustic inbrightness of intellect, and this superiority might fairly be ascribed toAunt Betsy's influence. 

A fortnight before Christmas, by which time Ida had been at the Homesteadmore than a month, Miss Wendover suggested a drive to Winchester, andbefore starting she handed Ida a ten-pound note. 'You may want someadditional finery for Christmas, ' she said kindly. 'Girls generally do. So you may as well buy it to-day. '

'But, dear Aunt Betsy, I have only been with you a month. '

'Never mind that, my dear. We will not be particular as to quarter-days. When I think you want money I shall give it to you, and we can make upour accounts at the end of the year. '

'You are ever so much too good to me, ' said Ida, with a loving look thatsaid a good deal more than words. 

There was a light frost that whitened the hills, and the keen freshnessof the air stimulated Brimstone to conduct of a somewhat riotouscharacter, but Miss Wendover's firm hand held his spirits in check. Treacle was a sagacious beast, who never did more work than he wasabsolutely obliged to do, and who allowed Brimstone to drag the phaetonwhile he trotted complacently on the other side of the pole. But MissWendover would stand no nonsense, even from the amiable Treacle. She sentthe pair across the hills at a splendid pace, and drove them under theold archway and down the stony street with a style which won theadmiration of every experienced eye. 

They drew up at the chief draper's of the town; and here Miss Wendoverretired to hold a solemn conference with the head milliner, a judiciousand accomplished person who made Aunt Betsy's gowns and bonnets--all of asolid and substantial architecture, as if modelled on the adjacentcathedral. Ida, left alone amidst all the fascinations of the chief shopin a smart county town, and feeling herself a Croesus, had much need offortitude and coolness of temper. Happily she remembered what a littleway that five-pound note had gone in preparing her for her summer visitto The Knoll, and this brought wisdom. Before spending sixpence uponherself she bought a gown--an olive merino gown, and velvet to trim itwithal--for her stepmother. 

'I don't think she gets a new gown much oftener than I do, ' she thought;'and even if this costs four or five shillings for carriage it will beworth the money, as a Christmas surprise. '

The gown left only trifling change out of two sovereigns, so that by thetime Ida had bought herself a dark brown cloth jacket and a browncashmere gown there were only four sovereigns left out of the ten. Shespent one of these upon some pale pink cashmere for an evening dress, andhalf a sovereign on gloves, as she knew Miss Wendover liked to see peopleneatly gloved. Ten shillings more were spent upon calico, and anothersovereign went by-and-by at the bootmaker's, leaving the damsel withjust twenty shillings out of her quarter's wage; but as the need ofpocket-money at Kingthorpe, except for the Sunday offertory, was nil, shefelt herself passing rich in the possession of that last remainingsovereign. She would have liked to spend it all upon Christmas gifts forher young friends at The Knoll; but this fond wish she relinquished witha sigh. Paupers could not be givers of gifts. Whatever she gave must bethe fruit of her own labour--some delicate piece of handiwork made out ofcheap materials. 

'They are all too good to think meanly of me because I can only show mygratitude in words, ' she told herself. 

As Christmas drew near Ida listened anxiously for any allusion to BrianWalford as a probable visitor; and to her infinite relief, just threedays before the festival, she heard that he was not coming. He had beeninvited, and he had left his young cousins in suspense as to hisintentions till the last moment, and then had written to say that he hadaccepted an invitation to Norfolk, where there would be shooting, and aprobability of a stag-hunt on foot. 

'Which I call horridly mean of him, ' protested Horatio, who had comeacross the fields expressly to announce this fact to Ida. 'Why can't hecome and shoot here? I don't mean to say that there is anythingparticular to shoot, but he and I could go out together and try our luck. Our hills are splendid for hares. '

'Do you mean that there are plenty of hares?' inquired Ida. 

'No, not exactly that. But it would be capital ground for them, don't youknow, if there were any. '

'And where is your other cousin Brian?' asked Ida, merely for the sake ofconversation. 

All interest, all idle dreaming about the unknown Brian was over with hersince the fatal mistake which had marred her life. She could not conceivethat anything save evil could ever arise to her henceforward out of thathated name. 

'Oh, he is in Sweden, or Turkey, or Russia, or somewhere, ' repliedHoratio, with a disgusted air; 'always on the move, instead of keeping upthe Abbey in proper style, and cultivating his cousins. A man with suchan income is bound in duty to his fellow-creatures to keep a pack offoxhounds. What else was he sent into the world for, I should like toknow?'

'Perhaps to cultivate the knowledge of his fellow-creatures in distantcountries, and to improve his mind. '

'Rot!' exclaimed Horatio, who was not choice in his language. 'What doeshe want with mind? or to make a walking Murray or Baedeker of himself?Society requires him to lay out his money to the local advantage. Here weare, with no foxhounds nearer than the New Forest, when we ought to havea pack at our door!'

Ida could not enter into the keen sense of deprivation caused by a dearthof foxhounds, so she went on quietly with her work, shading the wing ofthe inevitable swallow flitting across the inevitable bulrushes whichformed the design for a piano back. 

Presently Bessie came bouncing in, her sealskin flung on anyhow, and themost disreputable thing in hats perched sideways on her bright browncurls. 

'Mother is going to let us have a dance, ' she burst forth breathlessly, 'on Twelfth Night! Won't that be too jolly? A regular party, don't youknow, with a crumb-cloth, and a pianiste from Winchester, and perhaps acornet. It's only another guinea, and if father's in a good temper he'ssure to say yes. You must come over to The Knoll every evening topractise your waltzing. We shall have nothing but round dances in theprogramme. I'll take care of that!'

'But if there are any matrons who like to have a romp in the Lancers orthe Caledonians, ain't it rather a shame to leave them out in the cold?'suggested Horatio. 'You're so blessed selfish, Bess. '

'We are not going to have any matrons. Mother will matronize the wholeparty. We are going to have the De Travers, and the Pococks, and theDucies, and the Bullinghams over from Bournemouth. '

'And where the deuce are you going to put 'em?'

'Oh, we can put up at least twenty--on spare mattresses, don't you know, in the old nursery, and in the dressing-rooms and bath-room; and as forus, why, of course, _we_ can sleep anywhere. '

'Thank you, ' replied Horatio; 'I hope you don't suppose I am going toturn out of my den, or to allow a pack of girls to ransack my drawers andsmoke my favourite pipe. '

'I don't suppose any decent-minded girl would consent to sleep in such aloathsome hole, ' retorted Bessie. 'She would prefer a pillow and a rug onthe landing. '

'My den is quite as tidy as that barrack of yours, ' said the Wykhamiste, 'though I haven't yet risen to disfiguring my walls with kitchen platesand fourpenny fans. The cheap aesthetic is not my line. 

'Don't pretend to be cantankerous, Horatio, ' said Ida, looking at himwith the loveliest eyes, twinkling a little at his expense; 'we all knowthat you are brimming over with good-humour. 

Perhaps Aunt Betsy will take in some of your visitors, Bess. I am surethey shall be welcome to my room, if I have to sleep in the poultryyard. '

'Happy thought, ' cried Bessie; 'I'll sound the dear creature as to herviews on the subject this very day. '

Aunt Betsy was all goodness, and offered to accommodate half a dozenyoung ladies of neat and cleanly habits. She protested that she wouldhave no candle-grease droppers or door-mat despisers in her house. 

'The Homestead is the only toy I have, ' she said, ' and I won't have itill-used. '

So six irreproachable young women, the pride of careful mothers, werebilleted on Miss Wendover, while the more Bohemian damsels were to revelin the improvised accommodation of The Knoll. 

That particular Christmas-tide at Kingthorpe was a time of innocent mirthand youthful happiness which might have banished black care, for thenonce, from the oldest, weariest breast. For Ida, still young and fresh, loving and lovable, the contagion of that youthful mirth wasirresistible. 

She forgot by how fine a hair hung the sword that dangled over her guiltyhead--or began to think that the hair was tough enough to hold good forever. And what mattered the existence of the sword provided it was neverto fall? Sometimes it seemed to her in the pure and perfect happiness ofthis calm rural home, this useful, innocent life, as if that ill-advisedact of hers had never been acted--as if that autumn morning, that onehalf-hour in the modern Gothic church, still smelling of mortar andpitch-pine, set in flat fields, from which October mists were risingghostlike, was no more than a troubled dream--a dream that she haddreamed and done with for ever. Could it be that such an hour--so dim, soshadowy to look back upon from the substantial footing of her presentexistence--was to give colour to all the rest of her life? No, it was thedark dream of a troubled past, and she had nothing to do but to forget itas soon as possible. 

Forgetfulness--or at least a temporary kind of forgetfulness--wastolerably easy while Brian Walford was civil enough to stay away fromKingthorpe; but the problem of life would be difficult were he to appearin the midst of that cordial circle--difficult to impossibility. 

'It is evident that he doesn't mean to come while I am here, ' she toldherself, 'and that at least is kind. But in that case I must not stayhere too long. It is not fair that I should shut him out of his uncle'shouse. It is I who am the interloper. '

She thought with bitterest grief of any change from this peaceful lifeamong friends who loved her, to service in the house of a stranger; buther conscience recognised the necessity for such a change. 

She had no right to squat upon the family of the man she had married--toexclude him from his rightful heritage, she who refused to acknowledgehis right as her husband. He had done her a deep wrong; he had deceivedher cruelly; and she deemed that she had a right to repudiate a bondtainted by fraud; but she knew that she had no right to banish him fromhis family circle--to dwell, under false pretences, by the hearth of hiskindred. 

'I did wrong in coming here, ' she thought; 'it was a mean thing to do. Yet how could I resist the temptation, when no other place offered, andwhen I knew I was such a burden at home?'

In the very midst of her happiness, therefore, there was always thiscorroding care, this remorseful sense of wrong-doing. This present lifeof hers was all blissful, but it was bliss which could not, which mustnot, last. Yet what fortitude would be needed ere she could break thisflowery bondage, loosen these dear fetters which love had laid upon her!

Once, during that jovial Christmas season, she hinted at a possiblechange in the future. 

'What a happy day this has been!' she said as she walked across thewintry fields with Miss Wendover on the verge of midnight, after aChristmas dinner and a long evening of Christmas games at The Knoll, Needham marching in front of them with an unnecessary lantern, and allthe stars of heaven shining in blue frosty brilliance above their heads, 'and what a happy home! I feel it is a privilege to have seen so much ofit; and by-and-by, when I am among strangers--'

'What do you mean?' exclaimed Aunt Betsy, sharply; 'there is to be nosuch by-and-by; or, if there ever be such a time, it will be your making, not mine. You suit me capitally, and I mean to keep you as long as ever Ican, without absolute selfishness. If an eligible husband should want tocarry you off, I must let you go; but I will part with you to no one lessthan a husband--unless, indeed, ' and here Betsy Wendover's voice took acolder and graver tone, 'unless you should want to better yourself, asthe servants say, and get more money than I can afford to give you. Iknow your accomplishments are worth much more; but it is not everybody towhom you would be as their own flesh and blood. '

'Oh, Aunt Betsy, can you think that I should ever set money in the scaleagainst your kindness--your infinite goodness to me?'

'When you talk of a change by-and-by, you set me thinking. Perhaps youare already beginning to tire of this rustic dullness. '

'No, no, no; I never was so happy in my life--never since I was a childplaying about on board the ship that brought my mother and me to England. Everybody were kind to me, and made much of me. My mother and I adoredeach other; and I did not know that she was dying. Soon after we landedshe grew dangerously ill, and lay for weeks in a darkened room, which Iwas not allowed to enter. It was a dreary, miserable time; a lonely, friendless child pining in a furnished lodging, with no one but a servantand a sick-nurse to speak to; and then, one dark November morning, theblack hearse and coaches came to the door, and I stood peeping behind acorner of the parlour blind, and saw my mother's coffin carried out ofthe house. No; from the time we left the ship till I came to The Knoll Ihad never known what perfect happiness meant. '

'Surely you must have had some happy days with your father?' said AuntBetsy. 

'Very few. There was always a cloud. Papa is not the kind of man who canbe cheerful under difficulties. Besides, I have seen so little of him, poor dear. He did not come home from India till I was thirteen, and thenhe fell in love with my stepmother, and married her, and took her toFrance, where he fancies it is cheaper to live than in England. Yet Icannot help thinking there are corners of dear old England where he mightfind a prettier home and live quite as cheaply. '

'Of course, if he were a sensible man; but I gather from all you havetold me that there is a gentlemanlike helplessness about him--as of aperson who ought to have inherited a handsome income, and is out of hiselement as a struggler. '

'That is quite true, ' answered Ida; 'my father was not born to wrestlewith Fate. '

They were at the glass door which opened into the morning-room by thistime. The room was steeped in rosy light--such a pretty room, with chintzcurtains and chintz-covered easy-chairs, low, luxurious, inviting; theonly ponderous piece of furniture an old Japanese cabinet, rich in goldwork upon black lacquer. On the dainty little octagon table there was alarge shallow brown glass vase full of Christmas roses; and there was anodour of violets from the celadon china jars on the chimney-piece. AuntBetsy's favourite Persian cat, a marvel of fluffy whiteness, rose fromthe hearth to welcome them. It was a delightful picture of home life. 

Miss Wendover seemed in no hurry to go to bed. She seated herself in thelow arm-chair by the fire, and allowed the Persian to rub its white headand arch its back against her dark brocade skirt. No one within twentymiles of Winchester wore such brocades or such velvets as MissWendover's. They were supposed to be woven on purpose for her. Her gownswere gowns of the old school, and lasted for years, smelling of thesandal or camphor wood chests in which they reposed for months at astretch, yet, by virtue of some wonderful tact in the wearer, neverlooked dowdy or out of date. 

'Now, ' said Miss Wendover, with a resolute air, 'let us understand eachother, my dear Ida. I don't quite like what you said just now; and I wantto hear for certain that you are satisfied with your life here. '

'I am utterly happy here, dear Aunt Betsy. Is that a sufficient answer?Only, when I came here, I felt that it was charity--an impulse ofkindness for a friendless girl--that prompted you to offer me a home;that, in accepting your kindness, I had no right to become anencumbrance; that, having enjoyed your genial hospitality for a space, Iought to move on upon my journey, to go where I could be of more use. '

'You too ridiculous girl, can you suppose that you are not useful to me?'exclaimed Aunt Betsy, impatiently. 'Is there a single hour of your dayunoccupied? Granted that my original motive was a desire to give acomfortable home to a dear girl who seemed in need of new surroundings, but that idea would hardly have occurred to me unless I had begun to feelthe want of some energetic helpmate to lighten the load of my dailyduties. The experiment has answered admirably, so far as I am concerned. But it is just possible you feel otherwise. You may think that you couldmake better use of your powers--earn double my poor salary, windistinction by your fine playing, dress better, see more of the world. Idaresay to a girl of your age Kingthorpe seems a kind of living death. '

'So far from that, I love Kingthorpe with all my heart, so much that Ialmost hate myself for not having been born here, for not being able tosay these are my native fields, I was cradled among these hills. '

'So be it. If you love Kingthorpe and love me, you have nothing to do butto stay here till the hero of your life-story comes to carry you off. '

'There will be no such hero. '

'Oh, yes, there will! Every story, however humble, has its hero; butyours is going to be a very magnificent personage, I hope. '

The little clock on the chimney-piece chimed the half-hour aftermidnight, whereupon Aunt Betsy started up and called for her candle. Sheand Ida kissed as they wished each other good night on the threshold ofthe elder lady's room. 

After this conversation, how could Ida ever again broach the subject ofdeparture? and yet she felt that sooner or later she must depart. Honour, conscience, womanly feeling, forbade that she should remain at the costof Brian Walford's banishment. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

KINGTHORPE SOCIETY. 

On New Year's Eve Miss Wendover gave one of her famous dinner-parties;famous because it was always said that her dinners were, on their scale, better than anybody else's--yea, even that Dr. Rylance's, although thatgentleman spared no expense, and had been known to induce the French cookfrom the Dolphin at Southampton to come over and prepare the feast forhim. 

Miss Wendover's dinner was an excuse for the bringing forth of richstores of old china, old glass, and older silver--the accumulations ofaunts and uncles for past generations, and in some part of the ladyherself, who had the true spirit of a collector, that special gift whichthe French connoisseur calls _le flair_. Ida and the lady of the houseworked diligently all the morning in papering and polishing thesetreasures; and the dinner table, with its antique silver, Derby china, heavy diamond-cut glass, and white and scarlet exotics, was a picture togladden the eyes of Aunt Betsy's guests. 

The party consisted of Colonel and Mrs. Wendover, with their daughterBessie, admitted to this sacred function for the first time in her younglife, and duly impressed with the solemnity of the occasion; the Vicarand his wife; the new curate, an Oxford M. A. , and a sprig of a good oldfamily tree, altogether something very superior in the way of curates;Mr. And Mrs. Hildrop Havenant, the great people of a neighbouringsettlement, with their eldest son, also an Oxonion; and Dr. And MissRylance. 

'Be sure you two girls look your best to-night, ' said Miss Wendover, asshe sat before the fire with Bessie and Ida, enjoying the free and easyluxury of a substantial afternoon tea, which would enable them all to begracefully indifferent to the more solid features of dinner, and duly onthe alert, to make conversation. 'We shall have three eligible men. '

'How do you make three, Aunt Betsy?' inquired her niece. 'Of course weall know that young Hildrop Havenant is heir to nearly all the landbetween Havenant and Romsey; but he is such a mass of affectation that Ican't imagine anybody wanting to marry him. And as for Mr. Jardine--'

'Is he a mass of affectation, too, Bess?' inquired Aunt Betsy withintention, for Mr. Jardine, the curate, was supposed to have impressedthe damsel's fancy more deeply than she would care to own. 'He is anOxford man. '

'There is Oxford and Oxford, ' said Bess. 'If all the Oxford men were likeyoung Havenant, the only course open to the rest of the world would be toburn Oxford, just as Oxford burned the martyrs. '

'Well, we may count Mr. Jardine as an eligible, I suppose?'

'But that only makes two. Who is your third?' asked Bessie. 

'Dr. Rylance. '

'Dr. Rylance an eligible?' cried Bessie, with girlhood's frank laughterat the absurd idea of middle age coming into the market to bid for youth. 'Why, auntie, the man must be fifty. '

'Five-and-forty at most, and very young-looking for his age; verypolished, very well off. There are many girls who would be proud to winsuch a husband, ' said Miss Wendover, glancing at Ida in the firelight. 

She wanted to test the girl's temper--to find out, were it possible, whether this girl, whom she so inclined to love, tried in the fiercefurnace of poverty, had acquired mercenary instincts. She had heard fromUrania of that reckless speech about marrying for money, and she wantedto know how much or how little that speech had implied. 

Ida was silent. She had never told anyone of Dr. Rylance's offer. Shewould have deemed it dishonourable to let anyone into the secret of hishumiliation--to let his little world know that he, so superior a person, could offer himself and be rejected. 

'What do you think now, Bess, ' pursued Miss Wendover; 'would it not berather a nice thing if Dr. Rylance were to marry Ida? We all know howmuch he admires her. '

'It would be a very horrid thing!' cried the impetuous Bess. 'I wouldever so much rather Ida married poor Brian, although they had to pig infurnished lodgings for the first ten years of their life. Crabbed age andyouth cannot dwell together. '

'But Dr. Rylance is not crabbed, and he is not old. '

'Let him marry a lady of the same doubtful age, which seems old to me, but young to you, and then no one will find fault with him, ' said Bess, savagely. 'I feel an inward and spiritual conviction that Ida is doomedto marry Brian Walford. The poor fellow was so hopelessly in love withher when he left this place, that, if she had not a stone inside herinstead of a heart, she would have accepted him; but _magno est amor etpraevalebit!_' concluded Bess, with a mighty effort; 'I'm sure I hopethat's right. '

'I think it must be time for you to go home and dress, if you really wishto look nice to-night, ' said Ida, severely. 'You know you generally findyourself without frilling, or something wrong, at the last moment. '

'Heavens!' exclaimed Bessie, starting up and upsetting the pettedPersian, which had been reposing in her lap, and which now skulked offresentfully, with a swollen tail, to hide its indignation under a chair, 'you are as bad as an oracle. I have yards and yards of frilling to sewon before I dress--my sleeves--my neck--my sweeper. '

'Shall I run over and sew the frills on for you?' asked Ida. 

'You! when you are going to wear that lovely pink gown. You will wanthours to dress. No: Blanche must make herself useful for once in herridiculous life. _Au revoir_, auntie darling. Go, lovely rose'--toIda--'and make yourself still lovelier in order to captivate Dr. Rylance. '

The dinner was over. It had passed without a hitch, and the gentlemenwere now enjoying their claret and conversation in a comfortablesemicircle in front of Miss Wendover's roomy hearth. 

The conversation was for the most part strictly local, Colonel Wendoverand Mr. Hildrop Havenant leading, and the Vicar a good second; but nowand then there was a brief diversion from the parish to Europeanpolitics, when Dr. Rylance--who secretly abhorred parochial talk--dashedto the fore and talked with an authority which it was hard for the othersto keep under. He spoke of the impending declaration of war--there isgenerally some such thing--as if he had been at the War Office thatmorning in confidential converse with the chief officials; but this wasmore than Squire Havenant could endure, and he flatly contradicted thephysician on the strength of his morning's correspondence. Mr. Havenantalways talked of his letters as if they contained all the law and theprophets. His correspondents were high in office, unimpeachableauthorities, men who had the ear of the House, or who pulled the stringsof the Government. 

'I am told on the best authority that there will be no war, ' he said, swelling, or seeming to swell, as he spoke. 

He was a large man, with a florid complexion and gray mutton-chopwhiskers. 

Dr. Rylance shrugged his shoulders and smiled blandly. It was the calm, incredulous smile with which he encountered any rival medico who was boldenough to question his treatment. 

'That is not the opinion of the War Office, ' he said quietly. 

'But it is the opinion of men who dictate to the War Office, ' replied Mr. Havenant. 

'We couldn't have a better place for the working men's club than oldParker's cottage, ' said the Vicar, addressing himself to ColonelWendover. 

'If Russia advances a foot farther, there must be war in Beloochistan, 'said Dr. Rylance; 'and if England is blind to the exigencies of thesituation, I should like to know how you are going to get your troopsthrough the Bolan Pass. '

'A single line to Romsey would send up the value of land fifty per cent, 'said the Colonel, who cared much more about Hampshire than Hindostan, although the best years of his life had been spent under Indian skies. 

Hildrop Havenant pricked up his ears, and forgot all about the WarOffice. 

'If the railway company had the pluck they ought to get that Bill throughnext Session, ' he said, meaning a Bill for a loop between Winchester andRomsey. 

While the elder gentlemen prosed over their wine the two younger men hadfound their way, first to the garden, for a cigar under the frosty moon, then back to Miss Wendover's pretty drawing room, where Ida was playingSchumann's 'Träumerei' at one end of the room with Bessie for her onlyaudience, while Miss By lance, Miss Wendover, and the three matrons madea stately group around and about the fire-place. 

Urania was providing the greater part of the conversation. She had spenta delightful fortnight in Cavendish Square at the end of November, andhad been everywhere and seen everything--winter exhibitions--new plays. 

'I had no idea there could be so many nice people in town out of theseason, ' she said with a grand air. 'But then my father knows all thenicest people; he cultivates no Philistines. '

The Vicar's wife required to have this last remark explained to her. Sheonly knew the Philistines of Scripture, an unfortunate people who seemalways to have been in the wrong. 

'And you saw some good pictures?' inquired Aunt Betsy. 

'A few good ones and acres of daubs, ' replied Urania. 'Why will so manypeople paint? There are pictures which are an affliction to the eye--anoutrage upon common sense. Instead of a huge gallery lined from floor toceiling with commonplace, why cannot we have a Temple with a singleWatts, or Burne Jones, or Dante Bossetti, which one could go in andworship quietly in a subdued light?'

'That is a horridly expensive way of seeing pictures, ' said the Vicar'swife; 'I hate paying a shilling for seeing a single picture. If it isever so good one feels one has had so little for one's money. Now at theAcademy there are always at least fifty pictures which delight me. '

'You must be very easy to please, ' said Urania. 

'I am, ' replied the Vicar's wife, curtly, 'and that is one of theblessings for which I am thankful to God. I hate your _nil admiraris_, 'added the lady, as if it were the name of a species. 

After this Urania became suddenly interested in Schumann, and glidedacross the room to see what the music meant. 

'That is very sweet, ' she murmured, sinking into a seat by Bessie;'classical, of course?'

'Schumann, ' answered Ida, briefly. 

'I thought so. It has that delicious vagueness one only finds in Germanmusic--a half-developed meaning--leaving wide horizons of melodiousuncertainty. '

This was a conversational style which Miss Rylance had cultivated sinceher entrance into the small world of Kingthorpe, and the larger world ofCavendish Square, as a grown-up young woman. She had seen a good deal ofa semi-artistic, quasi-literary circle, in which her father was themedical oracle, attending actresses and singers without any moresubstantial guerdon than free admittance to the best theatres on the bestnights; prescribing for newspaper-men and literary lions, who sang hispraises wherever they went. 

Urania had fallen at once into all the tricks and manners of the newschool. She had taken to short waists and broad sashes, and a style ofdrapery which accentuated the elegant slimness of her figure. Sheaffected out-of-the-way colours, and quaint combinations--pale pinks andolive greens, tawny yellow and faded russet--and bought her gowns at aJapanese warehouse, where limp lengths of flimsy cashmere were mixed inartistic confusion with sixpenny teapots and paper umbrellas. In a word, Miss Rylance had become a disciple of the peacock-feather school of art, and affected to despise every other development of intellect, or beauty. 

This was the first time that she and Ida had met since the latter'sreturn to Kingthorpe, except indeed for briefest greetings in thechurchyard after morning service. Ida had not yet upbraided her for thetrick of which she was the author and originator, but Urania was in nowise grateful for this forbearance. She had acted with deliberatemaliciousness; and she wanted to know that her malice had given pain. Thewhole thing was a failure if it had not hurt the girl who had beenaudacious enough to outshine Miss Rylance, and to fascinate MissRylance's father. Urania had no idea that the physician had offeredhimself and his two houses to Ida Palliser, nay, had even pledged himselfto sacrifice his daughter at the shrine of his new love. She knew that headmired Miss Palliser more than he had ever admired anyone else withinher knowledge, and this was more than enough to make Ida hateful. 

Ida was particularly obnoxious this evening, in that pale pink cashmeregown, with a falling collar of fine old Brussels point, a Christmas giftfrom Mrs. Wendover. The gown might not be the highest development of theGrosvenor Gallery school, but it was at once picturesque and becoming, and Ida was looking her loveliest. 

'Why have you never come to see me since your return?' inquired Urania, with languid graciousness. 

'I did not think you wanted me, ' Ida answered, coolly. 

'I am always glad to see my friends. I stop at home on Thursdayafternoons on purpose; but perhaps you have not quite forgiven Bess andme for that little bit of fun we indulged in last September, ' saidUrania. 

'I have quite forgiven Bess her share of the joke, ' answered Ida, scanning Miss Rylance's smiling countenance with dark, scornful eyes, 'because I know she had no idea of giving me pain. '

'But won't you forgive me too? Are you going to leave me out in thecold?'

'I don't think you care a straw whether I forgive or do not forgive you. You wanted to wound me--to humiliate me--and you succeeded--to a certaindegree. But you see I have survived the humiliation. You did not hurt mequite so much as you intended, perhaps. '

'What a too absurd view to take of the thing!' cried Urania, with aninjured air. 'An innocent practical joke, not involving harm of any kind;a little girlish prank played on the spur of the moment. I thought youwere more sensible than to be offended--much less seriously angry--at anysuch nonsense. '

Ida contemplated her enemy silently for a few moments, as her handswandered softly through one of those Kinder-scenen which she knew byheart. 

'If I am mistaken in your motives it is I who have to apologize, ' shesaid, quietly. 'Perhaps I am inclined to make too much of what is reallynothing. But I detest all practical jokes, and I should have thought youwere the very last person to indulge in one, Miss Rylance. Sportivenessis hardly in your line. '

'Nobody is always wise, ' murmured Urania, with her disagreeable simper. 

'Not even Miss Rylance?' questioned Ida, without looking up from thekeys. 

'Please don't quarrel, ' pleaded Bessie, piteously; 'such a bad use forthe last night of the year. It was more my fault than anyone else's, though the suggestion did certainly come from Urania--but no harm hascome of it--nor good either, I am sorry to say--and I have repentedin sackcloth and ashes. Why should the dismal failure be raked upto-night?'

'I should not have spoken of it if Miss Rylance had been silent, ' saidIda; and here, happily, the two young men came in, and made at once forthe group of girls by the piano, whereupon Urania had an opportunity ofparading her newest ideas, all second, third, or even fourth-hand, beforethe young Oxonians. One young Oxonian was chillingly indifferent to thelater developments of modern thought, and had eyes for no one but Bessie, whose childish face beamed with smiles as he talked to her, although hishomely theme was old Sam Jones's rheumatics, and the Providence which hadpreserved Martha Morris's boy from instant death when he tumbled into thefire. It was only parish talk, but Bessie felt as happy as if one of thesaints of old had condescended to converse with her--proud and pleased, too, when Mr. Jardine told her how grateful old Jones was for heroccasional visits, and how her goodness to Mrs. Morris had made a deepimpression upon that personage, commonly reported to have 'a temper' andto be altogether a difficult subject. 

The conversation drifted not unnaturally from parochial to more personaltopics, and Mr. Jardine showed himself interested in Bessie's pursuits, studies, and amusements. 

'I hear so much of you from those two brothers of yours, ' said theCurate--'fine, frank fellows. They often join me in my walks. '

'I'm sure it is very good of you to have anything to say to them, 'replied Bessie, feeling, like other girls of eighteen, that there couldhardly be anything more despicable--from a Society point of view--thanher two brothers. ' They are laboriously idle all through the holidays. '

'Well, I daresay they might work a little more, with ultimate advantage, 'said Mr. Jardine, smiling; 'but it is pleasant to see boys enjoy life sothoroughly. They are fond of all open air amusements, and they are keenobservers, and I find that they think a good deal, which is a stagetowards work. '

'They are not utterly idiotic, ' sighed Bessie; 'but they never read, andthey break things in a dreadful way. The legs of our chairs snap underthose two boys as if old oak were touchwood; and Blanche and Eva, whoought to know better, devote all their energies to imitating them. '

The other gentlemen had come in by this time, and Dr. Rylance camegliding across the room with his gentlemanly but somewhat catlike tread, and planted himself behind Ida, bending down to question her about hermusic, and letting her see that he admired her as much as ever, and hadeven forgiven her for refusing him. But she rose as soon as she decentlycould, and left the piano. 

'Miss Rylance will sing, I hope, ' she said, politely. Miss Wendover cameover to make the same request, and Urania sane the last fashionableballad, 'Blind Man's Holiday, ' in a hard chilly voice which was asunpleasant as a voice well could be without being actually out of tune. 

After this Bessie sang 'Darby and Joan, ' in a sweet contralto, but with adoleful slowness which hung heavily upon the spirits of the company, anda duly dismal effect having been produced, the young ladies werecordially thanked for--leaving off. 

A pair of whist-tables were now started for the elders, while the threegirls and the two Oxonians still clustered round the piano, and seemed tofind plenty to talk about till sweetly and suddenly upon the still nightair came the silver tones of the church bells. 

Miss Wendover started up from the card-table with a solemn look, as thecurate opened a window and let in a flood of sound. A silent hush fellupon everyone. 

'The New Year is born, ' said Aunt Betsy; 'may it spare us those we love, and end as peacefully for us as the year that is just dead. '

And then they all shook hands with each other and parted. 

The dance at The Knoll was a success, and Ida danced with the best men inthe room, and was as much courted and admired as if she had been thegreatest heiress in that part of Hampshire. Urania Rylance went simperingabout the room telling everybody, in the kindest way, who Miss Palliserwas, and how she had been an ill-used drudge at a suburban finishingschool, before that dear good Miss Wendover took her as a usefulcompanion; but even that crushing phrase, 'useful companion, ' did notdegrade Ida in the eyes of her admirers. 

'Palliser's a good name, ' said one youth. 'There's a Sir VernonPalliser--knew him and his brother at Cambridge--members of the AlpineClub--great athletes. Any relation?'

'Very distant, I should think, from what I know of Miss Palliser'scircumstances;' answered Miss Rylance, with an incredulous sneer. 

But Urania failed in making youth and beauty contemptible, and was fainto admit to herself that Ida Palliser was the belle of the room. Dr. Rylance, who had not been invited, but who looked so well and so youngthat no one could be angry with him for coming, hung upon Miss Palliser'ssteps, and tortured her with his politeness. 

For Ida the festivity was not all happiness. She would have beenhappier at the Homestead, sitting by the fire reading aloud to MissWendover--happier almost anywhere--for she had not only to endure a kindof gentlemanly persecution from Dr. Rylance, but she was tormented by anever-present dread of Brian Walford's appearance. Bessie had sent him atelegram only that morning, imploring him, as a personal favour, to bepresent at her ball, vowing that she would be deeply offended with him ifhe did not come; and more than once in the course of the evening Bessiehad told Ida that there was still time, there was a train now just due atWinchester, and that might have brought him. Ida breathed more freelyafter midnight, when it was obviously too late for any one else toarrive. 

'It is your fault, ' said Bessie, pettishly. 'If you had not treated himvery unkindly at Mauleverer he would be here to-night. He never failed mebefore. '

Ida reddened, and then grew very pale. 

'I see, ' she said, 'you think I deprive you of your cousin's society. Iwill ask Miss Wendover to let me go back to France. '

'No, no, no, you inhuman creature! how can you talk like that? You knowthat I love you ever so much better than Brian, though he is my own kithand kin. I would not lose you for worlds. I don't care a straw about hiscoming, for my own sake. Only I should so like you to marry him, and beone of us. Oh, here's that odious Dr. Rylance stealing after you. AuntBetsy is quite right--the man would like to marry you--but you won'taccept him, will you, darling?--not even to have your own house inCavendish Square, a victoria and brougham, and all those blessings wehear so much about from Urania. Remember, you would have her for astepdaughter into the bargain. '

'Be assured, dear Bess, I shall never be Urania's stepmother. And now, darling, put all thoughts of matrimony out of your head; for me, atleast. '

That brief flash of Christmas and New Year's gaiety was soon over. TheKnoll resumed its wonted domestic calm. Dr. Rylance went back toCavendish Square, and only emerged occasionally from the London vortex tospend a peaceful day or two at Kingthorpe. His daughter was not installedas mistress of his town house, as she had fondly hoped would be the case. She was permitted to spend an occasional week, sometimes stretched to tendays or a fortnight, in Cavendish Square; but the cook-housekeeper andthe clever German servant, half valet half butler, still reigned supremein that well-ordered establishment; and Urania felt that she had no moreauthority than a visitor. She dared not find fault with servants whohad lived ten years in her father's service, and who suited himperfectly--even had there been any legitimate reason for fault-finding, which there was not. 

Dr. Rylance having got on so comfortably during the last twelve years ofhis life without a mistress for his town house, was disinclined tosurrender his freedom to a daughter who had more than once ventured toquestion his actions, to hint that he was not all-wise. He considered ita duty to introduce his daughter into the pleasant circles where he waspetted and made much of; and he fondly hoped she would speedily find ahusband sufficiently eligible to be allowed the privilege of taking heroff her father's hands. But in the meanwhile, Urania in London wassomewhat of a bore; and Dr. Rylance was never more cheerful than whendriving her to Waterloo Station. 

Miss Rylance's life, therefore, during this period alternated betweenrural seclusion and London gaiety. She came back to the pastoral phase ofher existence with the feelings and demeanour of a martyr; and her onlyconsolation was found in those calm airs of superiority which seemedjustified by her intimate acquaintance with society, and her free use ofa kind of jargon which she called modern thought. 

'How you can manage to exist here all the year round without going out ofyour mind is more than I can understand, ' she told Bessie. 

'Well, I know Kingthorpe is dull, ' replied Bess, meekly, 'but it's a dearold hole, and I never find the days too long, especially when thoseodious boys are at home. '

'But really now, Bessie, don't you think it is time you should leave offplaying with boys, and begin wearing gloves?' sneered Urania. 

'I did wear gloves at Bournemouth, religiously--mousquetaires, up to myelbows; never went out without them. No, Ranie, I am never dull at oldKingthorpe; and then there is always a hope of Bournemouth. '

'Bournemouth is worse than this!' exclaimed Urania. 'There is nothing solaboriously dismal as a semi-fashionable watering-place. '

Talk as she might, Miss Rylance could not sour Bessie's happy dispositionwith the vinegar of discontent. Hers was a sweet, joyous soul; and justnow, had she dared to speak the truth, she would have said that thispastoral village of Kingthorpe, this cluster of fine old houses andcomfortable cottages, grouped around an ancient parish church, was to herthe central point of the universe, to leave which would be as Eve'sbanishment from Eden. The pure and tender heart had found its shrine, andlaid down its offering of reverent devotion. Mr. Jardine had said nothingas yet, but he had sedulously cultivated Bessie Wendover's society, andhad made himself eminently agreeable to her parents, who could find nofault with a man who was at once a scholar and a gentleman, and who hadan income which made him comfortably independent of immediate preferment. 

He was enthusiastic, and he could afford to give his enthusiasm fullscope. Kingthorpe suited him admirably. It was a parish rich in sweetassociations. The present Vicar was a good, easy-going man, a HighChurchman of the old school rather than the new, yet able to sympathizewith men of more advanced opinions and fiercer energies. 

Thus it was that while Miss Rylance found her bower at Kingthorpe a placeof dullness and discontent, Bessie rose every morning to a new day of joyand gladness, which began, oh! so sweetly, in the early morning service, in which John Jardine's deep musical voice gave new force and meaning tothe daily lessons, new melody to the Psalms. Ida was always present atthis morning service, and the two girls used to walk home togetherthrough the dewy fields, sometimes one, sometimes the other going out ofher way to accompany her friend. Bessie poured all her innocent secretsinto Ida's ear, expatiating with sweet girlish folly upon every look andtone of Mr. Jardine's, asking Ida again and again if she thought that hecared, ever so little, for her. 

'You never tell me any of your secrets, Ida, ' she said, reproachfully, after one of these lengthy discussions. 'I am always prosing about myaffairs, until I must seem a lump of egotism. Why don't you make melisten sometimes? I should be deeply interested in any dream of yours, ifit were ever so wild. '

'My darling, I have no dreams, wild or tame, ' said Ida. She could not saythat she had no secret, having that one dreadful secret hanging over herand overshadowing her life. 

'And have you never been in love?'

'Never. I once thought--almost thought--that I was in love. It was likedrifting away in a frail, dancing little boat over an unknown sea--allvery well while the sun shone and the boat went gaily--suddenly the boatfell to pieces, and I found myself in the cold, cruel water. '

'Horrid!' cried Bess, with a shudder. 'That could not have been reallove. '

'No, dear, it was a will-o'-the-wisp, not the true light. '

'And you have got over it?'

'Quite. I am perfectly happy in the life I lead now. '

This was the truth. There are these calm pauses in most lives--blessedintervals of bliss without passion--a period in which heart and mind areboth at rest, and yet growing and becoming nobler and purer in the timeof repose, just as the body grows during sleep. 

And thus Ida's life, full and useful, glided on, and the days went byonly too swiftly; for it was never out of her mind that these days oftranquil happiness were numbered, that she was bound in honour to leaveKingthorpe before Brian Walford could feel the oppression of banishmentfrom his kindred. At present Brian Walford was living in Paris, with anold college friend, both these youths being supposed to be studying theFrench language and literature, with a view to making themselves morevaluable at the English bar. He had given up his chambers in the Temple, as too expensive for a man living from hand to mouth. He was understoodto be contributing to the English magazines, and to be getting his livingdecently, which was better than languishing under the cognizance of theLamb and Flag, with no immediate prospect of briefs. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE TRUE KNIGHT. 

Kingthorpe, beautiful even in the winter, with its noble panorama ofhills and woods, was now looking its loveliest in the leafy month ofJune. Ida had been living with Miss Wendover nearly eight months, and hadbecome to her as a daughter, waiting upon her with faithful and lovingservice, always a bright and cheerful companion, joining with heart andhand in all good works. Her active life, her freedom from daily cares, had brightened her proud young beauty. She was lovelier than she had everbeen as the belle of Mauleverer Manor, for that defiant look which hadbeen the outcome of oppression had now given place to softness andsmiles. The light of happiness beamed in her dark eyes. Between Decemberand June this tranquil existence had scarcely been rippled by anythingthat could be called an event, save the one grand event of BessieWendover's life--her engagement to John Jardine, who had proposed quiteunexpectedly, as Bessie declared, one evening in May, when the two hadgone into a certain copse at the back of The Knoll gardens, famous as theimmemorial resort of nightingales. Here, instead of listening to thenightingales, or silently awaiting a gush of melody from those pensivebirds, Mr. Jardine had poured out his own melodious strain, which tookthe form of an ardent declaration. Bessie, who had been doing 'he lovesme, loves me not, ' with every flower in the garden--forgetting that froma botanical point of view the result was considerably influenced by thenature of the flower--pretended to be intensely surprised; made believethere was nothing further from her thoughts; and then, when heremboldened lover folded her to his breast, owned shyly, and with tears, that she had loved him desperately ever since Christmas, and that shewould have been heartbroken had he married anyone else. 

Colonel and Mrs. Wendover received the Curate's declaration with thecoolness which is so aggravating in parents, who would hardly be elatedif the sons of God came down once more to propose for the daughters ofmen. 

They both considered that Bessie was ridiculously young--much too youngto receive an offer of marriage. They consented, ultimately, to anengagement; but Bessie was not to be married till after her twenty-firstbirthday. This meant two years from next September, and Mr. Jardinepleaded hard for a milder sentence. Surely one year would be long enoughto wait, when Bessie and he were so sure of their own minds. 

'Bessie is too young to be sure of anything, ' said the Colonel; 'and twoyears will only give you time to find a living and a nice cosy vicarage, or rectory, as the case way be. '

Mr. Jardine did not venture to remind Colonel Wendover that for him thecosiness of vicarage or rectory was a mere detail as compared with aworthy field for his labours. He meant to spend his life where it wouldbe of most use to his fellow-creatures; even although the call of dutyshould come to him from the smokiest of manufacturing towns, or in theflat, dull fields of Lincolnshire, among pitmen and stockingers. He wasnot the kind of man to consider the snug rectory houses or fat glebes, but rather the kind of man to take upon himself some long-neglectedparish, and ruin himself in building church and schools. 

Fortunately for Bessie's hopes, however, Colonel Wendover did not knowthis. 

The Curate complained to Aunt Betsy of her brother's hardness. 

'Why cannot we be married at the end of this year?' he said. 'We havepledged ourselves to spend our lives together. Why should we not beginthat bright new life--bright and new, at least to me--in a few months?That would be ample time for the Colonel and Mrs. Wendover to getaccustomed to the idea of Bessie's marriage. '

'But a few months will not make her old enough or wise enough for aclergyman's wife, ' said Miss Wendover. 

'She has plenty of wisdom--the wisdom of a generous and tender heart--thebest kind of wisdom. All her instincts, all her impulses, are pure, andtrue, and noble. What can age give her better than that? Girl, as she is, my parish will be the better for her sweet influence. She will be thesunshine of my people's life as well as of mine. How will she grow wiserby living two years longer, and reading novels, and dancing atBournemouth? I don't want her to be worldly-wise; and the better kind ofwisdom comes from above. She will learn that in the quiet of her marriedhome. '

'I see, ' said Miss Wendover, smiling at him; 'you don't quite like theafternoon dances and tennis parties at Bournemouth. '

'Pray don't suppose I am jealous, ' said the Curate. 'My trust in mydarling's goodness and purity is the strongest part of my love. But Idon't want to see the best years of her youth, her freshness, her girlishenergy and enthusiasm, frittered away upon dances, and tennis, and dress, which has lately been elevated into an art. I want her help, I want hersympathy, I want her for my own--the better part of myself--going hand inhand with me in all my hopes and acts. '

'Two years sounds a long time, ' said Miss Wendover, musingly, 'and Isuppose, at your age and Bessie's, it is a long time; though at mine theyears flow onward with such a gliding motion that it is only one'slooking-glass, and the quarterly accounts, that tell one time is moving. However, I have seen a good many of these two-year engagements--'

'Yes. '

'And I have seldom seen one of them last a twelvemonth. '

'They have ended unhappily?'

'Quite the contrary. They have ended in a premature wedding. Theyoung people have put their heads together, and have talked over theflinty-hearted parents; and some bright morning, when the father andmother have been in a good temper, the order for the trousseau has beengiven, the bridesmaids have received notice, and in six weeks the wholebusiness was over, And the old people rather glad to have got rid of alove-sick damsel and her attendant swain. There is no greater nuisance ina house than engaged sweethearts. Who knows whether you and Bessie maynot be equally fortunate?'

'I hope we may be so, ' said the Curate; 'but I don't think we shall makeourselves obnoxious. '

'Oh, of course you think not. Every man believes himself superior toevery form of silliness, but I never saw a lover yet who did not lapsesooner or later into mild idiocy. '

_'Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur. '_

'Of course. Indeed, with the gods of Olympus it was quite the other way. Nothing could be more absurd than their goings on. '

Ida was delighted at her friend's happiness, and was never tired ofhearing about Mr. Jardine's virtues. Love had already begun to exercise asobering influence upon Bessie. She no longer romped with the boys, andshe wore gloves. She had become very studious of her appearance, but allthose little coquettish arts of the toilet which she had learned lastautumn at Bournemouth, the cluster of flowers pinned on her shoulder, thelaces and frivolities, were eschewed; lest Mr. Jardine should be remindedof the wanton-eyed daughters of Zion, with their tinkling ornaments, andchains, and bracelets, and mufflers, and rings, and nose-jewels. Shebegan to read with a view to improving her mind, and plodded laboriouslythrough certain books of the advanced Anglican school which her lover hadtold her were good. But she learnt a great deal more from Mr. Jardine'soral instructions than from any books, and when the Winchester boys camehome for an occasional Sunday they found her brimful of ecclesiasticalknowledge, and at once nicknamed her the Perambulating Rubric, or by thename of any feminine saint which their limited learning suggested. Fortunately for Bessie, however, their jests were not unkindly meant, andthey liked Mr. Jardine, whose knowledge of natural history, the ways andmanners of every creature that flew, or walked, or crawled, or swam inthat region of hill and valley, made him respectable in their eyes. 

'He's not half a bad fellow--for a parson, ' said Horatio, condescendingly. 

'And wouldn't he make a jolly schoolmaster?' exclaimed Reginald. 'Boyswould get on capitally with Jardine. They'd never try to bosh _him_. '

'Schoolmaster, indeed?' echoed Bessie, with an offended air. 

'I suppose you think it wouldn't be good enough for him? You expect himto be made an archbishop off-hand, without being educated up to his workby the rising generation. No doubt you forget that there have been suchmen as Arnold, and Temple, and Moberly. Pray what higher office can a manhold in this world than to form the minds of the rising generation?'

'I wish your master would form your manners, ' said Bessie, 'for they aresimply detestable. '

It was nearly the end of June, and the song of the nightingales wasgrowing rarer in the twilight woods. 

Ida started early one heavenly midsummer morning, with her book and herluncheon in a little basket, to see the old lodge-keeper at WendoverAbbey, who had nursed the elder Wendovers when they were babies in thenurseries at the Abbey, and who had lived in a Gothic cottage at thegate--built on purpose for her by the last squire--ever since herretirement from active service. This walk to the Abbey was one of Ida'sfavourite rambles, and on this June morning the common, the wood, thecorn-fields, and distant hills were glorious with that fleeting beauty ofsummer which gives a glamour to the most commonplace scenery. 

She had a long idle morning before her, a thing which happened rarely. Miss Wendover had driven to Romsey with the Colonel and his wife, tolunch with some old friends in the neighbourhood of that quiet town, andwas not likely to be home till afternoon tea. Bessie was left in chargeof the younger members of the household, and was further deeply engagedin an elaborate piece of ecclesiastical embroidery, all crimson and gold, and peacock floss, which she hoped to finish before All Saints' Day. 

Old Mrs. Rowse, the gatekeeper, was delighted to see Miss Palliser. Theyoung lady was a frequent visitor, for the old woman was entitled toparticular attention as a sufferer from chronic rheumatism, unable todo more than just crawl into her little patch of garden, or to thegrass-plat before her door on a sunny afternoon. Her days were spent, forthe most part, in an arm-chair in front of the neat little grate, where ahandful of fire burnt, winter and summer, diffusing a turfy odour. 

Ida liked to hear the old woman talk of the past. She had been a brightyoung girl, under-nurse when the old squire was born; and now the squirehad been lying at rest in the family vault for nigh upon fifteen years, and here she was still, without kith or kin, or a friend in the worldexcept the Wendovers. 

She liked to hold forth upon the remarkable events of her life--from herbirth in a labourer's cottage, about half a mile from the Abbey, to thelast time she had been able to walk as far as the parish church, now fiveyears ago. She was cheerful, yet made the most of her afflictions, andseemed to think that chronic rheumatism of her particular type was asocial distinction. She was also proud of her advanced age, and had hopesof living into the nineties, and having her death recorded in the countypapers. 

That romantic feeling about the Abbey, which had taken possession ofIda's mind on her first visit, had hardly been lessened by familiaritywith the place, or even by those painful associations which made the spotfatal to her. The time-old deserted mansion was still to her fancy a poemin stone; and although she could not think about its unknown masterwithout a shudder, recalling her miserable delusion, she could not banishhis image from her thoughts, when she roamed about the park, or exploredthe house, where the few old servants had grown fond of her and sufferedher to wander at will. 

When she had spent an hour with Mrs. Rowse, she walked on to the Abbey, and seated herself to eat her sandwiches and read her beloved Shelleyunder the cedar beneath which she and the Wendover party had picnicked sogaily on the day of her first visit. Shelley harmonized with herthoughtful moods, for with most of his longer poems there is interwoventhat sense of wrong and sorrow, that idea of a life spoiled and blightedby the oppression of stern social laws, which could but remind Ida of herown entanglement. She had bound herself by a chain that could never bebroken, and here she read of how all noblest and grandest impulses areabove the law, and refuse to be so bound; and how, in such cases, it isnoble to defy and trample upon the law. A kind of heroic lawlessness, spiritualized and diffused in a cloud of exquisite poetry, was what shefound in her Shelley; and it comforted her to know that before her timethere had been lofty souls caught in the web of their own folly. 

When she was tired of reading she went into the Abbey. The great halldoor stood open to admit the summer air and sunshine. Ida wandered fromone room to another as freely as if she had been in her own house, knowing that any servant she met would be pleased to see her there. Theold housekeeper was a devoted admirer of Miss Palliser; the two younghousemaids were her pupils in a class which met every Sunday afternoonfor study of the Scriptures. She had no fear of being considered anintruder. Many of the casements stood open, and there was the scent offlowers in the silent old rooms, where all was neat and prim, albeit alittle faded and gray. 

Ida loved to explore the library, where the books were for the most partquaint and old, original editions of seventeenth and eighteenth centurybooks, in sober, substantial bindings. It was pleasant to take out avolume of one of the old poets, or the eighteenth century essayists, andto read a few stanzas, or a paper of Addison's or Steele's, standing bythe open window in the air and sunlight. 

The rooms in which she roamed at will were the public apartments of theAbbey, and, although beautiful in her eyes, they had the stiffness andsolemnity of rooms which are not for the common uses of daily life. 

But on one occasion Mrs. Mawley, the housekeeper, in a particularlycommunicative mood, showed her the suite of rooms in which Mr. Wendoverlived when he was alone; and here, in the study where he read, and wrote, and smoked, and brooded in the long quiet days, she saw those personalbelongings which gave at least some clue to the character of the man. Here, on shelves which lined the room from floor to ceiling, she saw thebooks which Brian Wendover had collected for his own especial pleasure, and the neatness of their arrangement and classification told her thatthe master of Wendover Abbey was a man of calm temper and orderly habits. 

'You'll never see a book out of place when he leaves the room, ' said Mrs. Mawley. 'I've seen him take down fifty volumes of a morning, when he's athis studies. I've seen the table covered with books, and books piled upon the carpet at each side of his chair, but they'd all be back on theirshelves, as neat as a new pin, when I went to tidy up the room after him. I never allow no butter-fingered girls in this room, except to sweep orscrub, under my own eye. There's not many ornaments, but what there is isprecious, and the apple of master's eye. '

It was a lovely room, with a panelled oak ceiling, and a fine old oakmantel-piece, on which were three or four pieces of Oriental crackle. Thelarge oak writing-table was neatly arranged with crimson leatherblotting-book, despatch-box, old silver inkstand, and a pair of exquisitebronze statuettes of Apollo and Mercury, which seemed the presidinggeniuses of the place. 

'I don't believe Mr. Wendover could get on with his studies if those twofigures weren't there, ' said Mrs. Mawley. 

The rooms were kept always aired and ready--no one knew at what hour themaster might return. He was a good master, honoured and beloved by theold servants, who had known him from his infancy; and his lightest whimwas respected. The fact that he should have given the best part of hislife since he left Oxford to roving about foreign countries was lamented;but this roving temper was regarded as only an eccentric manner of sowingthose wild oats which youth must in some wise scatter; and it was hopedthat with ripening years he would settle down and spend his days in thehome of his ancestors. He might come home at any time, he had informedMrs. Mawley in his last letter, received six weeks ago. 

That glimpse of the room in which he lived gave Ida a vivid idea of theman--the calm, orderly student who had won high honours at theUniversity, and was never happier than when absorbed in books that tookhim back to the past--to that very past which was presided over by thetwo pagan gods on the writing-table. She noted that the wide block ofbooks nearest Mr. Wendover's chair were all Greek and Latin; and strayinground the room she found Homers and Horaces, Greek playwrights andhistorians, repeating themselves many times, in various quaint costlyeditions. A scholar evidently--perhaps pragmatical and priggish. Bessie'scoolness about her cousin implied that he was not altogether agreeable. 

'Perhaps I should have liked him no better than the false Brian, ' shesaid to herself to-day, as she stood musing before the old brown books inthe library, thinking of that more individual collection which she hadbeen allowed to inspect on her last visit. 

She shuddered at the image of that other Brian, remembering but toovividly how she had last seen him, kneeling to her, claiming her as hisown. God! could he so claim her? Was she verily his, to summon at hiswill?--his by the law of heaven and earth, and only enjoying her libertyby his sufferance?

The thought was horrible. She snatched a book from the shelf--anything todistract her mind. Happily, the book was Shakespeare, and she was soonlost in Lear's woes, wilder, deeper than any sorrow she had ever tasted. 

She read for an hour, the soft air fanning her, the sun shining upon her, the scent of roses and lilies breathing gently round her as she sat inthe deep oak window-seat. Then the clock struck three, and it was time tothink of leaving this enchanted castle, where no prince or princess offairy tale ever came. 

There was no need for haste. She might depart at her leisure, and dawdleas much as she pleased on her homeward way. All she wanted was to beseated neat and trim in a carefully arranged room, ready to pour out AuntBetsy's afternoon tea, when the cobs returned from Romsey. She put Learback in his place, and strolled slowly through the rooms, opening oneinto another, to the hall, where she stopped idly to look at herfavourite picture, that portrait of Sir Tristram Wendover which wasattributed to Vandyke--a noble portrait, and with much of Vandyke'smanner, whoever the painter. It occupied the place of honour in arichly-carved panel above the wide chimney-piece, a trophy of armsarranged on each side. 

Ida stood gazing dreamily at that picture--the dark, earnest eyes, understrongly marked brows, the commanding features, somewhat ruggedlymodelled, but fine in their general effect--a Rembrandt face--every linetelling; a face in which manhood and intellect predominated over physicalbeauty; and yet to Ida's fancy the face was the finest she had ever seen. It was her ideal of the knightly countenance, the face of the man who haswon many a hard fight over all comers, and has beaten that last and worstenemy, his own lower nature, leaving the lofty soul paramount over theworld, the flesh, and the devil. So must Lancelot have looked, Idathought, towards the close of life, when conscience had conqueredpassion. It was a face that showed the traces of sorrows lived down andtemptations overcome--a face which must have been a living reproof to thebutterfly sybarites of Charles the Second's Court. Ida knew no more ofSir Tristram's history than that he had been a brave soldier and afaithful servant of the Stuarts in evil and good fortune; that he hadmarried somewhat late in life, to become the father of an only son, fromwhom the present race of Wendovers were descended. Ida had tried in vainto discover any resemblance to this pictured face in the Colonel or hissister; but it was only to be supposed that the characteristics of theloyal knight had dwindled and vanished from the Wendover countenance withthe passage of two centuries. 

'No, there is not one of them has that noble look, ' murmured Ida, thinking aloud, as she turned to leave the hall. 

She found herself face to face with a man, who stood looking at her withfriendly eyes, which in their earnest expression and grave dark browscuriously resembled the eyes of the picture. Her heart gave one leap, andthen seemed to stand still. There could be only one man in the world withsuch a face as that, and in that house. Yes, it was a modified copy ofthe portrait--younger, the features less rugged, the skin paler and lesstawny, the expression less intense. Yet even here, despite the friendlysmile, there was a gravity, a look of determination which verged uponseverity. 

This time she was not deceived. This was that very Brian Wendover whomshe had thought of in her foolish day-dreams, the first romantic fancy ofher girlhood, last year; and now, in the flush and glory of summer, hestood before her, smiling at her with eyes which seemed to invite herfriendship. 

'I am glad you like my ancestor's portrait, ' he said. 'I could not resistwatching you for the last five minutes, as you stood in raptcontemplation of the hero of our race; so unlike the manner of mostvisitors to the Abbey, who give Sir Tristram a casual glance, and go onto the next feature in the housekeeper's catalogue. '

She stood with burning cheeks, looking downward, like a guilty thing, andfor a moment or two could hardly speak. Then she said, faltering--

'It is a very interesting portrait, ' after which brilliant remark shestood looking helplessly towards the open door, which she could not reachwithout passing the stranger. 

'I think I have the pleasure of speaking to Miss Palliser, ' he said. 'OldMrs. Rowse told me you were here. I am Brian Wendover. '

Ida made him a little curtsey, so fluttering, so uncertain, as to haveelicited the most severe reproof from Madame Rigolette could she haveseen her pupil at this moment. 

'I hope you do not mind, ' she said, hesitatingly. 'Bessie and I haveroamed about the Abbey often, while you were away, and to-day I camealone, and have been reading in the library for an hour or so. '

'I am delighted that the old house should not be quite abandoned. '

How different his tone in speaking of the Abbey from the false Brian's!There was tenderness and pride of race in every word. 

'And I hope that my return will not scare either you or Bessie away; thatyou will come here as often as you feel inclined. I am something of arecluse when I am at home. '

'You are very kind, ' said Ida, moving a little way towards the door. 'Have you been to The Knoll yet?'

'I have only just come from Winchester. I landed at Hull yesterdayafternoon, and I have been travelling ever since. But I am very anxiousto see my aunts and cousins, especially Aunt Betsy. If you will allow me, I will walk back to Kingthorpe with you. '

Ida looked miserable at the suggestion. 

'I--I--don't think Miss Wendover will be at home just yet, ' she said. 'She has gone to The Grange, near Romsey, you know, to luncheon. '

'But a luncheon doesn't last for ever. What time do you expect her back?'

'Not till five, at the earliest. '

'And it is nearly half-past three. If you'll allow me to come with you Ican lounge in that dear old orchard till Aunt Betty comes home to give mesome tea. '

What could Ida say to this very simple proposition? To object would havebeen prudish in the last degree. Brian Wendover could not know whatmanifold and guilty reasons she had for shrinking from any associationwith him. He could not know that for her there was something akin toterror in his name, that a sense of shame mingled with her every thoughtof him. For him she must needs be as other women, and it was her businessto make him believe that he was to her as other men. 

'I shall be very happy, ' she said, and then, with a final effort, sheadded, 'but are you not tired after your journey? Would it not be wiserto rest, and go to the Homestead a little later, at half-past seven, whenyou are sure of finding Miss Wendover at home?'

'I had rather risk it, and go now, I am only tired of railway travelling, smoke and sulphur, dust and heat. A quiet walk across the common andthrough the wood will be absolute refreshment and repose. '

After this there was nothing to be said, and they went out into thecarriage-way in front of the Abbey, side by side, and across the broadexpanse of turf, on which the cedars flung their wide stretching shadows, and so by the Park to the corn-fields, where the corn waved green andtall, and to the open common, above which the skylarks were soaring andsinging as if the whole world were wild with joy. 

They had not much to talk about, being such utter strangers to eachother, and Brian Wendover naturally reserved and inclined to silence; butthe little he did say was made agreeable by a voice of singular richnessand melody--just such a voice as that deep and thrilling organ whichCanon Mozley has described in the famous Provost of Oriel, and which wasa marked characteristic of at least one of Bishop Coplestone's nephews--avoice which gives weight and significance to mere commonplace. 

Ida, not prone to shyness, was to-day as one stricken dumb. She couldnot think of this man walking by her side, so unconscious of evil, without unutterable humiliation. If he had been an altogether commonplaceman--pompous, underbred, ridiculous in any way--the situation would havebeen a shade less tragic. But he came too near her ideal. This was thekind of man she had dreamed of, and she had accepted in his stead thefirst frivolous, foppish youth whom chance had presented to her, under aborrowed name. Her own instinct, her own imagination, had told her thekind of man Brian of the Abbey must needs be, and, in her sordid cravingfor wealth and social status, she had allowed herself to be fobbed offwith so poor a counterfeit. And now her very ideal--the dark-browedknight, with quiet dignity of manner, and that deep, earnest voice--hadcome upon the scene; and she thought of her folly with a keener shamethan had touched her yet. 

Brian walked at her side, saying very little, but not unobservant. Heknew a good deal about this Miss Palliser from Bessie's letters, whichhad given him a detailed account of her chosen friend. He knew that thedamsel had carried on a clandestine flirtation with his cousin, and hadbeen expelled from Mauleverer Manor in consequence; and these facts, albeit Bessie had pictured her friend as the innocent victim of tyrannyand wrong, had not given him a favourable opinion of his cousin's chosencompanion. A girl who would meet a lover on the sly, a girl who wasignominiously ejected from a boarding-school, although clever and usefulthere, could not be a proper person for his cousin to know. He was sorrythat Aunt Betsy's good nature had been stronger than her judgment, andthat she had brought such a girl to Kingthorpe as a permanent resident. He had imagined her a flashy damsel, underbred, with a vulgar style ofbeauty, a superficial cleverness, and all those baser arts by which theneedy sometimes ingratiate themselves into the favour of the rich. Nothing could be more different from his fancy picture than the girl bywhose side he was walking, under that cloudless sky, where the larks weresinging high up in the blue. 

What did he see, as he gravely contemplated the lady by his side? Aperfect profile, in which refinement was as distinctly marked as beautyof line. Darkly fringed lids drooping over lovely eyes, which looked athim shyly, shrinkingly, with unaffected modesty, when compelled to look. A tall and beautifully modelled figure, set off by a simple white gown;glorious dark hair, crowned with the plainest of straw hats. There wasnothing flashy or vulgar here, no trace of bad breeding in tone ormanner. Was this a girl to carry on illicit flirtations, to be meanor underhand, to do anything meriting expulsion from a genteelboarding-school? A thousand times no! He began to think that Bessie wasright, that Aunt Betsy's judgment, face to face with the actual facts, had been wiser than his own view of the case at a distance. And then, suddenly remembering upon what grounds he was arriving at this moreliberal view, he began to feel scornful of himself, after the manner ofyour thinking man, given to metaphysics. 

'Heaven help me! I am as weak as the rest of my sex, ' he said to himself. 'Because she is lovely I am ready to think she is good--ready to fallinto the old, old trap which has snapped its wicked jaws upon so manyvictims. However, be she what she may, at the worst she is not vulgar. Iam glad of that, for Bessie's sake. '

He tried to make a little conversation during the rest of the way, askingabout different members of the Wendover family, and telling Ida somestray facts about his late wanderings. But she did not encourage him totalk. Her answers were faltering, her manner absent-minded. He began tothink her stupid; and yet he had been told that she was a wonder ofcleverness. 

'I daresay her talent all lies in her fingers' ends, ' he thought. 'Sheplays Beethoven and works in crewels. That is a girl's idea of femininegenius. Perhaps she makes her own gowns, which is a higher flight, sinceit involves usefulness. '

It was only four o'clock when they went in at the little orchard gate, and Miss Wendover could hardly be expected for an hour. What was Ida todo with her guest, unless he kept his word and stayed in the orchard?

'Shall I send you out the newspapers, or any refreshment?' she asked. 

There were rustic tables and chairs, a huge Japanese umbrella, everyaccommodation for lounging, in that prettiest bit of the spacious oldorchard which adjoined the garden, and here Ida made this polite offer ofrefreshment for mind or body. 

'No, thank you; I'll stay here and smoke a cigarette. I can get on verywell without newspapers, having lived so long beyond easy reach of them. '

She left him, but glancing back at the garden gate she saw him take abook from his pocket and settle himself in one of the basket chairs, witha luxurious air, like a man perfectly content. This was a kind of thingquite new to her in her experience of the Wendovers, who were not abookish race. 

She went into the house, and made all her little preparations forafternoon tea, filling the vases with freshly-cut flowers, drawing upblinds, arranging book-tables, work-baskets, curtains--all the details ofthe prettiest drawing-room in Kingthorpe, but walking to and fro all thewhile like a creature in a dream. She had not half recovered from hersurprise, her painful wonder at Brian Wendover's appearance, at hisstrange likeness to her ideal knight--strange to her, but not miraculous, since such hereditary faces are to be found after the lapse of centuries. 

When all her small duties had been performed she went up to her room, bathed her face and brushed her hair, and put on a fresher gown, and thensat down to read, trying to lose herself in the thoughts of another mind, trying to forget this embarrassment, this sense of humiliation, which hadcome upon her. She sat thus for half an hour or so, reading 'TheCaxtons, ' one of her favourite novels, and felt a little more composedand philosophical, when the rythmical beat of Brimstone and Treacle'seight iron shoes told her that Miss Wendover had returned. 

She ran to the gate to welcome that kind friend, looking so fresh andbright in her clean white gown that Aunt Betsy saw no sign of the paststruggle. 

'Mr. Wendover is here, ' she said, shyly, when Aunt Betsy had kissed herand given her some brief account of the day's adventures. The rest of theparty had been deposited at The Knoll. 

'Whom do you mean by Mr. Wendover, child?'

'Mr. Wendover of the Abbey. He is reading in the orchard. '

'Of course, I never saw him without a book in his hand. So he hascome back at last. I am very glad. He is a good fellow, a little tooreserved and self-contained, too fond of brooding over some beautifultruism of Plato's when he ought to be thinking of deep drainage and a newschool-house; but a good fellow for all that, and always ready with hischeque-book. Let us go and look for him. '

'You will find him in the orchard, ' said Ida. 'I will go and hurry on thetea. You must want some tea after your dusty drive. '

'Dusty!' exclaimed Miss Wendover; 'we are positively smothered. Yes. I amdying for my tea; but I must see this nephew of mine first. '

Ida went back to the drawing-room, where everything was perfectly ready, as she knew very well beforehand; but she shrank with a sickly dread fromany further acquaintance with the master of Wendover Abbey. She hopedthat he and his aunt might say all they had to say to each other in theorchard, and that he would go on to The Knoll to pay his respects to therest of his relations. 

In this she was disappointed. Scarcely had she seated herself before thetea-table when Aunt Betsy and her nephew entered through the open window. 

'You two young people have contrived to get acquainted without my aid, 'said Miss Wendover, cheerily, 'so there's no necessity for anyintroduction. Now, Brian, sit down and make yourself comfortable. Givehim some tea, Ida. I believe he is just civilized enough to like tea, inspite of his wanderings. '

'On account of them you might as well say, Aunt Betsy. I drank nothingbut tea in Scandinavia. It was the easiest thing to get. '

Ida's occupation at the table gave her an excuse for silence. She hadonly to attend to her cups and saucers, and to listen to Miss Wendoverand her nephew, who had plenty to talk about. To hear that deep fullvoice, with its perfect intonation, was in itself a pleasure--pleasant, also, to discover that Brian Wendover, albeit a famous Balliol man and aGreek scholar after the Porsonian ideal, could still be warmly interestedin simple things and lowly folk. She began to feel at ease in hispresence; she began to perceive that here was a thoroughly noble nature, a mind so lofty and liberal that even had the man known her pitifulsordid story he would have been more inclined to compassionate than tocondemn. 

Having recovered her favourite nephew, after so long a severance, AuntBetsy was in no wise disposed to let him go. She insisted upon hisstaying to dinner; and before the evening was over Ida found herselfquite at home with the dreaded master of the Abbey. At Miss Wendover'srequest she played for nearly an hour, and Brian listened with evidentappreciation, sitting at his ease just outside the open window, among theroses and lilies of June, under a moonlit sky. It was a calm, peaceful, rational kind of evening, and Ida's mind was tranquillized by the time itwas over; and when she went to her room, after a friendly parting withMiss Wendover's nephew, she told herself that she was not likely to beoften troubled with his society. He was too much a lover of learnedsolitude to be likely to be interested in the small amusements andoccupations of the family at The Knoll--too much in the clouds to concernhimself with Aunt Betsy's various endeavours to improve her poorerneighbours in themselves and their surroundings. 

She did not long remain under this delusion. She was busy in the garden, with basket and scissors, trimming away fading roses and cankered budsfrom the luxuriance of bush and standard, arch and trellis, at eleveno'clock next morning, when she heard the garden gate open, and beheld Mr. Wendover, Bessie, and Urania coming across the lawn. 

'We are going for a botanical prowl in the woods, ' said Bessie, 'and wewant you to come with us. You are always anxious to improve your mind, and here is a grand opportunity for you. Brian is a tremendous botanist, and Mr. Jardine is not an ignoramus in that line. '

'Oh, then Mr. Jardine is going to prowl too?' said Ida, smiling at her. 

'Yes, he is going to give himself a holiday, for once in a way. Blancheis packing a basket. She and Eva are to have the car, but the rest of usare going to walk. Come along, Ida, just as you are. We are going togrovel and grub after club-mosses and toad-stools. Your oldest gown istoo good. '

'Please wear a white gown, as you did yesterday, ' said Brian. 'White hassuch a lovely effect amidst the lights and shadows of a wood. '

'Isn't it rather too violent a contrast?' argued Urania. 'A faintsage-green, or a pale gray--or even that too lovely terra-cotta red--'

'Flower-pot colour!' screamed Bessie. 'Horrid!'

'I should like to go, ' faltered Ida, 'but I have so much to do--anafternoon class--no, it is quite impossible. Thank you very much forthinking of me, all the same. 

'You utterly disagreeable thing!' exclaimed Bessie; and at this momentMiss Wendover came upon the scene, from an adjacent green-house, whereshe had been working diligently with sponge and watering-pot. She heardthe rights and wrongs of the case, and insisted that Ida should go. 

'Never mind the afternoon class--I'll take that. You work hard enough, child; you must have a holiday sometimes. '

'I had a holiday yesterday, Aunt Betsy; and really I had rather not go. The day is so very warm, and I have a slight headache already. '

'Go and lose it in the wood, where Rosalind lost her heart-ache. Nothinglike a long ramble when one is a little out of sorts. Go and get rid ofyour basket, and get your sunshade. Where are you going for yourbotanising?'

'All over the world, ' said Bessie; 'just as fancy leads us. If you willpromise to meet us anywhere, we'll be there. '

'So be it, ' replied Aunt Betsy. 'Suppose we arrange a tea-meeting. I willbe ready for you by the Queen Beech, in Framleigh Wood, as the clockstrikes five, and we will all come home together. And now run away, before the day gets old. Glad to see you unbending for once in a way, Urania. '

Miss Rylance had been curiously willing to unbend this morning, whenBessie ran in and surprised her at her morning practice with thewonderful tidings of Brian's return. She appeared delighted at the ideaof a botanising expedition, though she cared as little for botany as shedid for Hebrew. But when a young lady of large aspirations is compelledto vegetate in a village--even after her presentation at court andintroduction into society--she is naturally avid for the society of theone eligible man in the parish. 

'Mr. Jardine is coming with us, ' Bessie told her, as a furthertemptation. 

Urania gave her hand a little squeeze, and murmured, 'Yes, darling, I'llcome: Mr. Jardine is so nice. Will my frock do?'

The frock was of the pre-Raffaelite or Bedford-Parkian order, short-waisted, flowing, and flabby, colour the foliage of a lavenderbush, relieved by a broad brick-dust sash. An amber necklace, a largelimp Leghorn hat with a sunflower in it, and a pair of long yellowgloves, completed Urania's costume. 

'Your frock will be spoilt in the woods, ' said Bessie; but Urania did notmean to do much botanical work, and was not afraid of spoiling her frock. 

They found Mr. Jardine waiting for them at the churchyard gate, and tohim Bessie presented her cousin, somewhat reversing the ceremonial orderof things, since Brian Wendover was the patron of the living, and couldhave made John Jardine vicar on the arising of a vacancy. 

Brian and the Curate walked on ahead with Miss Rylance, who seemed bentupon keeping them both in conversation, and Bessie fell back a little waywith Ida. 

'You dearest darling, ' she exclaimed, squeezing her arm rapturously. 

'What has happened, Bess? Why such unusual radiance?'

'Do you suppose I am not glad of Brian's return?'

'I thought you liked the other one best?'

'Well, yes; one is more at home with him, don't you see. This one was adouble-first--got the Ireland Scholarship. Why Ireland, when it was atOxford he got it? He is awfully learned; knows Greek plays by heart, justas that sweet Mr. Brandram who came last winter to read for the newschool-house knows Shakespeare. But I am very fond of him, all the same;and oh, Ida, what a too heavenly thing it would be if he were to fall inlove with you!'

'Bessie!' exclaimed Ida, with an indignant frown. 

'Don't look so angry. You should have heard how he spoke of youthis morning at breakfast; such praise! Approbation from Sir HubertWhat's-his-name is praise indeed, don't you know. There's Shakespeare foryou!' added Bessie, whose knowledge of polite literature had its limits. 

'Bessie, you contrived once--meaning no harm, of course--to give me greatpain, to humiliate me to the very dust, ' said Ida, seriously. 'Let ushave no more such fooling. Your cousin is--your cousin--quite out of mysphere. However civil he may be to me, however kindly he may speak of me, he can never be any more to me than he is at this moment. '

'Very well, ' said Bess, meekly, 'I will be as silent as the grave. Idon't think I said anything very offensive, but--I apologize. Do youthink you would very much mind kissing me, just as if nothing hadhappened?'

Ida clasped the lovable damsel in her arms and kissed her warmly. And nowMr. Jardine turned back and joined them at the entrance to a woodsupposed to be particularly rich in mosses, flowers, and fungi. Uraniastill absorbed the attention of Mr. Wendover, who strolled by her sideand listened somewhat languidly to her disquisitions upon various phasesof modern thought. 

'What a beautiful girl Bessie has discovered for her bosom friend, ' hesaid, presently. 

'Miss Palliser: yes, she is quite too lovely, is she not?' said Urania, with that air of heartiness which every well-trained young woman assumeswhen she discusses a rival beauty; 'but she has not the purity of theearly Italian manner. It is a Carlo-Dolci face--the beauty of theFlorentine decadence. I was at school with her. '

'So I understood. Were you great friends?'

'No, ' replied Miss Rylance, decisively; 'if we had been at school for asmany years as it took to evolve man from the lowest of the vertebrata weshould not have been friends. '

'I understand. The thousandth part of an inch, unbridged, is asmetaphysically impassable as the gulf which divides us from the farthestnebula. In your case there was no conveying medium, no sympathy to drawyou together, ' said Brian, answering the young lady in her own coin. 

She glanced at him doubtfully, rather inclined to think he was laughingat her, if any one could laugh at Miss Rylance. 

'She was frankly detestable, ' said Urania. 'I endure her here forBessie's sake; just as I would endure the ungraceful curves of aDachshund if Bess took it into her head to make a pet of one; but atschool I could keep her at a distance. '

'What has she done to offend you?'

'Done? nothing. She exists, that is quite enough. Her whole nature--hermoral being--is antagonistic to mine. What is your opinion of a youngwoman who declares in cold blood that she means to marry for money?'

'Not a pleasant avowal from such lips, certainly, ' said Brian. 'She mayhave been only joking. '

'After events showed that she was in earnest. '

'How so? Has she married for money? I thought she was still MissPalliser?'

'She is; but that is not her fault. She tried her hardest to secure ahusband whom she supposed to be rich. '

And then Miss Rylance told how in frolic mood his penniless cousin hadbeen palmed upon Miss Palliser as the owner of the Abbey; how she hadfallen readily into the trap, and had carried on a clandestineacquaintance which had resulted in her expulsion from the school whereshe had filled the subordinate position of pupil-teacher. 

'I have heard most of this before, from Bessie, but not the fullparticulars of the practical joke which put Brian Walford in my shoes, 'said Mr. Wendover. 

He felt more shocked, more wounded than there was need for him to feel, perhaps; but the girl's beauty had charmed him, and he was prepared tothink her a goddess. 

'How do you know that Miss Palliser did not like my cousin for his ownsake?' he speculated presently. 'Brian Walford is a very nice fellow. '

'She did not like him well enough to marry him when she knew the truth, 'replied Urania. 'I believe the poor fellow was passionately in love withher. She encouraged him, fooled him to the top of his bent, and thenflung him over directly she found he was not the rich Mr. Wendover. Hehas never been to Kingthorpe since. That would show how deeply he waswounded. '

'The fooling was not all on her side, ' said Mr. Wendover. 'She had aright to resent the trick that had been played upon her. I am surprisedthat Bessie could lend herself to such a mean attempt to put her friendat a disadvantage. '

'Oh, I am sure Bessie meant only the most innocent fun; her tremendousanimal spirits carry her away sometimes, don't you know. And then, again, she thinks her chosen friend perfection. She could not understand thatMiss Palliser could really marry a man for the sake of his houses andlands. _I_ knew her better. '

'And it was you who hatched the plot, I think, ' said Brian. 

Miss Rylance had not been prepared to admit as much. She intended Bessieto bear whatever blame there might be attached to the escapade in Mr. Wendover's mind; but it seemed from this remark of his that Bessie hadbetrayed her. 

'I may have thrown out the idea when your cousin suddenly appeared uponthe scene. We were all in wild spirits that day. And really Miss Palliserhad made herself very absurd by her romantic admiration of the Abbey. '

'Well, I hope this young lady-like conspiracy did no harm, ' said Brian;'but I have a hearty abhorrence of all practical jokes. '

They were in a deep, rutty lane by this time, a lane with banks rich inferns and floral growth, and here came Blanche and Eva and the youngestboy, released from Latin grammar and Greek delectus at an earlier hourthan usual. The car was sent on to the wood, and Bessie and her twosisters produced their fern trowels, and began digging and delving forrare specimens--real or imaginary--assisted by Mr. Jardine, who had moreknowledge but less enthusiasm than the girls. 

'I can't think what you can want with more ferns, ' said Urania, disdainfully; 'every corner at The Knoll has its fernery. '

'Oh, but one can't have too much of a good thing; and then there is thepleasure of looking for them. Aren't you going to hunt for anything?'

'Thanks, no. It is a day for basking rather than work. Shall we go to theend of the lane--there is a lovely view from there--and sit and bask?'

'With all my heart, ' replied Mr. Wendover. 'Come, Miss Palliser, ofcourse you'll join the basking detachment. '

Urania would have liked to leave Ida out of the business, but she smiledsweetly at Mr. Wendover's speech, and they all three strolled to the endof the lane, which ascended all the way, till they found themselves upona fine upland, with a lovely view of woodland and valley stretching awaytowards Alresford. Here in the warm June sunshine they seated themselveson a ferny bank to wait for the diggers and delvers below. It was verilyweather in which to bask was quite the most rapturous employment. Theorchestral harmonies of summer insects made a low drowsy music aroundthem. There was just enough air to faintly stir the petals of thedog-roses without blowing them from their frail stems. The dazzling lightabove, the cool verdure around, made a delicious contrast. Ida lookeddreamily across the bold grassy downs, with here and there a patch ofwhite, which shone like a jewel in the sun. It was very pleasant to sithere--very pleasant to listen to Brian Wendover's description of Norwayand the Norwegians. A book of travels might have been ever so muchbetter, perhaps; but there was a charm in these vivid pictures of recentexperiences which no printed page could have conveyed. And then the talkwas delightfully desultory, now touching upon literature, now upon art, now even descending to family reminiscences, stories of the time whenBrian had been a Winchester boy, as his cousins were now, and his happyhunting grounds had been among these hills. 

Ida talked very little. She was disposed to be silent; but had it beenotherwise she would have found slight opportunity for conversation. MissRylance, educated up to the standard of good professional society, wasready to give her opinions upon anything between heaven and earth, fromthe spectrum analysis of the sun's rays to the latest discovery in thehabits of ants. She did not mean Ida to shine, and she so usurped theconversation that Miss Palliser's opinions and ideas remained a blank toMr. Wendover. 

Yet a glance at Ida's face now and then told him that she was notunintelligent, and by the time that summer day was over, and they all satround the gipsy tea-kettle in the wood, with Aunt Betsy presiding overthe feast, Mr. Wendover felt as if he knew a good deal about MissPalliser. They had talked, and walked, and botanized together in thewood, in spite of Miss Rylance; and Urania felt somehow that the day hadbeen a failure. She had made up her mind long ago that Mr. Wendover ofthe Abbey was just the one person in Hampshire whom she could allowherself to marry. Anyone else in that locality was impossible. 

Under these circumstances it was trying to behold Mr. Wendover layinghimself, as it were, at the feet of a poor dependent and hanger-on of hisfamily, merely because that young person happened to be handsome. Hecould have no ulterior views; he was only revealing that innateshallowness and frivolity of the masculine mind which allows even thewisest man to be caught by a pair of fine eyes, a Grecian nose, and abrilliant complexion. Mr. Wendover was no doubt a great deal too wise tohave any serious ideas about such a person as Ida Palliser; but he likedto talk to her, he liked to watch the sensitive colour come and go uponthe perfect oval of her cheek, while the dark eye brightened or cloudedwith every change of feeling; and while he was yielding to these vulgardistractions there was no chance of his falling in love with UraniaRylance. 

It was a crushing blow to Miss Rylance when a little conversation attea-time showed that Mr. Wendover was not disposed to think Miss Palliseraltogether a nobody, and that a young woman who earned a salary as auseful companion might belong to a better family than Miss Rylance couldboast. 

'I have heard your name before to-day, Miss Palliser, ' said Brian. 'Isyour father any relation to Sir Vernon Palliser?'

'Sir Vernon is my father's nephew. '

'Indeed! Then your father is the Captain Palliser of whom I've heardVernon and Peter Palliser talk sometimes. Your cousins are members of theAlpine Club, and of the Travellers', and we have often met. Capitalfellows, both of them. '

'I have never seen them, ' said Ida, 'so much of my life has been spent atschool. Sir Vernon and his brother went to see my father and step-motherlast October, and made a very good impression. But that is all I know ofthem. '

A baronet for a first cousin! and she had never mentioned the fact atMauleverer, where it would have scored high. What an unaccountable kindof girl, and quite wanting in human feeling, thought Urania, listeningintently, though pretending to be interested in a vehement discussionbetween Blanche and Bessie as to whether a certain puffy excrescence wasor was not a beef-steak fungus, and should or should not be cooked fordinner. 

'Do you know your cousin's Sussex property? Have you ever been atWimperfield?' inquired Brian. 

'Never. I have heard my father say it is a lovely place, a little waybeyond Petersfield. '

'Yes, I know every inch of the country round. It is charming. '

'It cannot be prettier than this, ' said Ida, with conviction. 

'I hardly agree with you there. It is a wilder and more varied landscape. Hampshire has nothing so picturesque on this side of the New Forest. IfSir Veron and his brother are at Wimperfield this summer, we might makeup a party and drive over to see the place. I know he would give us ahearty welcome. '

Ida was silent, but Aunt Betsy and her niece declared that it was asplendid idea of Brian's, and must certainly be carried out. 

'Fancy Brian introducing Ida to her cousin!' exclaimed Bessie. 'Would itnot be quite too deliciously absurd? "Sir Vernon Palliser, permit me tointroduce you to your first cousin!"

And then Bessie, who was an incorrigible matchmaker where Ida wasconcerned, began to think what a happy thing it would be if Sir VernonPalliser were to fall in love with his cousin, and incontinently proposeto make her mistress of this delightful place near Petersfield. 

They all walked back to Kingthorpe together, and parted at the Homesteadgate. 

Miss Rylance, who hated woods, wild-flowers, ferns and toadstools, andall the accompaniments of rustic life, went back to her aestheticdrawing-room in a savage humour, albeit that fine training which comes ofadvanced civilization enabled her to part from her friends with endearingsmiles. 

She expected her father that evening, and she was looking forward to therefreshment of hearing of that metropolis which suited her so much betterthan Hampshire hills and woods; nay, there was even the possibility thathe might bring someone down with him, as it was his custom to do now andthen. But instead of Dr. Rylance she found an orange-coloured envelopeupon the hall table containing an apologetic message. 

'Sorry to disappoint you. Have been persuaded to go to firstrepresentation of new play at Lyceum with Lady Jinks and the Titmarshes. All London will be there. '

'And I am buried alive in this loathsome hole, where nobody cares a strawabout me, ' cried Urania, banging her bedroom door, and flinging herselfupon her luxurious sofa in as despairing an attitude as if it had beenthe straw pallet of a condemned cell. 

From the very beginning of things she had hated Ida Palliser with thejealous hatred of conscious inferiority. She who had made up her mindto go through life as a superior being, to be always on the top rungof the social ladder, found herself easily distanced by the pennilesspupil-teacher. This had been bitter to bear even at Mauleverer, wherethat snobbish feeling which prevails among schoolgirls had allowed thefashionable physician's daughter a certain superiority over the pennilessbeauty. But here at Kingthorpe, where rustic ignorance was ready toworship beauty and talent for their own sakes, it was still harder forUrania to assert her superiority; while in the depths of her innerconsciousness lurked the uncomfortable conviction that she was in manyways inferior to her rival. And now that she discovered Ida Palliser'snear relationship to a baronet of old family, owner of a fine propertywithin thirty miles of Kingthorpe, Urania began to feel that she mustneeds be distanced in the race. She might have held her own against theshabby half-pay captain's daughter, but Sir Vernon Palliser's firstcousin was quite a different person. If Brian Wendover admired Ida, herlack of fortune was hardly likely to influence him, seeing that in familyshe was his equal. Such a man might have shrunk from allying himself witha woman of obscure parentage and vulgar associations; but to a man ofBrian Wendover's liberal mind and ample fortune, Ida Palliser would nodoubt seem as suitable a match as a daughter of a duke. 

Miss Rylance had grown worldly-wise since her introduction to Londonsociety, that particular and agreeable section of upper-middle class lifewhich prides itself upon cleverness rather than wealth, and which spicesits conversation with a good deal of smart personality. She had formed amore correct estimate of life in general, and her father's position inparticular, and had acquired a keener sense of proportion than she hadlearnt at Mauleverer Manor. She had learnt that Dr. Rylance, of CavendishSquare, was not quite such a great man as she had supposed in theignorant faith of her girlhood. She had discovered that his greatness wasat best a kind of lap-dog or tame cat distinction; that he was betterknown as the caressed and petted adviser of patrician dowagers andeffeminate old gentlemen, of fashionable beauties and hysterical matrons, than as one of the lights of his profession. He was a clever specialist, who had made his fortune by half-a-dozen prescriptions as harmless asMorrison's pills, and who owed more to the grace of his manner and theexcellence of his laundress and his tailor, than to his originaldiscoveries in the grandest science of the age. Other people madediscoveries, and Dr. Rylance talked about them; and he was so quick inhis absorption of every new idea, so glib in his exposition of every newtheory, that his patients swore by him as a man in the front rank ofmodern thought and scientific development. He was a clever man, and hehad a large belief in the great healer Nature, so he rarely did muchharm; while his careful consideration of every word his patients said tohim, his earnest countenance and thoughtful brow, taken in conjunctionwith his immaculate shirt-front and shapely white hand, rarely failed tomake a favourable impression. 

He was a comfortable physician, lenient in the article of diet, exactingonly moderate sacrifices from the high liver. His Hygeia was not a severegoddess--rather a friendly matron of the monthly-nurse type, who adaptedherself to circumstances. 

'We have been taking a pint of Cliquot every day at luncheon, and wedon't feel that we could eat any luncheon without it. '

Well, well, suppose we try about half the quantity, very dry, and make aneffort to eat a cutlet or a little bit of plain roast mutton, Dr. Rylancewould murmur tenderly to a stout middle-aged lady who had confessed thather appetite was inferior to her powers of absorption. Men who weredrinking themselves to death in a gentlemanly manner always went to Dr. Rylance. He did not make their lives a burden to them by an impossibleregimen: he kept them alive as long as he could, and made departure asgradual and as easy as possible; but his was no kill-or-cure system; hewas not a man for heroic remedies. And now Urania had found that herfather was not a great man--that he was praised and petted, and had madehis nest in the purple and velvet of this world, but that he was notlooked up to or pointed at as one of the beacon-lights on the coast-lineof the age--and that he being so small a Somebody, she his daughter wasvery little more than Nobody. Knowing this, she had made up her mind thatwhenever Brian Wendover of the Abbey should appear upon the scene, shewould do her uttermost to make him her captive. 

CHAPTER XV. 

MR. WENDOVER PLANS AN EXCURSION. 

The happy summer glided by--the season of roses and butterflies, strawberries and cream, haymaking, lawn tennis, picnics, gipsy teas--anidle, joyous life under blue skies. The Knoll family gave themselves upheart and soul to summer pleasures--simple joys which were at onceinnocent and inexpensive--and Ida Palliser found herself a sharer in allthese holiday rambles. Conscience told her that she had no right to bethere, that she was an impostor sailing under false colours. Conscience, speaking more loudly, told her that she had no right to accept BrianWendover's quiet homage, no right to be so happy in his company day afterday; for there were few of their summer joys in which he was not amongthem. Bessie was warm in her praises of him, full of wonder at his havingdeveloped into such a companionable being. 

'Norway has done him good, ' she said. 'He used to be such a reservedcreature, dawdling away day after day in his library, poring over Greekand Latin, and now he is almost as companionable as Brian Walford. '

'He'll have to live a good many years before he's up to B. W. , ' saidHorace, who had walked across the hills for an afternoon at home and thechance of a tip, 'B. W. Knows every music-hall in London, and can sing atopical song as well as men who get their sixty pounds a week. '

'I wish you wouldn't put on that knowing air. What do you know of men whoget sixty pounds a week?' exclaimed Bessie, contemptuously. 

'As much as you do, anyhow, ' answered her brother. 

Ida made many faint efforts to keep aloof from the summer revelries, butMiss Wendover insisted upon her enjoying herself with the others. She hadbeen such a conscientious and devoted coadjutor in all Aunt Betsy's goodworks, she had been so thoroughly energetic and industrious, neverrelaxing her efforts or growing weary of labour, that it seemed onlyright and fair that she should enjoy the summer holiday-time, the blessedseason when every day was full of temptations. 

'Enjoy yourself to your heart's content, my dear, ' said Aunt Betsy. 'OurEnglish summers are so short that if we do not make the most of thebright warm days while they are with us, we have to endure all the pangsof remorse through a rainy autumn and a cold winter. '

Not only did Miss Wendover give this generous advice, but she herselfjoined in many of their expeditions, and her presence was always a sourceof pleasure. She was so genial, so hearty, so thoroughly well-informed, and yet so modest in the use of her knowledge, that the young peopleloved to have her with them. Her enjoyment of the free, roving life wasalmost as keen as theirs, while her capacity for planning an agreeableday, and her foresight in the commissariat department, far exceeded thatof youth. And so, and so, June and July drifted by, and it was thebeginning of August, and Ida felt as if she had known Mr. Wendover of theAbbey all her life. 

What did she know of him after two months of almost daily association?She knew that no unworthy thought ever found utterance upon his lips;that no vulgar instinct ever showed itself in his conduct; that he wasessentially to the very core of his heart a gentleman; that without anyhigh-flown affectation of chivalry he was as chivalrous as Bayard; thatwithout any languid airs and graces of the modern aesthetic school he wasa man of the highest and broadest culture; and that--oh, _rara avis_among modern scholars and young laymen--he was honestly and unaffectedlyreligious, a staunch Anglican of the school of Pusey, and not ashamed toconfess his faith at all times and seasons. In this day, when themajority of young men affect to regard the services of their church as anintolerable bore, only endured as a concession to the weaklings of theinferior sex, it was pleasant to see the master of the Abbey a regularattendant at his parish church, an earnest and frequent worshipper at thealtar at which his parents and progenitors had knelt before him. 

This much and a great deal more had Ida Palliser discovered of the manwhom nearly a year ago her fancy had exalted into an ideal character. Itwas strange to find her most romantic visions realised; strange, but astrangeness not without pain. He was full of kindness and friendlinessfor her whenever they met; but she told herself that his manner to herinvolved no more than kindly feeling and friendliness. To imagineanything beyond this was foolhardiness and vanity. And yet there weretimes when she felt she had no right to be in his society--that every dayshe spent at Kingthorpe was an offence against honour and right feeling. 

One August afternoon Ida had, for once in a way, succeeded in making herdomestic occupations an excuse for absenting herself from what Bessiecalled a 'barrow-hunt' on the downs. Brian Wendover being a greatauthority upon this ancient form of sepulture, and discoursing eloquentlyon those widely different races whose funeral chambers are hidden underthe long and the round barrow. 

The day, closely as Ida had been occupied, had seemed just a littledreary, certainly much duller than such days had been wont to seembefore Brian's return to the Abbey: yet she was glad to be alone; itwas a relief even to be a trifle melancholy, rather than to enjoy thathappiness which was always blended with a faint consciousness ofwrong-doing. And now the slow day was nearly over: she had worked at thevillage girls'-school in the morning; she had lectured upon domesticeconomy to a class of incipient house-maids and scullery maids afterluncheon; and now at five o'clock she was sitting in a basket chair inthe rose-wreathed verandah working at the swallows and bulrushes uponthat elaborate design which she had begun before Christmas for theadornment of Miss Wendover's piano. 

It was a deliciously drowsy afternoon, but Ida's active brain was notprone to slumber. She sat working diligently and thinking deeply, when ashadow came between her and the sunshine and on looking up she saw Mr. Wendover standing before her. 

'How do you do? Have they all come home?' she asked, laying aside herwork on the convenient basket table and preparing to welcome Aunt Betsy. 

'I have not been with them--at least not since the morning, answeredBrian. 'I left Bessie to hunt out her own barrows; she is so lazy-mindedthat as long as I do all the pointing she will never know the true barrowfrom the natural lumpiness of the soil. Besides, she has Aunt Betsy, atower of strength in all things. '

'And Miss Rylance, I suppose?'

'No, Miss Rylance thought there would be too much walking for her or forPinet. I have been at the Abbey all day, getting up my arrears ofcorrespondence. This fine weather has made me incorrigibly idle. After Ihad written about a score of letters I thought myself entitled to alittle rest and refreshment, so I strolled over here to tell you somenews and to ask you for a cup of tea. '

'You shall have some tea directly, ' said Ida, going indoors to ring thebell, an act in which she was naturally anticipated by her guest. 'Whatnews can you possibly have that concerns me?' she asked, when they hadcome back to the verandah. 'I know by your face that it is not bad news. '

'God forbid I should ever have to tell you that. I think it would hurt memore than you, ' said Brian, with an earnestness which brought the crimsonglow into Ida's cheeks, and made her bend a little lower over theswallows in her crewel-work. 'No, this is pleasant news I hope. I wroteto Vernon Palliser more than a month ago to propose that I should driveyou and a lot of people over to luncheon. He was in Switzerland, asusual, and I had no answer to my letter till the second post to-day, whenI received a most hearty invitation to bring my party immediately. Butyou shall hear your cousin's own words. '

Mr. Wendover produced the letter and read as follows:--

'I shall be delighted to make my cousin's acquaintance. She was inEngland when I last saw her father at his retreat near Dieppe. Bring heras soon as you can, and with as large a party as you like--the larger thebetter, and the sooner the better--as Peter and I will most likely be onthe wing again for Scotland soon after the twelfth. We shall come backfor the partridges, which I hear are abundant. The road is ratherintricate, so you had better bring your ordnance map, but pretty fair indry weather like this; and you'll come through some lovely scenery. Telegraph your time, and Peter and I will be in the way to welcome you!'

'What do you say to our going to-morrow? I waited to know what you wouldlike before I telegraphed. '

'You are very good: but there are others to be consulted, ' replied Ida, with her head still bent over her work. 

Good manners demanded that she should look at him, but at this particularmoment she felt it quite impossible to be mannerly. He had said nothingof a thrilling nature, yet his whole tone and expression, his air ofdeferential regard, stirred a new feeling in her mind--the convictionthat he cared for her more than it was well for either of them that heshould care. 

'You are the first person to be consulted, ' he said; 'would you like togo to-morrow?'

'I will go whenever the others like, ' answered Ida, still intent upon theshading of her swallow's wing; 'but I really think you had better leaveme out of your party--I have wasted so much time roaming about--and thereare so many things I want to finish before the summer is over. '

'That elaborate arrangement in swallows and rushes, for instance, ' saidBrian, laughingly: 'you are working at it as if for a wager. Perhaps itis a wager--so many stitches in so many consecutive days--is that it? No, Miss Palliser, your swallows must wait. The party has been planned onyour account, and to leave you at home would be like leaving Hamlet outof the play. Besides, I thought you would like to see your cousins andyour ancestral halls. '

'I shall be very glad to see my cousins, for my father likes them verymuch; but I do not feel any thrilling interest in the ancestral halls. '

'And yet your father was born there. '

'Yes, that is a reason for being interested in Wimperfield. But my fatherhas so seldom talked about his birthplace. He speaks a great deal more ofIndia. That life in a strange far-away land seems to have blotted out thememory of his childhood. He talks of Addiscomb sometimes but hardly everof Wimperfield. '

She laid aside her work as the youthful butler brought out the tea-table. It was no new thing for her to pour out Mr. Wendover's tea, since it washis custom to drop in at his aunt's very often at this hour, when the dayhad not been given up to excursionising; but it was new for her to bealone with him at this social meal, and she found herself longingardently for Aunt Betsy's return. 

She who could have found so much to talk about had her mind been at ease, was curiously silent as she handed Mr. Wendover his tea, and offered thecake and fruit, which always accompanied the meal at the Homestead. Herheart was beating much faster than it should have done, and she wasconsidering whether it was worth while to place herself in the way offeeling the pain, the hidden shame, the sense of falsehood whichoppressed her at this moment; whether it would not be better to run anyrisk, even the hazard of offending Betsy Wendover, the kindest friend shehad in the world, rather than remain in her present position. 

One thing she could have done which would have given her immediateextrication, and that which seemed the most natural thing to do. Shecould have told the truth--told Betsy Wendover all about her unluckymarriage. But she would rather have killed herself than do this onerighteous thing; for she thought that if her marriage were once known toBrian's relations she would be compelled to assume her natural positionas his wife. So long as the marriage remained a secret to all the worldexcept those two whom it most concerned they were free to ignore the tie. They could live their lives apart; and to the end of time it might be asif such a marriage had never been. Her husband being consentient to thislife-long separation, her lot might be fairly happy. She had never triedto penetrate the future. Perhaps to-day for the first time there hadflashed into her mind the thought of what a bright and glorious futuremight have been hers had she not so forfeited her freedom. 

Voices, at least half a dozen, all talking at once, told her that thebarrow-hunt was winding homewards; gleams of colour athwart the hedgestold her that the hunters were in the lane; and in a minute or two MissWendover and her young kins-folk appeared, all more or less sunburnt andtowzled by their tramp across the downs. 

'Found a splendid long barrow, ' said Bessie, 'on a lovely point, one ofthe finest views in the county. What clever corpses they must have beento pick such glorious spots! Long barrow, long-headed race, dolichocephalic skulls, men of the stone age, eh?' she said, looking atBrian. 'You see I know my lesson; but it was very mean of you not to comewith us, all the same. '

'I wanted you to exercise your own acumen, to cultivate the antiquarian_flair_. Besides, I had a heap of letters to write. '

'You only found that out after we had started. You never have letters towrite when Ida is with us, ' said Bessie; a remark which made two peopleblush. 'To think that I had known that spot all my life and neversuspected a barrow, ' she continued. 'I thought it was only a convenientbank which Providence had thrown up ready for picnics. '

Ida had enough to do now in providing for the wants of half a dozenhungry people. Blanche of the short petticoats was at an age when girlsare ogres, distinguished for nothing but the rapidity of their digestionand the length of their legs. There was a demand for jam, and theunsophisticated half-gallon loaf instead of the conventional thin breadand butter. 

'Eat as much as you like, dears, ' said Aunt Betsy, 'but remember thatyour father will expect you to have some appetite at seven. '

'We won't disappoint him, ' said Bessie; 'seven is an hour and half fromnow. Blanche can do wonders in an hour and a half. '

Blanche's appetite was one of the stock family jokes, like Urania's tightboots; so there was a laugh, and the others went on eating. 

Brian Wendover told them about to-morrow's excursion. 'I shall put fourhorses into the wagonette, ' he said. 'I almost wish I had a drag to dohonour to the occasion; but we must resign ourselves to a wagonette. Youwill go, of course, Aunt Betsy? and Bessie must come; and I suppose weought to invite Miss Rylance. She has joined in most of our excursions, and it would be invidious to leave her out of this. And I dare-say Bessiewould think the whole thing flat without Mr. Jardine?'

'It's very kind of you to think of him; but I don't believe he'll be ableto spare the day, ' said Bessie. 

'We'll ask him, at any rate, and then you can't say we've used you badly. That makes a party of six. I'll go and telegraph to Sir Vernon. '

'Will there be lawn-tennis after lunch?' asked Blanche, with a very longface. 

'I shouldn't wonder if there were, ' answered Brian: 'does that mean thatyou want to go?'

'I shall not have a creature to speak to at home, and I never goanywhere, ' said Blanche, despairingly. 

Both statements were obvious untruths, but no doubt the damsel herselfbelieved them. 

'Have you a gown that covers your knees?' asked Aunt Betsy, severely. 

'My new frock is awfully long. It only came from the dress-maker's lastweek. '

'Then you have hardly had time to grow out of it, ' said Brian. 

'Suppose we strain a point, Aunt Betsy, and take her. It will enable usto say, "we are seven. "'

'We shall be a tremendous party, ' said Miss Wendover. 'I hope Sir Vernonis a hospitable, easy-going man, and that your intimacy with him warrantssuch an intrusion. '

'I am taking him a cousin, ' answered Brian, stealing an admiring glanceat Ida; 'surely that ought to secure our welcome. '

'I hope his housekeeper has large ideas about luncheon, ' said Bessie, 'orBlanche's appetite will throw her out in her calculations. If she is thesort of person who thinks a pair of ducklings and a dish of rissolessubstantial fare for a large party, I pity her. '

'You're vastly witty, ' said Blanche, preparing her final slice of breadand jam; 'one would think you lived upon roses and lilies, like theascetics. '

'The poor child means aesthetes, ' explained Bessie. 

'Bother the pronunciation! But if people had seen you eating rabbit-pieon the barrow--why a wolf wouldn't have been in it, ' concluded Blanche, who acquired her flowers of speech from the Wintonians. 

'I'll go and despatch my telegram, ' said Brian, taking up his hat. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

THICKER THAN WATER. 

The weather was altogether favourable for the thirty-mile drive. Thewagonette with its scratch team and a couple of smart grooms, was at theHomestead gate at ten o'clock, and after picking up Miss Wendover and hercompanion, went on to The Knoll for Bessie and Blanche, and then to Dr. Rylance's for Urania, who had accepted the invitation most graciously. Kingthorpe was unwontedly excited by this gorgeous apparition, and theinhabitants remained at garden gates and cottage doors while so much as ahorse's tail was visible. Everybody was pleased to see the young squiredriving four-in-hand. It had been supposed that as a bookish young man, given over to Greek and Latin, he must needs be a poor hand with horses. But this morning's exhibition gave rise to more hopeful views. 

'We shall see the squire setting up his coach, and settling down at theAbbey, ' said one. 

'Ay, when he gets married, ' said another; 'that's what'll settle he. Ibelieves as him is sweet on that young 'ooman at the Homestead. Her be aclipper, her be. '

Over the hills and far away went the scratch team--a little fresh, butbehaving beautifully. Aunt Betsy sat beside her nephew, and watched hiscoachmanship with a jealous eye, conscious that she could have kept theteam better in hand herself, but still with moderate approval. The girlsand the grooms were in the back of the vehicle--Bessie, Blanche, and Idafull of talk and merriment, Urania thoughtful. This day's entertainmentwas too much in Ida's honour to be pleasant to Miss Rylance; yet shecould not deny herself the painful privilege of being there. She wantedto see what happened--how far Mr. Wendover was disposed to make an idiotof himself. She saw more than enough in the glances of the charioteer, when he turned to talk to the girls behind him--now to point out somefeature in the landscape, now to ask some idle question, but always withlooks that lingered upon one face, and that face was Ida Palliser's. 

It was a long cross country drive, by rustic lanes and dubious roads, butMr. Wendover took things easily. He had sent forward a second scratchteam over night to a village half way, and here they changed horses, while he and his party spent half an hour pleasantly enough exploring anold gray church and humble graveyard, where the tombstones all borerecord of unrenowned lives that had slowly rusted away in a pastoralsolitude, Blanche, whose schoolroom appetite was wont to damp its keenedge upon bread and butter at this hour, felt it rather a hard thing thatno one proposed a light refection at the lowly inn; but she bore herinward gnawings in silence, conscious of the dignity of a frock whichalmost reached her ankles, and desirous to prove that she was worthy tobe the associate of grown-up. 

Half way between this village inn and Wimperfield they met a couple ofhorsemen. These were no other than Sir Vernon and his brother Peter, whohad come to meet their guests, and show them the nearest way, which fromthis point became especially intricate. 

Brian walked his team gently up a gentle hill, while Sir Vernon and hisbrother walked their horses beside him, and during this ascent allnecessary introductions were duly made, everybody being properlypresented except Blanche, who felt that she was being treated withcontumely. 

'I am very glad to see you at last, cousin Ida, ' said Sir Vernon, pleasantly. 'I have been hearing of you all my life, but we seemed fatednot to meet. '

He was a fine, broad-shouldered young fellow, with a frank, fresh-coloured countenance, auburn whiskers, and curly brown hair. Hisbrother was after the same pattern, hair a little lighter, no whiskers, eyes rather a brighter blue. They were as much alike as brothers can bewithout being mistaken for each other. There was nothing romantic lookingabout either of them, Bessie thought, regretfully. She would have likedSir Vernon to have resembled her favourite hero in fiction (the man shealways put in confession books), and to have fallen desperately in lovewith Ida at first sight. And here he was, a most matter-of-fact lookingyoung man, riding behind the wagonette in a provokingly matter-of-factway. 

Yet perhaps there was a providence in this; for if Brian of the Abbeywere in love with Ida, as Bessie shrewdly suspected, it would have been aterrible thing for him to have found a rival in a titled cousin. If Idawere ambitious, the title might have turned the scale. 

'And I have so set my heart upon having her for my cousin, thoughtBessie. 'The other Brian was a failure, but this Brian may win theprize. '

Mr. Jardine had not been able to leave his parish for a long day; soBessie had plenty of leisure to speculate upon the possible loves ofother people, instead of enjoying the blissfulness of her own loveaffair. 

Wimperfield was a mansion built in the Italian manner which prevailedabout a century ago, a style about as uninteresting as any order ofdomestic architecture, but which makes a house a good feature in a finelandscape. The Corinthian façade of Wimperfield stood boldly out againstthe verdant slope of a hill, backed and sheltered on either side bywoods. Behind that classic portico there was the usual prim range ofwindows, and there were the usual barrack-like rooms. The furniture wasof the same heavy and substantial character, rich dark rosewood, ambersatin hangings faded by a quarter of a century; Spanish mahogany indining-rooms and bedrooms; Gillow's fine workmanship everywhere, but thestyle dating back to the very infancy of that ancient house. 

The large, finely-lighted hall, which looked like the vestibule of somelearned institute, was adorned with four Carrara marble statues, placidgods and goddesses smirking at vacancy, on pedestals of verde antico. Theonly pictures in the reception-rooms were family portraits, and a few ofthose large Dutch landscapes, battle scenes, sea-pieces and fruit-pieces, which cry aloud that they are furniture pictures, and have been bought tofit the panelling of the rooms. 

But for its noble situation this temple of English domestic life wouldhave been utterly without charm; but the situation was superb, thegardens were in beautiful order, and the stables, as Aunt Betsy declaredafter personal inspection, were perfect. 

Sir Vernon did the honours of his house in a frank, friendly manner. He took his guests round the gardens and stables, showed Ida the oldnursery in which his father and her father had spent their infancy; thegun-room in which their first guns were carefully preserved; the veryrocking-horse on which they had ridden, and which now occupied a recessin an obscure lobby opening into the garden. 

'Peter and I didn't care to ride him, ' said Sir Vernon. 'We had Sheltieswhen we were three-year-olds; but I know when I began Virgil I used tothink the wooden horse that got into Troy was an exaggerated copy of thisone. 

He showed his cousin the room in which her grandfather and grandmotherdied--an immense apartment, wherein stood, grim and tall, a giganticmahogany four-poster, draped with dark green velvet. 

'I can't fancy anybody doing anything else in such a room, ' said Ida, towhom the spacious chamber looked as gloomy as a charnel-house. 'I begyour pardon. I hope you don't sleep here. '

'No, my diggings are at the other end of the house, looking into thestable-yard. I like to be able to put my head out of window and order myhorse--saves time and trouble. We keep the rooms at this end forvisitors. '

The gong boomed loud and long, much to the relief of poor Blanche, whosespirits had been slowly sinking, in unison with her inward cravings, andwho had begun to think that the promised luncheon was a delusion and asnare, which would end in the fashionable frivolity of afternoon tea. 

Sir Vernon offered his arm to Miss Wendover, and asked Brian to take MissPalliser, while Peter was told off to Miss Rylance, leaving Bessie andthe clinging Blanche like twin cherries on one stem. It was curious forIda to find herself seated presently beside the wealthy cousin of whomshe had heard as a far-off and almost mythical personage, of very littleaccount in her life; since it was so improbable that any of his wealthwould ever come her way. 

The luncheon was of the old-fashioned and ponderous order, excellent ofits kind: the orchard-houses had given up their finest peaches andnectarines and their earliest grapes to do honour to the occasion. MissRylance contemplated the table decorations with mute scorn, which shehardly cared to disguise. No Venetian wine-flasks, no languorous liliesswooning in Salviati goblets, no pottery of the new green and yellowschool, but massive silver, and heavy diamond-cut glass--gaudyStaffordshire china of 'too utterly quite' the worst period of art. Everything essentially Philistine. 

Sir Vernon had placed his cousin on his left hand, and he talked to her agood deal during luncheon--asking questions as to her past life, whichshe answered with perfect candour. It was only when he spoke of herfuture that the fair brow clouded, and the cheeks reddened with a painfulglow. 

'I hope, now that the ice has been broken, that we are not going to bestrangers any more, ' said Vernon, pleasantly. 'To think that you shouldbe such a near neighbour of mine, and that I should know nothing aboutit! You have been at Kingthorpe since last November, you say? How longare you going to stay there?'

'For a good many Novembers, I hope, ' said Aunt Betsy, 'unless she getstired of rural solitude, or unless a husband steals her away from me. '

'Ah, that is what all young ladies anticipate. They never are but alwaysto be blest, ' replied Vernon, laughing. He was one of those open-heartedsouls who always appreciate their own mild jokelets. 

Brian, who saw Ida's pained expression, made haste to change theconversation, by an inquiry about Sir Vernon's plans for the autumn, which set that gentleman on a sporting tack, and spared Miss Palliser allfurther trouble. 

After luncheon they went to look at the hot-houses, and dawdled away thetime very agreeably until afternoon tea, Miss Rylance doing her best toimprove the occasion with Peter, who was not educated up to the standardof metropolitan or South Kensingtonian young ladyhood, and who came outvery badly under the process of development; for when talked to aboutRuskin he was at first altogether vacuoous, but, on being pushed harbelieved there was a biggish swell of some such name among the Oxforddons, about whom he could not fairly be expected to know anything, as heand his brother were Cantabs: while on being languidly asked his opinionof Swinburne's last tragedy, he grew cheerful, and said he had seen himplay the King to Irving's Hamlet, and that it was a very fineperformance, the actor in question being a good stayer. 

The thing was hopeless, and Miss Rylance felt she was wasting herselfupon a dolt. After this she hardly took the trouble to suppress heryawns; yet if she had condescended to question Peter about his Alpineadventures, or to talk about his horses, guns, and dogs, she would havefound him lively enough as a companion; but an education of musical 'athomes' and afternoon teas had tuned Miss Rylance's slender pipe to oneparticular strain, which did not suit everybody's dancing. She was heavyat heart, feeling that the whole business of the day had conduced to IdaPalliser's glorification. To be the daughter of a man born in thatsubstantial family mansion--scion of a respectable old county family--wasin itself a distinction far beyond anything Miss Rylance could boast, hergrandfather having been a chemist and druggist in an obscure market town, and her father the architect of his own fortunes. She had done her bestto forget this fact hitherto, but it was brought home to her mindunpleasantly to-day, when she saw the articled pupil, whose three pairsof stockings had moved her to scornful wonder, strolling about herancestral home by the side of her first cousin, and that first cousin abaronet of Charles II's creation. 

Sir Vernon and his brother were full of cordiality for their cousin, fullof anticipations of future meetings, and of hopes that Captain Palliserwould come to them in October for what they called a 'shy' at thepheasants. 

Ida had good cause to remember that parting in front of the classicportico in the warm afternoon sunlight, the two brothers standing side byside, with frank, bright faces, looking up at their departing guests, allsmiles and cheerful pleasure in this world's pleasantest things--a DandieDinmont and a big black-and-tan colley looking on at their master'sknees--the _beau idéal_ of young English manhood--frank, generous, outspoken, fearless--the men who can do and die when the need comes. Hereyes lingered affectionately on that picture as the wagonette drove awayby the broad gravel sweep towards the avenue; and those two figures inthe sunlight haunted her memory in the days to come. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

OUGHT SHE TO STAY?

A week after the drive to Wimperfield Miss Wendover received a very bigbox of peaches and grapes, enclosing a very brief letter from VernonPalliser to his cousin Ida. 

'My dear Ida, --I venture to send Miss Wendover some of our fruit, ' hewrote, 'for I understood her to say she has not much glass, and growsonly flowers. Peter and I are just off to Scotland, where I suppose weshall do a little shooting, and I hope a good deal of yachting andfishing. I wish you and that nice plump little friend of yours--Bessie, Ithink you called her--were coming to us. Such a jolly life, bobbing aboutbetween the islands and the mainland, with the chance of an occasionalstorm. But I shall look forward to seeing you again in October, when Ihope Miss Wendover will bring you over to stay for a week or two. Whatsplendid ideas she has about summering hunters!--never met a moresensible woman. Always your affectionate cousin, VERNON PALLISER. '

Aunt Betsy was pleased with the tribute of hothouse fruit, and even moregratified by that remark about summering horses. 

'Your cousin is a fine thoroughbred young fellow, ' she said. 'If I hadnot been fully satisfied you came from a good stock, by my knowledge ofyour own organisation, I should be sure of the fact now I have seen thosetwo young men. They are all that Englishmen ought to be. '

Ida was silent, for to her mind there was one Englishman who morecompletely realised her ideal of manhood--one who was no less generousand outspoken than her kind young cousins, but whose intellectual gifts, whose highly cultivated mind, and passionate love of all that is mostbeautiful in life, made him infinitely their superior. 

And now came, perhaps, the most bitter trial of a young life which hadalready seen more cloud than sunshine. The hour had come when Ida toldherself that she must no longer dawdle along the flowery path of sin, nolonger palter with fate. Stern duty must be obeyed, She must leaveKingthorpe. It was no longer a question of feeling, but a question ofconscience--right against wrong, truth against falsehood, honour againstdishonour; for she knew in her heart of hearts that Brian loved her, andthat she gave him back his love, measure for measure. He had said nothingdefinite; she had contrived to ward off anything like a declaration; butshe had not been able to prevent his absorbing her society on allpossible occasions, taking possession of her, as it were, as of one whobelonged to him in the present and the future, deferring to her lightestwish as only a lover defers to his mistress, studying her preferences ineverything, and hardly taking the trouble to hide his comparativeindifference to the society of other people. It had come to this, and sheknew that there must be no further delay. 

One evening, when she and Aunt Betsy had been dining alone, and hadreturned to the drawing-room, where it was Ida's custom at this hour toplay her kind patroness to sleep with all the dreamiest and most pensivemelodies in her extensive _répertoire_, the girl suddenly faltered in herplaying, wandered from one air into another, and with a touch souncertain that Aunt Betsy, who was fast lapsing into dreamland, becamebroad awake again all at once, and wanted to know the reason why. 

'Is anything the matter? Are you ill, child?' she asked, abruptly. 

Ida rose from the piano, where her tears had been dropping on the keys, and came out of the shadowy corner to the verandah, where Aunt Betsy satamong her roses, wrapped in a China crape shawl, one of the gifts of thatIndian warrior, Colonel Wendover, August was nearly over, but the weatherwas still warm enough for sitting out of doors in the twilight. 

'What is the matter, Ida? What has happened?' repeated Miss Wendover, with her hand on the girl's shoulder, as she bent to listen to her. 

Ida was kneeling by Aunt Betsy's side, her head leaning against the armof her chair, her face hidden. 

'Nothing, nothing that you can help or cure, dearest friend, ' sheanswered in a broken voice. 'You must know how good you have been to me. Yes, even you must know that, although it is your nature to make light ofyour goodness. I think you know I love you and am grateful. Tell me thatyou believe that before I say another word. '

'I do believe it. Your whole conduct since you have been with me hasshown as much, ' answered Miss Wendover, calmly. She saw that Ida waspowerfully moved, and she wanted to tranquillise her. 'What is themeaning of this preface?'

'Only that I must ask you to let me leave you. '

'Leave me! Oh, you want a holiday, I suppose?--that is natural enough. Weneedn't be tragic about that. You want to go over to Dieppe to see yourpeople?'

'I want to go away from Kingthorpe for ever. '

'For ever? Ah, now we are really tragic!' said Miss Wendover, lightly, her broad, firm white hand tenderly smoothing the girl's hair and brow. 'My dear child, what has gone amiss with you? Something has, I can see. Have you and Miss Rylance quarrelled? I know she is a viper; but I didnot think she would play any of her viperish tricks with my property. '

'Miss Rylance has done nothing. I have quarrelled with nobody. I loveand honour you and the whole house of Wendover with all my heart andmind. But there is a reason--a reason which I implore you to refrainfrom asking--why I ought never to have come into your house, as I didcome--why I ought to leave it--must leave it for ever!'

'This is very mysterious, ' said Aunt Betsy, thinking deeply. 'Icould understand a reason--which might exist in a girl's romanticmind--a mistaken generosity, or a mistaken pride--the outcome of lateevents--which might urge you to run away--like that always wrong-headedand misguided young person, the heroine of a novel: but what reasonthere could have been when you came to me last winter against yourcoming--no--that is more than I can comprehend. '

'You are not to comprehend. It is my secret--my burden--which I mustbear. I want you to believe me, that is all, --only to believe me whenI say that I love you dearly, and that I have been unspeakably happyin your house--and just quietly let me go and seek my fortuneelsewhere--without saying anything to anybody until I am gone. '

'And a nice weeping and wailing there will be from Bessie and herbrothers and sisters when you _are_ gone!' exclaimed Miss Wendover; 'apleasant time I shall have of it, with all of them--to say nothing of myown feelings. Do you think it is fair, Ida, to treat me like this; tomake yourself pleasant to me, useful, necessary to me--to wind yourselfinto my heart--and then all at once, with a sudden wrench, to pluckyourself out again, and leave me to do without you? Do you call that fairplay?'

'I know that it must seem like base ingratitude, ' answered Ida, calm now, with a despairing calmness; 'but I cannot help myself. I am more proudthan I can say that you should care for me--that my loving services havenot been unwelcome. I know that you took me out of charity; and it is adelight to know that I have not been altogether a bad bargain. But I mustgo away. '

'I begin to see light, ' said Miss Wendover, who had been thinking allthis time. 'It's your father's doing. He thinks you are not making aprofitable use of your education and talents. He has ordered you to gowhere you will get a larger salary. But don't let his needs separate us, my dear. I love you better than a few pounds a quarter. I will give youseventy, or even eighty pounds a year, if that will satisfy CaptainPalliser. '

'No, no, dear Aunt Betsy. Thank God, my father is not that kind of man. He knows how happy I have been, he is grateful to you for all yourgoodness to me, and more than content that I should be happy withoutbeing a burden to him. '

'Then _why_ do you want to leave me?' asked Miss Wendover, with her handson the girl's shoulders, her eyes reading the white agonised face lookingup at her in the thickening twilight. There was just light enough for herto see the look of intense pain in that pallid countenance. 

'_Why_ do you want to go away?' she repeated. 'What kind of reason canthat be which you fear to tell me? It must be an unworthy reason; and yetI cannot believe that you could have such a reason. Is it on account ofmy nephew Brian? Have you found out what I have suspected for a longtime? Have you discovered that he is in love with you, and do you fancyyourself an ineligible match for him, because he is rich and you arepoor, and do you think that you ought to run away in order to give him achance of doing better for himself? If you have any such high-flown idea, abandon it. The Wendovers are not a mercenary tribe. We shall welcomeBrian's bride, whoever she be, for her own sake, and not for her dowry. '

'It is no such reason. I _cannot_ tell you. You must forgive me, and letme go. '

'Then I forgive you, and you can go, ' replied Miss Wendover, coldly. 'Iam deeply disappointed in you. If you cared for me as you say you do, youwould trust me. Love without faith is an impossibility. However, I don'twant to distress you. If you are to leave me I will make your departureas pleasant as I can. When do you want to go?'

'Immediately. As soon as you can spare me. '

'I cannot spare you at all; a few weeks or days more or less will make nodifference to me. Do you want to go among strangers, to be a governess?or do you wish to go back to your people?'

'I want to earn my own living. The harder I have to work the better Ishall like it. I would not mind even going into a school, though myexperience of Mauleverer is hateful. '

'You shall not go into a school. I will send an advertisement to the_Times_. '

'Would it not be better for me to go to Winchester and apply at someagency for servants and governesses? When I advertised in the _Times_there was not a single answer. '

'You may have better luck this time, ' replied Miss Wendover, in abusiness-like tone. She was too proud to show any further indications ofsorrow, or even to reveal how deeply she was wounded. 'I will do what Ican to help you, though--'

'Though I do not deserve it, ' said Ida. 

'You know best about that. Yes, ' after some moments of silent thought, 'it may not be too late even now. When I lunched with the Trevors, atRomsey, the day of Brian's return, Mrs. Trevor's sister, LadyMicheldever, was in a state of anxiety about governesses. Her oldgoverness was to be married in a few weeks, such an inestimable treasurethat Lady Micheldever thought it would be impossible to replace her, sosweet, so ladylike, so accomplished. Now, if the situation is not yetfilled, I think it would suit you exactly. They are people who would giveyou a liberal salary--you would be able to help your father. '

'I should be glad of that. Do the Micheldevers live near here?' falteredIda. 'I want to go quite away. '

'They have property near here, but their place is close to SavernakeForest, and they spend their winters in Italy. Sir George has a weakchest, and all the children are delicate. If you go to them, nearly halfyour life will be spent abroad. '

'I should like that very much, ' said Ida. 

'Nothing so pleasant as variety of scenery and people, ' replied MissWendover, with a touch of irony in her voice. 

She began to think Ida cold-hearted and hypocritical. It was evident toher that this feverish longing for change was mere selfish ambition, adesire to be better placed in the world. She had met with the same kindof feeling too often in her rustic _protégées_ of the cook and house-maidclass, who, when they had learnt all she could teach them, were eager tospread their wings and soar to the servants' halls of Mayfair, and thesociety of powdered footmen. 

'Nine o'clock, ' said Miss Wendover, wrapping her shawl round her, and rising to go into the drawing-room as the church clock chimedsilver-sweet across the elm tops and the misty meadows. 'Too late forthis evening's post; but I will write to Lady Micheldever to-night, andmy letter will be ready for the midday mail to-morrow. I hope she has notfound anybody yet. '

'You are too good, ' faltered Ida, as they went into the lamplit room. 

'I am only doing my duty, ' replied Miss Wendover. '"Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest!"'

'You will not tell Bessie, or anyone, till I am gone?' pleaded Ida, earnestly. 

'Certainly not--if that is your wish. '

CHAPTER XVIII

AFTER A STORM COMES A CALM. 

While Ida Palliser was thus planning her escape from that earthlyparadise where she was dangerously happy, Brian Wendover was thinking ofher and dreaming of her, and building the whole fabric of his life on ahappy future to be shared with her, cherishing the sweet certainty thatshe loved him, and that he had only to say the word which was to unitethem for ever. He had been in no haste to say that fateful word; life wasso sweet to him in its present stage--he was so confident of the future. He had closely and carefully studied the character of the woman he loved, in the beginning of their acquaintance, before his judgment had lost itsbalance, before affection had got the better of the critical faculty. Hehad been in somewise impressed by what Urania had told him about Ida. Theslanderer's malice was obvious; but the slander might have some elementof truth. He watched Ida narrowly during the first month of theiracquaintance, expecting to find the serpent-trail somewhere; but no traceof the evil one had appeared. She was frank, straightforward, intelligentto a high degree, and with that eager thirst for knowledge which isgenerally accompanied by a profound humility. He could see in her no baseworship of wealth for its own sake, no craving for splendour orfashionable pleasures. She found delight in all the simplest things, inrustic scenery, in hill and down and wood, in dogs and horses, and birdsand flowers, music and books. A girl who could be happy in such a life asIda Palliser lived at Kingthorpe must be in a manner independent offortune; her pleasures were not those that cost money. 

'If she is the kind of girl Miss Rylance describes her she will set hercap at me, ' he thought. 'If she wants to be mistress of Wendover Abbey, one mistake and one failure will not daunt her. '

But there was no such setting of caps. For a long time Ida treated Mr. Wendover of the Abbey with the perfect frankness of friendship. Then, ashis love grew, showing itself by every delicate and unobtrusive token, there came a change, and a subtle one, in her conduct; and the lover toldhimself with triumphant heart that he was beloved. Her sweet shyness, hercareful avoidance of every possible _tête-à-tête, _ her evidentembarrassment on those rare occasions when she found herself alone withhim--surely these things meant love, and love only! There could be noother meaning. He was no coxcomb, ready to believe every woman in lovewith him. He had gone through the world very quietly, admiring manywomen, but never till now having found one who seemed to him worth theinfinite anxieties, and fevers, and agues of love. And now he had foundthat pearl above price, the one woman predestinate to be adored by him. 

He was happily placed in life for a lover, since a lover should always bean orphan. Fathers and mothers are sore clogs upon the fiery wheel oflove. He was rich; in every way his own master. His kindred were kindly, simple-minded people, who would give gracious welcome to any virtuouswoman whom he might choose for his wife. There was no impediment to hishappiness, provided always that Ida Palliser loved him; and he believedthat she did love him. This sense of security had made him less eager todeclare himself. He was content to wait for his opportunity. 

And now summer was waning, though it was summer still. The days were noless lovely; not a leaf had fallen in the woods; red roses flushed thegardens with bloom, yellow roses hung in luxuriant clusters on arches andwalls; but the days were shortening, the sunsets were earlier, cominginconveniently before dinner was over at The Knoll; and the Wykehamistsbegan to be weighed down by a sense of impending doom, in the direfulnecessity of going back to school. 

Bessie's birthday had come round again--that date so fatal to IdaPalliser--and there was much cheerfulness at The Knoll in honour of theoccasion. This year the event was not to be signalised by a picnic. Theyhad been picnicking all the summer, and it was felt that the zest ofnovelty would be wanting to that form of entertainment; so it was decidedin family counsel that a friendly dinner at home, with a little impromptudancing, and perhaps a charade or two afterwards, would be an agreeablesubstitute for the usual outdoor feast. Brian, Mr. Jardine Dr. And MissRylance, Aunt Betsy, and Ida Palliser were to be the only guests; butthese with the family made a good sized party. Blanche undertook to playas many waltzes as might be required of her, and also took upon herselfthe arrangement and decoration of the dessert, which was to be somethinggorgeous. More boxes of peaches and grapes had been sent over fromWimperfield in the absence of Sir Vernon and his brother, who were stillin Scotland. 

Bessie's anniversary was heralded somewhat inauspiciously by a tremendousgale which swept across the Hampshire Downs, after doing no smallmischief in the Channel, and wrecking a good many fine old oaks andbeeches in the New Forest. It was only the tail of a storm which had beenblowing furiously in Scotland and the north of England, and no one as yetknew the extent of its destructive force. 

The morning after that night of howling winds was dull and blustery, withfrequent gusts of rain. 

'How lucky we didn't go in for a picnic!' said Horatio, as the slantingdrops lashed the windows at breakfast time. 'It may rain and blow as hardas it likes between now and six o'clock, for all we need care. A wet daywill give us time to get up our charades, and for Blanche to thump at herwaltzes. Be sure you give us the Blue Danube. '

'The Blue Danube is out, ' said Blanche, tossing up her pointed chin. 

'Out of what? Out of time?'

'Out of fashion. '

'Hang fashion! What do I care for fashion?' cried the Wykehamist. 'Fashion means other people's whims and fancies. People who are led byfashion have no ideas of their own. Byron is out of fashion, but he's_my_ poet, ' added Horatio, as who should say, 'and that ought to be asufficient set-off against any lessening of his European renown. '

'Think of the poor creatures at sea!' murmured kind-hearted Mrs. Wendover, as a sharp gust shook the casement nearest to her. 

'Very sad for them, poor beggars!' said Reginald; 'but it would have beensadder for us if we'd been starting for a picnic. Travellers by sea mustexpect bad weather; it's an important factor in the sum of their risk, and their minds are prepared for the contingency; but when one hasplanned a picnic party on the downs a wet day throws out all one'scalculations. '

The rain came and went in fitful showers, the wind blustered a little, and then died away in sobs, while the young Wendovers spent their morningnoisily and excitedly, in laborious industries of the most frivolouskind, the end and aim of which was to make a gorgeous display in theevening. 

Before luncheon the wind was at rest, and the gardens were smiling in thesunlight under the hot blue sky of summer, and after luncheon theWendover girls and boys were rushing all over the garden cutting flowers. 

'I only wish Dr. Rylance were not coming, ' said Blanche, stopping to pantand wipe her crimson countenance, when her two baskets were nearly full. 'He'll impart his own peculiar starchiness to the whole business. '

'Oh, hang it, he'll give the thing a grown-up flavour, anyhow, ' repliedReginald. 'Besides, the man _can_ talk--though he's deuced shallow--andthat is more than anyone else can in these parts. '

'Brian will be the hero of this evening's festivity, just as BrianWalford was of the last. Don't you remember how nice he looked?' saidBlanche, as they went back to the house loaded with roses, heliotrope, geranium, and ferns. 

'Poor fellow!' sighed Bessie, who was so sentimental that she could butsuppose her favourite cousin a martyr to blighted love. 

'If Brian of the Abbey proposes to Ida, as I feel convinced he will, andif she accepts him, as she is sure to do, it will simply break BrianWalford's heart. '

'Not a little bit, ' said Reginald. 'If he did spoon her last year, isthat any reason, do you think, that he should care for her now? If she benot fair to me, what the deuce care I how fair she be? And do you suppose_I_ am going to waste in despair, and all that kind of thing? Not if Iknow it. '

'Say what you like, I believe Brian Walford was deeply in love with Ida, and that he has never been here since that time, because he can't bear tosee her, knowing she doesn't care for him. '

'That's skittles!' exclaimed the youthful sceptic, using a favouriteexpression of his father's to express incredulity. 'The reason Briandoesn't come to Kingthorpe is, that he has other fish to fry elsewhere. As if anybody would come to Kingthorpe who wasn't obliged!'

'Brian used to come. '

'Yes, when he was young and verdant; and I daresay my father used to tiphim. He knows better now: he is enjoying himself in Paris--under thepretence of studying law and modern languages--dancing at the _jardinBullier_, and going on no end, I daresay. _I_ know what Paris is. '

'How can you?' exclaimed Bessie; 'you were never there!'

'I was never in the moon, but I'm pretty well acquainted with thegeography of that planet. We have fellows in the Upper Sixth who think nomore of going to Paris than you do of going to Winchester; and a nicelife they lead there. Why, a man who thoroughly knows Paris can steephimself in dissipation for a five-pound note!'

Loud exclamations of horror concluded the conversation. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

AFTER A CALM A STORM. 

The dinner-party was a success. Bessie beamed radiantly, with her plumparms and shoulders set off by a white gown, and a good deal of ratherincongruous trinketry in the way of birthday presents, every item ofwhich she felt bound to wear, lest the givers should be wounded by herneglect. Thus, dear mother's amber necklace did not exactly accord withMr. Jardine's neat gold and sapphire locket; while the familysubscription gift of pink coral earrings hardly harmonised with either. Yet earrings, locket, and necklace were all displayed, and the roundwhite arms were coiled from wrist to elbow with various monstrosities ofthe bangle breed. 

There was a flavour of happiness in the whole feast which could not bedamped by any ceremonious stiffness on the part of Dr. Rylance and hisdaughter. The physician was all sweetness, all geniality; yet a veryclose observer might have perceived that his sentiments about MissPalliser were of no friendly nature He had tried that young lady, and hadfound her wanting, --wanting in that first principle of admiration andreverence for himself, the lack of which was an unpardonable fault. 

He had been willing to pardon her for her first rejection of him; tellinghimself that he had spoken too soon; that he had scared her by his unwisesuddenness; that she was wild and wilful, and wanted more gentling beforeshe was brought to the lure. But after a prolonged period of gentletreatment, after such courtesies and flatteries as Dr. Rylance had neverbefore lavished upon anybody under a countess, it galled him to find IdaPalliser growing always colder and more distant, and obviously anxious toavoid his distinguished company. Then came the appearance of BrianWendover on the scene, and Dr. Rylance was keen enough to see that Mr. Wendover of the Abbey had acquired more influence over Miss Palliser in aweek than he had been able to obtain in nearly a year's acquaintance. Andthen Dr. Rylance decided that this girl was incorrigible: she was beyondthe pale: she was a kind of monster, a being of imperfect development, ablunder of nature--like the sloth and his fellow tardigrades: apsychological mystery: inasmuch as she did not care for him. 

So having made up his mind to have done with her, Dr. Rylance found thatthe end of love is the beginning of hate. 

It happened, rather by lack of arrangement than by any special design, that Brian sat next to Ida. Dr. Rylance had taken Mrs. Wendover in todinner, but Brian was on his aunt's left hand, and Ida was on Brian'sleft. He talked to her all dinner time, leaving his aunt, who loved toget hold of a medical man, to expatiate to her heart's content on all thesmall ailings and accidents which had affected her children during thelast six months, down to that plague of warts which had lately afflictedReginald, and which she would be glad to get charmed away by an old manin the village, who was a renowned wart-charmer, if Dr. Rylance did notthink the warts might strike inward. 

'Our own medical man is a dear good creature, but so verymatter-of-fact, ' Mrs. Wendover explained; 'I don't like to ask him thesescientific questions. '

Brian and Ida talked to each other all through the dinner, and, althoughtheir conversation was of indifferent things, they talked as loverstalk--all unconsciously on Ida's part, who knew not how deeply she wassinning. It was to be in all probability their last meeting. She letherself be happy in spite of fate. What could it matter? In a few daysshe would have left Kingthorpe for ever--never to see him again. Forever, and never, are very real words to the heart of youth, which has nofaith in time and mutability. 

After dinner the young people all went straying out into the garden, inthe lovely interval between day and darkness. There had been a glorioussunset, and red and golden lights shone over the low western sky, whileabove them was that tender opalescent green which heralds the mellowsplendour of the moon. The atmosphere was exquisitely tranquil after lastnight's storm, not a breath stirring the shrubberies or the tall elmswhich divided the garden from adjacent paddocks. 

Ida scarcely could have told how it was that Brian and she foundthemselves alone. The boys and girls had all left the house together. Aminute ago Bessie and Urania were close to them, Urania laying down thelaw about some distinction between the old Oxford high-church party andthe modern ritualists, and Bessie very excited and angry, as became theintended wife of an Anglican priest. 

They were alone--alone at the end of the long, straight gravel walk--andthe garden around them lay wrapped in shadow and mystery; all the flowersthat go to sleep had folded their petals for the night, and the harvestmoon was rising over church-tower and churchyard yews, trees and towerstanding out black against the deep purple of that perfect sky. On thissame night last year Ida and the other Brian had been walking about thissame garden, talking, laughing, full of fun and good spirits, possiblyflirting; but in what a different mood and manner! To-night her heart wasovercharged with feeling, her mind weighed down by the consciousness thatall this sweet life, which she loved so well, was to come to a suddenend, all this tender love, given her so freely, was to be forfeited byher own act. Already, as she believed, she had forfeited Miss Wendover'saffection. Soon all the rest of the family would think of her as AuntBetsy thought--as a monster of ingratitude; and Urania Rylance would tossup her sharp chin, and straighten her slim waist, and say, 'Did I nottell you so?'

Close to where she was standing with Brian there was an old, old stonesundial, supposed to be almost as ancient as the burial-places of thelong-headed men of the stone age; and against this granite pillar Brianplanted himself, as if prepared for a long conversation. 

The voices of the others were dying away in the distance, and they wereevidently all hastening back to the house, which was something lessthan a quarter of a mile off. Brian and Ida had been silent for somemoments--moments which seemed minutes to Ida, who felt silence much moreembarrassing than speech. She had nothing to say--she wanted to followthe others, but felt almost without power or motion. 

'I think we--I--ought to go back, ' she faltered, looking helplesslytowards the lighted windows at the end of the long walk. 'There is goingto be dancing. They will want us. '

'They can do without us, Ida, ' he said, laying his hand upon her arm;'but I cannot do without telling you my mind any longer. Why have youavoided me so? Why have you made it so difficult for me to speak toyou of anything but trivialities--when you must know--you must haveknown--what I was longing to say?'

The passion in his lowered voice--that voice of deep and thrillingtone--which had a power over her that no other voice had ever possessed, the expression of his face as he looked at her in the moonlight, told hermuch more than his words. She put up her hands entreatingly to stop him. 

'For God's sake, not another word, ' she cried, ' if--if you are going tosay you care for me, ever so little, even. Not one more word. It is asin. I am the most miserable, most guilty, among women, even to be here, even to have heard so much. '

'What do you mean? What else should I say? What can I say, except that Ilove you devotedly, with all my heart and mind? that I will have no otherwoman for my wife? You can't be surprised. Ida, don't pretend that youare surprised. I have never hidden my love, I have let you see that I wasyour slave all along. My darling, my beloved, why should you shrink fromme? What can part us for an instant, when I love you so dearly, andknow--yes, dearest, _I know_ that you love me? _That_ is a question uponwhich no man ever deceived himself, unless he were a fool or a coxcomb. Am _I_ a fool, Ida?'

'No, no, no. For pity's sake, say no more. You ought not to have spoken. I am going away from Kingthorpe to-morrow, perhaps for ever. Yes, forever. How could I know, how could I think you would care for me? Let mego!' she cried, struggling away from him as he clasped her hand, as hetried to draw her towards him. 'It is hopeless, mad, wicked to talk to meof love: some day you will know why, but not now. Be merciful to me;forget that you have ever known me. '

'Ida, Ida, ' shrieked shrill voices in the distance. White figures cameflying down the broad gravel-walk, ghost-like in the moonlight. 

It was a blessed relief. Ida broke from Brian, and ran to meet Blancheand Bessie. 

'Ida, Ida, such fun, such a surprise!' shrieked Blanche, as the flyingwhite figures came nearer, wavered, and stopped. 

'Only think of his coming on my birthday again!' exclaimed Bessie, 'andat this late hour--just as if he had dropped from the moon!'

'Who, --who has come?' cried Ida, looking from one to the other, with ascared white face. 

It seemed to her as if the moonlit garden was moving away in a thickwhite cloud, spots of fire floated before her eyes, and then all theworld went round like a fiery wheel. 

'Brian--the other Brian--Brian Walford! Isn't it sweet of him to cometo-night?' said Bessie. 

Ida reeled forward, and would have fallen but for the strong arm thatcaught her as she sank earthwards, the grip which would have held her andsustained her through all life's journey had fate so willed it. 

She had not quite lost consciousness, but all was hazy and dim. She feltherself supported in those strong arms, caressed and borne up on theother side by Bessie, and thus upheld she half walked, and was halfcarried along the smooth gravel-path to the house, whence sounds of musiccame faintly on her ear. She had almost recovered by the time they cameto the threshold of the lighted drawing-room; but she had a curioussensation of having been away somewhere for ages, as if her soul hadtaken flight to some strange dim world and dwelt there for a space, andwere slowly coming back to this work-a-day life. 

The drawing-room was cleared ready for dancing. Urania was sitting at thepiano playing the Swing Song, with dainty mincing touch, ambling andtripping over the keys with the points of her carefully trained fingers. She had given up Beethoven and all the men of might, and had cultivatedthe niminy-piminy school, which is to music as sunflowers and blue chinaare to art. 

Brian Walford was standing in the middle of the big empty room, talkingto his uncle the Colonel. Mrs. Wendover and her sister-in-law weresitting on a capacious old sofa in conversation with Dr. Rylance. 

'Oh, you have come at last, ' said Brian Walford, as Ida came slowlythrough the open window, pale as death, and moving feebly. 

He went to meet her, and took her by the hand; then turning to theColonel he said quietly and seriously, 'Uncle Wendover, it is just a year to-night since this young lady and Imet for the first time. From the hour I first saw her I loved her, and Ihad reason to hope that she returned my love. We were married at a littlechurch near Mauleverer Manor, on the ninth of October last. After ourmarriage my wife--finding that I was not quite so rich as she supposed meto be--fearful, I suppose, for the chances of our future--refused to livewith me--told me that our marriage was to be as if it had never been--andleft me, within three hours of our wedding, for ever, as she intended. '

Ida was standing in the midst of them all--alone. She had taken her handfrom her husband's--she stood before them, pale as a corpse, but erect, ready to face the worst. 

Brian of the Abbey, that Brian who would have given his life to save herthis agony of humiliation, stood on the threshold of the window watchingher. Could it be that she was false as fair--she whom he had so trustedand honoured?

Urania had left off playing, and was watching the scene with a triumphantsmile. She looked at Mr. Wendover of the Abbey with a look that meant, 'Perhaps now you can believe what _I_ told you about this girl?'

Aunt Betsy was the first to speak, 'Ida, ' she said, standing up, 'is there any truth in this statement?'

'That question is not very complimentary to your nephew!' said BrianWalford. 

'I am not thinking of my nephew--I am thinking of this girl, whom I haveloved and trusted. '

'I was unworthy of your love and your trust, ' answered Ida, looking atMiss Wendover with wide, despairing eyes. 'It is quite true--I am hiswife--but he has no right to claim me. It was agreed between us that weshould part--for ever--that our marriage was to be as if it had neverbeen. It was our secret--nobody was ever to know. '

'And pray, after having married him, why did you wish to cancel yourmarriage?' asked Colonel Wendover, in a freezing voice. 'You married himof your own free will I suppose?'

'Of my own free will--yes. '

'Then why repent all of a sudden?'

She stood for a few moments silent, enduring such an agony of shame asall her sad experiences of life had not yet given her. The bitter, galling truth must be told--and in _his_ hearing. _He_ must be sufferedto know how sordid and vile she had been. 

'Because I had been deceived, ' she faltered at last, her eyelids droopingover those piteous eyes. 

Brian of the Abbey had advanced into the room by this time. He wasstanding by his uncle's side, his hand upon his uncle's arm. He wanted, if it were possible, to save Ida from further questioning, to restrainhis uncle's wrath. 

'I married your nephew under a delusion, ' she said. 'I believed that Iwas marrying wealth and station. I had been told that the Brian WendoverI knew--the man who asked me to be his wife--was the owner of WendoverAbbey. '

'I see, ' said the Colonel; 'you wanted to marry Wendover Abbey. '

Miss Rylance gave a little silvery laugh--the most highly cultivatedthing in laughs--but the scowl she got from Brian of the Abbey checkedher vivacity in a breath. 

'Oh, I know what a wretch I must seem to you all, ' said Ida, looking upat the Colonel with pleading eyes. 'But you have never known what it isto be poor--a genteel pauper--to have your poverty flung into you facelike a handful of mud at every hour of your life; to have the instincts, the needs of a lady, but to be poorer and lower in status than anyservant; to see your schoolfellows grinning at your shabby boots, makingwitty speeches about your threadbare gown; to patch, and mend, andstruggle, yet never to be decently clad; to have the desire to helpothers, but nothing to give. If any of you--if you, Miss Rylance, withthat exquisite sneer of yours, _you_ who invented the plot that wreckedme--if you had ever endured what I have borne, you would have been asready as I was to thank Providence for having sent me a rich lover, andto accept him gratefully as my husband. '

'Brian Walford, ' interrogated the Colonel, looking severely at hisnephew, 'am I to understand that you married this girl withoutundeceiving her as to the children's, or rather Miss Rylance's, mostill-judged practical joke--that you stood before the altar in God'sHouse, the temple of truth and holiness, and won her by a lie?'

'I never lied to her, ' answered Brian Walford, sulkily. 'My cousins choseto have their joke, but there was no joke in my love for Ida. I lovedher, and was ready to marry her, and take my chance of the future, asanother young man in my position would have done. I never bragged aboutthe Abbey, or told her that it belonged to me. She never asked me who Iwas. '

'Because she had been told a wicked, shameful falsehood, and believed it, poor darling, ' cried Bessie, running to her friend and embracing her. 'Oh, forgive me, dear--pray, pray do. It was all my fault. But as youhave married him, darling, and it can't be helped, do try and be happywith him, for indeed, dear, he is very nice. '

Ida stood silent, with lowered eyelids. 

'My daughter is right, Miss Palliser--Mrs. Brian Walford, ' said theColonel, in a less severe tone than he had employed before. 'It is quitetrue that you have been hardly used. Any deception is bad, worst of all acheat that is maintained as far as the steps of the altar. But after all, in spite of your natural disappointment at finding you had married a poorman instead of a rich one, my nephew is the same man after marriage as hewas before, the man you were willing to marry. And I cannot think sobadly of you as to believe that you would marry a man you did not love, for the sake of his wealth and position. No, I cannot think that of you. I take it, therefore, that you liked my nephew for his own sake; and thatit was only pique and natural indignation at having been duped which madeyou cast him off and agree to cancel your marriage. And I say that thereis only one course open to you, as a good and honourable young woman, andthat is to take your husband by the hand, as you took him in the house ofGod, for better for worse, and face the difficulties of life honestly andfearlessly. Heaven is always on the side of true-hearted young couples. '

Ida lifted her drooping eyelids and looked, not at the Colonel, not ather husband, not at her staunch friend Aunt Betsy, but at that otherBrian--at him who this night only had declared his love. She looked athim with despair in her eyes, humbly beseeching him to stand between herand this loathed wedlock. But there was no sign in his sad countenance, no indication except of deepest sorrow, no ray of light to guide her onher path. The Colonel had spoken with such perfect common sense andjustice, he had so clearly right on his side, that Brian Wendover, as aman of principle, could say nothing. Here was this woman he loved, andshe was another man's wife, and that other man claimed her. If the Kingof Terrors himself had stretched forth his bony hand and clasped her, shecould not be more utterly lost to the man who loved her than she was bythis pre-existing tie. Brian of the Abbey was not the man to woo hiscousin's wife. 

'Do, dearest, be happy, ' pleaded Bessie. 'I'm sure father is right. Andyou are our cousin, our own flesh and blood now, as it were. And you knowI always wanted you to belong to us. And we shall all be fonder of youthan ever. And you and Mr. Jardine will be cousins, later on, ' shewhispered, as a conclusive argument, as if for the sake of so high aprivilege a girl might fairly make some sacrifice of inclination. 

'Is it my duty to do as Colonel Wendover tells me?' asked Ida, lookinground at them all with piteous appeal. 'Is it really my duty?'

'In the sight of God, yes, ' said the Colonel and John Jardine. 

'Yes, my dear, yes, there can be no doubt of it, ' said the Colonel's wifeand Aunt Betsy. 

Brian of the Abbey said not a word, and Dr. Rylance looked on in silence, with a diabolical sneer. 

What a fate for the girl who had refused a house in Cavendish square, oneof the prettiest victorias in London, and a matchless collection of oldhawthorn blue!

'Then I will do my duty, ' said Ida; and then, before Brian Walford couldtake her in his arms, or make any demonstration of delight, she threwherself upon Miss Betsy Wendover's broad bosom, sobbing hysterically, andcrying, 'Take me away, take me out of this house, for pity's sake!'

'I'll take her home with me. She will be calm, and quiet, and happyto-morrow, ' said Aunt Betsy. And then, as Brian Walford was followingthem, 'Stay where you are, Brian, ' she said authoritatively. 'She shallsee no one but me till to-morrow. You will drive her crazy among you all, if you are not careful. '

Miss Wendover took the girl away almost in her arms, and Brian Walforddisappeared at the same time without further speech. 

'And now that the bride and bridegroom are gone, I suppose the weddingparty can have their dance, ' sneered Urania, playing the first few barsof 'Sweethearts. '

But Brian of the Abbey had vanished immediately after his cousin, and noone was disposed for dancing; so, after a good deal of talk, Bessie'sbirthday party broke up. 

'What a dismal failure it has been, though it began so well!' saidBessie, as she and the other juveniles went upstairs to bed. 

'What! still you are not happy, ' quoted Horatio. 'Why, I thought youwanted Brian Walford to marry Ida Palliser?'

'So I did once, ' sighed Bessie; 'but I would rather she had married Brianof the Abbey; and I know he's over head and ears in love with her. '

'Ah, then he'll have to put his love in his pipe and smoke it! That kindof thing won't do out of a French novel, ' said Horatio, whose personalknowledge of French romancers was derived from the _Philosophe sous lestoils_, as published wish grammatical notes for the use of schools; buthe liked to talk large. 

CHAPTER XX. 

WAS THIS THE MOTIVE?

Brian Walford came back to The Knoll after the younger members of thefamily had gone to their rooms. 

'Where have you been all this time?' asked the Colonel, who was strollingon the broad gravel drive in front of the house, soothing his nerves witha cheroot, after the agitations of the last hour. 'You are to have yourold room, I believe; I heard it was being got ready. '

'You are very kind. I walked half way to the Abbey with my cousin. We hada smoke and a talk. '

'I should be glad of a little more talk with you. This business ofto-night is not at all pleasant, you know, Brian. It does not redound toanybody's credit. '

'I never supposed that it did; but it is not my fault that there shouldbe this fuss. If my wife had been true to me all would have gone well. '

'I don't think you had a right to expect things to go well, when you hadso cruelly deceived her. It was a base thing to do, Brian. '

'You ought not to say so much as that, sir, knowing so little of thecircumstances. I did not deliberately deceive her. '

'That's skittles, ' said the Colonel, flinging away the end of his cigar. 

'It is the truth. The business began in sport. Bessie asked me to pretendto be my cousin, just for fun, to see if Ida would fall in love withme. Ida had a romantic idea about my cousin, it appears, that he wasan altogether perfect being, and so on. Well, I was introduced to heras Brian of the Abbey, and though she may have been a littledisappointed--no doubt she was--she accepted me as the perfect being. Asfor me--well, sir, you know what she is--how lovely, how winning. I was agone coon from that moment. We kept up the fun--Bess, and the boys, andI--all that evening. I talked of the Abbey as if it were my property, swaggered a good deal, and so on. Then Bess, knowing that I often stayedup the river for weeks on end, asked me to go and see Ida, to make surethat old Pew was not ill-using her, that she was not going into adecline, and all that kind of thing. So I went, saw Ida, always in thecompany of the German teacher, and took no pains to conceal my affectionfor her. But I said not another word about the Abbey. I never swaggeredor put on the airs of a rich man; I only told her that I loved her, andthat I hoped our lives would be spent together. I did not even suggestour marriage as a fact in the near future. I knew I was in no position tomaintain a wife. '

'You should have told her that plainly. As a man of honour you were boundto undeceive her. '

'I meant to do it, but I wanted her to be very fond of me first. Thencame the row; old Pew expelled her because she had been carrying on aclandestine flirtation with a young man. Her character was compromised, and as a man of honour I had no course but to propose immediatemarriage. '

'Her character was not compromised, because Miss Pew chose to act like avulgar old tyrant. The German governess, everybody in the school, knewthat Miss Palliser was unjustly treated. There was no wound that neededto be salved by an imprudent marriage. But in any case, before proposingsuch a marriage, it was your bounden duty to tell her the truth aboutyour circumstances, not to marry her to poverty without her full consentto the union. '

'Then I did not do my bounden duty, ' Brian Walford answered sullenly. 'Ibelieved in her disinterested affection. Why should she be more mercenarythan I, who was willing to marry her without a sixpence in her pocket, without a second gown to her back? How could I suppose she was marryingme for the sake of a fine place and a fine fortune? I thought she wasabove such sordid considerations. '

'You ought to have been sure of that before you married her; you ought tohave trusted her fully, ' said the Colonel. 'However, having married her, why did you consent so tamely to let her go? Having let her go, why doyou come here to-night to claim her?'

'Why did I let her go? Well she shrewed me so abominably when she foundout my lowly position that my pride was roused, and I told her she mightgo where she pleased. Why did I come here to-night? Well, it was animpulse that brought me. I am passionately fond of her. I have livedwithout her for nearly a year--angry with her and with fate--but to daywas the anniversary of our first meeting. I knew from Bessie that my wifewas here, happy. There was even some hint of a flirtation between her and_the real Brian, '_--these last words were spoken with intensebitterness, --'and I thought it was time I should claim my own. '

'I think so to, ' said Colonel Wendover, severely; 'you should haveclaimed her long ago. Your whole conduct is faulty in the extreme. Youwill be a very lucky man if your married life turns out happy after sucha bad beginning. '

'Come, Colonel, we are both young, ' remonstrated Brian, with thatcareless lightness which seemed natural to him, as a man who could hardlytake the gravest problems of life seriously; 'there is no reason why weshould not shake down into a very happy couple by-and-by. '

'And pray how are you to live?' inquired the Colonel. 'You are takingthis girl from a most comfortable home--a position in which she is valuedand useful. What do you intend to give her in exchange for the Homestead?A garret and a redherring?'

'Oh, no, sir; I hope it will be a long time before we come tothat--though Beranger says that at twenty a man and the girl he loves maybe happy in a garret. I think we shall do pretty well. My literary workwidened a good deal while I was in Paris. I wrote for some of the Londonmagazines, and the editors are good enough to think that I am rather asmart writer. I can earn something by my pen; I think enough to keep thepot boiling till briefs begin to drop in. My cousin was generous enoughto offer me an income just now--four or five hundred a year so long as Ishould require it--but I told him that I thought I could support my wifewith my pen for the next few years. '

'Your cousin is always generous, ' said the Colonel. 

'Yes, he is an open-handed fellow. I suppose you know that he helped mewhile I was in Paris. '

'I did not know, but I am not surprised. '

'Very kind of him, wasn't it? The fact is, I was dipped rather deeply, inmy small way--tailor, and hosier, and so on--before I left London; and Icould not have come back unless Brian had helped me to settle with them, or I should have had to go through the Bankruptcy Court; and I daresaysome of you would have thought that a disgrace. '

'Some of us!' exclaimed the Colonel; 'we should all have thought so. Doyou suppose the Wendovers are in the habit of cheating their creditors?'

'Oh, but it was not a question of cheating them, only of paying them arather insignificant dividend. My only assets are my books and furniture, and unluckily some of those are still unpaid for. '

'Assets? You have no assets. You are a spendthrift and a scamp!'protested his uncle, angrily. 'I am deeply sorry for your wife. Goodnight. If you want any supper after your journey there are plenty ofpeople to wait upon you. '

And with that the Colonel turned upon his heel and went into the house, leaving his nephew to follow at his leisure. 

_'Comme il est assommant, le patron, '_ muttered Brian, strolling afterhis kinsman. 

Brian Walford was not ordinarily an early riser, but he was up betimes onthe morning after Bessie's birthday; breakfasted with the family, andstrolled across dewy fields to the Homestead a little after nine o'clock. But although this was a late hour in Miss Wendover's household, hisyoung wife was not prepared to receive him. It was Aunt Betsy who came tohim, after he had waited for nearly a quarter of an hour, prowlingrestlessly about the drawing-room, looking at the books, and china, andwater-colours. 

'I have come for Ida, ' he said abruptly, when he had shaken hands withhis aunt. 'There is a train leaves Winchester at twenty minutes pasteleven. She will be ready for that I suppose?'

He was half prepared for reproaches from his aunt, and wholly prepared toset her at defiance. But if she were civil he would be civil: he did notcourt a quarrel. 

'I don't know that she can be ready. '

'But she must. I have made up my mind to travel by that train. Why shouldthere be any delay? Everybody is agreed that we are to begin our livestogether, and we cannot begin too soon. '

'You need not be in such a hurry. You have contrived to live without herfor nearly a year. '

'That is my business. I am not going to live without her any longer. Please tell her she must be ready by half-past ten. '

'I will tell her so. I am heartily sorry for her. But she must submit tofate. What home have you prepared for her?'

'At present none. We can go to an hotel for a day or two, and then Ishall take lodgings in South Kensington, or thereabouts. '

'Have you any money?'

'Yes enough to carry on, ' answered Brian. 

'Truthfulness was not his strong point, although he was a Wendover, andthat race deemed itself free from the taint of falsehood. There may havebeen an injurious admixture of races on the maternal side, perhaps;albeit his mother personally was good and loyal. However this was, BrianWalford had, even in trifles, shown himself evasive and shifty. 

His aunt looked at him sharply. 

'Do not take her to discomfort or want, ' she said earnestly. 'She hasbeen very happy with me, poor girl; and although she deceived me, Icannot find it in my heart to be angry with her. '

'There is no fear of want, ' replied Brian. 'We shall not be rich, butwe shall get on pretty comfortably. Please tell her to make haste. Thedog-cart will be round in half an hour. I'll walk about the garden tillit comes. '

Miss Wendover sighed, and left him, without another word. He went outinto the sunlit garden, and walked up and down smoking his favouritemeerschaum, which was a kind of familiar spirit, always carried in hispocket ready for every possible opportunity. He had arranged with oneof his uncle's men to drive the dog-cart over to Winchester; histravelling-bag was put in ready; he had taken leave of his kindred--not avery cordial leave-taking upon anybody's part, and on Bessie's despondenteven to tears. He was not in a good humour with himself or with fate; andyet he told himself that things had gone well with him, much better thanhe could reasonably have expected. Yet it was hard for a young man ofconsiderable personal attractions and some talent to be treated like oneof the monsters of classical legend, a damsel-devouring Minotaur, when hecame to claim his young wife. 

The dog-cart was at the gate for at least ten minutes, and Brian hadlooked at his watch at least ten times before Ida appeared at the glassdoor. He was pale with anxiety. There were reasons why it might be ruinto him to lose this morning train; and yet he did not want to betray toomuch eagerness, lest that should spoil his chances. 

Here she was at last, white as a corpse, and with red swollen eyelidswhich indicated a night of weeping. Her appearance was far fromflattering to her husband, yet she gave him a wan little smile and acivil good morning. 

'Here, Pluto, take your Proserpine, ' said Miss Wendover, trying to makelight of the situation, though sore at heart. 'I wish you would becontent to keep her six months of the year, and let me have her for theother six. '

'It needn't be an eternal parting, Aunt Betsy, ' answered Brian, withassumed cheeriness; 'Ida can come to see you whenever you like, and Ida'shusband too, if you will have him. We are not starting for theAntipodes. '

'Be kind to her, ' said Miss Wendover, gravely, 'for my sake, if not forher own. It shall be the better for you when I am dead and gone if youmake her a happy woman. '

This promise from a lady who owned a snug little landed estate, and moneyin the funds, meant a good deal. Brian grasped his aunt's hand. 

'You know that I adore her, ' he said. 'I shall be her slave. '

'Be a good husband, honest and true. She doesn't want a slave, ' repliedMiss Wendover, in her incisive way. 

Ida flung her arms round that generous friend's neck, and kissed her withpassionate fervour. 

'God bless you for your goodness to me! God bless you for forgiving me, 'she said. 

'He is a Being of infinite love and pity, and He will not bless those whocannot pardon, ' answered Miss Wendover. 'There, my dear, go and be happywith your young husband. He may not be such a very bad bargain, afterall. '

This was, as it were, the old shoe thrown after the bride and bridegroom. In another minute the dog-cart was rattling along the lane, Briandriving, and the groom sitting behind with Ida's luggage, which was moreimportant by one neat black trunk than it had been a year ago. 

Bessie and the younger children were standing on the patch ofgrass outside The Knoll gates, in garden hats, and no gloves, waving affectionate adieux. Brian gave them no chance of any furtherleave-taking driving towards the downs at a smart pace. 'Do you remembermy driving you to catch the earlier train, a year ago this day?' he askedhis pale companion, by way of conversation. 

'Yes, perfectly. '

'Odd, isn't it?--exactly one year to-day. '

'Very odd. '

And this was about all their discourse till they were at WinchesterStation. 

'London papers in yet?' asked Brian. 

'No, sir. You'll get them at Basingstoke. '

He took his wife into a first-class carriage--an extravagance whichsurprised her, knowing his precarious means. 

'I hope you are not travelling first-class on my account, ' she said; 'Iam not accustomed to such luxury. '

'Oh, we can afford it to-day. I am not quite such a pauper as I was whenI offered you those two sovereigns. If you would like to buy yourself asilk gown or a new bonnet, or anything in that line to-day, I can manageit. '

'No, thank you; I have everything I want, ' she answered with a faintshiver. 

The memory of that bygone day was too bitter. 

'What a wonderful wife! I thought that to be in want of a new bonnet wasa woman's normal condition, ' said Brian, trying to be lively. 

He had bought _Punch_ and other comic journals at the station, and spreadthem out before his wife--as an intellectual feast. The breezy driveover the downs had revived her beauty a little. The eyelids had losttheir red swollen look, but she was still very pale, and there was anervous quiver of the lips now and then which betokened a tendency tohysteria. She sat at the open window, looking away towards thosevanishing hills. A moment, and the tufted crest of St. Catherine's hadgone--the low-lying meadows--the winding stream--the cathedral's stuntedtower--it was all gone, like a dream. 

'Dreadful hole of a place, ' said Brian, contemptuously; 'a comfortablyfeathered old nest for rooks and parsons and ancient spinsters, but adungeon for anybody else. '

'I think it is the dearest old city in the world. '

'Old enough, and dear enough, in all conscience, ' answered Brian. 'Myuncle's tailor had the audacity to charge me thirty shillings for awaistcoat. But it's the most deadly-lively place I know. All countrytowns are deadly-lively; in fact, there are only two places fit for youngpeople to live in--London and Paris!'

'I suppose you mean to live in London?' said Ida, listlessly. She did notfeel as if she were personally interested in the matter. If she wereforced to live with a man she despised, the place of her habitation wouldmatter very little. 

'I mean to oscillate between the two, ' answered Brian. 'Were you ever inParis?'

'Never. '

'I envy you. You have something left to live for--a new sensation--a newbirth. We will go there in November. '

He looked for a smile, an expression of pleasure, but there was none. Hiswife's face was still turned towards the landscape, her sad eyes stillfixed on the vanishing hills--no longer those familiar hill-tops aroundthe cathedral city, but like them in character. Soon the last of thosechalky ridges would vanish, and then would come the heathy tracts aboutWoking, and the fertile meads in the Thames valley. 

The train stopped for five minutes at Basingstoke, and Brian offered hiswife tea, lemonade, anything which the refreshment-room could produce, but she declined everything. 

'We two have not broken bread together since we were one, ' he said, stillstruggling after liveliness; 'let us eat something together, if it beonly a Bath bun. '

'I am not hungry, thanks, ' she answered listlessly. 

'Papers! papers!' shouted the small imp attached to the bookstall. 'Morning paper--_Times, Standard, Telegraph, Daily News, Morning Post!_'

Brian drew up the window abruptly, as if he had seen a scorpion. 

An elderly gentleman trotted up to the carriage, opened the door, andcame in, his arms full of newspapers. He settled himself in his corner, and looked about him with a benevolent air, as if courting friendlyintercourse. Brian seated himself opposite his wife, looking black asthunder. Ida was indifferent to such petty details of life as unknownelderly gentlemen. Her mind was full of troubled thoughts about thefriends she had left--most of all that one friend whose thrilling voicestill sounded in her ears--that one voice which had power to move herdeepest feeling. 

'And come what may, I _have been_ bless'd. ' That is a woman's firstthought in any desperate case of this kind. The poet struck a note ofuniversal truth in that immortal line. There is endless consolation inthe knowledge that heart has answered to heart; that the fond futile loveto which Fate forbids a happy issue has not been lavished on a dumb, irresponsive idol. If there has been madness, folly, it has not beenone-sided foolishness. He too has loved; he too must suffer. Bind Eloisawith what vows, surround her with what walls you will, even in herdespair there is one golden thought: her Abelard has loved her--will loveon till the end of life--since such a flame should be eternal as thestars. 

He had loved her! Pride and rapture were in the thought. She told herselfthat such pride, such delight was sinful, and that she must fight againstand conquer this sin. She must shut Brian of the Abbey out of her mindfor evermore; she must school herself to believe that he and she hadnever met; so train and subjugate herself that a few months hence shemight be able to read the announcement of his marriage--should such athing occur--without one guilty pang. 

And then she looked back and tried to recall her life before she hadknown him. What was it like? A blank? She felt like one who has receivedsome injury to the brain, or endured severe illness which has blotted outall memory of the life which went before. She sat with her pale fixedface turned towards the open window, her eyes gazing on the landscapewith a vacant, far-away look--her husband watching her every now andthen, furtively, anxiously. 

The elderly gentleman in the corner beamed at her occasionally throughhis spectacles. She was young, handsome, and looked unhappy. He wasinterested in her; in a benevolent, paternal spirit. He thought it likelythat the young man was her brother, though there was no likeness betweenthem; and that she was being parted by family authority from some otheryoung man who was less, and yet more, than a brother. He made up hislittle story about her, and then, by way of consolation, offered her his_Times_, which he had done with by this time. 

Brian turned quickly, and stretched out his hand, as if to intercept thepaper; but he was too late. Ida had taken it, and was staring absently atthe leading articles. She read on listlessly, vaguely, for a littlewhile, going over the words mechanically, reading how Sir SomebodySomething, a leading light of the Opposition, had been holding forth atan agricultural meeting, arguing that never since the date of MagnaCharta had the national freedom been in such peril as it was at thishour; never had any Ministry so wantonly trifled with the rights of agreat people, or so supinely submitted to the degradation of a onceglorious country; never, within the memory of man, or, he would gofurther and say, within the records of history, was our agriculturalinterest so wantonly neglected, our commercial predominance so supinelysurrendered, our army so unprepared for action, and our influence in theaffairs of Europe so audaciously set at naught. The right honourablegentleman gave the Ministry another year to complete the ruin of theircountry. They might do it in six months; yes, he would venture to say, or even in three months; but he gave them at most a year. Favourableaccidents, against which even the blind fatuity and garrulouspig-headedness of septuagenarian senility could not prevail might prolongthe struggle; but the day of doom was inevitable, unless--and so on, andso on, with a running commentary by the leader writer. 

Ida read without knowing what she was reading, till presently her eyesglanced idly to another part of the page, and there were arrested by ashort paragraph headed, FATAL STORM IN THE HEBRIDES. 

Was it not in the Hebrides she had last heard of Sir Vernon's yacht the_Seamew?_

'Among other accidents in the terrible gale on Tuesday night andWednesday morning, we regret to number the loss of the schooner yacht_Seamew_, which was capsized in a squall off the Isle of Skye, with theloss of the owner, Sir Vernon Palliser, his brother, Mr. P. Palliser, Captain Greenway, and seven of the crew. Three men and the cabin-boy weresaved by a fishing boat, the crew of which witnessed the sad catastrophe, but were too far off to be of much help. ' And then followed a descriptionof the accident, which had been caused by the violence of the storm, rather than by bad seamanship or carelessness on the part of the captain, who, with Sir Vernon and his brother, both skilled seamen, had the vesselwell in hand a few minutes before she went down. 

Ida let the paper fall from her hand with a cry of horror. 

'Vernon, poor Vernon, and Peter too--those good, kind-hearted youngmen--dead--both--dead!'

She burst into tears, remembering the two frank, kind faces looking ather from the marble portico, in the afternoon sunlight, the warm welcome, the feeling of kindred which had shown itself so thoroughly in theirwords and looks. And they were gone--they who a month ago were full oflife and gladness. The cruel inexorable sea had devoured their youth andstrength and all the promises and hopes of their being. 

The elderly gentleman moved to the seat next hers full of compassion. 

'Look at that, ' she said, as Brian picked up the paper; 'my cousins, bothof them. '

'I am sorry you have found bad news in the paper, ' said the elderlystranger, looking at her sympathetically through his spectacles. 

'My two cousins, sir, ' she said, 'they have both been drowned. Such fine, honest young fellows. It is too dreadful. '

'That wreck in the Hebrides? Yes, it is a sad thing; and Sir VernonPalliser and his brother were your cousins?' I am so sorry I showed youthe paper. But I wonder you had not heard of this sooner; it was in theevening papers yesterday. '

'Then you must have known that my cousins were dead when you came toKingthorpe last night?' said Ida, looking up at her husband. 

Suddenly, in a flash of memory, came back those thoughtless words of hersspoke at Les Fontaines, when her father talked of the possibility ofinheriting a fortune and a baronetcy. She remembered how she had said, inbitterness of spirit, 'Of course they will live to the age of Methuselah. Whoever heard of luck coming our way?' And now this kind of luck, whichmeant sudden death for two amiable, open-handed young men, had come herway. How lightly she had spoken of those two young lives! how bitter hadbeen her thoughts about the rich and happy!

This thing had been known in London yesterday afternoon. It was thisknowledge which had sent Brian Walford to Kingthorpe to claim his wife. She had suddenly become a wife worth claiming--the daughter of SirReginald Palliser of Wimperfield. 

'You knew this, ' she repeated, looking at her husband, with infinitescorn expressed in eye and lip. 

'No, upon my soul, ' he answered; 'I left town early. It flashed uponme that it was Bessie's birthday--you would be all assembled at TheKnoll--there was just time for me to get there before the fun wasover--don't you know--'

'And you had not seen the papers? you did _not_ know this?' added Ida, fixing him with her eyes. 

'No, upon my word. I had no idea!'

She knew that he was lying. 

'Then it was a very curious coincidence, ' she said freezingly. 

'How a coincidence?'

'That after so long an absence you should happen to come to Kingthorpe onthe day that made such a change in my father's fortunes. '

'I came because of Bessie's birthday--as I told you before. Does this sadevent make any difference to your father?' he asked innocently. 'Arethere not----nearer relatives?'

'None that I know of. '

The elderly gentleman, a little hard of hearing, as he called it, lookedon and wondered at this somewhat eccentric young couple, who seemed, fromthose snatches of speech which reached him, to be on the verge of aquarrel. He felt very sorry for the lady, who was so handsome, and sointeresting. The young man was gentlemanlike and good looking, but hadnot that frank bright outlook which is the glory of a young Englishman. He was dressed a little too foppishly for the elder man's liking, and hadthe air of being over-careful of his own person. 

And now the train had passed Sandown, was rushing on to Wimbledon and theLondon smoke. All the blue had gone out of the sky, all the beauty hadgone from the earth, Ida thought, as small suburban villas followed eachother in a monotonous sequence, some old and shabby, others new andsmart; and then all that is ugliest in the great city surrounded them asthey steamed slowly into Waterloo station. 

A four-wheel cab took them to an hotel in the purlieus of Fleet Street, abig new hotel, but so shut in and surrounded by other buildings that Idafelt as if she could hardly breathe in it--she who had lived amonggardens and green fields, and with all the winds of heaven blowing on heracross the rolling downs, from the forest and the sea. 

'What a hateful place London is!' she exclaimed. 'Can any one like tolive in it?'

'All sensible people like it better than any other bit of the world, barParis, ' answered Brian. 'But it is not particularly pretty to look at. City life is an acquired taste. '

This was on the stairs, while they were following the waiter to theprivate sitting-room for which Mr. Walford had asked It was a neat littleroom on the first floor, looking into a stony city square, surrounded bybusiness premises. 

The waiter, after the manner of his kind, was loth to leave without anorder. Ida declined anything in the way of luncheon; so Brian ordered teaand toast, and the man departed with an air of resignation rather thanalacrity, considering the order a poor one. 

When they were quite alone Ida went up to her husband, laid her hand uponhis arm, and looked up at him with earnest, imploring eyes. 

'Brian, ' she said, 'I have come with you because I was told it was myduty to come--told so by people who are wiser than I. '

'Of course it was your duty, ' Brian answered impatiently. 'Nobody coulddoubt that. We have been fools to live asunder so long. '

'Do you think we may not be more foolish for trying our livestogether--if we do not love each other--or trust each other. '

'I love you--that's all I know about it. As for trusting--well, I think Ihave been too easy, have trusted you too far. '

'But I do not either love you--or trust you, ' she said, lifting up herhead, and looking at him with kindling eyes and burning cheeks--ashamedfor him and for herself. 'I thought once that I could love you. I knownow that I never can; and what is still worse that I never can trust you. No, Brian, never. You told me a lie to-day. '

'How dare you say that?'

'I dare say what I know to be the truth--the bitter, shameful truth. Youlied to me to-day in the railway-carriage, when you told me that you didnot know of my cousin's death last night--that you did not know of thechange in my fathers position. '

'You are a nice young lady to accuse your husband of lying, ' he answered, scowling at her. 'I tell you I saw no evening papers: I left London athalf-past five o'clock. But even if I had known, what does that matter?It makes no difference to my right over your life. You are my wife andyou belong to me. I was fool enough to let you go last October: you werein such a fury that you took me off my guard; I had no time to assert myrights: and then _vogue la galére_ has always been my motto. But the timecame when I felt that I had been an ass to allow myself to be so treated;and I made up my mind to claim you, and to stand no denial of my rights. This determination was some time ripening in my mind; and then cameBessie's birthday, the anniversary of our first meeting, the birthday ofmy love, and I said to myself that I would claim you on that day, and noother. '

'And that day and no other made my father a rich man. Poor Vernon! poorPeter! so brave, so frank, so true! to think that _you_ should profit bytheir death!' this she said with ineffable contempt, looking at him fromhead to foot, as if he were a creature of inferior mould. 'But perhapsyou mistook the case. I am not an heiress, remember, even now. I have alittle brother who will inherit everything. '

'I have not forgotten your brother. I don't want you to be an heiress. Iwant you--and your love. '

'That you never will have, ' she cried passionately; and then she fell onher knees at his feet--she to whom he had knelt on their wedding-day--andlifted her clasped hands with piteous entreaty, 'Brian Walford, bemerciful to me. I do not love you, I never loved you, can never love you. In an evil hour I took the fatal step which gives you power over me. But, for God's sake, be generous, and forbear to use that power. No good canever come of our union--no good, but unspeakable evil; nothing but miseryfor me--nothing but bitterness for you. We shall quarrel--we shall hateeach other. '

'I'll risk that, ' he said; 'you are mine, and nothing shall make me giveyou up. '

'Nothing?' she cried, rising suddenly, and flaming out at him like asibyl--'nothing? Not even the knowledge that I love another man?'

'Not even that. Let the other man beware, whoever he is. And you bewarehow you keep to your duty as my wife. No, Ida, I will not let you go. Iwas a fool last year--and I was taken unawares. I am a wiser man now, andmy decision is irrevocable. You are my wife, my goods, my chattels--Godhelp you if you deny my claim. '

CHAPTER XXI. 

TAKING LIFE QUIETLY. 

It was the second week in October, and the woods were changing theirgreen liveries of summer for tawny and amber tints, so various and soharmonious in their delicate gradations that the eye of the artist wasgladdened by their decay. The hawthorns in Wimperfield Park glowed inthe distance like patches of crimson flame, and the undulating sweepsof bracken showed golden-brown against the green-sward; while theoaks-symbolic of all that is solid, ponderous, and constant in woodlandnature, slow to bloom and slow to die--had hardly a faded leaf to murkthe coming of winter. 

A fine domain, this Wimperfield Park, with its hill and vale, its oaksand beeches, and avenue of immemorial elms, to be owned by the man whosix weeks ago had no better shelter than a lath and plaster villa in aFrench village, and who had found it a hard thing to pay the rent of thattrumpery tenement; and yet Sir Reginald Palliser accepted the change inhis circumstances as tranquilly as if it had been but a migration fromthe red room to the blue. He took good fortune with the same easyindolent air with which he had endured evil fortune. He had the Horatiantemperament, uneager to anticipate the future, content if the presentwere fairly comfortable, sighing for no palatial halls over-arched withgold and ivory, no porphyry columns, or marble terraces encroaching uponthe sea. He was a man to whom it had been but a slight affliction to livein a small house, and to be deprived of all pomp and state, nay, even ofthe normal surroundings of gentle birth, so long as he had those thingswhich were absolutely necessary to his own personal comfort. He washonestly sorry for the untimely fate of his young kinsmen; but he slippedinto his nephew's vacant place with an ease which filled his wife anddaughter with wonder. 

To poor little Fanny Palliser, who had never known the sensation of aspare five-pound note, nay, of even a sovereign which she mightsquander on the whim of the moment, this sudden possession of amplemeans was strange even to bewilderment. Not to have to cut and contriveany more, not to have to cook her husband's dinners, or to run aboutfrom morning till twilight, supplementing the labours of an incompetentmaid-of-all-work, was to enter upon a new phase of life almost assurprising as if she, Fanny Palliser, had died and been buried, andbeen resolved back into the elements, to be born again as a princess ofthe blood royal. She kept on repeating feebly that it was all like adream--she had not been able to realise the change yet. 

To Reginald Palliser the inheritance of Wimperfield was only a return tothe home of his childhood. To his lowly-born little helpmeet it was thebeginning of a new life. It was a new sensation to Fanny Palliser to livein large rooms, to walk about a house in which the long corridors, thewide staircase, the echoing stone hall, the plenitude of light and space, seemed to her to belong to a public institution rather than to a domesticdwelling--a new sensation, and not altogether a pleasant one. She wasawe-stricken by the grandeur--the largeness and airiness of her newsurroundings. 

There was not one of the sitting-rooms at Wimperfield in which, evenafter a month's residence, she could feel thoroughly at home. She enviedMrs. Moggs, the housekeeper, her parlour looking into the stable-yard, which seemed to Sir Reginald's wife the only really snug room within thefour walls of that respectable mansion. Mrs. Moggs' old-fashioned grateand brass fender, little round table, tea-tray, and kettle singing on thehob, reminded Fanny Palliser of her own girlhood, when her mother'ssitting room had worn just such an air of humble comfort. Those whiteand gold drawing-rooms, with their amber satin curtains and Georgianfurniture, had a scenic and altogether artificial appearance to theunaccustomed eyes of one born and reared amidst the narrow surroundingsof poverty. 

And then, again, how terrible was that highly respectable old butler, whoknew the ways of gentle folks so much better than his new mistress did;and who put her to shame, in a quiet unconscious way, a hundred times aday by his superior knowledge and experience. How often she asked forthings that were altogether wrong; how continually she exposed herignorance, both to Rogers the butler, and to Moggs, the housekeeper; andwhat a feeble creature she felt herself in the presence of Jane Dyson, her own maid, who had come to her fresh from the sainted presence of anarchbishop's wife, and who was inclined to be slightly dictatorial inconsequence, always quoting and referring to that paragon of women, herlate mistress, whose only error in life had been the leaving it beforeJane Dyson had saved enough to justify her retirement from service. Thosehighly-educated retainers were a terror to poor little Fanny Palliser. There were times when she would have been glad to be impecunious again, and running after her faithful Lizette, who had every possible failingexcept that of being superior to her mistress. These Wimperfield servantswere models; but they did not disguise their quiet contempt for a ladywho was evidently a stranger in that sphere where powdered footmen andelaborate dinners are among the indispensables of existence. 

Only six weeks, and Sir Reginald and his family were established in theplace that had been Sir Vernon's, and the old servants waited on theirnew lord, and all the mechanical routine of life went on as smoothly asif there had been no change of masters. Ida found herself wondering whichwas the reality and which the dream--the past or the present. There hadbeen a few days of excitement, hurry, and confusion at Les Fontainesafter the awful news of the wreck: and then Sir Reginald had come toLondon with his wife and boy, and had put up at the Grosvenor Hotel whilethe lawyers settled the details of his inheritance. Sir Vernon had leftno will. Everything went to the heir-at-law--pictures, plate, horses andcarriages, and those wonderful cellars of old wine which had been slowlyaccumulated by Sir Reginald's father and grandfather. 

Reginald Palliser passed from the pittance of a half-pay captain, ekedout by the desultory donations of his open-handed nephew, to thepossession of a fine income and a perfectly-appointed establishment. There was nothing for him to do, no trouble of furnishing, or findingservants. He came into his kingdom, and everything was ready for him. Yetin this house where he was born, in which every stone was familiar tohim, how little that was mortal was left of those vanished days of hisyouth! Among all these old servants there was only one who remembered thenew master's boyhood; and that was a deaf old helper in the garden, a manwho seemed past all labour except the sweeping up of dead leaves, beinghimself little better than a withered leaf. This man remembered wheelingthe present baronet about the gardens in his barrow, forty years ago--hisfunction even then being to collect the fallen leaves--and was a littleoffended with Sir Reginald for having forgotten the man and the fact. 

At the Grosvenor Hotel, calm even in the dawn of his altered fortunes, Brian Walford found his father-in-law, and told, with the pleasantest, most plausible air, the story of Ida's clandestine marriage, slurringover every detail that reflected on himself, and making very light ofIda's revulsion of feeling, which he represented as a girlish whim, rather than a woman's bitter anger against the husband who had allowedher to marry him under a delusion as to his social status. 

Sir Reginald was at first inclined to be angry. The whole thing was amystification--absurd, discreditable. His daughter had grossly deceivedhim. It needed all the stepmother's gentle influence to soften theoutraged father's feelings. But Lady Palliser said all that was kindlyabout Ida's youth and inexperience, her impulsive nature; and a manwho has just dropped into £7, 000 a year is hardly disposed to beinflexible. Sir Reginald was too generous even to question Brianclosely as to his capability of supporting a wife. The man was agentleman--young, good-looking, with winning manners, and a memberof a family in which his daughter had found warm and generous friends. Ida's father could not be uncivil to a Wendover. 

'Well, my good fellow, it is altogether a foolish business, ' he said;'but what's done cannot be undone. I am sorry my daughter did not ask myleave before she plunged into matrimony; but I suppose I must forgiveher, and her husband into the bargain. You have both acted like a pair ofchildren, falling in love and marrying, and quarrelling, and makingfriends again, without rhyme or reason; but the best thing you can do isto bring your wife--your wife? my little Ida a wife?--Good God, how old Iam getting!--yes, you had better bring her to Wimperfield next week, andthen we can get better acquainted with you, and I shall see what I can dofor you both. '

This no doubt meant a handsome allowance. Brian Walford felt, forthe first time in his life, that he had fallen on his feet. He hatedthe country, and Wimperfield would be only a shade better thanKingthorpe; but it was essential that he should please his easy-temperedfather-in-law. 

'If he wanted me to live in the moon I should have to go there!' he saidto himself. And then Lady Palliser went into an adjoining chamber andbrought forth little Vernon, to exhibit him, as a particular favour andprivilege, to Ida's husband; and Brian, who detested children, had toappear grateful, and to address himself to the irksome task of makingfriends with the little man. This was not easy, for the boy, though frankand bright enough in a general way, did not take to his new connexion:and it was only when Brian spoke of Ida that his young brother-in-lawbecame friendly. 'Where is she? why haven't you brought her? Take me toher directly-minute, ' said the child, whose English savoured rather ofthe lower than the upper strata of society. 

Brian snapped at the opportunity, and carried the boy off instanter in aHansom cab to that hotel near Fleet Street where his young wife waspining in her second-floor sitting-room, like a wild woodland bird behindthe bars of a cage. The young man thought the little fellow might be aharbinger of peace--nor was he mistaken, for Ida melted at sight of him, and seemed quite happy when they three sat down to a dainty littleluncheon, she waiting upon and petting her young brother all the while. 

'This is partridge, isn't it?' asked Vernie. 'I like partridge. We alwayshave nice dinners now--jellies, and creams, and wine that goes fizz; andwe all have the same as pa. We didn't in France, you know, ' explained theboy, unconscious of any reason for suppressing facts in the presence ofthe waiter. 

'Mamma and I used to have any little bits--it didn't matter for us, youknow--we could pinch. Mamma was used to it, and it was good for me, youknow, because I'm often bilious--and it's better to go without richthings than to take Gregory's powder, isn't it?'

'Decidedly, ' said Brian, who was not too old to remember that bugbear ofthe Edinburgh pharmacopoeia. 

'And now we have dessert every day, ' continued Vernie; 'lovelydessert--almonds and raisins, and pears, and nuts, and things, just likeChristmas Day. I thought that kind of dessert was only meant forChristmas Day. And we have men to wait upon us, dressed like clergymen, just like him, ' added the child, pointing to the waiter. 

'Oh, Vernie, it's so rude to point, ' murmured Ida. 

'Not for me; I can't be rude, ' replied the boy, with conviction. 'I'm abaronet's son. I shall be a baronet myself some day. Mamma told me. I maydo what I like. '

'No, pet, you must be a gentleman. If you were a king's son you wouldhave to be that. '

'Then I wouldn't. What's the use of being rich if you can't do what youlike?' demanded Vernie, who already began to have ideas, and who was assharp for his age as the chicken which begins to catch flies directly itshead is out of the shell. 

'What's the good of being somebody if you have to behave just as well asif you were nobody?' said Brian. 'Little Vernon has the feudal ideastrongly developed; no doubt; in evolution from some long-departedancestor, who lived in the days when there were different laws for theknight and the villain. Now, how are we going to amuse this younggentleman? I have leave to keep him till half-past seven, when we are allthree to dine with Sir Reginald and Lady Palliser at the Grosvenor. '

Vernie, who was half way through his second glass of sparkling moselle, burst out laughing. 

'Lady Palliser!' he exclaimed, 'it's so funny to hear mamma called Lady:because she isn't a lady, you know. She used to run about the house allday with her sleeves tucked up, and she used to cook; and Jane, ourEnglish servant, said no lady ever did that. Jane and mamma used toquarrel, ' explained the infant, calmly. 

'Jane knew very little about what makes a lady or not a lady, ' said Ida, grieved to find a want of elevation in the little man's ideas. 'Some ofthe truest and noblest ladies have worked hard all their lives. '

'But not with their sleeves tucked up, ' argued the boy; 'no lady would dothat. Papa told mamma so one day, and _he_ must know. He told her she wascook, slush, and bottle-washer. Wasn't that funny? You worked hard too, didn't you, Ida?' interrogated Vernon. 'Papa paid you were a regulardrudge at Miss Pew's. He said it was a hard thing that such a handsomegirl as you should be a drudge, but his poverty and not his willconsented. '

'Vernie quotes Shakespeare, ' exclaimed Brian, trying to take the thinglightly, but painfully conscious of the head waiter, who was deliberatelyremoving crumbs with a silver scraper. It could not matter to any onewhat the waiter--a waif from Whitechapel or the Dials most likely--knewor did not know of Mr. And Mrs. Wendover's family affairs; but there isan instinctive feeling that any humiliating details of life should bekept from these menials. They should be maintained in the delusion thatthe superior class which employs them has never known want or difficulty. Perhaps the maintenance of this great sham is not without its evil, as itis apt to make the waiter class rapacious and exacting, and ready toimpute meanness to that superior order which has wallowed in wealth fromthe cradle. 

'Suppose we go to the Tower?' inquired Brian. 'Perhaps Vernie has neverseen the Tower?'

Neither Vernon nor Ida had seen that stony page of feudal history, andVernon had to be informed what manner of building it was, his sole ideaof a tower being Babel, which he had often tried to reproduce with hiswooden bricks, with no happier result than was obtained in the originalattempt. So another Hansom was chartered, and they all went off to theTower, Vernon sitting between them, perky and loquacious, and intenselycurious about every object they passed on their way. 

Interested in the associations of the grim old citadel, amused andpleaded by little Vernon's prattle as he trotted about holding hissister's hand, Ida forgot to be unhappy upon that particular afternoon. The whole history of her marriage was a misery to her; the marriageitself was a mistake; but there are hours of respite in the saddest life, and she was brave enough to try and make the best of hers. Above all, shewas too generous to wish her husband to be painfully conscious of thechange in their relative positions, that he was now in a manner dependentupon her father. Her own proud nature, which would have profoundly feltthe humiliation of such a position as that which Brian Walford nowoccupied, was moved to pity for those feelings of shame and degradationwhich he might or might not experience, and she was kinder to him on thisaccount than she would have been otherwise. 

The dinner at the Grosvenor went off with as much appearance of goodwilland proper family feeling as if there had been no flaw in Ida'smatrimonial bliss. Sir Reginald was full of kindness for his newson-in-law: as he would have been for any other human creature whom hehad asked to dinner. Hospitality was a natural instinct of his being, andhe invited Brian Wendover to take up his abode at Wimperfield as easilyas he would have offered him a cigar. 

'There are no end of rooms. It is a regular barrack, ' he said. 'You andIda can be very comfortable without putting my little woman or me out ofthe way. '

This had happened just six weeks ago, and now Ida and her half-brotherwere wandering about among the ferny hollows and breezy heights of thepark, or roving off to adjacent heaths and hills, and it seemed almostas if they had lived there all their lives. Vernon had been quick tomake himself at home in the stately old house, rummaging and foragingin every room, routing out all manner of forgotten treasures, riding hisfather's old rocking-horse, exploring stables and lofts, saddle-rooms, and long-disused holes and corners, going up ladders, climbing walls, and endangering life and limbs in every possible way which infantineingenuity could suggest. 

'Mamma, however could we live so long in that horrid little house inFrance?' he demanded one day, as he prowled about his mother's spaciousmorning-room in the autumn dusk, dragging fine old folios out of a bookshelf in his search for picture-books, while Lady Palliser and herstepdaughter sat at tea by the fire. 

The lady of the house gave a faint sigh. 

'I don't know, Vernie, ' she said. 'I almost think I was happier therethan I am here. It was a poor little place, but I felt it was my ownhouse, and I never feel that here. '

'It will be my house when papa's dead, ' replied Vernon, cheerfully, seating himself on the ground in front of the broad bay window andturning over Gell's 'Pompeiianai'; 'everything will be mine. Is that whyyou don't feel as if it was yours now?'

'No, Vernie, that's not it. I hope it will be a great many years beforeyour father is taken away. '

'But you don't think so, ' argued Vernon. 'You told him the other day thatif he did not walk more, and take less champagne, he would soon killhimself. '

'But I didn't mean it, darling. I only spoke for his good. The doctorsays he must take no champagne, or only the dryest of the dry. '

'What a silly that doctor must be!' interrupted Vernon; 'all wine iswet. '

'The doctor meant wine that is not sweet, dear. '

'Then he should have said so, ' remarked Vernon, sententiously. He hadlived all his little life in grown-up society, and had been allowed tohear everything, and to talk about everything, whereby he had come toconsider himself an oracle. 

'The doctor thinks your poor papa has a lym--lym--'

'Lymphatic temperament?' suggested Ida. 

'Yes, dear, that's the name of his complaint, ' replied Lady Palliser, whowas not scientific. 'He has a--well, that particular disease, ' continuedthe little woman, breaking down again, 'and he ought to diet himself andtake regular exercise; and he won't diet himself, and he won't walk orride; and I lay awake at nights thinking of it, ' she concluded, piteously. 

'You can't lay awake, ' said the boy; 'Ida says you can't. You can laydown your hat or your umbrella, but _you_ can't lay. It's impossible. 

'But I tell you I do, Vernie; I lay awake night after night, ' protestedLady Palliser, not seeing the grammatical side of the question. 'Oh, Vernie!' as the folio plates gave an alarming crackle, 'you are tearingthat beautiful big book which cost your grandfather so much money. '

'It's a nasty book, ' said Vernon, 'all houses and posts and things. Showme some nice books, Ida; please, do. '

Ida was sitting on the carpet beside him in the next minute and togetherthey went through a bulky quarto Shakespeare with awe-inspiringillustrations by Fuseli. She told him what the pictures meant, and thisnaturally compelled her to tell the stories of the plays, and in thismanner she kept him amused till it was time to dress for dinner, andalmost bedtime for the little man. The happiest hours of her life werethose in which she devoted herself mentally and bodily to her youngbrother. If he had loved her in adversity a year ago, he loved her stillbetter in prosperity, when she was able to do so much more for hiscomfort and amusement. He was rarely out of her sight, the companion ofall her rides and rambles, the exacting charge of her life. Brian Walfordwas not slow to perceive that the boy took precedence of him in all hiswife's thoughts, that the boy's society was more agreeable to her thanthat of her husband, and his health and happiness of more importance. Asa wife she was amiable, submissive, dutiful; but it needed nohypersensitiveness on the husband's part to warn him that she gave himduty without love, submission without reverence or esteem Theconsciousness of his wife's indifference made Mr. Wendover less agreeablethan he had been during that brief courtship among the willows and rushesby the river. He was inclined to be captious, and did not conceal hisjealousy of the boy from Ida, although he set a watch upon his tongue inthe presence of Vernon's father and mother. 

After all it was a rather pleasant thing to have free quarters atWimperfield, to have hunters to ride, and covers to shoot over which werealmost as much his own as if they had belonged to him. Sir ReginaldPalliser had a large way of conferring benefits, which was instinctive ina man of his open and careless temper. Having given Brian Wendover whathe called the run of his teeth at Wimperfield, he had no idea of limitingthe privileges of residence there. Even when the stud-groom grumbled atthe laming of a fine horse by injudicious bucketting up hill and downhill in a lively run with the Petersfield Harriers Sir Reginald madelight of the injury, and sent Pepperbox into the straw-yard to recover athis leisure. His own use of the stable was restricted to an occasionalride on an elderly brown cob, of aristocratic lineage and manners thatwould have been perfect but for the old-gentleman-like habit of droppingasleep over his work. The new baronet was too lazy to hunt, too liberalto put down the hunting stable established by his predecessor. The horseswere there--let Ida and Brian ride them. Of those good things which theblind goddess had flung into his lap nothing was too good for hisdaughter or his daughter's husband in Sir Reginald's opinion. 

Happily for the domestic peace, Lady Palliser was able to get onharmoniously with her stepdaughter's husband, and was not disposed togrudge him the luxuries of Wimperfield. 

Brian Walford had been quick to take that good-hearted little woman'sintellectual measure. He flattered her small vanities, and made her sopleased with herself that she was naturally pleased with him. His shallowand frivolous nature made him livelier company than a man of profounderthought and deeper feeling. He sang light and lively music from the comicoperas of the day, nay, would even stoop to some popular strain from themusic-halls. He was clever at all round games and drawing-roomamusements. He enlivened conversation with puns, which ranged from theutterly execrable to the tolerably smart. He quoted all the plays andburlesques that had been acted in London during the last five years; hecould imitate all the famous actors; and he was a past master of modernslang. There was not much society within an easy drive of Wimperfield, but the few jog-trot county people who dined, or lunched, orafternoon-tea'd with the Pallisers were enlivened by Mr. Wendover'ssocial gifts, and talked of him afterwards as a talented young man. 

So far Mr. Wendover had taken the goods the gods provided with a placidacceptance, and had shown no avidity for independence. He was silent asto his professional prospects, although Sir Reginald had told him in thebeginning of things that if he wanted to make his way at the Bar anymoney required for the smoothing of his path should be provided. 

'You are too good, ' Brian answered lightly; 'but it isn't a question ofmoney--it's a question of time. The Bar is a horribly slow profession. Aman has to eat his heart out waiting for briefs. '

'Yes, I have always heard as much, ' said Sir Reginald; 'but will it do aswell for you to eat your heart out down here as in the Temple? Will thebriefs follow you to Wimperfield when the propitious time comes?'

'I believe they are about as likely to find me here as anywhere else, 'answered Brian, moodily, --he was apt to turn somewhat sullen at anysuggestion of hard work--'and in the meanwhile I am not wasting my time. I can go on writing for the magazines. '

That writing for the magazines was an unknown quantity. The young manoccasionally shut himself in a little upstairs study on a wet day, smokedexcessively, and was supposed to be writing laboriously, his intellectbeing fed and sustained by tobacco. Sometimes the result of the day was afat package of manuscript despatched to the post-office; sometimes therewas no result except a few torn sheets of foolscap in the waste-paperbasket Sometimes the manuscript came back to the writer after aconsiderable interval; and at other times Mr. Wendover informed his wifevaguely that 'those fellows' had accepted his contribution. Whateverhonorarium he received for his work was expended upon his _menusplaisirs_--or may be said rather to have dribbled from his waistcoatpocket in a series of trivial ex-travagances which won him a reputationfor generosity among grooms and such small deer. To his wife he gavenothing: she was amply provided with money by her father, who would havelavished his newly-acquired wealth upon her if she had been disposed tospend it; but she was not. Her desires were no more extravagant now thanwhen she was receiving ten pounds a quarter from Miss Wendover. Sooth tosay, the temptations to extravagance at Wimperfield were not manifold. Ida's only need for money was that she might give it to the poor, andthat, according to Jeremy Taylor, is to send one's cash straight toheaven. 

The few old-established inhabitants of the neighbourhood, mostly sons ofthe soil, who attended the village church, were very plain in theirraiment, knowing that they occupied a position in the general regardwhich no finery of velvets or satins could modify. Did not everybodyabout Wimperfield know everybody else's income, how much or how littlethe various estates were encumbered, the poverty or richness of the soil, and the rent of every farm upon it? It was only when Lady Pontifex ofHeron Court came down from town, bringing gowns and cloaks and bonnetsfrom Regent Street or the Rue de la Paix, that a transitory flash ofsplendour lighted up the shadowy old nave with the glow of newly-inventedhues and the sheen of newly-woven fabrics. But the natives only gazed andadmired. There was nobody adventurous enough to imitate the audacities ofa lady of fashion. Miss Emery, of Petersfield, was quite good enough forthe landed gentry of this quiet region. She had the fashions direct fromParis in the gaily-coloured engravings of _Le Follet_, and what couldanyone want more fashionable than Paris fashions? True that Miss Emery'sconscientious cutting and excellent workmanship imparted a certainheaviness to Parisian designs; but who would care to have a gown blowntogether, as it were, by girls who were not allowed to sit down at theirwork?

The life at Wimperfield was a pleasant life, albeit exceedingly quiet. There were times when Brian Walford felt the dulness of this rusticexistence somewhat oppressive; but if life indoors was monotonous anduneventful, he had a good deal of amusement out of doors--hunting, shooting, football, and an occasional steeple-chase within a day's drive. And a grand point was that nobody asked him to work hard. He could make agreat show of industry with books and foolscap, and nobody pryed tooclosely into the result. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

LADY PALLISER STUDIES THE UPPER TEN. 

Ida was not left long in ignorance as to the friendly feelings of thoseshe had left behind at Kingthorpe. Bessie's first letter reached herwithin a few days of her arrival at Wimperfield--a loving little letter, full of sorrowful expressions about the two good young fellows who weregone, yet not concealing the writer's pleasure at her friend's elevation. 

'When are we to meet again, dearest?' asked Bessie, after she had givenfull expression to her feelings; 'are you to come to us, or are we togo to you? What is the etiquette of the situation? Father and motherknow nothing about outside points of etiquette. Beyond the commonrules of dinners and calls, calls and dinners, I believe they are inbenighted ignorance. Shall we tell John Coachman to put four horses tothe landau--with himself and the under-gardener as postilions--and postover to Wimperfield--just as they pay visits in Miss Austin's novels?Perhaps now we have gone back to Chippendale furniture, we shall returnto muslin frocks and the manners of Miss Austin's time. I'm sure I wishwe could. Life seems to have been so much simpler in her day, and so muchcheaper. Darling, I am longing to see you. Remember you are my cousinnow--my very own near relation. It was Fate, you see, that made me sofond of you, from that first evening when you helped me so kindly with myGerman exercise. '

There was also a letter from Aunt Betsy, quite as affectionate, but inmuch fewer words, and more to the purpose. 

'We shall drive over to see your father and mother as soon as we hearthat they are disposed to receive visitors, ' said Miss Wendover inconclusion. 

'I wonder Miss Wendover did not say Sir Reginald and Lady Palliser, 'observed Ida's stepmother, when she had read this letter. 

The little woman had been devoting herself very earnestly to the perusalof books of etiquette--'The Upper Circles, ' 'What is What, ' 'The Crême dela Crême, ' and works of a corresponding order, and was now much morelearned in the infinitesimals of polite life than was Sir Reginald or hisdaughter. She had a profound belief in the mysterious authors of theseinteresting volumes. 

'The "Crême de la Crême" must be right, you know, Ida, ' she said, whensome dictum was disputed, 'for the book was written by a Countess. '

'A Countess who wears a shoddy tourist suit, and smokes shag, and sleepsin a two pair back in Camden Town, most likely, ' said Sir Reginald, laughing. 

The new baronet utterly refused to be governed by the hard and fast rulesof the 'Crême de la Crême. ' He daily did things which were absolute andawful heresies in the sight of that authority, and Lady Palliser wassorely exercised at her very first dinner-party by seeing the countypeople of Wimperfield setting at naught the precepts of the anonymousCountess at every stage of the evening. They did those things which theyought not to have done, and they left undone those things which theyought to have done, and, from the Countess's point of view were utterlywithout manners. 

But although Lady Palliser thought Miss Wendover's letter deficient inceremony, she was not the less ready to welcome Ida's Kingthorpe friends;so a hearty invitation to dine and stay the night was sent to the Coloneland his wife, to Aunt Betsy, and as many of the junior members of thefamily as the biggest available carriage would hold. 

It was the beginning of November when this visit occurred, but thefoliage was still green on the elm tree tops, while many a lovely tint ofyellow and brown still glowed on the woodland. The weather was balmy, sunshiny, the sky as blue as at midsummer; and Ida, with her face asradiant as the sunlight, stood in the porch ready to welcome her friendswhen the wagonette drove up. 

'Oh! but where are Blanche and Eva? and why did not the boys come?' sheinquired, when she had shaken hands with the Colonel, and had been kissedand embraced by Mrs. Wendover, Aunt Betsy, and Bessie: 'surely they arecoming too?'

'No, dear; I think we are quite a strong enough party as it is, ' answeredMrs. Wendover. 

'Not half strong enough! you have no idea what a barrack Wimperfieldis--but Bessie knows, and ought to have told you. There aretwo-and-twenty bedrooms. It would have been a charity to have filled someof them. I am dreadfully disappointed!'

'Never mind, dear, you will see enough of them, depend upon it. But whereis Brian?'

'Oh! it is one of his harrier days. He left all sorts of apologies fornot being at home to receive you. He will be home before dinner. Here ismamma, ' as Lady Palliser came sailing out, in a forty-guinea gown fromJay, all glitter of bugles, and sheen of satin, putting Mrs. Wendover'shomespun travelling dress to shame. There was a dinner-gown with theluggage, but a gown which, in comparison with Lady Palliser's satin andjet, would be like the cloudy countenance of Luna on a November night, ascompared with the glory of Sol on a midsummer morning. But then, happily, Mrs. Wendover was not the kind of person to suffer at being worse dressedthan her hostess. Lady Palliser sank in a low curtsey when Ida murmured arather vague presentation, and again beheld the Countess's eternal lawsviolated by her guests, for the Colonel and his wife shook hands with avigour which in the 'Crême de la Crême' was stigmatised as a barbarousvulgarity; while Aunt Betsy was so taken up with Ida that, after a smileand a nod, she actually turned her back upon the lady of the house. 

'My poor child, how horridly ill you are looking, ' Miss Wendoverexclaimed, holding Ida by both hands and looking searchingly into herface. 'Prosperity has not agreed with you. I can see the traces ofsleepless nights under your eyes. '

'It was such a shock, ' murmured Ida. 

'Yes, it was a terrible shock. Those fine frank young fellows! It wasever so long before I could get the images of them out of my mind. And Icould not help feeling very sorry for them, in spite of your goodfortune--'

'Don't call it my good fortune, ' said Ida; 'I am glad my father is betteroff; but I was happier when I was poor. '

'And yet you used to say such bitter things about poverty?'

'Yes, I was a worshipper of Mammon in those days; but now I have gotinside the temple and have found out that he is a false god. '

'He is not a god, but a devil. "The least erected spirit that fell fromheaven. " My poor Ida! And so you have found out that there are dust andashes inside golden apples! Never mind; you will learn to enjoy theprivileges and comforts of wealth better when you are better used tobeing rich. And in the meantime tell me that you are happy in yourmarried life, that you and Brian are getting on pleasantly together. '

'We never quarrel, ' said Ida, looking downward. 

'Oh, that is a bad sign. Tell me something better than that. '

'You all told me that it was my duty to live with my husband. I am tryingto do my duty, ' Ida answered gravely. 

There was no radiance upon her face now. All the happiness--the unselfishdelight of welcoming her friends--had faded, and left her pale anddespondent. 

She threw off all gloomy thoughts presently, and was running about thehouse, showing her friends their rooms, giving directions to servants, making a good deal more fuss, and making more use of her own hands, thanthe author of 'La Crême de la Crême' would have tolerated. 

'A lady's hands, ' said that exalted personage, 'are not for use, but forornament. Her first object should be to preserve their delicacy of formand colour; her second to be always _bien gantée_. She should never liftanything heavier than her teacup; and she should rather endure someinconvenience from cold while waiting the attendance of her footman thanshe should so far derogate from feminine dignity as to put on a shovel ofcoals. The rule of her life should be to do nothing which her domesticsor her _dame de compagnie_ can do for her. '

'My dearest Ida, ' remonstrated Lady Palliser, remembering this classicpassage, 'what do you mean by carrying that bag?' Are there no servantsin the house?'

'Half-a-dozen too many, mamma; but I like to do something with my ownhands for those I love. '

Lady Palmer sighed, recalling the days when she had cooked her husband'sbreakfasts and dinners, and had been happier--so it seemed to her now--inperforming that domestic duty than in giving orders to a housekeeper ofwhom she stood in awe. But Fanny Palliser had made up her mind that sheought to become a fine lady, in order to do credit to her husband'saltered fortunes, and she was working assiduously with that intent. 

The guests had arrived in time for luncheon, and after luncheon LadyPalliser and the three elders went for a long drive in the landau, toexplore the best points in the surrounding scenery, while Ida and Bessie, with Vernon in their company, started for a long ramble in the Park andwoods. The boy ran about hither and thither, flitting from bank to bank, in quest of flowers or insects, curious about everything in nature, vividas a flash in all his movements. Thus the two girls were left very muchto themselves, and were able to talk as they liked, only occasionallygiving their attention to some newly-discovered wonder of Vernon's, atadpole in the act of shedding his horny beak, or some giganticdevelopment of the genus toadstool, which species was just then in fullseason. 

At first there was a shadow of constraint upon Bessie's manner; and inone whose nature was so frank, the faintest touch of reserve waspainfully obvious. For a little while all her talk was of Wimperfield andits beauties. 

'And to think that my dear old pet should be a leading member of ourcounty families!' she exclaimed; 'it is too delightful. '

'Indeed, Bess, I am nothing of the kind. I am a very insignificantperson--nothing but my father's daughter. Brian and I are only here onsufferance. '

'Oh, that's nonsense, dear. I heard Sir Reginald tell my father thatWimperfield was to be your home and Brian's as long as ever you bothlike--as long as your father lives, in fact. Brian can have his chambersin town, and work at his profession, but you are to live at Wimperfield. '

'That can hardly be, ' answered Ida, gloomily; 'when Brian goes to London, I must go with him. It will be my duty, you know, ' with a shade ofbitterness. 

'Well, then, this will be your country house--and that will be ever somuch better; for after all, you know, however delightful the country maybe, it is rather like being buried alive to live in it all the yearround. I suppose Brian will soon begin to work at his profession--to readlaw books, and wait for briefs, don't you know. '

'I hope so, ' answered Ida, coldly; 'but I do not think your cousin isvery fond of hard work. '

'Oh, but he must work--manhood demands it. He cannot possibly go onsponging upon your father for ever. '

'There is no question of sponging. Brian is welcome here, as you haveheard. Lady Palliser likes him very much, and we all get on very welltogether. '

'But you would like your husband to work, wouldn't you, Ida?'

'I should like him to be a man, ' answered Ida, curtly. 

In all this time there had been no mention of that other Brian--the ownerof Wendover Abbey. No word of congratulation had come to Ida from himupon the change in her fortunes; nor had her husband told her of anycommunication from his cousin. She concluded, therefore, that Brian theelder had made no sign. It might be that he had dismissed her from hismind as unworthy of further thought or care. He had discovered herfalsehood, her worthlessness, and she was no longer the woman he had onceloved and honoured She had passed out of his life, like an evil dreamwhich he had dreamed and forgotten. 

His voice had been silent when those other voices--the Colonel's and theCurate's--had told her that it was her duty to fulfil the vow she hadvowed before God's altar: to share her husband's fate for good or ill. Brian, her lover of a few minutes before, had held his peace. What had hethought of her in those bitter moments? Had there been one touch of pitymingled with his scorn? She could not tell. He had made no sign. 

From the moment of her friends arrival she had tremulously expected somemention of Mr. Wendover's name; but that name had not been spoken. Thesilence was a relief: and yet she yearned to know something more: whetherhe had spoken of her with friendly feeling, whether he thought of herwith compassion. 

Not for worlds would she have questioned Bessie upon this subject: noteven Bessie, whose childish love so invited confidence, before whosetender eyes she could never feel ashamed. 

After that little talk about Brian Walford there followed a good deal oftalk about Mr. Jardine. He was promised a living, not a big benefice byany means, but still an actual living and an actual Vicarage, in thevicinity of Salisbury Plain; and he and Bessie were to be married earlyin the following year, as soon as there were enough spring flowers todecorate Kingthorpe Church, the Colonel had said. 

'It is to be in the time of daffodils, just before Lent, ' said Bess;'Easter comes late next year, you know. '

'I don't know; but no doubt you have found out all about it, ' Idaanswered, laughing. 'God bless you, dear, and make your wedded life onelong honeymoon!'

'I have seen marriages like that, ' said Bess. 'Father and mother, forinstance. They are always spooning. Oh, Ida! doesn't it seem dreadfullysoon to be married?'

'There is plenty of time for reflection, ' answered Ida, with a sigh. 

Bessie remembered how sudden a thing matrimony had been in her friend'scase. 

'Ah, darling, I know what you are thinking about, ' she said tenderly. 'You married on the spur of the moment, and were just a little sorryafterwards; but I have been so fenced and guarded by parental wisdom thatI could not do anything foolish--if I tried ever so. And then John is fartoo wise to propose anything wild or romantic--yet I think if he had cometo me and said, "There is a dog-cart at the gate, let us drive over toRomsey Church and be married, " I should hardly have known how to say no. But, Ida, dear, tell me that your hasty marriage has turned out a happyone after all. Brian is so very nice. Confess now that you are happy withhim!'

Bessie had intended scrupulously to avoid any such home question; but herfeelings carried her away directly she began to talk of John Jardine. 

'I cannot tell you a lie. Bessie; no, my life is not a happy one. Allcolour and brightness, all youthfulness and fervour, went out of me whenI left Kingthorpe; but it is an endurable life, and I make the best ofit. '

'Brian is not unkind to you, I hope?' cried Bessie, prepared to beindignant. 

'No, he is not unkind. I have no complaint to make against him. '

'But surely he is nice, ' argued Bessie; 'I have always thought him one ofthe nicest young men I know. He has very good manners, he knows a gooddeal, can talk of almost any subject, and he is full of life and spirits, when he wants to be amusing. '

'I have no doubt he is a very agreeable person, ' answered Ida, gloomily. 'I have never disputed that. And yet our marriage was a mistake, all thesame. '

'But when you married him, surely then you must have cared for him, justa little?'

'I thought I did. It was the glamour of his imaginary wealth. It was theworship of the golden calf, exemplified in one of its vilest phases, amercenary marriage. '

'Do not lower yourself too much, dearest, ' pleaded Bessie hugging herfriend's arm affectionately, as they tramped across the witheredbracken. ' You are too good to have been governed by any sordid feeling. The delusion must have gone deeper?'

'It did. I married in a rhapsody of gratitude, thinking that I had founda modern Cophetua. Say no more about it, Bess, if you love me!'

'I will never say another word, dear, ' sighed Bess; 'but I do wish youhad been single when you met the other Brian, for I know he was more thanhalf in love with you. And now he is going off to the other end of theworld again, and goodness knows if he will ever come back. '

The upper tracts of heaven were beginning to grow gray, the sun wassinking in a bed of red and gold behind a clump of oaks on the edge ofthe horizon--the dark and delicate outline of leafless branchesdistinctly marked against that yellow light. Wimperfield Park was almostat its best upon such an afternoon as this, the turf soft and springyafter autumnal rains, the atmosphere tranquil and balmy, and all animalcreation--deer, oxen, rabbits, feathered game, and an innumerable army ofrooks--full of life and motion. Ida was slow to reply to Bessie's newsabout her cousin. The two girls walked on in silence for a little way, Vernon running ever so far ahead of them to look for fallen nuts in agrove of fine old Spanish chestnuts, which stood boldly out on the top ofa hill. 

'Don't you feel sorry that he is going away?' asked Bessie at last; 'justas he had established himself among us, and begun all kinds ofimprovement at the Abbey farm, and was even thinking of building newschools. '

'It is a pity, ' said Ida. 

'It is simply horrid. He is quite as bad as those Irish Absentees who arecontinually getting murdered; or he would be as bad, if he had notarranged with my father for the carrying on of all his plans while he isaway. '

'That is very good of him. '

'Good, yes; but it will be a dreadful responsibility for poor father, andI daresay we shall all be worried about it. He will have builders on thebrain till the work is finished. My poor John has promised to look afterthe schools; and he is so conscientious that he will wear himself to ashadow rather than neglect the smallest detail. '

'But are you not pleased that he can be of so much use?'

'I am obliged to be pleased. I am going to be a clergyman's wife; and Imust teach myself to look at everything from the parochial point of view. John and I will not belong to ourselves, but to our parish. Our ownpleasure, our own health, our own interests, must be as nothing to us. Wemust only exist as machines for the maintenance of the proper churchservices and for the relief of the sick and poor. '

'If you think it too hard a life, dear, there is time for you to drawback!'

'Oh, Ida, do you think I am like Lot's wife, regretting the falsefrivolous world I am going to renounce? What life could be too hardshared with _him?_'

'God bless you, dear. I believe your life will be a very happy one, ' saidIda, earnestly, and with a touch of melancholy. There was so much thatwas enviable in Bessie's fate. Then, after a pause, she saidhesitatingly, 'Do you know why your cousin is going to leave England?'

'No; I know no reason except his natural restlessness. He is a member ofthe Geographical, you know, and attends all their meetings. The other dayhe went up to hear some old fellow prose about the regions north ofAfghanistan, and he was so interested that he made arrangements at oncefor an exploration on his own account. And I daresay he will get killedby some savage tribe, or die of fever. '

'He is not going alone, I hope?'

'No, he has a friend almost as mad as himself, and they are goingtogether. That will mean two for the savages to kill instead of one; andI suppose they will have an interpreter and two or three servants, whichwill be a few more for the savages. '

'Let us hope they will not go into really dangerous places, There must beso much for a traveller to see in India, without running any greatrisks, ' said Ida, affecting a cheerful tone. 

'But you know English travellers love to run risks. It is their only ideaof enjoyment. A man like Brian is told of some mountain or somesettlement where no Englishman has ever set his foot before, and he says, "That is the very place for me, " and the experiment naturally results inhis getting murdered. ' They had finished their ramble, and were in frontof the portico by this time. 

'Oh, Bessie!' said Ida, with a stifled sob, 'life is full of sad changes. Do you remember that summer afternoon, three mouths ago, when Vernon andPeter stood on those steps bidding us good-bye, as we drove away withyour cousin? and now those two are lying at the bottom of the sea, and heis going to the other end of the world. '

The Wendover visit was altogether a success. There was something soconciliating, so sympathetic, so entirely comfortable in Mrs. Wendover'snature and outward characteristics, that Lady Palliser felt almostimmediately at her ease with her, and forgot her newly-acquired manners, becoming a good deal more ladylike in consequence; since the strict andstern system of etiquette, formulated in the 'Crême de la Crême, ' did notlie conformably to the original formation of the little woman'sdisposition. To be free and easy, loquacious, fussy, and kind was FannyPalliser's nature, and she became odious when she tried to restrain thosesimple impulses by the armour of formal manners. 

'I never had a lady friend I liked better than Mrs. Wendover, ' she toldIda, in confidence, on the second day of the visit. 

Fanny Palliser was not quite so much at ease with Aunt Betsy. She had anidea that the spinster was satirical, and was inwardly critical of hershortcomings. She was impressed by the wide extent of Aunt Betsy'sinformation, most especially when that lady talked politics with SirReginald, and contrived to hem him into corners whence there was nological thoroughfare. Aunt Betsy was Liberal to the verge of Radicalism;Sir Reginald a Tory of the good old pig-headed type, who looked upon alladvance movements as revolutionary, and thought that his own party hadgone mad. 

'I don't like strong-minded women, ' Lady Palliser told Ida when theguests had left. 'I have no doubt Miss Wendover is very kind-hearted andgenerous--I'm sure her kindness to you was wonderful--but she is not _my_idea of a lady. That brocade dinner-gown was lovely, and fitted her likea glove; but the way she put her elbows on the table when she talked toSir Reginald at dessert--well, I never did!'

Brian Walford had made himself particularly agreeable during the briefvisit of his kindred--agreeable to both sides of the house. It was hisdesire to stand well with both. He wanted his uncle and aunts to see thathe was thought much of at Wimperfield--that he was a valued member of thehousehold, respected and liked by his wife's family, that he had donewell for himself by his marriage, and that whatever cloud hadovershadowed the opening of his wedded life had vanished altogether fromhis horizon. People so soon forgive and forget a little wrong-doing ifthe sinner comes comfortably out of his difficulties, and becomes aprosperous member of society. The Colonel and his wife, who had alwaysliked Ida, liked her all the better now that they saw her established ina stately home--the only daughter of a man of fortune and position. 

On the morning of her departure, Miss Wendover contrived to have a_téte-â-téte_ with Sir Reginald; in the course of which she informedhim that she meant to leave half her money to her niece Bessie, and theother half to her nephew--Brian Walford. 

'The land, of course, will go to Brian of the Abbey, ' she said. 'WeWendovers can't afford to divide the soil. Out chances of doing good inthe land depend upon our having a large interest in the neighbourhood. '

'Why, Miss Wendover, I thought you were a Radical!' exclaimed SirReginald. 

'So I am in many of my ideas, but not for cutting up the land into littlebits, to pass from hand to hand like a ten-pound note, until there shouldnot be an estate left in England with a long family history, nor a richman left in the rural districts to take care of the poor. England wouldbe badly off without her squirearchy. '

Sir Reginald and Miss Wendover were thoroughly agreed upon this point. Hethanked her for her generous intentions towards her nephew; and he toldher that he meant to provide fairly for his daughter. 'The entail expiresin my person, ' he said; 'I can do what I like for my girl. Of course thewhole of the estate will go to Vernon. He is the last of his race, and Ihope I may live to see him married, and the father of sons to inherit hisname. It is a hard thing to think that a good old name must perish offthe face of the land. However, I am free to make my will as I like, and Ishall leave Ida six or seven hundred a year. She and Brian ought to geton very well with that, and his profession. I should like to see him alittle more energetic--a little fonder of hard work, ' pursued SirReginald, with a sigh, conscious of having never felt a stronginclination that way on his own part; 'but I suppose all young men areidle. '

'No, they are not, ' retorted Aunt Betsy, sharply. 'There are workersand idlers in all families--men born to honour or to dishonour--racesapart--like the drones and the working bees. Look at my other nephew, forexample--a man who has seven thousand a year, and not a creature togainsay him if he chose to dissipate his days and nights on worldlypleasures. He is your true type of worker--a fine Greek scholar--anaturalist, a traveller, a thorough sportsman, where sport means courage, adventure, intelligence, endurance. Fortune made him a rich man, but hehas made himself a man of mark in every circle in which he has everlived, and I am proud to own him for my own flesh and blood. Nature gaveBrian Walford many gifts, and what has he done for himself? Learnt todress as foplings dress, and to think as foplings think!'

'He is a very nice young fellow!' said Sir Reginald kindly; 'we are allfond of him; only we think--for his own sake--it would be better if hetook life more seriously. '

'He must be made to take life seriously, ' replied the spinster sternly. 'Yes, he is very nice--that is the worst of it; if he were nasty no onewould tolerate him. I'm afraid his good qualities will be his ruin. ' Andthus, promising good things, yet prophesying evil, Miss Wendover leftWimperfield. Ida was to go and stay with her later on at the Homestead, when Brian Walford should be reading law in those new Chambers which heoften talked about. There were times when to hear him talk people thoughthim a youth gnawed and consumed by ambition, only panting for theopportunity to work. 

Two days after the Wendovers had gone back, Brian showed his wife aletter from his cousin, Brian of the Abbey. 

'I am leaving England for a longer period than usual, and going fartherafield, ' wrote the master of Wendover Abbey; 'so before starting I feelmyself bound to do something definite for you. '

'He has helped me with odd sums now and then, I suppose you know?' saidBrian, as Ida read this passage. 

'I did not know, ' she answered coldly; 'but I am not surprised to hearthat he has been generous to you. '

'No, he is your paragon--your preux chevalier--is he not?' sneered Brian. 'Bessie told me as much. '

'She told you only the truth. No one who lives at Kingthorpe can helpknowing that your cousin is a good man. '

She went on with the letter. 

'Now you are married the claims upon you will be larger than theyhave been, and I know you will not care to be a pensioner upon yourfather-in-law's bounty. I have, therefore, arranged with my bankers thatyou should draw on me quarterly for a hundred and fifty pounds while I amaway. This will help you to keep the wolf from the door while you arereading for the Bar. I hope to find you a successful junior, in the firststage of a prosperous journey to the Bench, when I come back. '

'Six hundred a year. Not half bad, is it, Ida?'

'It is very good of him. I hope you will do as he suggests. '

'How do you mean?'

'Work hard at your profession. '

'I shall work hard enough, ' answered Brian, turning sullen, 'unless youall badger me. I hate being badgered. '

CHAPTER XXIII. 

'ALL OUR LIFE IS MIXED WITH DEATH. '

Four years and more had gone, and there were changes atWimperfield--changes at Kingthorpe. Death had come to the Georgianmansion among the wood-crowned hills. The easy-going master of that goodold house had taken life a little too easily, had disregarded thewarnings of wife and doctor, had dined and slept, and drunk his favouritewines--not immoderately, but with utter disregard of medical regimen--hadneither walked, nor ridden, but had let life slip by him in a placid, plethoric self-indulgence--shunning all exertion, all pleasure even, ifit were allied with activity of any kind. So, in an existence almost assleepy as the spell-bound slumber in Beauty's enchanted palace, Ida'sfather had left the door of his mansion ajar to the fell visitor Death, and the fatal day had come suddenly, with no more warning than SirReginald heard Sunday after Sunday in church, or read any evening in hisfavourite Horace, as he turned the carmine-bordered leaves of one ofFirmin Didot's exquisite duodecimos, and mused pleasantly over the poet'sperpetual variations upon the old theme--

'Brother, we must all die. '

The guest came like a thief in the night, and snatched his prey, in themidst of the family circle, in the leisurely lamplit hour after dinner, with the sound of gay voices and light laughter in the air. The senselessbody breathed and throbbed for another day and another light: and thenall was over--and Ida and her stepmother knelt side by side, clasped ineach other's arms, by the clay which both had fondly loved. 

They were alone in their sorrow. Brian was in London. Vernon was with Mr. And Mrs. Jardine, at their parsonage on Salisbury Plain, being preparedfor Eton. The two women grieved together in a mournful solitude for thefirst day on which the house was darkened, and the presence of death waspalpable in their midst. 

Brian hurried down to Wimperfield directly the news reached him. He wasagitated by the event, which had happened without any note of warning. Hewas not given to forecasting the future, and it had seemed to him thatlife at Wimperfield was to go on for ever in the same groove--immutableas the course of the planets; that he was always to have a luxurious homethere--a fine stable--an indulgent father-in-law. He had been really fondof Sir Reginald, after his manner, and his sudden death shocked andgrieved him. And then it gave a shade of uncertainty to his own future. He did not know how the estate might be left--how tied up and hedgedround by executors and trustees, shutting him out of his present almostproprietorial enjoyment of the place. Some smug London lawyer, perhaps, would put his sleek paw upon everything during the boy's minority. SirReginald had never talked to Brian of his will. 

The smug town lawyer came down, but not to impound Wimperfield--only toread the late baronet's will, which was entirely in harmony with the deadman's easy and generous temper. 

He left his widow an annuity of fifteen hundred pounds, and the privilegeof occupying Wimperfield until his son should come of age, and on leavingWimperfield she was to receive the sum of two thousand pounds, to enableher to furnish any house she might choose to rent for herself. To hisdaughter he left any two horses she might select from the existing stud, and seven hundred a year in the Three per Cents, the principal to bedivided among her children, if of age at the date of her death, or to beheld in trust for them if under age. In the event of Vernon dyingunmarried, Ida was to inherit everything; in the event of his marryingbut having no children, his widow was to take the same annuity as thatbequeathed to Lady Palliser, and the estate was to go to Ida, withreversion to her eldest son, or, in the event of no son, to her eldestdaughter, whose husband was to take the name of Palliser. In this mannerhad short-lived man endeavoured to make his name live after him. 

Ida and her stepmother were left joint guardians of the boy, Vernon. 

To Brian Walford Wendover, Sir Reginald bequeathed only his favouritehunter, a leash of chumber spaniels, and fifty pounds for a memorialring. Mr. Wendover could not find fault with a will which left his wifeseven hundred a year; but he felt that his position was diminished by hisfather-in-law's death, and he was morbidly jealous of the boy, who hadabsorbed so much of his wife's care and affection from the first hour oftheir coming to Wimperfield. 

'I suppose we are to turn out now, ' he said to Ida the night after thefuneral, when they two were slowly and sadly pacing the terrace, in frontof the drawing-room windows. It was the beginning of December--bleak, cheerless weather--and the woods looked black against a dull gray sky. There was only one feeble streak of pale yellow light in the west Bonder, behind gaunt patriarchal oaks. 

'Your father's will is a very handsome will, ' continued Brian, 'but itleaves no provision for our living on here, and I suppose we shall haveto clear out. '

'Leave Wimperfield! Oh, no, I'm sure Lady Palliser has no idea of such athing. Leave Wimperfield, and Vernon? He has a double claim upon me now, my fatherless darling. '

'Of course, Vernon is your first thought, ' sneered Brian. 'But wouldn'tit be just as well to think of ways and means! Who is to keep upWimperfield? Lady Palliser, on her fifteen hundred a year; or you, onyour seven hundred?'

'I can help mamma. She can have all my income, except just enough to buymy clothes; and my father gave me gowns enough to last for the next fiveyears. But I heard the lawyer say that the place would be kept up forVernie. Lady Palliser would hardly have any occasion to spend her income, except in paying for actual personal expenses, her own servants, and soon. '

'Good for Lady Palliser; but that doesn't make our position any moresecure, if she should want to get rid of us?'

'I'm sure she will want us to stay. You ought to know her better than tosuggest such a thing. You must know her affectionate nature, and how fondshe is of us both. '

'I never presume to _know_ anything of any woman. She seems to like us;but who can tell what may lurk under that seeming. She may marry again, and want to make a clean sweep of old associations. '

'Mamma! How can you think of such a horrid thing? No, she is as true assteel; she has been a good and loyal wife to my father. '

'That doesn't prevent her being good and loyal to a second husband; nay, her very virtues--affectionateness, a soft clinging nature--point to theprobability of a second marriage. It is just such women who fail into theadventurer's trap. However, we won't quarrel about her, and so long asshe is cordial, and likes to have us here, Wimperfield can be our countryhouse. '

This was a somewhat loose way of sneaking, for Wimperfield had beenIda's only house during her married life. Brian had his chambers inthe Temple at a rent of a hundred and twenty-five pounds a year, hissitting-room furnished with none of that Spartan ruggedness which so wellbecame George Warrington, of Pump Court, but in the willow-pattern andpeacock-feather style of art; the dingy old walls glorified by finephotographs of Gerôme's Roman Gladiators, Phryne before her judges, Socrates searching for Alcibiades at the house of Aspasia, and enlargedcarbonized portraits of the reigning beauties in London society. Butthese chambers, though supposed to be devoted to days of patient work andmuch consumption of midnight oil, had served chiefly as a basis for latebreakfasts, club-dinners, and theatre-going, while the midnight oil hadbeen mostly associated with lobster salad at snug little suppers afterthe play. Ida had never been at these chambers, although she had beeninvited there frequently during the first few months of her husband'stenancy. As time went by Mr. Wendover found it was more convenient thathis town and country residences should be completely distinct; and it hadgradually become an accepted fact at Wimperfield that Temple Chamberswere a kind of habitation which a man's wife could hardly visit withoutviolating the first principles of legal etiquette. 

Brian Walford was speedily reassured as to his position at Wimperfield. Lady Palliser clung to her stepdaughter in her widowhood with a stillwarmer affection than she had shown during her husband's lifetime. Idawas her adviser, her strong rock, her resource in all difficulties andperplexities, social or domestic. Nor would she allow her stepdaughter orher stepdaughter's husband to share the expenses of housekeeping atWimperfield. The allowance for the young baronet's maintenance duringhis minority was large enough to cover all expenses of the very quiethousehold, likely to be even more quiet now that Sir Reginald Palliser, aman of particularly social habits, was gone. 

Lady Palliser had never been able to feel thoroughly at home among thecounty people. Their language was not her language, nor their habits herhabits. She could have got on ever so much better with them had they beenless homely and free and easy in their ways. She had schooled herself ina politeness of line and rule, had learnt good manners by rote; and tofind all her theories continually ignored or traversed was a perplexityand a trouble to her. If the county people had only treated her with therigid stiffness enjoined in a three-and-sixpenny manual, she could havemet them upon equal ground. She could have remembered the social lawsmade and provided for her guidance as guest or hostess--how to enter andleave a room, in what attitude to stand or sit, with the fitting use ofevery item of table furniture, from the fish knife and fork to the salverof rose water. But when she beheld the county people doing outrageousthings with their legs, and altogether heterodox in their way of eatingand drinking, when she heard them talk very much as the 'lady friends' ofher girlhood had talked over their washtubs, or kitchen ranges, yet withan indescribable difference, and never by any chance realising her owninnate ideas of company manners, Lady Palliser felt herself more and moreat sea in this new world of hers. Thus it was that she fell into the wayof letting Ida manage everything for her, and of meekly accepting suchfriends as Ida brought round her, and making much of those mothers whoseboys were of an age to be play-fellows for her own beloved son. 

And now the master of the house, the central figure in the familypicture, was gone, and the two women had to face life for the most partalone. Brian had grown fonder of London lately. He had held a few briefsduring the last twelve months and could plead business in themetropolitan law-courts as a reason for being very little at Wimperfieldout of the hunting season. The boy was with the Jardines at HopsleyVicarage, except during the happy interval of holidays. He was alwaysglad to come home, but he was generally tired of home before the holidaywas over, and went back to the Jardines with a keen delight which madehis mother's heart ache. 

Ida's character had ripened and strengthened in the years which weregone, years of quiet, submissive performance of duty. She had been a fondand obedient daughter, an almost adoring sister, a good and faithfulwife. If she had not given her husband the love he had hoped to inspire, she had been more considerate, more sympathetic than many a wife who hasmarried for love. She had never wounded him by hard words, had neverexacted sacrifices from him, never pursued her own pleasure when it wasat variance with his. She had long ago gauged his shallow nature--sheknew but too well that he was a reed, and not a rock, and that in all thetrials of life she would have to stand alone; but if she sometimesinwardly scorned him, she never betrayed her scorn, either to him or tothe world after she had once made up her mind as to the nature of thebond between them, and the duties attached to that bond. With ripeningyears and growing wisdom she had atoned nobly for the errors of impulseand reckless anger. 

Brian knew that she was good and loyal; but although he admired andrespected her, he could not forgive her for that innate superiority whichmade him all the more conscious of his own shortcomings, for that growingstrength of character which accentuated his own weakness. When the charmof novelty had departed, when the triumph of having won her in spite ofherself was over, Brian Walford's love for his beautiful wife wore to avery thin thread. The tie was not broken, but it was sorely attenuated. He had never ceased to be jealous of the brother whom she loved so muchmore fondly than she had ever loved, or even pretended to love, herhusband; but he had left off expressing that jealousy in open unbraiding. Once he had been in the habit of saying, 'You will have a boy of your ownsome day, and then Master Vernie will be nowhere;' but that hoped-for sonhad never come, and Vernon was still all in all to his sister. Brian knewthat it was so, and submitted to his lot in sullen acquiescence. Afterall, his marriage had brought him much that was good--had smoothed hispathway in life; and if--if, by-and-by, some such fatality as that whichhad cleared the way for Reginald Palliser, should clear the way for Ida, his wife would be the owner of one of the finest estates in Sussex. Hewished no evil to the young baronet, he bore no grudge against him forIda's idiotic fondness; but the fact remained that the boy's death wouldmake Brian Walford Wendover's wife a rich woman. It is not in the natureof a man living among sharp-witted lawyers and men about town to ignore afact of this kind. His friends had talked to him about it after thepublication of Sir Reginald Palliser's will. 

'A fine thing for you if that young gentleman were to go off the hooks, 'said they; but Brian protested that he had no desire for such promotion. He was fond of the boy, and was very well satisfied with his ownposition. 

'I daresay you do like the little beggar, ' answered his particularfriend, who was loafing away the earlier half of the afternoon in Mr. Wendover's chambers, smoking Mr. Wendover's cigarette, and sipping Mr. Wendover's Apollinaris slightly coloured with brandy--a very modest formof entertainment surely, and yet the cigarettes and the superfine cognac, which were always on tap in Elm Court, made no small appearance in theaccounts of tobacconist and wine merchant. 'You would be sorry ifanything were to happen to him, no doubt; just as I shall be sorry whenthe governor bursts up--poor old fellow! But I know I want his money verybadly; and I think you could spend a good deal more than your presentincome. '

Brian admitted with a light laugh that his capacity for expenditure wasconsiderably in excess of his resources, 'You know how quietly I live, ' he began. 

_'Comme çi, comme ça, '_ muttered his friend. 

'And yet even now I am in debt. '

'And have been ever since I first knew you, and would be if you had fiftythousand a year!'

'Oh, that's inevitable, ' said Brian. 'A man with an income of that kindmust always be in debt. He never can know when he comes to the boundaryline. When a man starts in life by believing he is enormously rich, andcan have everything he wants, he is pretty sure to go to the dogs. That'sthe way the sons of millionaires so often drift towards the gutter. '

CHAPTER XXIV. 

'FRUITS FAIL AND LOVE DIES AND TIME RANGES. '

Brian found Wimperfield duller as a place of residence after SirReginald's death; or it may be that he found London gayer, and hisprofessional duties more absorbing. It was not often that his wife andmother-in-law were gratified by any public notification of hisengagements; but now and then the name of Mr. Wendover appeared as juniorcounsel in some insignificant case, and Lady Palliser, who read the_Times_ and _Post_, diligently apprised Ida of the fact. 

'You see Brian is getting on quite nicely, ' she said approvingly, 'andby-and-by when he has plenty of work, you will have a small house intown, I suppose--somewhere about Belgravia--and only come to Wimperfieldfor your holidays. '

Fanny Palliser had never left off compassionating Ida for her frequentseparation from her husband. She had never divined that Ida was happierin Brian's absence than when he was with her. The wife had so borneherself that her husband should not be put to shame by her indifference. She lived the larger half of her life apart from him; but Lady Palliserand her gossips believed that in so doing the young couple sacrificedinclination to prudence. So soon as they could afford to maintain a townhouse they would have one. 

It was midsummer weather, and the rose garden at Wimperfield, that gardenwhich had been Ida's own peculiar care for the last four years, thegarden which she had improved and beautified with every art learned fromthat ardent rose-worshipper Aunt Betsy, was glorious with its firstblooms. Sir Reginald Palliser had been dead a year and a half, but Idastill wore black gowns, and the widow had in no wise mitigated theseverity of her weeds. The two women had lived peaceably andaffectionately together ever since the baronet's death, leading a quietbut not unhappy life, the placid monotony of their existence agreeablyvaried by frequent intercourse with the family at Kingthorpe. 

The only changes at The Knoll were of a gentle domestic character. Nocloud of trouble had darkened that happy household. Bessie had become abrisk, business-like little matron, dividing her cares between heryearling baby and her husband's parish; troubled, like Martha, about manythings, but only in such a manner as women of her temperament like to betroubled. Reginald had begun his University career as an undergraduate ofBalliol, and talked largely about Professor Jowett, and Greek. Horatiowas still a Wintonian. The Colonel had grown a little stouter, and hiswife was too polite to cultivate a slimness which might have seemed areproach to her husband's comfortable figure. Blanche was 'out, ' adevelopment of her being which meant that she was occasionally invited toa friendly dinner-party with her father and mother, that her clothes costthree times as much as they had cost while she was 'in, ' that she hadideas about blue china and sunflowers, lamented the shabbiness of TheKnoll drawing-room and the general untidiness of the household, and thatshe abandoned herself to despondency whenever there was a long intervalbetween one garden party and another. The child Eva had become exactlywhat Blanche had been four years ago. Urania was still Urania Rylance, just a shade more self-opinionated, and more conscious of the inferiorityof her fellow-creatures. These innate instincts had been ripened anddeveloped by several London seasons, and were now accompanied by aflavour of sourness which was meant for wit. She had not been withoutoffers, but there had been no offer tempting enough to induce her toabandon her privileges as Dr. Rylance's daughter. She had an idea thather marriage would be the signal for Dr. Rylance to take unto himself asecond wife; and she was disinclined to give that signal. The moreanxious her father seemed to dispose of her in the marriage market, themore tenaciously she clung to the privileges of spinsterhood. 

'I hope you are not in a hurry to get rid of me, father, ' she said atbreakfast one morning, when Dr. Rylance urged the claims of a culturedyouth in the War Office. 

'No, my dear; I don't think I have shown any undue haste. This is yourfifth London season. '

I hope you do not call my intermittent glimpses of town a season, 'sneered Urania. 

'I have you here as often and as long as I can, ' answered her father, becoming suddenly stony of countenance, 'and I take you out as much as Ican. Mr. Fitz Wilson has seven hundred a year. I could give you--saythree; and surely with a thousand a year two young people might live invery good style--even in these pretentious days. '

'No doubt. But I don't care for Mr. Fitz Wilson, and I care still lessfor the kind of style which can be maintained upon a thousand a year, 'replied Urania, with the air of a duchess. 'That would mean a small house011 the skirts of Regent's Park, or a flat in the Marylebone Road, Isuppose--and no carriage. '

'Marry whom you please, my love, and when you please, ' said her father;'but remember that time is not standing still with any of us. '

There had been no change at the Abbey in the years which were gone sinceBrian Walford claimed his bride, except that the new schools had beenbuilt under Colonel Wendover's superintendence. The old house stillresembled the palace of the sleeping beauty; except that trustworthyservants took care of it, and kept moths, spiders, mice, and all suchsmall deer at a distance. The owner of the mansion was still absent, roaming about somewhere in Northern India, as it was supposed; but hisletters were few and far between. His kindred at Kingthorpe wereaccustomed to think of him as a wanderer in far-away places, and gavethemselves very little anxiety about him. To have been anxious once wouldbe to be anxious always, since a traveller's risks are manifold, andthere is never a year when the eager spirit of some valiant explorer isnot quenched in sudden death. Brian Wendover had been away so long thatpeople had left off talking about him; and it seemed a natural conditionfor the Abbey to be tenantless--a capital place for picnics and afternoonteas. The Wendovers of The Knoll took all their visitors there as amatter of course--played tennis on the lawn between the goodly oldcedars; and Blanche, who was of a much more enterprising disposition thanher sister Bessie, had tried her hardest to induce Mrs. Wendover to givea ball in the old refectory. 

Ida and her husband were strolling about the rose-garden in the quiethour after luncheon, while Lady Palliser dozed over her knitting-needlesin her favourite chair by the long French window. Brian had come toWimperfield somewhat unexpectedly, while the London season was still atits height, and all the law courts in full swing. He came home invalided, and wanting rest and care: but he refused to consult the family doctor, ageneral practitioner born and bred in the adjacent village, --clever, sagacious, homely in dress and manners, and, in the opinion of LadyPalliser, a tower of strength. She liked a fatherly doctor. 

'What is the use of seeing old Fosbroke when I have had the best advicein London?' Brian said, peevishly, when urged by his mother-in-law totake advice from the family doctor. 'I know exactly what ails me--nervousexhaustion, an over-worked brain, and that kind of thing. I suppose it isa natural consequence of modern civilisation: men's brains have to go atexpress speed in order to keep pace with the average intelligence of thetime. '

'If you had only a better appetite!' sighed Lady Palliser, who had beendistressed at seeing her son-in-law send away plate after plate, with itscontents hardly touched. 

'I wouldn't mind having a bad appetite if I could sleep, said he; 'it'sinsomnia that tells upon a fellow. '

Brian did not enter into the causes of this dire malady, which had begunwith long nights given to dissipation--not to gross pleasures or vulgarcompanions, but to a semi-intellectual dissipation: wit, fun, copioustalk about all things between heaven and earth, in the society ofartists, actors, journalists, Bohemians of all the arts. To the man whobegins by doing without sleep there sometimes comes a day when sleep willrefuse to answer to his bidding. He has acquired the habit of perpetualwakefulness. The sleep-mechanism of the brain is out of gear. It will gofor half-an-hour, perhaps, or for a few minutes, in spasmodic jerks: andthen it stops all at once, as if the machinery had gone wrong. 

So it was with Brian. Those festive nights given over to the feast ofreason and the flow of soul--not to riot or drunkenness, but to thehalf-unconscious consumption of much brandy and soda--nights in whichthe atmosphere seemed charged with wit and wisdom as with mentalelectricity--nights in which a young man, able to talk smartly upon anygiven topic, was carried away by the consciousness of his power, andthought himself a god. 

Brian was a member of all those joyous clubs--the night flowers of theclub world, which unfold their petals in the small hours, when theplayhouses are shut, and the lights have been extinguished in all soberhouseholds. There was no offence in any of these institutions, and theyoffered a fine intellectual arena, afforded a splendid training forliterary youth: but to a man who loved them too well they meant ashattered constitution. 

Brian had come to Wimperfield in the hope that quiet and country airwould bring back sleep to his eyelids and steadiness to his nerves; buthe had been there a week, and his hand was no steadier, his nights wereno less wakeful. He fancied himself growing weaker day by day, andalthough the great authority in Harley Street had strictly forbidden anystimulant except one glass of stout with his mutton chop at luncheon, Brian, who was quite unable to eat the chop, found it impossible to lunchwithout plenty of dry sherry, or to dine without champagne, and afterdinner drank a good deal of that fine old port which had been laid downby old Sir Vernon Palliser in forty-seven. 

Ida was very kind and gentle to her husband at this time, seeing that hewas really in need of her tenderness. She devoted herself to hisamusement, walked with him, rode with him, drove with him; but althoughhe was grateful, he was not happy. A terrible depression of mind, brokenby flashes of hilarity, had taken possession of him. The London physicianhad told him frankly that his nerves were shattered, but that all wouldbe well with him if he left off all stimulants, ate chops and steaks, andlived in the open air; but as yet he had been unable to cope with themost diminutive chop, or to exist for three hours without stimulants. Even those rides and drives with Ida seemed a weariness to him, and hewould have escaped them if he could. 

This afternoon he paced the rose-garden listlessly by Ida's side, smokinga cigarette--that cigarette which was rarely absent from his lips. 

'Are you sure your London doctor does not object to your smoking somuch?' Ida asked presently, noting the languid uncertainty of the fingerswhich held the cigarette. 

'I am not sure about anything. I told him I could not live withouttobacco, and he said I might smoke two or three cigarettes in the courseof the day--'

'Oh, Brian, and you smoke--'

'Two or three dozen! Not quite so bad as that, eh? But no doubt I do goconsiderably outside the medico's mark. I could no more exist by line andrule in that way than I could fly. No, if I am to die of tobacco and latehours, I am doomed. '

'But there is no such thing as being doomed; every man is his ownmaster--he can mould his life as he likes. '

'Can he? That depends upon the man. I am not going into the mystery offate and free will. There is the question of temperament--hereditaryinstinct. If I cannot have intellectual society--new ideas--variety--Imust die. I could not lead the life you live here--not life, butstagnation. '

'I have the books I love, this dear park, and all the lovely countryround us--horses--dogs--and some very pleasant neighbours: and I try todo a little good in my generation. '

'All very well; but you are as much out of the world as if you were inthe centre of Africa. I could not exist under such conditions. Betterfifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. This to me would be as badas Cathay. But now I suppose you are going to be perfectly happy, nowthat your brother is coming home. '

'Yes. I am always happy, when I have him--he is more and morecompanionable every day of his life. '

Vernon was expected that afternoon. He was coming home for a summerholiday, just when summer was at her loveliest He was not bound by publicschool rules, or obliged to wait for the stereotyped watering-placeseason. The Jardines were to bring him over this afternoon, and were tostay at Wimperfield for a couple of days. Ida glanced towards the avenueevery now and then, expecting to catch a glimpse of the approachingcarriage between the leafy elms. 

Brian strolled by her side with a listless air, smoking, and murmuring afew words now and then for courtesy's sake. He had very little to say tohis wife. She did not care for the things he cared for, or understand thekind of life he lived. She loved books, the books which are for all time;he was a mere skimmer of books and reviews--mostly reviews; and he caredonly for new books, new ideas, new theories, new paradoxes. Hiscleverness was the cleverness of the daily press--the floating froth uponthe sea of knowledge. He liked to talk to a man of his own stamp, withwhom he could argue upon equal terms; but not to a woman who had steepedher mind in the wisdom and poetry of the past. 

He stifled a yawn every now and then, in that half-hour of waiting, longing to go back to the dining-room and refresh his parched lips withthe contents of a syphon dashed with brandy. He had given his own ordersto the butler, and the spirit stand was always on the sideboard ready forhis use. The butler had made a note of the brandy which was dribbled awayin this desultory form of refreshment, and had made up his own mind as toMr. Wendover's habits; but it is a servant's duty to hold his peace uponsuch matters. 

At last there came the sound of wheels, and Ida flew round to the porticoto receive her guests, Brian following at his leisure. The slender figurein the black gown reminded Brian of those old days by the river--thetranquil October afternoons--the clear light--the placid water--a grayriver under a gray sky, with a lovely line of yellow light behind thetufted willows. How happy he had been in those days!--caring nothing forthe future--bent on winning this girl at any price--laughing withinhimself at her delusion--trusting to his own merits as an ample set-offagainst his empty purse when he should stand revealed as the wrong Brian. 

Things had gone fairly enough with him since then. He had had plenty ofpleasure; a good deal of money, though not half enough; and very littlework. And yet he felt that his life was a failure--and he was languid andold before his time. An idle life had exhausted him sooner than other menare exhausted by a hard-working career. He knew of men at the Bar who hadlived hard and worked like galley slaves, and who yet retained all thefire and freshness of youth. 

The guests had alighted by the time Brian reached the portico, and Vernonwas in his sister's arms. She held him away from her, to show him to herhusband--a thin fair-haired boy of eleven, in a gray highland kilt andjacket, like a gillie--fresh rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes. 

'Hasn't he grown, Brian I and isn't he a darling?' she asked, hugging himagain. 

'He is a jolly little fellow, and he shall go out shooting with me assoon as there is anything to shoot. '

'We can fish, ' said Vernon; 'there's plenty of trout; but you don't lookstrong enough to throw a fly. My rod's ever so heavy, ' he added, with aflourish of his arm. 

That weakness and languor which was obvious even to the boy, was stillmore apparent to Mr. And Mrs. Jardine. Bessie had not seen her cousinsince Christmas, when he and Ida had spent a couple of days atKingthorpe. 

'Oh, Brian, ' she exclaimed, 'have you been ill? Nobody told me anything. '

'I have had no illness worth telling about; but I have not been invigorous health. London life takes too much out of a man. '

'Then you should not live in London. You ought to be out all day, roamingabout on those pine-clad hills yonder--"hangers, " I think you call themin these parts. '

'Yes, ' answered Ida, 'we are very proud of our hangers; but Brian is notable to walk much just yet. '

Bessie was full of concern for Brian after this. She devoted herself tohim in the interval before dinner, and left Ida free to roam about thegarden with Vernie. She remembered how he had always been her favouritecousin. She had been angry with him for allowing that foolish practicaljoke of hers to take so fixed and fatal a form; but now she saw him wanand broken-looking she was prepared to forgive him everything. 

'You must take care of yourself, Brian, ' she said, when they were sittingside by side in one of the drawing-room windows, while Lady Palliserdispensed afternoon tea. 

'I am taking care of myself; I am here for that purpose; but it is drearywork. '

'What! dreary work to live in this lovely place, and with such a sweetwife! But I know you never liked the country. '

'I frankly detest it. '

'And you miss the intellectual society to which you are accustomed inLondon--literary men--poets--playwrights. How delightful it must be toknow the men who write books!'

'They are not always the pleasantest people in the world. I never caredmuch for your deep-thinker--the man who believes he is sent into theworld to promulgate his own particular gospel. But the men who write fornewspapers--critics, humourists--they are jolly fellows enough. '

'And you have glorious nights at your clubs, don't you? We had a friendof John's with us the other day who had met you at some literary clubnear the Strand. Do you ever sing comic songs now?'

'Sometimes, after midnight. One does not feel moved to that kind of thingtill the small hours. '

'Ah!' sighed Bessie, 'our only idea of the small hours is getting up atfour, to be ready for a five o'clock service. But I don't think the smallhours agree with you, Brian. You are looking ten years older than whenyou were at Kingthorpe last summer. '

'Better wear out than rust out, ' said Brian. 

After dinner Vernie was eager for an exploration of the village, andBlackman's Hanger, the wild, pine-clad hill which sheltered the villagefrom north-east winds and the salt breath of a distant sea. 

Ida was ready to go with him, and the Jardines, always tremendouswalkers, were equally anxious for a ramble; but Brian was much toolanguid for evening walks. 

'I'll stay and smoke my smoke and talk to the Mater, ' he said, alwayscontriving to keep on pleasant terms with Lady Palliser; 'I hate bats, owls, twilight, and all the Gray's Elegy business. '

'But you stop such a time over your cigar, ' said the widow. 'Last night Isat for an hour waiting tea for you. I like company over my cup of tea. '

'To-night you shall have the advantage of intellectual society, ' saidBrian. 'I will come and dribble out my impressions of the last_Contemporary Review, _ which I dozed over between breakfast andluncheon. '

Brian stayed in the dining-room, dimly lighted by two hanging moderatorlamps, while the soft shades of evening were just beginning to steal overthe landscape outside. He had his favourite pointer for company--thelast Sir Vernon's favourite, a magnificent beast, and of almost humanintelligence, and he had plenty of wine in the decanters beforehim--choice port and claret, which had been set on the table in honour ofthe Jardines, who had hardly touched it. He had his cigarette case andhis own thoughts, which were idle as the smoke-wreaths which went curlingup to the ceiling, light as the ashes of his tobacco. 

Out of doors the evening was divine. Vernon was delighted to be friskingabout upon his patrimonial soil. The five years he had lived atWimperfield seemed the greater half of his life--seemed, indeed, almostto have absorbed and blotted out his former history. He remembered verylittle of the shabbier circumstances of his babyhood, and had all thefeelings of a boy born in the purple, to whom it was natural to beproprietor of the landscape, and to patronise the humbler dwellers on thesoil. 

Blackman's Hanger was a rugged ridge of hill above the village ofWimpertield. They lingered here to listen to the nightingales, and toadmire the sunset; and then, when the glow above the western horizon waschanging from golden to deepest crimson, they all went down into thevillage, where lights were beginning to glimmer faintly in some of thecottages. 

Wimperfield was a snug primitive settlement, consisting of aboutfive-and-twenty habitations, not one of which had been built within thelast century, a general shop, a bakery, and three public-houses, a factwhich shows that the brewing interests were well protected in this partof the world. One of village taverns, a dingy old low-browed cottage, with a pile of out-buildings which served for stable, piggery, oranything else, and about half an acre of garden, stood a little way alooffrom the village, and on the skirt of the copse that clothed the slopingsteep below Blackman's Hanger. There was a piece of waste land in frontof this inn which served as the theatre for such itinerary exhibitors, Cheap Jacks, and Bohemians of all kinds who took quiet little Wimperfieldin the course of their perambulations. 

Here to-night in the dusk, there stood a covered cart of the pedler orderand Vernon, who had been walking on in front with Mr. Jardine, rushedback to his sister to say that there was a Cheap Jack in front of the'Royal Oak. '

'Oh, he has been there for a long time--ever since the beginning of theyear, ' said Ida; 'he is quite an institution. '

'What's an institution?' asked Vernon. 

'Something fixed and lasting, don't you know. I believe he does no end ofgood among the villagers--doctoring them, and advising them, and helpingthem when they are ill or out of work; but he has a very churlish waywith the gentry. Mr. Mason, our curate, says the man always reminds himof the Black Dwarf, except that he is not so ugly, nor deformed in anyway. '

'Then he can't be like the Black Dwarf, ' said Vernon, who knew almost allSir Walter's novels, his sister having read Shakespeare, Scott, andDickens to him for hours on end, during the long winter evenings atWimperfield. 

'Does he live in that cart always?' asked Bessie. 

'Not always; he has taken possession of that dilapidated cottage upon theHanger, which used to be occupied by Lord Pontifex's gamekeeper, and Ibelieve he oscillates between the cart and the cottage. I have hardlyseen him, for he is such a morose personage that he always hides when anyof the gentry approach his hut. '

'Sulks in his tent, like Achilles, ' said Mr. Jardine. 

They were on the edge of the little patch of green by this time. The cart--painted a lively yellow, and with a little window on eachside--stood in the middle of the green, backed by a clump of tall elms. There was a little crowd in front of the cart, and a man with a blackbeard and a red fez cap was discoursing in a deep, sonorous voice to theassembly--descanting, with seeming fluency, upon a picture which he heldin his hand, his tawny, gipsy-like face only half shown by the flame of aflaring naphtha lamp, and his features rendered grotesque by the play oflights and shadows. The party from the park, however, had very littleopportunity for seeing what manner of man he was; for no sooner did hecatch sight of Mr. Jardine's tail hat over the circle of rustic heads, than he flung the engraving he had been exhibiting inside the cart, extinguished his lamp, wished his audience an abrupt good night, and shutthe door of his dwelling upon the outside world. 

The rustics gave him a round of applause before they dispersed. The womenand children moved towards the village; the men and lads lingered alittle on the green, irresolute, and then slowly gravitated to the 'RoyalOak, ' touching their hats as they passed the gentlefolks. Mr. Jardinestopped one of the men midway. 

'A curious customer that, ' he said, looking towards the cart. 

'Yes, sir, so he be; but rale right down clever. '

'Was he trying to sell you that picture?'

'No, sir; him don't often sell things to we; sometimes him do--knives, and comforters, and corderoy waistcoats, and flannel shirts, and suchlike, and oncommon good they be, too, and oncommon cheap. He wor givin'we a bit of a lecture loike, on lions and tigers, and ryenosed-horses, and such-loike beasts, and on they queer creatures wot lived before theflood. Lord! there was one beast with a long neck, and paddles forswimmin' with, as made we all ready to bust with laughin' when him showedus the pictur' of his skeleton. '

'Does he often give you a lecture of that kind?'

'Yes, sir; him do lecture we about all manner o' things--flowers, andferns, and insects--kindness to hanimals--hinstinct in dogs--Lord knowswhat; but he have a way of makin' it all go down--much better nor parson;and ha allus gets a good laugh out o' we. And when there's any on us ill, or out o' work, then Cheap Jack be a real good friend, and very readywith the brass. '

'But can he afford to help you? is he so much better off than you are?'

'Well, sir, you see him haven't got no missus nor young 'uns, and Ifancy him's got a few pounds saved in a old stocking. Him don't drink, nayther--not so much as a mug o' beer. '

'Is he a native of these parts?'

'Lor no, sir, turn's a furriner; why, his skin's as brown as a berry!'

'Is he a gipsy, do you think?'

'I ain't sure o' that, but him can talk their patter; and when thegipsies come this way him and them is as thick as thaves. '

'I see--half a gipsy and half a foreigner, and altogether a rover, Isuppose. Well, I'm glad he gives you a little instruction and amusementnow and then, and I hope he'll find the way to keep you out of thepublic-house, ' said Mr. Jardine. 

'Why, you see, parson, a man must have his mug o' beer; but it's summotto the good if he don't sit down over it and make it three or four mugso' beer. There ain't been so much sitting down since Cheap Jack cornedamong us. '

'Isn't that a desolate hovel up on the hill where he lives sometimes?'

'It was oncommon deserlate till Cheap Jack took it in hand there ain't aowl in the wood that would have liked to live in it; but Jack hammers abit of wood here, and a plank there, and a bit o' matting up agen thewalla, and puta in a stove from Petersfield, and makes it as snug as aburd's nest. I've smoked many a pipe with him alongside that stove, anddrank many a cup o' coffee. That's Jack's drink--not a drain o' beer orsperrits ever goes inside o' he. '

'That accounts for the money in the stocking, ' said Bessie. 

The rustic shook his head dubiously. 

'Him ain't got no childer, ' he said. 'It's them as makes the coin go. '

'I wish he'd come out again and go on lecturing, ' exclaimed Vernon, withan aggrieved air. 'I do so want to hear him. '

'Oh, but him won't show the end of his nose now you're here, Sir Vernon, 'answered the rustic. 'Him can't abide gentlefolks. Parson ha' tried hishardest to get round he, but Jack shuts the door in parson's face. Himdon't want nothing of 'em, and don't want their company. '

'A natural corollary, ' said Mr. Jardine, laughing. 'But I'm afraid yourfriend is a desperate radical. '

'Well, I don't know, sir. Him don't speak hard agen the Queen; him don'twant to do away with soldiers and sailors, like grocer down street; andthough Jack don't go to church, Jack reads his Bible, and holds by hisBible. I fancy as some rich gentleman must ha' done he a great injuryonce upon a time, and that it turned he agen the breed. '

'Very like the Black Dwarf, ' said Mr. Jardine to Ida. 'I daresay I shallhear of your playing the part of Isabella Vere, and interviewing thishalf-savage, half-Christian recluse. But do you mean to tell me that hehas lived here six months, within a mile and a half of your house, andyou have never seen him?'

'It is a fact. You had a specimen of his manners just now. Whenever Ihave passed his cottage he has shut the door or the window in my face, ifhe happened to be standing at either. To Mr. Mason he has been absolutelyrude. '

'It isn't every man who appreciates the privilege of being interviewed bya parson, ' said John Jardine. 

'Oh, Jack, ' cried Bessie! 'all your people love to see you at theirdoors. '

'Yes, they are a sociable lot. That comes from living on Salisbury Plain, far from the madding crowd. '

After this they went home, watching the golden summer moon rise above thepine-clad Hanger as they went. They found Lady Palliser nodding in herarm-chair in front of the low tea table, the teapot still intact. It wasten o'clock, but Brian had not come in to talk to her after her tea. JohnJardine went in quest of him, and found him in the dining-room, mooningover his wine. He murmured a vague excuse about feeling too tired to talkto anybody, and then bade Mr. Jardine good night, and vent up to hisroom; not to sleep, but to fling the window wide open, and lean hiselbows on the sill, and stare out into the exquisite summer night, theleafy wood, the moon-kissed crest of the hill, in a half-dreamy, half-hysterical state of mind. 

'I begin to think I am like Swift, and shall go first at top, ' he said tohimself; 'this quiet life is killing; and yet if I was to go back Ishould be worse. The nights in Elm Court, when I went home alone after aglorious evening, were devilish. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

'MY SEED WAS YOUTH, MY CROP WAS ENDLESS CAKE. '

Mr. And Mrs. Jardine went back to their Wiltshire parsonage after a twodays' visit, and Ida had her boy all to herself. His education, from aclassical and mathematical point of view, had only begun when he went toJohn Jardine; but the foundations of education, the development ofthought and imagination had begun long ago at Les Fontaines, when Ida andhe took their long wintry rambles together, and the girl talked to thechild of all things in heaven and earth, imparting in the easiest waymuch of that information which she had acquired as pupil and teacher inthe educational mill at Mauleverer. Beyond learning to read and to write, and the most elementary forms of arithmetic, this oral instruction wasall the education which Vernie had received up to the time of his leavinghome; but then what a large range of information can be imparted by anintelligent woman who reads a great deal, and who reads with thestudent's deep love of knowledge. Vernon, without being a prodigy, likethe infant Goethe, or that wondrous product of paternal scholarship, JohnStuart Mill, knew more about things in general, from the course of theplanets to the constitution of the glowworms in the hedges, than manyfull-grown undergraduates. Flowers and ferns, shells and minerals, hadbeen his playthings. His sister had taught him the nature and attributesof all the animals and birds he loved, or slaughtered; and then hisimagination had been fed upon Shakespeare and Scott, Dickens andGoldsmith. He had derived his first vivid impressions of history fromShakespeare and Scott, his knowledge of a wide range of life outside hisown home from Dickens; and with that knowledge a quickened sympathy withthe joys and sorrows of the humbler classes. All that Vernon knew of thestruggles of the lower middle classes was derived from that greatpanorama of life which Charles Dickens painted for us. His own smallexperiences of village life had taught the boy very little; for he hadonly seen the rustic from that outside and smoothly varnished aspectwhich the tiller of the soil presents to the squire. 

And now the boy had come home, after an absence of some months, and hewanted to absorb Ida from morning till night She must walk and drive withhim, read to him, play with him, be interested in his dogs, his guns, hisfishing-tackle, every detail of his busy young life. 

Ida was never happier than when thus occupied. The boy seemed to her theincarnate spirit of youth, and joy, and hope, and all those brightimpulses which wear out in ourselves at so early a stage of life'sjourney that we are very glad to taste them vicariously in the unspoiledardour of childhood. To be with Vernon was to escape from the narrownessof her own fettered life, to forget its disappointments, itsdisillusions, its one deep incurable regret--regret for her own madfolly, which had bartered freedom for a sordid hope--folly as mad asEsau's when he sold his birthright--regret for him who loved her toolate. 

Unhappily, even her unselfish delight in her brother's society was notunalloyed with pain. She never forgot her duty as a wife, nor failed inany act of attention to her husband. And yet Brian's morbid jealousy ofthe boy was but too evident. He rarely spoke of Vernon without a sneer, when he and his wife were alone; although he was careful not to sayanything uncivil before Lady Palliser. He scoffed at the little lad'sposition, as if it had been an offence in the child himself--called himthe microscopic baronet, the baby thane, laughed with bitterest laughterat any little touch of arrogance which clouded the natural sweetness ofthe boy's character. 

Ida endured this morbid jealousy with a patience that was almost heroic. She saw that her husband was ill, and that this mysterious malady of his, which had at first seemed to her sheer hypochondriasis, was only tooreal. It was a malady which affected the mind more than the body. Brian'scharacter had undergone a complete change since his illness. He who hadbeen of old so easy-tempered, so lively, was now melancholy andirritable, at times garrulous to a degree that was painful to hishearers, keenly resentful of trifles, always fancying himself neglectedor slighted. 

In vain did Lady Palliser and Ida urge the necessity of medical advice. Brian obstinately refused to see the local apothecary; and, as there wasnothing tangible in his illness and he was able to be about all day, togo out of doors, and do pretty much as he pleased, there was no excusefor calling in the doctor without his permission. 

'If I felt that I wanted advice, I would go up to town and see Mallison, 'he said; 'but there is nothing amiss with me, except a disappointed life. I begin to feel that I am a failure. Other fellows of my age have passedme in the race; and it is hard at nine-and-twenty to feel oneselfbeaten. '

'But, Brian, ' his wife answered gently, 'don't you think if yourcontemporaries have outstripped you, it is because they have tried harderthan you? Remember what St. Paul says about the one who obtaineth theprize. '

'For Heaven's sake, don't preach!' cried Brian, irritably. I tell you Itried hard enough; tried--yes, slaved night after night; scribblingarticles for those infernal magazines, to get my manuscript returned withthanks after nearly a twelve-month's detention; spelling over dry-as-dustbriefs for a guinea fee, in order to post up some bloated Queen'sCounsel, who treated me as if I were dirt, and pretended not to know myname. I tell you, Ida, the Bar is a sickening profession; literature isworse; all the professions are played out, Europe is overcrowded witheducated men; they swarm like aphides in a hot summer--your single flythe progenitor of a quintillion of living creatures. When I see the menin their wigs and gowns, hurrying up and down the Temple courts, swarmingon all the staircases, choking up the doors of the law-courts, theyremind me of the busy, hungry creatures on an ant-heap. 

"Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys, Every gateis thronged with suitors, all the markets overflow. "

He was walking up and down the room in an agitated way, angry, excitedbeyond the occasion. 

'But in your case, Brian, it seems to me that the path has been made sosmooth. With such an independence as ours, it must be so easy to get on. '

'I thank you for reminding me how much I owe your father, ' sneered herhusband. 

'I was not thinking especially of my father. You owe as much to yourcousin. '

'Yes, my cousin has been vastly generous--damnably generous; but if I hadmarried any other woman, do you suppose he would have done as much? Ofcourse, I know it was for your sake he gave me that income. Was he everso liberal before, do you think? No, he dribbled out an occasionalhundred or two when I was up a tree, but nothing more. It was for yoursake his purse-strings relaxed. '

'You have no right to say that, ' Ida answered indignantly. 'I have aright to say what I think to my wife. I have not forgotten what you saidto me at the hotel that day. You told me to my face that you lovedanother man. Do you think I was such a dullard as not to guess that man'sname? You fell in love with Wendover of the Abbey, before you saw him;and your innocent love for the shadow grew into guilty love for the man, after you were my wife. I knew all about it; but I was not going to letyou give me the slip. I have known all along that I am nothing to you, that you despise me, detest me, perhaps; and that knowledge has made mewhat I am--a broken, blighted man, a wreck, at nine-and-twenty. '

'Oh, Brian, this is too cruel! Have I ever failed in my duty to you?'

'Damn duty!' cried Brian, savagely. 'I wanted your love, not yourduty--love such as I thought you gave me in those autumn days by theriver. Great God, how happy I was in those days! I hadn't a sixpence; Iwas up to my eyes in debt; but I thought you loved me, and that we weregoing to be happy in our garret till good fortune tumbled down thechimney. '

'I don't think a garret would have suited you long, Brian, had I beenever so devoted. You are too much of a sybarite. '

'I should have been happy with you. I should have thought myself in Eden. Well, fate never meant me to be happy. I am a wretch, judged before I wasborn, foredoomed to misery in this world and the next. Yes, I begin tothink Calvin was right--there are some creatures predestined todamnation. Before ever the stars spun into their places, when all thesuns and moons and planets were rings of fiery gas revolving in space, mydoom was already written in the book of fate. 

It had been a common thing of late for Brian to ramble on in suchdespondent strains as these, half angry, half despairing. Ida wassupremely patient with him, sometimes soothing him, sometimes arguingwith him; yet hardly knowing how much of his talk arose from real gloomof mind, or how much was sheer rhodomontade. The hours which she spentwith him were intensely painful, and as the days went by he became moreand more exacting, more and more resentful of her absence, and grudginglyjealous of Vernon. 

Another cause for pain was Ida's growing conviction that her husband'sfrequent doses of soda and brandy, and the champagne which he drank atdinner, and the port or Burgundy which he took after dinner, had a greatdeal to do with his altered mental condition. Painful as it was to speakof such a thing, she took courage one morning, and told him plainly thatshe believed he was suffering from, the effect of habitual--almostunconscious--intemperance. 

'You are taking soda and brandy all day long. You have brandy in yourbedroom at night, Brian, ' she said. 'I am sure you can have no idea howmuch you take in the course of the twenty-four hours. '

'I have no idea that I am a drunkard, if that's what you mean, ' heanswered, white with rage; and then he burst into a torrent ofabuse--such language as she had never heard from mortal lips until thathour, and his wife fled, shuddering and terror-stricken, from the room. 

When next they met he cowed before her with a craven air, and made noallusion to this scene. But after this she observed that he pretended todrink less, and had a crafty way of getting his glass refilled at dinner. He no longer kept a brandy bottle on the table beside his bed, as he haddone heretofore, on the pretence that a little weak brandy and waterhelped him to sleep, nor did the soda-water bottles and spirit decanteradorn one of the tables in his study; but more than once his wife met himcreeping to the dining-room with a stealthy air to supply himself at thesideboard, and when she went into his room at night to see if he slept, his fevered breath reeked of brandy. It seemed to her later, as time wenton, that even his garments exhaled spirituous odours. 

It was not long after this that he began to talk mysteriously of sometrouble which menaced him, which gradually took the shape of a criminalprosecution overhanging him. He had been falsely accused of some awfulcrime--some nameless, unspeakable offence--hateful as the gates of hell. He was innocent, but his enemies were legion; and at any moment adetective might be sent to Wimperfield to arrest him. One evening, inthe summer twilight after dinner, he took it into his head that one ofthe footmen--a man whose face ought to have been thoroughly familiar tohim--was a detective in disguise. He flew at the worthy young fellow in afurious rage, and the butler had hard work to prevent his doing poor JohnThomas a mischief. But when the lamps were brought in, Brian perceivedhis mistake, and apologised to the footman for his violence. 

'You don't know what devils those detectives are, ' he said, deprecatingly; 'they can make themselves look like anybody. And if theyonce get hold of me, the case will be tried at Westminster Hall. It willtake weeks to try, and all the Bar will be engaged; and then it will haveto go to the House of Lords. There has not been such a case within thelast century. All Europe will ring with it. '

'Dear Brian, I am sure this is a delusion of yours, ' said Ida, trying tosoothe him; 'you cannot have done anything so wicked. '

'Done! no, I am as innocent as a baby; but the whole Bar--the Benchtoo--is in league against me. They'll make out their case, depend uponit. "It's a case for a jury;" that's what the Lord Chancellor said when Itold him about it. '

After this there could be no doubt that there was actual mentaldisturbance. Lady Palliser sent for the local medical man, who had verylittle difficulty in diagnosing the case. Sleeplessness, restless nights, tossing from side to side, an utter inability to keep still, horribledreams, impaired vision, clouds floating before the eyes, --these symptomsMr. Fosbroke heard from the wife. The patient himself was obstinatelysilent about his sensations, declared that there was nothing the matterwith him, and let the doctor know he considered his visit an impertinentintrusion. 

'I had a touch of brain fever early in the year, ' he said. 'I had thebest advice in London during my illness, and afterwards. I know exactlyhow to treat myself. The symptoms which alarm my wife are nothing but thenatural reaction after a severe shock to the nervous system. The tonics Iam taking will soon pull me up again; but as I am now under a specialtreatment by Dr. Mallison, of Harley Street, you will under, stand that Idon't care about further advice. '

'Undoubtedly, ' replied the medical man, meekly. 'But I believe it wouldbe a satisfaction to Lady Palliser and to Mrs. Wendover both if you woulddo me the honour to consult me, and allow me to look after you while youare here, I could place myself under Dr. Mallison's instructions, if youlike. '

'No, there is no necessity. I tell you I know exactly what is amiss, andhow to manage my own health. '

Mr. Fosbroke argued the point, but in vain. Brian would not even allowhim to feel his pulse. But the doctor knew very well what was amiss, andtold Mrs. Wendover, with delicate circumlocution, that her husband wassuffering from an imprudent use of stimulants for some time past. 

'That is what I feared, ' said Ida; but it is too dreadful. It is the verylast thing I expected. I thought nobody drank nowadays. '

'Very few people get drunk, my dear Mrs. Wendover, ' replied the doctor;'but, unhappily, though there is very little drunkenness, there is agreat deal of what is called "pegging"--an intermittent kind of tipplingwhich goes on all day long, beginning very early and ending very late. Aman, whose occupation in life is headwork, begins to think he wants astimulant--begins by having his brandy and soda at twelve o'clockperhaps; then finds he can't get on without it after eleven; then takesit before breakfast--in lieu of breakfast; and goes on with brandy andsoda at intervals till dinner-time. At dinner he has no appetite, triesto create one with a bottle of dry champagne, eats very little, but dineson the champagne, feels an unaccountable depression of spirits later onin the evening, and takes more brandy, without soda this time; and so on, and so on; till, after a period of sleeplessness, he begins to have uglydreams, then to see waking visions, hear imaginary voices, stumble uponthe edge of an imaginary precipice. If he is an elderly man he gets shakyin the lower limbs, then his hands become habitually tremulous, especially in the early morning, when he is like a figure hung onwires--and so on, and so on; and unless he pulls himself up by a greatmoral effort, the chances are that he will have a sharp attack of_delirium tremens_. '

'You do not fear such an attack for my husband?

'Mr. Wendover is a young man, but he has evidently abused hisconstitution; there is no knowing what may happen if you don't take careof him. Alcohol is a cumulative poison, and that "pegging" I have toldyou of is diabolical. Nature throws off an over-dose of alcohol, but thedaily, hourly dose eats into the system. '

'How am I to take care of him?' asked Ida, despairingly. 

'You must keep wine and spirits away from him, except in extrememoderation. '

'What! speak to the butler? Tell him that my husband is a drunkard?'

'You need not go quite so far as that, but it will be necessary to cutoff the supplies somehow, and to substitute a nourishing diet forstimulants. '

'Yes, if he could eat: but he has no appetite--he eats hardly anything. '

'Unhappily, that is one of the symptoms of his disease, and the mostdifficult to overcome. But you must do your utmost to make him eat, andto prevent his getting brandy. A little light claret or Rhine wine may beallowed; nothing more. I will send you a sedative which you can give himat bedtime. '

'I do not think he will take anything of that kind. He has set his faceagainst accepting your advice. '

'I believe if you were to take a decided tone, he would succumb; if not, you had better ask Dr. Mallison to come down and see him. It will be acostly visit, and money thrown away, as the case is perfectly simple; butI dare say you will not mind that. '

'I should mind nothing if he could be cured. It is horrible to see suchruin of body and mind in one so young, ' Ida answered sadly. 

'Well, you must see what influence you can exercise over him for his owngood. I will call every other day, and hear how you are getting on withhim; and if you fail, we must summon Dr. Mallison. '

Ida spoke to the butler. It was a hard thing to do, and it seemed to hera kind of treachery against her husband--as if she were inflictingeverlasting disgrace upon him in secret, like a midnight assassin, whostabs his victim in the back. Her voice trembled, and her face was deadlypale as she spoke to the butler, an old servant who had been in thehousehold from his boyhood. 

'Rogers, I want you to be a little more careful in your arrangementsabout wine and spirits, ' she began, falteringly. 'Mr. Wendover is in alow state of health--suffering from a nervous complaint, in fact; and wefear that he is taking too much brandy. Will you kindly try to preventit?'

'It will be very difficult, ma'am. Mr. Wendover gives his orders, and heexpects to be obeyed. '

'But upon this one point you must not obey him. You can say that you haveLady Palliser's orders that no more brandy is to be brought up from thecellar. I shall tell her that I have told you this. '

'Yes, ma'am. I was afraid too much brandy was being drunk, but it was notmy place to mention it, ' said Rogers, politely. 

He would have said the same, perhaps, had the house been on fire. 

Neither sherry nor champagne was served at dinner that day, and theclaret which was offered Mr. Wendover was of a very thin quality. 

'I'll take champagne, ' he said to the butler. 

'There is not any upstairs, sir. '

Brian turned angrily upon the man, and Ida, pale but resolute, came tothe rescue. 

'We do not drink champagne at dinner when we are alone, Brian, ' she said;'and I don't think it is quite fair to Vernie's cellars that Moët shouldbe served every day because you are here. 

'Vernon's cellars! Ah, I forgot that we are all here on sufferance, and, that I am drinking Vernon's wine. '

'You may have as much of my champagne as you like, ' said Vernie, gettingvery red; 'but I don't think it does you any good, for you are always socross afterwards. '

Brian looked at the boy with a savage gleam in his eyes, and mutteredsomething, but made no audible reply. 

'I'll go back to my chambers to-morrow, ' he said: 'I can have a bottle ofMoët there without being under an obligation to anybody. Give me somebrandy and soda, ' he said to the butler; 'I can't drink this verjuice. '

'There is no brandy, sir. '

'Oh! Sir Vernon's cognac is to be kept sacred, too. I congratulate you, Vernon, upon having two such economical guardians. Your minority will bea period of considerable saving. '

He made no further remonstrance, drank neither claret nor hock, atehardly anything, but sat through the dinner in sullen silence, and wentoff to his room directly Lady Palliser had said grace, leaving the othersto take their strawberries and cream alone. Vernon was what Kogers thebutler called 'a mark on' strawberries and cream. 

When Vernie had finished his strawberries, Ida went to her husband'sstudy; but the door was locked, and when she asked to be admitted Brianrefused. 

'I'd rather be alone, thank you, ' he answered, curtly. 'I have an articleto write for one of the legal papers. You can amuse yourself with thebaronet. I know you are always glad to be free. '

'Come for a stroll in the park, Brian, ' she pleaded gently, pitying himwith all her heart, more tenderly inclined to him in his decay anddegradation than she had been in his prime of manhood, before these fatalhabits began. 'Do come with us, dear. We won't walk further than youlike; it's a lovely evening. '

'I hate a summer twilight, ' returned Brian; 'it always gives me thehorrors--a creepy time, when all sorts of loathsome creatures areabroad--bats, and owls, and stag-beetles, cockchafers, and otherabominations. Can't you let me alone?' he went on, angrily. 'I tell you Ihave work to do. '

Ida left him upon this, without a word. What was she to do? This was herfirst experience of a mind diseased, and it seemed to her worse than anytrouble that had ever touched her before. She had stood beside herfather's death-bed, and the hair of her flesh had stood up at the awfulmoment of dissolution, when it was as if verily a spirit had passedbefore her face, calling her beloved from the known to the unknown. Yetin the awe and horror of death there had been holiness and comfort, awhisper of hope leading her thoughts to higher regions, a promise thatthis pitiful, inexplicable parting was not the end. This dissolution inthe living man, this palpable progress of degradation, visible day by dayand hour by hour, was worse than death. It meant the decay and min of amind, the wreck of an immortal soul. What place could there be in heavenfor the drunkard, who had dribbled away his reason, his power todiscriminate between right and wrong, by perpetual doses of brandy? whatcould be pleaded in extenuation of this gradual and deliberate suicide?

Ida went slowly downstairs, her soul steeped in gloom, seeing no ray oflight on the horizon; for with the most earnest desire to save her erringhusband, she felt herself powerless to help him against himself. If hewere denied the things he cared for at Wimperfield, there was littledoubt that he would go back to his solitary chambers, where he was hisown master. He was not so ill either in mind or body as to justify her inusing actual restraint. 

At the moment she thought of telegraphing for Aunt Betsy, whose firmmanly mind might offer valuable aid in such a crisis: but she shrank fromthe idea of exposing her husband's degradation even to his aunt. She didnot want the family at Kingthorpe to know how low he had fallen. Mr. AndMrs. Jardine had been impressed by the change in him, and Bessie hadharped upon his lost good looks, habitual irritability, and deterioratedmanners; but neither had hinted at an inkling of the cause; and Ida hopedthe hideous truth had been unsuspected by either. She decided, therefore, during those few minutes of meditation which she spent in the porticowaiting for Vernon, that she would rely on her own intelligence, and uponprofessional aid rather than upon any family intervention. If she could, by her own strong hand, with the help of the London physician, lead herhusband's footsteps out of this Tophet into which he had sunk himself, she would spare no trouble, withhold no sacrifice, to effect his rescue, and she and her stepmother, the kindliest of women, would keep the secretbetween them. 

Vernon came bounding out of the hall, eager for the accustomed eveningramble. This evening walk with the boy had been Ida's happiest time oflate, perhaps the only portion of her day in which she had enjoyed thesense of freedom from ever present anxiety, in which she had put awaytroubled thought. She had gone back to her duty meekly and resignedlywhen this time of respite was over, but with a sense of unspeakable woe. Wimperfield with its lighted windows, stone walls, and classic portico, had seemed to her only as a prison-house, a whited sepulchre, fairwithout and loathsome within. 

Vernie was full of curiosity about that little scene at the dinner table. The boy had that quick perception of the minds and acts of others whichis generally developed in a child who spends the greater part of his lifewith grown-up people; and he had been quite as conscious as his elders ofthe unpleasantness of the scene. 

'I hope Brian doesn't think I'm stingy about the wine, ' he said; 'hemight drink it all for anything I should care. I don't want it. '

'I know, darling; but you were quite right in what you said at dinner. The wine does Brian harm, and that's why mamma and I don't want him totake any. '

'Has it always done him harm?' asked Vernon. 

'Always; that is, lately. '

'Then why did you let him take so much--a whole bottle, sometimes twobottles--all to himself at dinner? I heard Rogers tell Mrs. Moggs aboutit. '

'Rogers ought not to have given him so much. '

'Oh! but Rogers said it wasn't his place to make remarks, only he wasvery sorry for poor Mrs. Wendover--that's you, you know--not Mrs. Wendover at Kingthorpe. '

'Oh, Vernie, you were not listening?'

'Of course not. I wasn't listening on purpose; but I was in the lobbyoutside the housekeeper's room, waiting for some grease for my shootingboots. I always grease them myself, you know, for nobody else does itproperly; and Rogers said the brandy Mr. Wendover had drunk in threeweeks would make Mrs. Moggs' hair stand on end; but it couldn't, --couldit?--when she wears a front. A front couldn't stand on end, ' said Vernon, exploding at his own small joke, which, like most of the witticisms ofchildhood, was founded on the physical deficiencies of age. 

'Look, Vernie! there is going to be a lovely sunset, ' said Ida, anxiousto change the conversation. 

But Vernon's inquiring mind was not satisfied. 

'Is it wicked to drink champagne and brandy?' he asked. 

'Yes, dear, it is wicked to take anything which we know will do us harm. It would be wicked to take poison; and brandy is a kind of poison. '

'Except for poor people, when they are ill; they always come to thevicarage for brandy when they are ill, and Mrs. Jardine gives them alittle. '

'Brandy is a medicine sometimes, but it is a poison if anyone takes toomuch of it--a poison that ruins body and soul. I hope Brian will not takeany more; but we mustn't talk about it, darling, above all to strangers. '

'No, I shouldn't talk of it to anybody but you, because I like Brian. Heused to go fishing with me, and to be so good-natured, and to tell mefunny stories, and do imitations of actors for me; but now he's so cross. Is that the brandy?'

'I'm afraid it is. '

'Then I hate brandy. '

They were in the park by this time, wandering in the wildest part of theground, where the bracken grew breast high in great sweeps of featherygreen. They came to a spot on the edge of a hill where three or fournoble old elms had been felled, and where a couple of men in smock frockswere sawing coffin boards. 

'What are those broad planks wanted for?' the boy asked; 'and why do youmake them so short?'

'They're not uncommon short, Sir Vernon, ' the man answered, touching hishat; 'the shortest on 'em is six foot. Them be for coffins, Sir Vernon. '

'How horrid! I hope they won't be wanted for ages, ' said the boy. 

'Not much chance o' that, sir; there's allus summun a wantin' a weskit o'this make, ' answered the man, with a grin, as Vernon and Ida went on, uncomfortably impressed by the idea of those two men sawing theircoffin-boards in the calm, bright evening, with every articulation of thebranching fern standing sharply out against the yellow light, as on themargin of a golden sea. 

They rambled on, and presently Ida was repeating passages from thoseShakespearian plays which had formed Vernon's first introduction toEnglish history, and of which he had never tired. Ida knew all the greatspeeches, and indeed a good many of the more famous scenes, by heart, andVernon liked to hear them over and over again, alternately detesting theLancastrians and pitying the Yorkists, or hating York and compassionatingLancaster, as the fortunes of war wavered. And then there was Richard theSecond, more tenderly touched by Shakespeare than by Hume or Hallam; andRichard the Third, whose iniquities were made respectable by a kind ofdiabolical thoroughness; and that feebler villain John. Vernon was asfamiliar with them as if they had been flesh and blood acquaintances. 

'Cheap Jack knows Shakespeare as well as you do, ' said Vernon presently, when they had left the park by a wooden gate that opened into a patch ofcommon land, which lay between the Wimperfield fence and Blackman'sHanger. 

'Who is Cheap Jack?' asked Ida absently. 

'The man you saw the night I came home, when Mr. Jardine was with us. Don't you remember?'

'The man in the cart--the showman? Yes, I know; but I did not see him. '

'No; he hates the gentry, and women, too, I think. But he likesShakespeare. '

'I shouldn't have thought he would have known anything aboutShakespeare. '

'Oh, but he does--better than you even. When he was mending myfishing-rod--you remember, don't you?--I told you how clever he was atfishing-rods. '

'Yes, I remember--it was the day you were out so long quite alone; and Iwas dreadfully frightened about you. '

'Oh, but that was silly. Besides, I wasn't alone--I was with Jack allday. And if I had been alone, I can take care of myself--I shall betwelve next birthday. Nobody would try to steal me now, ' said Vernon, drawing himself up and swaggering a little. 

'What, not even good Mrs. Brown? Well, no; I think you are too clever tobe stolen. Still you must not go out again without Robert. ' (Robert was ayouth of two-and-twenty, Sir Vernon's body-guard and particularattendant, to whom the little baronet occasionally gave the go-by. )'Besides, I don't think you ought to associate with such a person as thisCheap Jack--a vagabond stroller, whose past life nobody knows. '

'Oh, but you don't know what kind of man Jack is--he's the cleverest manI ever knew--cleverer than Mr. Jardine; he knows everything. Let's go upon the hanger. '

'No, dear, it's getting late; we must go home. '

'No, we needn't go home till we like--nobody wants us. Mamma will beasleep over her knitting, --how she does sleep!--and she'll wake upsurprised when we go home, and say, "Gracious, is it ten o'clock? Thesesummer evenings are so short!"'

'But you ought to be in bed, Vernie. '

'No, I oughtn't. The thrushes haven't gone to bed yet. Hark at that onesinging his evening hymn! Do come just a wee bit further. '

They were at the foot of the hanger by this time, and now began to climbthe slope. The atmosphere was balmy with the breath of the pines, andthere was an almost tropical warmth in the wood--languorous, inviting torepose. The crescent moon hung pale above the tops of the trees, paleabove that rosy flush of evening which filled the western sky. 

'What makes you think Jack so clever?' inquired Ida, more for the sake ofsustaining the conversation than from any personal interest in thesubject. 

'Oh, because he knows everything. He told me all about Macbeth, the witches, don't you know, and the ghost, and Mrs. --no, LadyMacbeth--walking in her sleep, and then he made my flesh creep--worsethan you do when you talk about ghosts. And then he told me aboutAgamemnon, the same that's in Homer. I haven't begun Greek yet, but Mr. Jardine told me about him and Cly--Cly--what's her name?--his wife. Andthen he told me about Africa and the black men, and about India, andtiger-hunts, and snakes, and the great mountains where there are tribesof wild monkeys;--I should so like to have a monkey, Ida! Can I have amonkey I And he told me about South America, just as if he had been thereand seen it all. '

'He must be a genius, ' said Ida, smiling. 

'Can I have a monkey?'

'If your mother doesn't object, and if we can get a nice one that won'tbite you. '

'Oh, he wouldn't bite me; I should be friends with him directly. When Iam grown up I shall shoot tigers. '

'I shall not like Mr. Cheap Jack if he puts such ideas into your head. '

'Oh, but you must like him, Ida, for I mean to have him always for myfriend; and when I come of age I shall go to the Rockies with him, andshoot moose and things. '

'Oh, you unkind boy! is that all the happiness I am to have when you aregrown up. '

'You can come too. '

'What, go about America with a Cheap Jack! What a dreadful fate for me!'

'He is not dreadful--he is a splendid fellow. '

'But if he hates women he would make himself disagreeable. '

'Not to you. He would like you. I talked to him about you once, and helistened, and seemed so pleased, and made me tell him a lot more. '

'Impertinent curiosity!' said Ida, with a vexed air. 'You are a verysilly boy to talk about your relations to a man of that class. '

'He is not a man of that class, ' retorted Vernon angrily; 'besides Ididn't talk about my relations, as you call it. I only talked about you. When I told him about mamma he didn't seem to listen. I could see that byhis eyes, you know; but he made me go on talking about you, and asked meall kinds of questions. '

'He is a very impertinent person. '

'Hush, there he is, smoking outside his cottage, ' cried the 'boy, pointing to a figure sitting on a rude bench in front of that hovel whichhad once sheltered Lord Pontifex's under-keeper. 

Ida saw a tall, broad-shouldered figure with a tawny face and a longbrown beard. The face was half hidden under a slouched felt hat, thefigure was clad in clumsy corduroy. Ida was just near enough to see thatthe outline of the face was good, when the man rose and went into hishut, shutting the door behind him. 

'Discourteous, to say the least of it, ' she exclaimed, laughing atVernon's disconcerted look. 

'I'll make him open his door, ' said the boy, running towards the cottage;but Ida ran after him and stopped him midway. 

'Don't, my pet, ' she said; 'every man's house is his castle, even CheapJack's. Besides I have really no wish to make your friend's acquaintance. Oh, Vernie, ' looking at her watch, 'it's a quarter-past nine! We must gohome as fast as ever we can. '

'He is a nasty disagreeable thing, ' said Vernon. 'I did so want you tosee the inside of his cottage. He has no end of books, and the handsomestfox terrier you ever saw--and such a lot of pipes, and black bear skinsto put over his bed at night--such a jolly comfortable little den! Ishall have one just like it in the park when I come of age. '

'You talk of doing so many things when you come of age. '

'Yes; and I mean to do them, every one; unless you and mother let me dothem sooner. It's a dreadful long time to wait till I'm twenty-one!'

'I don't think we are tyrants, or that we shall refuse you anythingreasonable. '

'Not a cottage in the park?'

'No, not even a cottage in the park. '

They walked back at a brisk pace, by common and park, not loitering tolook at anything, though the glades and hills and hollows were lovely inthat dim half-light which is the darkness of summer. The new moon hunglike a silver lamp in mid-heaven, and all the multitude of stars wereshining around and above her, while far away in unfathomable space, shonethe mysterious light which started on its earthward journey in the yearsthat are gone for ever. 

Lady Palliser was not calmly slumbering in front of the tea-table, in themellow light of a duplex lamp, after her wont. She was standing at theopen window, watching for Ida's return. 

'Oh, my dear, I have been so frightened, ' she exclaimed, as Ida andVernon appeared. 

'About what, dear mamma?'

'About Brian. He has been going on so. Rogers came to tell me, and I wentup to the corridor, and asked him to unlock his door and let me in, buthe wouldn't. Perhaps it was providential that he didn't unlock the door, for he might have killed me. '

'Oh, mamma, what nonsense!' exclaimed Ida. She hurried Vernon off to bedbefore his mother could say another word, and then went back to thewidow, who was walking about the drawing-room in much perturbation. 

'Now tell me everything, ' said Ida; 'I did not want Vernon to befrightened. '

'No, indeed, poor pet. But oh! Ida, if he should try to kill Vernon!'

'Dear mother, he has no idea of killing anyone. What can have put suchdreadful notions in your head?'

'The way he went on, Ida. I stopped outside his door ever so longlistening to him. He walked up and down like a mad-man, throwing thingsabout, talking and muttering to himself all the time. I think he waspacking his portmanteau. '

'There is nothing so dreadful in that--nothing to alarm you. '

'Oh! Ida, when a person is once out of their mind, there is no knowingwhat they may do. '

Ida did all in her power to soothe and reassure the frightened littlewoman, and, having done this, she went straight to her husband's room. 

She knocked two or three times without receiving any answer; then came asullen refusal: 'I don't want to be worried by anyone. You can go to yourown room, and leave me alone. '

But, upon her assuming a tone of authority, he opened the door, grumblingall the while. 

The room was in frightful confusion--a couple of portmanteaux lay open onthe floor; books, papers, clothes, were scattered in every direction. There was nothing packed. Brian was in shirt-sleeves and slippers, andhad been smoking furiously, for the room was full of tobacco. 

'Why don't you open your windows, Brian?' said his wife; 'the atmosphereis horrible. '

She went over to one of the windows, and flung open the sash. 'That's acomfortable thing to do, ' he said, coming over to her, 'to open my windowon a snowy night. '

'Snowy, Brian! Why, it's summer--a lovely night!'

'Summer! nonsense. Don't you see the snow? Why, it's falling thickly. Look at the flakes--like feathers. Look, look!' He pointed out of thewindow into the clear moonlit air, and tried to catch imaginarysnowflakes with his long, nervous fingers. 

'Brian, you must know that it is summer-time, ' Ida said, firmly. 'Look atthe woods--those deep masses of shadow from the oaks and beeches--in allthe beauty of their summer foliage. 

'Yes; it's odd, isn't it?--midsummer, and a snow-storm!'

'What have you been doing with all those things?'

'Packing. I must go to London early to-morrow. I have an appointment withthe architect. '

'What architect?'

'The man who is to plan the alterations for this house. I shall makegreat alterations, you know, now that the place is yours. I am going tobuild an underground riding school, like that at Welbeck. '

'The place mine? What are you dreaming of?'

'Of course it is yours, now Vernon is dead. You were to inheriteverything at his death. You cannot have forgotten that. '

'Vernon dead! Why, Brian, he is snug and safe in his room a little wayoff. I have seen him within this half-hour. '

'You are a fool, ' he said; 'he died nearly three months ago. You are thesole owner of this place, and I am going to make it the finest mansion inthe county. '

He rambled on, talking rapidly, wildly, of all the improvements andalterations he intended making, with an assumption of a business-like airamidst all this lunacy, which made his distracted state so much the morepainful to contemplate. He talked of builders, specifications, estimates, and quantities--was full of self-importance--described picture galleries, music rooms, high-art decorations which would have cost a hundredthousand pounds, and all with absolute belief in his own power to realisethese splendid visions. Yet every now and then in the very rush of hisprojects there came a sudden cloud of fear--his jaw fell--he lookedapprehensively behind him--became darkly brooding--muttered somethingabout that hideous charge hanging over him--a conspiracy hatched bymen who should have been his friends--the probability of a great trialin Westminster Hall; and then he ran on again about builders andarchitects--Whistler, Burne Jones--and the marvellous mansion he wasgoing to erect on the site of this present Wimperfield. 

He rambled on with this horrible garrulity for a time that seemed almostan eternity to his agonised wife, and only ceased at last from positiveexhaustion. But when Ida talked to him with gentle firmness, remindinghim that Vernon was still the owner of Wimperfield, and that she wasnever likely to be its mistress, he changed his tone, and appeared to bein some measure recalled to his right senses. 

'What, have I been talking rot again?' he muttered, with a sheepish look. 'Yes, of course, the boy is still owner of the place. The alterationsmust stand over. Get me some brandy and soda, Ida, my mouth is parched. '

Ida rose as if to obey him, and rang the bell; but when the servant cameshe ordered soda-water only. 

'Brandy and soda, ' Brian said; 'do you hear? Bring a bottle of brandy. Ican't get through the night without a little now and then. '

Ida gave the man a look which he understood. He left the room in silence. 

'Brian, ' she said, when he was gone, 'you must not have any more brandy. It is brandy which has done you harm, which has filled your brain withthese horrible delusions. Mr. Fosbroke told me so. You affect to despisehim; but he is a sensible man who has had large experience. '

'Large experience! in an agricultural village--physicking a handful ofrustics!' cried Brian, scornfully. 

'I know that he is clever, and I believe him, ' answered Ida; 'my owncommon sense tells me that he is right. I see you the wreck and ruin ofwhat you have been; and I know there is only one reason for this dreadfulchange. 

'It is your fault, ' he said sullenly. 'I should be a different man if youhad cared for me. I had nothing worth living for. '

Ida soothed him, and argued with him, with inexhaustible patience, fullof pity for his fallen state. She was firm in her refusal to order brandyfor him, in spite of his angry protest that he was being treated like achild, in spite of his assertion that the London physician had orderedhim to take brandy. She stayed with him for hours, during which healternated between rambling garrulity and sullen despondency; till atlast, worn out with the endeavour to control or to soothe him, shewithdrew to her own room, adjoining his, and left him, in the hope that, if left to himself, he would go to bed and sleep. 

Rest of any kind for herself was impossible, weighed down with anxietyabout her husband's condition, and stricken with remorse at the thoughtthat it was perhaps his ill-starred marriage which had in some wisetended to bring about this ruin of a life. And yet things had gone wellwith him, existence had been made very easy for him, since his marriage;and only moral perversity would have so blighted a career which hadlain open to all the possibilities of good fortune. The initialdifficulty--poverty, which so many men have to overcome, had beenconquered for Brian within the first year of his marriage. And now sixyears were gone, and he had done nothing except waste and ruin his mindand body. 

Ida left the door ajar between the two rooms, and lay down in herclothes, ready to go to her husband's assistance if he should need helpof any kind. She had taken the key out of the door opening from his roominto the corridor, so that he would have to pass through her own room ingoing out. She had done this from a vague fear that he might go roamingabout the house in the dead of the night, scaring her stepmother or theboy by some mad violence. She made up her mind to telegraph for theLondon physician early next morning, and to obtain some skilled attendantto watch and protect her husband. She had heard of a man in such acondition throwing himself out of a window, or cutting his throat: andshe felt that every moment was a moment of fear, until proper means hadbeen taken to protect Brian from his own madness. 

She listened while he paced the adjoining room, muttering to himself;once she looked in, and saw him sitting on the floor, hunting for someimaginary objects which he saw scattered around him. 

'How did I come to drop such a lot of silver?' he muttered; 'what a devilof a nuisance not to be able to pick it up properly?'

She watched him groping about the carpet, pursuing imaginary objects, with eager sensitive fingers, and muttering to himself angrily when theyevaded him. 

By-and-by he flung himself upon his bed, but not to sleep, only to turnrestlessly from side to side, over and over again, with a weary monotonywhich was even more wearisome to the watcher than to himself. 

Two or three times he got up and hunted behind the bed curtains, evidently with the idea of some lurking foe, and then lay down again, apparently but half convinced that he was alone. Once he started upsuddenly, just as he was dropping off to sleep, and complained of a flashof light which had almost blinded him. 

'Lightning, ' he muttered; 'I believe I am struck blind. Come here, Ida. '

She went to him and soothed him, and told him there had been nolightning; it was only his fancy. 

'Everything is my fancy, ' he said, 'the world is built out of fancies, the universe is only an extension of the individual mind;' and then hebegan to ramble on upon every metaphysical theory he had ever readabout, from Plato and Aristotle to Leibnitz and Kant, from Hegel toBain--talking, talking, talking, through the slow hours of that terriblenight. 

At last, when the sun was high, he fell into what seemed a sound sleep;and then Ida, utterly worn with care and watching, changed her gown for acashmere _peignoir_, and lay down on her bed. 

She slept soundly for a blessed hour or more of respite andforgetfulness, then woke suddenly with an acute consciousness of trouble, yet vaguely remembering the nature of that trouble Memory came back onlytoo soon. She rose hurriedly, and went to look at her patient. 

His room was empty. He had passed through her room and gone out into thecorridor, without awakening her. She rang her bell, and was answered byLady Palliser's own maid, Jane Dyson, who came in a leisurely way withthe morning cups of tea. It was now seven o'clock. 

'Is Mr. Wendover downstairs--in the dining-room or library?' Ida asked, trying not to look too anxious. 

'I have not seen him, ma'am. '

'Inquire, please. I want to know where he is, and why he left his room somuch earlier than usual. '

She had a dismal feeling that all the household must know what was amiss, that the shame and degradation of the case could hardly be deepened. 

'Yes, ma'am; I'll go and see. '

'Do, please, while I take my bath, ' said Ida. 'You can come back to me inten minutes. '

The cold bath refreshed her, and she was dressing hurriedly when JaneDyson returned to announce that Mr. Wendover and Sir Vernon had gone outfishing at half-past six--the under-housemaid had seen them go, and hadheard Mr. Wendover say that they would have a long day. 

'Go and ask her if she heard where they were going, ' said Ida, going onwith her dressing, eager to be out of doors on her brother's track. 

That wild talk of Brian's last night--that horrible delusion about theboy's death--coupled with this early expedition, filled her withunspeakable fear. It was no new thing for Brian and the boy to go outfishing together. They had spent many a long day whipping distant troutstreams in the summer that was gone, but this year Vernon had vainlyendeavoured to tempt his old companion to join him in his wanderings withrod and line. Brian had refused all such invitations peevishly orsullenly; as if it were an offence to remind him how poor a creature hehad become. And now, after a night of wakefulness and delirium, Brian, with his brain still wild and disordered, perhaps, had taken the boy outwith him on some indefinite excursion--alone--the helpless child in thepower of a maniac!

Ida did not wait for the return of the maid, but ran downstairs as soonas she was dressed, and questioned Rogers the butler. Rogers, as an oldand valuable servant, took his ease of a morning, and only appeared uponthe scene when underlings had made all things comfortable and ready tohis hand. He therefore knew nothing of the mode and manner of Mr. Wendover and the boy's departure. 

Robert, Sir Vernon's body-guard, groom, and general out-door retainer, was fetched from his breakfast; and he was able to inform Mrs. Wendoverhow Sir Vernon had gone out to the stables at twenty minutes past six, with his fishing basket slung over his shoulder, to ask for someartificial flies which Robert had been making for him, and to say that heshould not want the pony or Robert all the morning, as he was going outwith Mr. Wendover. He had not mentioned his destination, but Robert knewthat the water meadows on the other side of Blackman's Hanger were hisfavourite ground for such sport. He had been there with Robert many aday. 

His remotest point in this direction was five or six miles from home. Theboy was able to walk twelve miles in a day without undue fatigue, restinga good deal, and taking his own time; but in a general way he rode hispony when he went on any long excursion, and dismounted from time to timeas the fancy took him. 

'I'm afraid he may overtire himself with Mr. Wendover, said Ida, anxiousto give a good reason for her anxiety. 'Get Cleopatra ready for me, andget a horse for yourself, and we'll ride after them. Mr. Wendover is aninvalid, and ought not to have the trouble of a child upon his hands allday. If I can overtake them, I shall persuade them both to come back. '

'If they don't, they'll be likely to get caught, ' said Robert, exploringthe clouds with the sagacious eyes of a rustic observer schooled by longexperience to read signs and tokens in the heavens. 'There'll be a storm, I'm afeard, before dinner-time. '

Dinner-time with Robert meant the hour of the sun's meridian, which hetook to be the universal and legitimate dinner-hour for all mankind, designed so to be from the creation. 

'How soon can you have the horses ready?'

'In a quarter of an hour, ma'am. '

Ida flew upstairs, meeting her step-mother on the way. Lady Palliser hadgone to her son's room as soon as she left her own--her custom always;and on missing the boy, had made instant inquiries as to his whereabouts, and had already taken fright. 

'Oh, Ida, if that dreadful husband of yours should lure him into somelonely place, and kill him! My boy, my beloved, my lovely boy!'

'Dear mother, be reasonable. Brian would not hurt a hair of his head. Brian loves him, ' urged Ida soothingly, yet with a torturing pain at herheart, remembering Brian's delirious raving last night. 

'What will not a madman do? Who can tell what he will do?' cried LadyPalliser, wringing her hands. 

'Trust in God, mother; no harm will come to our boy. No harm shall cometo him--except perhaps a wetting. Get warm clothes ready for him againstI bring him home. I am going to ride after him, ' said Ida, hurrying offto her room. 

In less than ten minutes she had put on her habit, and was in the stableyard; and three minutes afterwards Fanny Palliser, roaming up and downand round about her son's room like a perturbed spirit, heard the clatterof hoofs, and saw her stepdaughter ride out of the yard attended byRobert, the best and kindest of grooms, and devoted to his young master. 

Lady Palliser went downstairs, and again interrogated the housemaid whohad witnessed Sir Vernou's departure. 'How had Mr. Wendover seemed?' sheasked--'good-tempered, and pleasant, and quiet?'

Very good-tempered, and very pleasant, the girl told her, but not quiet;he talked and laughed a great deal, and seemed full of fun, but in agreat hurry. 

The mother remembered how many a time her boy and Brian Wendover had beenout together, and tried to put away fear. After all, Brian was a nicefellow--he had always made himself agreeable to her. It was only of latethat he had become fitful and strange in his ways. She had seen such acase before in her own family, her own flesh and blood, her mother's onlybrother. That victim to his own vice had been elderly at the time sheknew him--a chronic sufferer. She but too well remembered his totteringknees, and restless, tremulous feet: those painful morning hours when heshook like an aspen leaf: those dreadful nights, when he sat coweringover the fire, glancing askant over his shoulder every now and then, haunted by phantoms, hearing and replying to imaginary voices, strivingwith restless, shivering hands to rid himself of imaginary vermin. He hadbeen mad enough at times in all conscience, as mad as any lunatic inBedlam; but he had never tried to injure any one but himself. Once theyfound him with an open razor, possibly contemplating suicide; but heabandoned the idea meekly enough when surprised by his friends, andexplained himself with one of those lies with which his tremulous tonguewas every so ready. 

Arguing with herself by the light of past experience, that after all thisdrink-madness was a disease apart, seldom culminating in actual violence, Lady Palliser sat down before her silver urn, and made believe tobreakfast, in solitary state, thinking as she poured out her tea how verylittle all these grand things upon the table could help or comfort one inthe hour of trouble. Nay, in such times of misfortune, the littlesitting-room of her childhood, the round table and shabby old chairs, thekettle on the hob, and the cat upon the hearth, had seemed to possess anelement of sympathy and comfort entirely wanting in this spacious formaldining-room, with its perpetual repetition of straight lines, and itschilling distances. 

Ida rode through the park, and across the common, and round the base ofBlackman's Hanger, as fast as her clever mare could carry her with anydegree of comfort to either. The clever mare was somewhat skittish fromwant of work, and inclined to show her cleverness by shying at everystray rabbit, or crocodile-shaped excrescence in the way of fallentimber, lying within her range of vision; but Ida was too anxious to bedisconcerted by any such small surprises, and rode on without drawingrein to the banks of the trout-stream which wound its silvery way throughthe valley on the other side of Blackman's Hanger. If they could havecrossed the hill, the distance would have been lessened by at leasttwo-thirds, but the steep was much to sheer for any horse to mount, andIda had to circumnavigate the wooded promontory, which narrowed anddwindled to a furzy ridge at the edge of the river. Once in the valleyher way was easy, with only here and there a low hedge for the mare tojump, just enough to put her in good spirits. But after riding for aboutseven miles along the bank of the stream, Ida pulled up in despair, toask Robert where next she must look for his master. It was evident thiswas the wrong scent. 

'They'd hardly have come further nor this within the time, ' Robertadmitted, with a rueful look at the lather on Cleopatra's dark brown neckand shoulder; 'and this is further nor ever I come with Sir Vernon. Wemust try somewheres else, ma'am. 

And so they turned, and at Robert's direction Ida rode off, this time ata walking pace, for another of Vernon's happy hunting grounds. 

A sudden ray of hope occurred to her as they returned by the base ofBlackman's Hanger. What if Vernon should have taken Brian to Cheap Jack'scottage, to have introduced him to that gifted misanthrope, who, amonghis other accomplishments, had a talent for repairing fishing tackle?

Moved by this hope, Ida dismounted, and gave Cleopatra's bridle toRobert, who was on his feet almost as soon as his mistress. 

'Let the mare rest for a little while, Robert, ' she said;' I am going upto the top of the hill to see the pedlar--Sir Vernon may have been withhim this morning. '

'Not unlikely, ma'am--he be a rare favourite with Sir Vernon. '

'I hope he's a respectable person. '

'Oh, I think the chap's honest enough, ' answered the groom, with apatronising air; 'but he's a queer customer--a reg'lar Peter the wildboy, he is. '

Ida, who had never heard of this gentleman, was not particularlyenlightened by the comparison. She went lightly and quickly up the steepascent, and along a furzy ridge which rose imperceptibly skywards, untilshe came to the fir plantation which sheltered the gamekeeper's cottage. The lattice stood wide open, and a man was leaning with folded arms onthe sill as she came in sight, but in a flash the man had gone, and thelattice was closed. 

She ran on, nothing deterred by this discourtesy, and knocked at the doorwith the handle of her whip. 

'Is my brother, Sir Vernon Palliser, here?' she asked. 

'No, ' a gruff voice answered from within. 

'Please open the door, 'I want to ask your advice. The boy has wanderedoff on a fishing expedition. Have you seen anything of him this morning?'

'No. '

'Are you sure?'

'Do you think I should tell you a lie?' growled the sulky voice fromwithin. 

'What a surly brute!' thought Ida. 'How can Vernon like to make acompanion of such a man?'

She lingered, only half convinced, and nervously repeated her story--howSir Vernon had gone out with Mr. Wendover that morning before seven, andhow she had been looking for them, and was afraid they would be caught inthe storm which was evidently coming. 

'You'd better go home before you're half drowned yourself, ' growled thesurly voice. 'I'll look for the boy and send him home to you, if he'sabove ground. '

'Will you I will you really look for him?' faltered Ida, in a rapture ofgratitude. 'You know his ways, and he is so fond of you. Pray find him, and bring him home. You shall be liberally rewarded. We shall be deeplygrateful, ' she added hastily, fearing she had offended by this suggestionof sordid recompense. 

'I'll do my best, ' grumbled the woman-hater, 'when you've cleared off. Ishan't stir till you're gone. '

'I am going this instant, my horse is at the bottom of the Hanger. Godbless you for your goodness to my brother. '

'God bless you, ' replied the voice in a deeper and less strident tone. 

Big drops were falling slowly and far apart from the lowering sky as Idawent down the hill, a steep and even dangerous descent for feet lessaccustomed to that kind of ground. 

'You'd better ride home as fast as you can, ma'am, ' said Robert, as hemounted Cleopatra's light burden. 'The mare's had a good blow, and youcan canter her all the way back. '

'I don't care about the storm for myself. Sir Vernon must be out in it. '

A low muttering peal of thunder rolled slowly along the valley as shesettled herself in her saddle. 

'Sir Vernon won't hurt, ma'am. Besides, who knows if he ain't at home bythis time?'

There was comfort in this suggestion; but after a smart ride home, undera drenching shower diversified by thunder and lightning, Ida found LadyPalliser waiting for her in the portico. There had been no tidings of theboy. Two of the gardeners had been despatched in quest of him--eachprovided with a mackintosh and an umbrella; and now the mother, no longerapprehensive of homicidal mania on the part of Brian, was tortured by herfear of the fury of the elements, the pitiless rain which might give herboy rheumatic fever, lightnings which might strike him with blindness ordeath, rivers which might heave themselves above their banks to drownhim, trees which might wrench themselves up from their roots on purposeto tumble on him. Lady Palliser always took the catastrophic view ofnature when she thought of her boy. 

Luncheon was out of the question for either Ida or her stepmother. Theywent into the dinning-room when the gong sounded, and each wasaffectionately anxious that the other should take some refreshment; butthey could do nothing except watch the storm, the fine old trees bendingto the tempest, the darkly lurid sky brooding over the earth, thicksheets of rain, driven across the foregound, and almost shutting out thedistant woods and hills. The two women stood silently watching thatunfriendly sky, and listened for every footstep in the hall, in the fondhope of the boy's return. And then they tried to comfort, each other withthe idea that he was under cover somewhere, at some village inn, eating ahomely meal of bread and cheese happy and cheery as a bird, perhaps, while they were so miserable about him. 

'I have an idea that Cheap Jack will find them, ' said Ida by-and-by. 'Vernon says he is such a clever fellow; and a rover like that would knowevery inch of the country. '

The day wore on; the storm rolled away towards other hills; and woods;and a rent in the dun-coloured clouds showed the bright blue above them. Soon all the heaven was clear, and the wet grass was shining in theafternoon sunlight. 

One of the messengers now returned with the useless mackintosh. He hadbeen able to hear nothing of Sir Vernon and his companion. He had been atWimperfield village, and through two other villages, and had taken acircuitous way back by another meadow-stream, where there might be a hopeof trout; but he had seen no trace of the missing boy. The fieldlabourers he had met had been able to give him no information. 

There was nothing to be done but to wait, and wait, and wait. Robert hadmounted a fresh horse and had gone off to scour the country, wonderingnot a little that there should be such a fuss about a day's fishing. 

Five o'clock came, and afternoon tea, usually the pleasantest hour of theday; for in this summer-time the five o'clock tea-table was prepared inthe rose garden in front of the drawing-room, under a Japanese umbrella, and in the shade of a screen of magnolia and Portugal laurel, mock orangeand guelder rose, that had been growing for half a century. To-day LadyPalliscr and her step-daughter took their tea in silent dejection. Theyhad grown weary of comforting each other--weary of all hopefulspeculations. 

It was on the stroke of six--the boy and his companion had been awaynearly twelve hours. They could do nothing but wait. 

Suddenly they heard voices--two or three voices talking excitedly and alltogether--and then a shrill sweet cry in a voice they both knew so well. 

'He is alive!' cried Fanny Palliser, starting up and rushing towards thehouse. 

She had scarcely gone half-a-dozen steps when Rogers came out, crimson, puffing with excitement, leading Vernon by the arm. 

'Here he is, my lady, safe and sound!' said Rogers; 'but he has had arare drenching--the sooner we put him to bed the better. '

'Yes, yes, he must go to bed this instant. Oh, thank God, my darling, mydarling! Oh, you naughty boy, how could you give me such a fright! Youhave almost broken your poor mother's heart, and Ida's too. '

'Dear mother, dear Ida, I am so sorry. But I didn't go alone. I went withBrian. That wasn't naughty, was it?' the boy asked, innocently. 

'Naughty to stay away so long--to go so far. Where have you been?'

'Bird's-nesting in the woods, and I have got a honey-buzzard's nest--twolovely eggs, worth ten shillings apiece--the nest is built on the top ofa crow's nest, don't you know. First we went fishing, but there were nofish; and then I asked Brian to let me do some bird's-nesting, and wewent into the woods--oh, a long, long way, and I got very tired--and wehad no lunch. Brian had something in a bottle; he bought it at an inn onthe road; I think it was brandy. He swore because it was so bad, but hedidn't give me any; and when the storm came on we were on HeadboroughHanger, and Brian and I lost each other, and I suppose he came straighthome. '

'No, Brian has not come home. '

'Oh, dear, ' said the boy; 'I hope he's not looking for me all this time. '

'Come, darling, you must go to bed; we must get off these wet clothes, 'said Ida, and Vernon's mother and sister carried him off to his room, where a fire was lighted, and blankets heated, and hot-water bottlesbrought for the comfort of the young wanderer. 

The boy prattled on unweariedly all the time he was being undressed, telling his day's adventures, --how Brian had been frightened because hethought there were some men following them, who wanted to take Brian toprison. He did not see the men, but Brian saw them hiding behind trees, and watching and following them secretly. 

'I was very tired, ' said the boy, with a piteous look, 'and my feetached, for Brian would go so fast. And I wanted to come home badly; butBrian said the men were after us, and we must double upon them; and wewent round and round and round till we lost ourselves; and then Briantold me to rest on the trunk of a tree while he went a little way furtherto see if the men were really gone; and I sat and waited till I got verycold, but he did not come back; and then I went to look for him, andcouldn't find him; and then I began to cry. I was not frightened, mother, but I was so tired. '

'My poor darling! how could Brian be so cruel?' sobbed the mother, hugging her boy, while Ida was preparing warm negus and chickensandwiches for his refreshment. 

'He wasn't cruel, ' explained Vernon; 'he was frightened about those men, ever so much more afraid than I was. But I never saw any men, Ida. Howwas it Brian could see them, when I couldn't?'

'How did you find your way home at last, dearest?' asked Ida. 

'I didn't find it. I should be in the wood still if it was not forJack--Jack found me, and carried me across the Hanger on his back, andtook me up to his cottage, and took off my clothes and dried them, andgave me some brandy in a teaspoon, and then wrapped me in a bear-skin, and carried me all the way here. '

'How good of him!' said Ida; 'and how I should like to thank him for hiskindness!'

'He doesn't want to be thanked. He hates girls, ' said Vernon, withperfect frankness. 'He just gave me into Rogers' arms and walked off. ButI shall go and thank him to-morrow morning, and I shall take him my onyxbreast-pin, --the one you gave me last Christmas, mother. You don't mind, do you?'

'No, dear; you may give him anything you like. But I think he wouldrather have a sovereign--or a nice warm overcoat for the winter. Whatwould be the good of an onyx pin to him?'

'What would be the good of it! Why, he would keep it for my sake, ofcourse!' answered Vernie, with a grand air. 

Vernon had no appetite for the chicken sandwiches, or inclination for_Madeira negus_. He took a few sips of the latter to please hiswomankind, but he could eat nothing. He had fasted all day, and now, inhis over excited state, he had no power to eat. Lady Palliser took frightat this, and sent off for the family doctor, that fatherly counsellor inwhose wisdom she had such confidence. The boy was evidently feverish, hiseyes were too bright, his cheeks flushed. He was restless, and unable tosleep off his fatigue in that placid slumber of childhood which bringshealing with its rythmical ebb and flow. 

The dinner-gong sounded, and Brian was still missing, but at half-pasteight he came in, and walked straight to the drawing-room, where Ida wassitting alone. Neither she nor her stepmother had sat down to dinner. Lady Palliser was in her boy's room, waiting for the doctor. 

'Oh, Brian, thank God you are safe!' said his wife, as he came slowlyinto the room, and sank into a chair. 'What a scare you have given usall!'

'Did you think I was drowned, or that I had cut my throat ?' he asked, sneeringly. 'I don't think either event would have mattered much toanyone in this house. '

His manner was entirely different from what it had been last night. Hiswords were cool and deliberate, his expression moody, but in nowiseirrational. 

'You have no right to say that; but people who say such things seldommean what they say, ' replied Ida, quietly. 'Had you not better go to yourroom at once and change your clothes, or take a warm bath. It is a kindof suicide to wander about all day in wet clothes as you have done. '

'Who told you I was wandering about all day?'

'Vernon told us. '

'Vernon!' He started, as if suddenly remembering the boy's existence; andthen in an agitated manner asked, 'Did he come home? Is he all right?'

'He came home, thank God; at least, he was brought home. I doubt if hecould have found his way back alone. I am afraid he is going to be ill. '

'Nonsense! a little cold, perhaps; nothing more. It was a diabolical day. I never saw such rain--a regular tropical down-pour. But what is a showerof rain for a healthy boy?'

'Not much, perhaps, if he is able to change his clothes directlyafterwards. But to be wandering about for hours in wet clothes, withoutfood, --that is enough to kill a stronger boy than my brother. '

'It won't kill him, you may depend, ' said Brian, with a cynical laugh; 'Ishould profit too much by his death: and I'm not one of fortune'sfavourites. He's tough enough. '

'Brian, you have no more heart than a stone. '

'Perhaps not. All the heart I had I gave to you, and you made a footballof it; but "Why should a heart have been there, in the way of a fairwoman's foot?" as the poet asks. '

'Had you not better go to your room and take off your wet clothes?'repeated Ida. 

She had no inclination to argue or remonstrate with a man whose mind wasso evidently askew, who had long ago passed the boundary line ofprinciple and noble thought, and had become a mere creature of impulse, blown this way or that way by every gust of passion, --so weak a sinnerthat her scornful anger was tempered by pity. 

'If you are anxious I should escape a severe cold, perhaps you will beliberal enough to allow me a little brandy, ' said Brian. 

Ida was doubtful how to reply. She had been told to withhold allstimulants, and yet this was an exceptional case. Happily at this verymoment the door was opened, and Mr. Fosbroke, the family doctor, wasannounced. 

She ran to meet him. 'Vernon has had a severe wetting, and we are afraidhe is going to be ill, ' she said. 'I'll take you upstairs at once. Mammais with him. '

As soon as they were outside in the hall she told him about Brian'srequest, and asked his advice. 

'I think I would give him a small tumbler of grog after his wetting. Torefuse would seem too severe. But take care he hasn't the control of thebottle. '

She ran back to her husband, told him she would take some randy and waterto his room for him by the time he had hanged his clothes, and then shewent with Mr. Fosbroke to in Vernon's room, that bright airy roomoverlooking the rose garden, which maternal and sisterly love haddecorated with all possible prettinesses, and furnished with everyappliance of comfort. 

Mr. Fosbroke examined the boy carefully, and seemed hardly to like theaspect of the case, though he maintained the customary professionalcheeriness. 

The boy was feverish, very feverish, he admitted;--pulse a good deal toorapid; temperature high. One could never tell how these cases were goingto turn. The boy had suffered unusual fatigue and deprivation, and for achild so reared the strain was severe; but in all probability a gentlefebrifuge, which would throw him into a perspiration, and a good night'srest, would be all that was needed, and he would be as well as everto-morrow morning. 

'These small things get out of order so easily, ' said Mr. Fosbroke, smiling down at the flushed cheek on the pillow. 'They are like thosefoolish little Geneva watches ladies are so fond of wearing. My oldturnip never goes wrong. You must make haste and grow big, Vernon, andthen mamma will not be so easily frightened about you. '

Vernon smiled faintly, without opening his eyes. 

'You see, you have contrived between you to make him an exotic, ' said thedoctor; 'and you mustn't be surprised if he gives you a little troublenow and then. Orchids are beautiful flowers, but they are difficult torear. '

'Oh, Mr. Fosbroke, ' said Lady Palliser, 'how can you say so! Vernie is sohardy--riding his pony in all weathers. '

'Yes, but always provided with a mackintosh--always told to hurry home atthe first drop of rain. Well, I dare say he will be ready for his ponyto-morrow, if he takes my draught. '

To-morrow came, but Vernon was not in a condition to ride his pony. Thefever and prostration were worse than they had been over night, and whileBrian seemed to have taken no harm from his exposure to the storm, theboy had evidently suffered a shock to the system, from which he would beslow to recover. 

Tortured with anxiety about this idolised brother, Ida did not forget herduty to her husband. She did what she had resolved to do during the longwatches of that agonising night, in which she had seen Brian the victimof his own weak self-indulgence, to all intents and purposes a madman, yet unworthy of the compassion which lunacy inspires, since this madnesswas self-induced, --she telegraphed to the London physician whose adviceher husband affected to value; and at five o'clock in the afternoon shehad the satisfaction of seeing a soberly-clad gray-haired gentlemanalight from a Petersfield fly in front of the portico. This was Dr. Mallison, of Harley Street, a great authority in all nervousdisorders--as thorough and as real a man as Dr. Rylance was artificialand shallow, yet a, man whom some of Dr. Rylance's most profitablepatients denounced as a brute. 

Dr. Mallison's plain and straightforward manner invited confidence, andIda confided her fears and anxieties to him without scruple, telling himfaithfully all that she had observed in her husband's conduct before andafter that one dreadful night, which she described shudderingly. 

'Yes, I remember his case. This seems to have been rather a sharp attack. He had one early in the spring, just before he came to me. '

'An attack--like this one--an attack of--'

'Delirium tremens. Not quite so bad as this last, from his own account;but then one can never quite trust a patient's account. And you say he isbetter now?'

'Yes; he has been in his room all to-day, writing or reading. He seemsdull and low-spirited, that is all. '

'No delusions to-day?'

'Not that I have discovered; but I have only seen him now and then. Mylittle brother is ill, and I have been in his room most of my time. '

'Poor soul! that is a bad job, ' said Dr. Mallison, kindly. 'Well, youmust have an attendant for your husband. Can you get anybody here, do youthink? Or shall I send you a man from town?'

'I shall be very grateful if you will send some one. It would bedifficult to get any one here. '

'I dare say it would. I'll get a person despatched to you by the mailtrain, if I am back in time. Your husband must not be left to himself. That is a vital point. Still so long as he is reasonable, and shows nosign of violence, it will not do to let him suppose that he is watched. That would aggravate matters. You must be diplomatic. Let the man pass asan extra servant, not a professional nurse. All invalids detestprofessional nurses. '

'Is this dreadful malady likely to pass away?' asked Ida, falteringly. 

It was unspeakably painful to her to discuss her husband's failing; andyet she wanted to learn all that could be known about it. 

'Undoubtedly. Remove the cause, and the effect will cease. But you haveto do more than that. You have to restore the constitution to its normalstate--to renew the tissues which intemperance has destroyed--in a word, to eliminate the poison and then the craving for drink will cease, andyour husband may begin life again, like Naaman after his seventh dip inJordan. At Mr. Wendover's age, such a habit ought not to be fatal. Thereis ample time for reform; but I give you fair warning that it is not aneasy disease to cure. I'm not talking of delirium tremens, which is asymptom rather than a disease, but of alcoholic poisoning. The cravingfor alcohol once established is an ugly weed to root out. '

'If patience and care can cure him, he shall be cured, ' said Ida, with asteadfast look, which gave new nobility to her beautiful face in theobservant eyes of the physician--a man keen to appreciate every gradationof the physical and the mental, and to tell to the nicest shade wheresense left off and soul began. Here was a woman assuredly in whom soulpredominated over sense. 

'I believe that, madam, ' he said, kindly; 'and you shall have my bestassistance, depend upon it. '

'Why should a young man bring upon himself such an affliction as this?'Ida asked, wonderingly. 'Ours is counted a sober era. '

'Why, indeed? After-dinner boozing and three-bottle men are a traditionof the dark ages; and yet there are dozens of young men in London--giftedyoung men some of them--who are doing this thing every year. Half theuntimely deaths you hear of might be traced home to the brandy bottle, ifa man had only the curiosity to look into first causes. One man dies ofcongestion of the lungs. Yes, but he had burnt up his lungs first withperpetual alcohol. Another is a victim to liver. Why, madam, a temperateman may work thirty years under an Indian sun, and hardly know that hehas a liver. Another is said to have died of too much brain work. Yes, work done by a brain steeped in alcohol--not a brain, but a preparationin spirits. They all do the same thing--pegging--pegging--pegging--frombreakfast to bed-time; and most of them would deny that they aredrunkards. '

'Do you think that if my husband drank it was because he was nothappy--because he had something on his mind?'

'Much more likely that it was because he had nothing on his mind, my dearmadam. These briefless barristers in the Temple--men with private means, not obliged to hunt for work, with a little fancy for literature, and alittle taste for the drama--these idle youths, whose only idea of socialintercourse is to be gossiping and drinking in one another's rooms allday long, living an undomestic life in chambers, without the publicinterests or athletic sports of a university--these are the chosenvictims of alcohol. Of course, I don't pretend for a moment that they alldrink; but where the tendency to drink exists this is the kind of life tofoster it. '

'My husband was not obliged to live in chambers--he had a home here. '

'Yea; but young men, unless they are sportsmen, hate the country; andthen, once in the London vortex, a man can't easily escape. And now, Isuppose, I had better go and see the patient Does he know I have beensent for?'

'No. '

'Then perhaps we shall have a scene. He may be angry. '

'I must risk that, ' said Ida, firmly. 'He refused to be treated by ourfamily doctor, and I felt that things could not go on any longer as theywere going on. '

She led the way to Brian's room. He was lounging by the open window, smoking; his books and papers were scattered about the tables in recklessdisorder. 

'Dr. Mallison has come to see you, Brian, ' said Ida, quietly, as thephysician followed her into the room. 

'You sent for him, then!' exclaimed Brian, starting up angrily. 

'There was no alternative; you refused to be attended by Mr. Fosbroke. '

'Fosbroke--a village apothecary, the parish doctor, who would havepoisoned me. Yes, I should think so. How dare you send for anyone? Howdare you treat me like a child?'

'I dare do anything which I believe to be for your good, ' Ida answered, unflinchingly. 

He quailed before her, and changed his tone in a moment. 'Well, if itgratifies you to spend your money upon physicians--How do you do, Dr. Mallison? Of course, I am very glad to see you, as a friend; but I wantno doctoring. '

'I'm afraid you do, ' said the physician. 'You have not done what I toldyou when I saw you in London. '

'What was that?'

'To give up all stimulants. '

'Oh, that was impossible! It's just like asking a man to shut his mouth, and breathe only through his nostrils, when he has lived all his lifewith his mouth open. No man can change his habits all at once, at thefiat of a physician. But I have been very moderate ever since I saw you. '

'And yet you have had another attack?'

'Who told you that?' asked Brian, with an angry glance at his wife. 

'Your own appearance tells me--yes, and your pulse. You have beenindulging in the old habits--nipping all day long; and you have beensleeping badly. '

'Sleeping badly!' muttered Brian moodily; 'I wish to Heaven I could sleepanyhow. I have forgotten the sensation of being asleep--I don't know whatit means. Just as I fancy myself dropping off there comes a flash oflight in my eyes, and I am broad awake again. The other night I thoughtit lightened perpetually, but my wife said there was no lightning. '

'A case of shattered nerves, and all your own doing, ' said Dr. Mallison. 'You must leave off brandy. '

'Brandy has left me off, ' retorted Brian. 'My wife and her step-motherhave gone in for strict economy. I am not allowed a spoonful of cognac, although I tell them it is the only thing that staves off rackingneuralgic pains. 

'You must endure neuralgia rather than go on poisoning yourself withbrandy. For you alcohol is rank poison--you are suffering now from thecumulative effect of all you have taken within the last twelve months. There are men who can drink with impunity--go on drinking hard through along life; but you are not one of those. Drink for you means death. '

'A man can die but once, ' grumbled Brian; 'and an early death is betterthan an aimless life. '

'For shame!' said the physician. 'If I had such a wife as you have, theaim of my life would be to make myself worthy of her, and to windistinction for her sake. '

'Ah, there was a time when I thought the same, ' answered Brian; 'butthat's over and done with. '

Ida left the doctor and his patient together, and walked up and down thecorridor outside her husband's room, waiting to hear Dr. Mallison's finaldirections. He remained closeted with Brian for about a quarter of anhour. 

'I have said all I could, and I have written a prescription which may dosome good, ' he told Ida. 'This is a case for moral suasion rather thanmedical treatment. If you can exercise a good influence over yourhusband, and keep all stimulants away from him, he will recover. But hisconstitution has been undermined by bad habits--an indolent unhealthylife--a life spent in hot rooms, by artificial light. Get him out ofdoors as much as you can, without exposing him to bad weather or unduefatigue. He is very weak, and altogether out of gear; and you mustn'texpect much improvement until he recovers tone and appetite; but if youcan ward off any return of the delirium, that will be something gained. '

'Indeed it will. The delirium was too terrible. '

'Well, keep all drink away from him. '

'Even if he seems to suffer for want of it?'

'Yes. The old-fashioned idea was that stopping a man's drink suddenlywould bring on an attack of delirium tremens; but we know better thanthat now. We know that the delirium is only a consequence of alcoholicpoisoning, and inevitable where that goes on. '

Ida went back to the drawing-room with the doctor. The tea-table wasready, and there were decanters and sandwiches on another table. Dr. Mallison took a cup of tea and a sandwich, while he gave Ida minutedirections as to the treatment of the patient. And then he accepted thehandsome cheque which had been written for him, with Mr. Fosbroke'sadvice as to amount, and took his departure, promising to send a skilledattendant within the next twelve hours. 

Ida felt happier after she had seen Dr. Mallison. There was very littlethat could be done for her husband. He had sown his wild oats, and thatlight scattering of the seeds of folly had been pleasant enough, nodoubt, in the time of sowing; and this was the unanticipated result--abitter harvest of care and pain which had to be endured somehow. 

And now came for that household at Wimperfield a period of agonisingtrouble and fear. The boy's illness developed into an acute attack ofrheumatic fever, and for three dreadful days and nights his life trembledin the balance. Not once did Ida enter her husband's room during thatawful period of fear. She could not steel herself to look upon the manwhose sin, or whose folly, had brought this evil on her beloved one. 'Mymurdered boy, ' she kept repeating to herself. Even on her knees, when shetried to pray, humbly and meekly appealing to the Fountain of mercy andgrace--even then, while she knelt with bowed head and folded hands, thoseawful words flashed into her mind. Her murdered boy. 

If he were to die, who could doubt that his death would lie at Brian'sdoor? who could put away the dark suspicion that Brian had wantonly, andwith murderous intent, exposed the delicate child to bad weather and longhours of fasting and fatigue?

CHAPTER XXVI. 

'AND, IF I DIE, NO SOUL WILL PITY ME. '

At last their long watchings, their tender care, directed by one of themost famous men in London--who was summoned to Wimperfield at Mr. Fosbroke's suggestion within a week of Dr. Mallison's visit--and attendedtwice or thrice a day by the clever apothecary, were rewarded by theassurance that the time of immediate danger was over, and that now a slowand gradual recovery might fairly be anticipated. It was only then thatIda could bring herself to face Brian again, and even then she met himwith an icy look, as if the life within her were frozen by grief andcare, and those rigid lips of hers could never again melt into smiles. 

Brian had been leading a fitful and wandering life during the boy'sillness, watched and waited upon by Towler, the man from London, withwhom he quarrelled twenty times a day, and who needed his long experienceof the "ways" of alcoholic victims to enable him to endure the fitfulnessand freakishness of his present charge. 

Warned by Dr. Mallison that he must spend as much of his life in the openair as possible, Brian had taken to going in and out of the house fiftytimes a day, now wandering for five or ten minutes in the garden, anonrambling as far as the edge of the park, then running into the stableyard, and ordering a horse to be saddled instantly, but never mountingthe horse. After seeing the animal led up and down the yard once ortwice, he would always find some excuse for not riding; the fact beingthat he had no longer courage enough to get into the saddle. His ridingdays were over. Even the stable mastiff, an old favourite with Brian, gave him a painful shock when the great tawny brute leapt out of hiskennel, straining at his chain, and baying deep-mouthed thunder by way offriendly greeting. 

Towler had a hard time of it, following his charge here and there, waiting upon him, bearing his abuse; but Towler had a peculiar gift, afaculty for getting on with patients of this kind. He knew how to dodge, and follow, and circumvent them; how to take liberties with them, andscold them, without too deeply wounding their _amour-propre;_ how tohumour and manage them; and although Mr. Wendover quarrelled with hisattendant fifty times a day, he yet liked the man, and tolerated hispresence; and had already come to lean upon him, and to be angry whenTowler absented himself. 

'Well, ' said Brian, looking up as Ida entered his room on that happymorning on which she had been told that her brother was out ofdanger--'the boy is better, I hear?'

These things are quickly known in a household, when there has beengeneral anxiety about the issue of an illness. 

'Yes, he is better. By God's grace, he will live; but his life hastrembled in the balance. Brian, it would have been your fault if he haddied. '

'Would it? Yes, I suppose indirectly I should have been the cause. I wasa fool to take him out that morning; but, ' shrugging his shoulders, 'Iwanted a ramble, and I wanted company. Who could tell there would be sucha diabolical storm, or that we should lose our way? Thank God he is outof danger. Poor little beggar! Did you think I wanted to put him out ofthe way?' he asked, suddenly, looking at her with a keen flash ofinterrogation. 

'To think that would be to think you a murderer, ' she answered, coldly. 'I have thought that you had little affection for him or for me when youexposed him to that danger; and then I schooled myself to think better ofyou--to remember that, perhaps, on that day you were hardly responsiblefor your actions. '

'In fact, that I was a lunatic, ' said Brian. 

'I would rather think you mad than wicked. '

'Perhaps I am neither. Why have you put that man as a spy upon me?'

The discreet Towler had retired into the adjacent bedroom during thisconversation. 

'He is not a spy. Dr. Mallison said you ought to have a servant speciallyto wait upon you, that in your sleepless nights you might not be leftalone. '

'No, they are a trial, those long nights. Towler is not a bad fellow, buthe irritates me sometimes. Last night he let a black-muzzled gipsy brutehide behind my curtains, and then told me it was my "delusions. "Delusions! when I saw the fellow as plain as I see you now. '

Ida was silent. She had hoped that the patient had passed this stage, andwas on the road to recovery of health and reason. She interrogated Towlerby-and-by, and he assured her that Mr. Wendover had taken no stimulantssince he had been attending upon him. 

'Are you sure he cannot get any without your knowledge?' Ida asked. 'Dr. Mallison told me that in this malady a patient is terribly artful--thathe will contrive to evade the closest watchfulness, if it is any waypossible to get drink. '

'Ah, that's true enough, ma'am, ' sighed the man; 'there's no getting tothe bottom of their artfulness: but I'm an old hand, and I know all theins and outs of the complaint. It isn't possible for Mr. Wendover to getany drink in this house, and he never goes out of it without me. Everydrop of wine and spirits is under lock and key, and all the servants arewarned against giving him anything. '

Ida sighed, full of shame at the thought that her husband, the man whomit was her duty to honour and obey, should be degraded by suchhumiliating precautions; and yet there was no help for it. He had broughthimself to this pass. This is the end of ambrosial nights, the feast ofreason, the flow of soul, wit drowned in whisky, satire stimulated bybrandy and soda. 

Ida went back to her brother's room. It was there her love, her fears, her cares were all concentrated. Duty might make her careful andthoughtful for her husband, but here love was paramount. To sit by hispillow, to talk to him, or read to him, or pray for him, to minister tohim, jealous of the skilled nurse who had been hired to perform theseoffices, --these things were her delight. Lady Palliser, worn out withwatching and anxiety, had now broken down altogether, and had consentedto take a long day's rest; but Ida's more energetic nature could do withmuch less rest--half an hour's delicious sleep now and then, with herhead on her darling's pillow, was all-sufficient to restore her. 

And so the blessed days of hope went on, and every morning and everyafternoon Mr. Fosbroke's report was more favourable. It was a tediousrecovery from a cruel disease, happily shortened by at least two-thirdsof its old-fashioned length by modern treatment; but all was going well, and the hearts of the watchers were at ease. The boy lay swathed incotton wool, very helpless, very languid, fed and petted from morningtill night, like a young bird brought up by hand: and Ida and herstepmother had to be patient and thankful. 

Ida had often thought during the boy's illness of the man who had foundhim, and brought him safely home to them on that anxious day; and shewished much to testify her gratitude to the misanthropic dweller in thegamekeeper's cottage; but she hesitated as to her manner of approachinghim. To go herself would be futile, when he had so obdurately shut hisdoor against her. Then she had Vernon's assurance that this Bohemianhated women. She might have sent a servant with a message; but she hadreason to know, from Vernon's description of the man, that he wasaltogether above the servant class, and would be likely to resent such aform of approach. She might have written to him; but her pride recoiledfrom that course, remembering his cavalier treatment of her. And so shelet the days slip by, until Vernon began to recover strength and goodspirits, and to inquire about his friend. 

'I want Jack to come and see me, and sit with me, ' said the boy; 'hecould come to tea couldn't he, mother? You wouldn't mind, would you?'

'My dear, he is not a proper person for you to associate with, ' repliedLady Palliser. 'You oughtn't to bemean yourself by associating with yourinferiors. '

'Bemean fiddlesticks!' cried Vernie; 'I don't believe there is such aword. Jack is the cleverest man I know--cleverer than Mr. Jardine, andthat's saying a great deal. '

Vainly did the widow endeavour to awaken her son's mind to the great gulfwhich divides a baronet from a hawker--a gulf not to be bridged over bythe genius of a Dalton or a Whewell--and to those nice distinctions whichobtain between a casual out-of-door intercourse with a man of this class, and a deliberate invitation to tea. 

'When I'm well enough to go out I can go to him, ' answered Vernon, doggedly; 'but now I'm ill he must come to me; and it's very unkind ofyou not to let him come. Blow his station in life! If he was a duke Ishouldn't want him. '

'I can't think what you can want with this low person, when Ida and I arealways doing everything to amuse you, ' moaned Lady Palliser. 

'Ida's a darling, and you too, mother, ' said the boy, putting his thinlittle arms round his mother's neck. He was now just able to move thosepoor arms, which had been so racked with pain a little while ago. 'But Iget tired of everything--Shakespeare, Dickens, even. It's so long to stayin bed; and I think Jack would amuse me more than anyone, if you'd lethim come. '

'He shall come, darling. Is there anything I could refuse you?' said themother, eagerly, moved by the sight of tears in Vernon's innocent blueeyes. 

'Ask him to come to tea this afternoon. '

'Yes, love; I'll go and see about it this minute. '

Lady Palliser went in quest of Ida, who was sitting in Brian's studyreading, while her husband wrote, or made believe to write, at a table inthe window piled with books of reference, which he consulted every nowand then, lolling back in his chair and reading listlessly--altogether amere show and pretence of study, never likely to result in anything--aweary dawdling away of the long summer morning. 

To Ida, Lady Palliser explained her difficulty. A note of some kind mustbe written to this Cheap Jack; and the little woman did not know how toword that note. 

'If I say, "Lady Palliser presents her compliments to Mr. Cheap Jack, andrequests the pleasure of his company, " it seems like patting myself on alevel with him, don't you know. I wish you'd write for me, Ida. '

'Willingly, dear mother; but I'm afraid the man won't come. He is such avery rough diamond. '

'Oh! but surely he will be gratified at an invitation to tea!'

'I'm afraid not. But I'll write at once. Anything to please Vernon. ' Idawrote as follows:--

'Sir Vernon Palliser, who is slowly recovering from a serious illness, will be very pleased if his friend Jack will spend an hour or two withhim this afternoon. Any hour convenient to Jack will be agreeable to SirVernon, but he would much like Jack to drink tea with him between fourand five. The other members of the family will not intrude upon the sickroom while Jack is there. '

'I think that will do, ' said Ida; and Lady Palliser carried off the note, wondering at her stepdaughter's cleverness, yet inclined to fear that thehermit of Blackman's Hanger might be offended at being addressed as Jack, _tout court;_ and yet how could one deal ceremoniously with a man whoacknowledged no surname, and was known to all the neighbourhood only as'Cheap Jack'?

Mr. Fosbroke came for his noontide visit just after this business of theletter, and found Ida and her stepmother both with the invalid. He wastold what they had done. 

'Do you think he'll come?' Vernon asked, eagerly. 

'I should think he would. Sir Vernon, ' answered the doctor; 'for I knowhe takes a keen interest in your recovery. All the time you were reallybad he used to hang about the Park gate every day as I went out, andstopped me to ask how you were. And he asked after you, too, Mrs. Wendover, --seemed to be afraid your anxiety about this little man wouldbe too much for you. '

'Remarkably polite of him, ' said Ida, laughing; 'yet he treated me in themost bearish manner when I went to his cottage. '

'If he is a bear, he is a bear with gentlemanly instincts, ' replied thedoctor. 'Nothing could be more respectful, more delicate, than hisinquiries about you; and I could see by the expression of his eyes thathe really felt for you. He has very fine eyes. '

'One of the tokens of his gipsy blood, I suppose, ' said Ida. 

'Yes; I believe he is a gipsy. They are a keen-witted race. '

'A gipsy!--and with so much plate as there is in this house!' exclaimedLady Palliser. 'Oh, Vernie, you ought not to have asked me to ask him!'

'Don't be afraid, mother, ' said Ida; 'he shall be sharply looked after, if he does come. '

'Looked after, indeed! Why, you might give him the run of a silver mine. What does he care for your trumpery silver spoons?' cried Vernon, contemptuously. 

The invalid was doomed to disappointment. About two hours after Ida'sletter had been despatched, a small boy brought Cheap Jack's reply, tothe following effect:--'Jack is very sorry he cannot drink tea with hislittle friend--'

'Little friend, indeed! What vulgar familiarity!' exclaimed LadyPalliser. 

'But he belongs to the dwellers in tents, and would be out of place in afine house--'

'Then he _is_ a gipsy, ' said Lady Palliser. 'What a luck; escape!'

'He looks forward to the pleasure of seeing Sir Vernon on the Hangerbefore long. Meanwhile he can only send his duty and best wishes for SirVernon's speedy recovery. '

'The end is a little better than the commencement, ' said Lady Palliser;'but I call it a great liberty for a Cheap Jack to talk of my son as hislittle friend. '

'He might have left out "little, " considering that I shall be twelve nextbirthday, ' said Vernon, with dignity. 'But I am his friend, mother; and Imean to be his friend always. And when I am grown up I shall take him tothe Rocky Mountains, and we will hunt moose and things. '

Lady Palliser sighed, and hoped that this passion for low company wouldpass with the other follies of childhood. 

Now that all danger was past, and that Vernon was on the high-road tohealth, Ida spent the greater part of her time in attendance upon herhusband. It was her duty, she told herself; and she who had so failed inlove must needs fulfil every duty. But the performance of this simple, wifely duty of attendance on an invalid husband was fraught with pain:his temper was so irritable, his mind was so weak, his whole being sodegraded and sunk by his infirmity, that the progress of his decay was, of all forms of dissolution, the most painful for the looker-on. That hewas sinking into a lower depth of degradation, rather than recovering, was sadly obvious to Ida, in spite of occasional intervals of betterfeeling and rare flashes of his old brightness. 

The case was altogether perplexing. Towler admitted that he was morepuzzled than he had ever been about any patient whom he had enjoyed thehonour of attending. Mr. Wendover, under his present conditions ofabsolute sobriety, and with youth on his side, ought to have shown adecided improvement by this time; and yet there was no substantialamelioration of his state, and his latest fit of the horrors, whichoccurred only a night ago, had been quite as bad as the first whichTowler had witnessed. 

'You do not think that he gets brandy without your knowledge?' inquiredIda, blushing at the question. 

'No, ma'am; I'm too careful for that. I've searched his trunks even, andevery cupboard in his rooms; and I've looked behind the registers of thestoves, which are very handy places for patients hiding bottles in summertime; but there's not so much as an ounce phial. And Mr. Wendover'shardly out of my sight, except when he takes his bath, or just going inand out of his bath-room, where he keeps his pipes, as you know, ma'am. Besides, even if he had any hiding-place for the drink, who is likely tosupply him with it?'

'No; I hope there is no one, ' said Ida, thoughtfully. 'I hope no one inthis house would so betray my confidence. '

'I've taken stock of all the servants, ma'am, and I don't think there'sone that would do it. '

Ida was of the same opinion. The servants were old servants, as loyal tothe heads of the house as a highland clan to their chief. 

Sunday came--a peaceful summer Sabbath--a day of sunshine and azure sky, and Ida, whose anxiety about Vernon had kept her away from her parishchurch for the last three Sundays, was able to set out upon her walk tothe village with a heart quite at rest on the boy's account. Even themother could find no excuse for staying at home with her boy, and feltthat conscience and society alike required that she should assist at theservice of her parish church. Vernie was convalescent, able to sit up inhis bed, propped with pillows, and eat hot-house grapes, and turn overthe leaves of endless volumes of _Punch_, laughing with his heartychildish laugh at Leech's jokes and the curious garments of a departedera. 

'How could men wear such trousers? and how could women wear suchbonnets?' he asked his mother, wonderingly contemplating fashionableyouth as represented by the great pen-and-ink humourist. 

'I don't know why we shouldn't wear them, Vernie, ' said his mother, withrather an offended air; 'those spoon bonnets were very becoming. I woreone the day your pa first saw me. '

'And hoops under your gown like that?' said Vernie, pointing; 'and thosefunny little boots? What a guy you must have looked!'

When a boy has come to this pass he may fairly be left with servants fora couple of hours; so Lady Palliser put on her stateliest mourning--herthick corded silk, flounced with crape and her Mary Stuart bonnet, andwent across the park, and up hill and down hill, for it was a country ofhills and hollows--to the parish church of Wimperfield, a very ancientedifice, with massive columnar piers, Norman groined roof, and wallsenriched by a grand array of memorial tablets, setting forth the honoursand virtues of those dead and gone landowners whose bones were moulderingin the vaults below the square oaken pews in which the living worshipped. In the chancel there was the usual stately monument to some magnate ofthe middle ages, who was represented kneeling by his wife's side, with agraduated row of sons and daughters kneeling behind them, as if the wholefamily had died and petrified simultaneously, in the act of piousworship. 

Ida did not invite her husband to join her in her Sabbath devotions, assured that he would claim an invalid's privilege to stay at home. Hehad very rarely attended the parish church with his wife, affecting todespise such humdrum and conventional worship. He had just that thinsmattering of modern science which enables shallow youth to make a meritof disbelief in all things beyond the limit of mathematicaldemonstration. He had skimmed Darwin, and spoke lightly of mankind as thelatest development of time and matter, and no higher a being, from aspiritual point of view, than the first worm that wriggled in itsprimeval slime. He had dipped into Herbert Spencer, and talked largely ofGod as the Unknowable; and how could the Unknowable be supposed to takepleasure in the automatic prayers of a handful of bumpkins andclodhoppers met together in a mouldy old church, time out of mind thetemple of superstitions and ceremonies. The vast temple of the universewas Brian Walford's idea of a church; and a very fine church it is, if aman will only worship faithfully therein; but the man who abandons formalprayers and set seasons of devotion with a vague idea of worshipping inthe woodland or on the hill top, very rarely troubles himself to realisehis ideal. 

Brian's broadly-declared agnosticism had long been a cause of pain andgrief to his wife. She had felt that this alone would have made sympathyimpossible between them, had there been no other ground for difference. She thought with a bitter sense of contrast of his cousin, who was astudent and a thinker, and who yet was not ashamed to believe and toworship as a little child. Surely it was not a sign of a weakintelligence for a man to believe in something better and higher thanhimself, when Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Homer, and Virgil could sobelieve. Brian Walford's idea of cleverness was to consider himself theultimate product of incalculable antecedent time, the full-stop ofcreation. 

Here were all the pious parishioners, the county families, and thecountry bumpkins, meekly kneeling on their knees, and uplifting theirvoices in perfect faithfulness--not thinking very deeply of any elementin the service perhaps, but honest in their reverence and their love. Theold church was a pretty sight on such a summer morning--the white robesof the choristers touched with supernal radiance, the light tempered bythe deep rubies and purples and ambers in windows old and new--the veryirregularities and architectural anomalies of the building producing aquaintness which was more pleasing than absolute beauty. 

The litany was nearly over when Ida heard a familiar step on the stonepavement of the nave. It was Brian's step; and presently he stopped atthe door of the high oaken pew, opened it, and came in and seatedhimself-on the bench, opposite to the spot where she knelt by herstep-mother's side. It was a capacious old pew, and would have held tenpeople. Brian kicked about the hassocks, and made himself comfortable;but he did not kneel, or take any part in the service. He sat with hiselbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands, staring at the floor. Hispresence filled Ida with anxiety. He had not risen from his bed when sheleft home, and Towler had given her to understand that he would not getup for some time, as he had had a very bad night. He must have risen anddressed hurriedly in order to follow her to church. His eyes had the wildlook in them which she had noticed on the night when he saw visions. 

It was in vain that Ida tried after this to fix her mind upon theservice--every movement, every look of Brian's, alarmed her. She wasthankful for the high pew which sheltered him from the gaze of thecongregation; and presently when they stood up to sing a hymn, she wasglad that Brian remained seated, albeit their was irreverence in theattitude. 

But when the last verse was being sung, he rose suddenly and looked allround the church with those wild eyes of his, took up a book and turnedthe leaves abstractedly, and remained standing like a sleep-walker for aminute or so, after the congregation had gone down on their knees for thecommunion service. 

When the gospel was read he rose again, and lolled with his back againstthe plastered wall, his head just under a winged cherub head in marble, which adorned the base of a memorial tablet. This time he stood till allthe service was over, so obviously apart from all the rest of thecongregation, so evidently uninterested in anything that was going on, that Ida felt as if every eye must be watching him, every creature in thechurch conscious of his infirmity. He was carelessly dressed, his collarawry, his necktie loose, his hair unbrushed. His very appearance was adisgrace, which Lady Palliser, whose great object in life was to maintainher dignity before the eyes of the county families, felt could hardly belived down in the future. 

That pale haggard countenance, those bloodshot, wandering eyes, --surelyevery creature in the church must know that they meant brandy!

The sermon began--one of those orthodox, old-fashioned, dry-as-dustsermons often heard in village churches, a discourse which sets out witha small point in Bible history, not having any obvious bearing uponmodern thought or modern life, and discusses, and explains, and enlargesupon it with deliberate scholarship for about half-an-hour, and then, ina brisk five minutes, endeavours to show how the conduct of Ahab, orJehoram, or Ahaziah, in this little matter, was an exact counter-part orparadigm of our conduct, my dear brethren, when we, etc. , etc. 

The Vicar had not arrived at this point, but was still expatiating uponthe unbridled wickedness of Jehoram, when Brian, who after a period ofalarming restlessness had been sitting like a statue for the last fewminutes, suddenly started up, and exclaimed wildly, 'I can't endure it amoment longer--the stench of corruption--the dead rotting in theirgraves--the horrid, nauseous odour of grave-clothes--the foul stink ofearth-worms! How can you bear it! You must have no feeling! you must bemade of stone!'

Ida and her stepmother had both risen, each in her way was trying tosoothe, to quiet him, to induce him to sit down again. The Vicar hadstopped in his discourse, scared by that other voice, but as Brian's loudaccents sank into mutterings he took up the thread of his argument, andwent on denouncing Jehoram. 

'Brian, indeed there is nothing--no bad odour here. '

'Yes, there is the stench of death, ' he protested, staring at the ground, and then pointing with a convulsive movement of his wasted hand he cried, 'Don't you see, under that seat there, the worms crawling up through therotten flooring, there? there!--fifty--a hundred--legion. For God's sakeget me out of this charnel house! I can hear the dry bones rattle as theworms swarm out of the mouldering coffins. '

His deadly pallor, his countenance convulsed with disgust, showed howreal this horror was to him. Ida put her hand through his arm, and ledhim quietly away, out of the stony church into the glow of the summernoontide. 

He sank exhausted upon a grassy mound in the churchyard--a villagechild's grave, with the rose wreath which loving hands had woven fadingabove the sod. 

'How can you sit in such a vault?' he asked; 'how can you live in suchfoul air?'

'Indeed, dear Brian, it is only fancy. There is nothing amiss. '

'There is everything amiss. Death is everywhere--we begin to die directlywe are born--life is a descending scale of decay--we rot and rot and rotas we walk about the world, pretending to be alive. First a man loses histeeth, and then his hair, and then he looks in the glass and sees himselfwithered, and haggard, and wrinkled, and knows that the skeleton's clutchis upon him. I tell you we are always dying. Why go to that vaultyonder, ' pointing to the church, 'to breathe the concentrated essence ofmortality?'

'It is good for us to remember the dead when we worship God, Brian. He isthe God of the dead as well as the living. There is nothing terrible indeath, if we believe. '

'If we believe! If! The whole future is an "if!" The future! What futurecan there be for us? We came from nothing, we go back to nothing--we areresolved into the elements which renew the earth for new comers. Thewheel of progress is always revolving--for the mass there is eternity, infinity--no beginning, no end; but for the individual, his little spanof life begins and ends in corruption. '

The sound of the organ and the fresh rustic voices singing a familiarhymn told Ida that the sermon was over. Lady Palliser was in an agony ofanxiety to get Brian away before the congregation came out. She and Idacontrived to beguile him out of the churchyard and away towardsWimperfield Park by a meadow path which was but little frequented. Hegrew more rational as they walked home, but talked and argued all the waywith that semi-hysterical garrulity which was so painful to his hearers. 

They found Vernon sitting up in bed, reading 'Grimm's Goblins, ' and invery high spirits. A most wonderful event had happened. Cheap Jack hadbeen to see him. He came with Mr. Fosbroke at twelve o'clock. He hadovertaken Mr. Fosbroke in the park, and had asked leave to go up to thehouse with him, just for a peep at his patient. 

'He only stayed a quarter of an hour, ' said Vernie, 'for old Fos was in ahurry; but it was such fun! He made me laugh all the time, and Foslaughed, too, --he couldn't help it; and he said Jack's funny talk wasbetter for me now than all the medicine in his surgery; and I am to getup for an hour or two this afternoon; and I am to have some chicken, andas much asparagus as ever I can eat--and in less than a week I shall beable to go up to the hanger and see Jack. '

'My darling, you will have to be much stronger first, ' said Ida. 

'Oh, but I am very strong now, Ah, there's Brian, ' as his brother-in-lawlooked in at the door. 'What a time since you're been to see me! You'vebeen ill, too, mother said. Come in, Brian. Don't mind about giving me abad cold that day. It wasn't your fault. '

Brian came into the room with a hang-dog look, and sat by the boy's bed. 

'Yes, it was my fault, Vernie. I am a wretched creature. Everything thatI do ends badly. I didn't mean to do you any harm. '

'Of course not. You thought it was fun, and so did I, till I got tiredand hungry. But those men who were chasing you! There were no men, werethere? _I_ didn't see any, ' said the boy, with his clear blue eyes onBrian's haggard face. 

'Yes, they were there, dodging behind the trees. I saw them plainenough, ' answered Brian, moodily. 'It was about that business I told youof. No, I couldn't tell you; it was not a thing to tell a child--ashameful accusation; but I have given them the slip. '

'Brian, ' said Ida, laying her hand on his shoulder, 'why do you say thesethings? You know you are talking nonsense. '

'Am I?' he muttered, cowering as he looked up at her. 'Well, it's aslikely as not. Ta, ta, Vernie! You're as well as ever you were. It is Iwho am booked for a coffin!'

He went away with his feeble shuffling steps, so unlike the step ofyouth; Ida following him, thinking sadly of the autumn afternoons when heused to come leaping out of his boat--young, bright, and seemingly fullof life and energy, and when she half believed she loved him. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

JOHN JARDINE SOLVES THE MYSTERY. 

The Jardines came the next day, self-invited guests. Ida had tried toprevent any such visit, in her desire to keep her husband's degradationfrom the knowledge of his kindred; but Bessie was not to be so put off. She had heard that Brian was ill, and that Vernon had been dangerouslyill; and her heart overflowed with love and compassion for her friend. Itwas not easy for Mr. Jardine to leave his parish, but he would have donea more difficult thing rather than see his wife unhappy; so on the Mondaymorning after that scene in the church, Ida received a telegram to saythat Mr. And Mrs. Jardine were going to drive over to see her, and thatthey would claim her hospitality for a couple of days. 

It was a drive of over thirty miles, only to be done by a merciful manbetween sunrise and sunset. Mr. And Mrs. Jardine started at five o'clock, breakfasted and lunched on the road, and brought their faithful steed, Drummer Boy, up to the Wimperfield portico at seven in the evening, withnot a hair turned. Ida was waiting for them in the portico. 

'You darling, how pale and worried you look!' exclaimed Bessie, as shehugged her friend; 'and why didn't you let me come before?'

'You could have done me no good, dear, when my troubles were at theworst. Thank God the worst is over now--Vernie is getting on splendidly. He was downstairs to-day, and ate such a dinner. We were quite afraid hewould bring on a relapse from over-eating. He is delighted at the idea ofseeing you and Mr. Jardine. '

'Has he gone to bed? I'll go up to see him at once, if I may, ' said JohnJardine. 

'He is in his own room. He asked to stop up till seven on purpose to seeyou. '

'Then I'll go to him this instant. '

The luggage had been brought out of the light T cart, and the Drummer Boyhad been led round to the stables. Ida took Bessie to a room at the endof the house, remote from Brian's apartments. 

'Why, this isn't our usual room!' said Bessie, astonished. 

'No, I thought this would be a pleasanter room in such warm weather. Itlooks east, ' Ida answered, rather feebly. 

'It's a very nice room; only I felt more at home in the other. I haveoccupied it so often, you know, I felt almost as if it were my own. Oh, you cruel girl! why didn't you let me come sooner? I wanted so to be withyou in your trouble; and I offered to come directly I heard Vernie wasill!'

'I know, dear; but you could have done no good. We were in God's hands. We could only pray and wait. '

'Love can always do good. I could have comforted you!

'Nothing could have comforted me if he had died. '

'And Brian--poor Brian has been ill, too. I thought him very much changedwhen we were here--so thin, so nervous, so depressed. '

'Yes, he was ill then--he is very ill now. We take all the care we can ofhim, but he doesn't get any better. '

'Poor dear Brian! and he was once the soul of fun and gaiety--used tosing comic songs so capitally. I suppose it is a poor thing for a man todo, but it was very nice, especially at Christmas time. There are so fewpeople who can do anything to help one over Christmas Eve and ChristmasDay. Brian was good at everything--charades, clumps, consequences, dumbcrambo. And to think that he should be ill so long! What is hiscomplaint, Ida?' asked Bessie, suddenly becoming earnest, after a lapseinto childishness. 

'It is a nervous complaint, ' faltered Ida; 'he will soon get over it, Ihope and believe, if we take proper care of him. He is very excitable, very unlike his old self; and you must not be astonished at anything hemay say or do. '

'You don't mean that he is out of his mind?' said Bessie, with anawe-stricken look. 

'No, no; nothing of the kind--at least, nothing that is likely to belasting; but he has delusions sometimes--a kind of hysterical affection. Oh, Bessie, I did not want you to know anything; I tried to keep youaway. '

Bessie had her arms round her old friend, and Ida, quite broken down bythe fears and agitations of the last six weeks, hid her face upon Mrs. Jardine's shoulder and sobbed aloud. It was a complete collapse of heroicresolutions, of that unflinching courage and strength of mind which hadsustained her so long; but it was also a blessed relief to theovercharged heart and brain. 

'It is very selfish of me to plague you with my troubles, ' she said, whenBessie had kissed and comforted her with every expression of sympathy andtenderness in the gamut of womanly love, 'but I wanted you to be preparedfor the worst. And now, let me help you to change your gown, if you aregoing to make any change for dinner. The gong will sound in less thanhalf-an-hour. '

'Oh, those gongs, they always fill me with despair!' cried Bess. 'I amnever ready when ours begins to buzz through the house, like a gigantic, melancholy-mad bumble bee. Of course I must change, dear; firstly, because I am smothered with dust, and sixthly, as Dogberry says, becauseI have brought a pretty gown to do honour to Wimperfield. '

And Bessie, rushing to her portmanteau, and tearing out its contents in afrantic way, shook out the laces and ribbons of a gracious Watteau-likearrangement in Madras muslin, while she chattered to her hostess. 

'Shall I send for Jane Dyson?' the immaculate maid, who had lived with anarchbishop's wife. 'She can unpack your things. '

'Not for worlds. I have oceans to tell you, and I should hate that primpersonage looking on and listening. Such news, Ida: Urania is engaged. '

'At last!'

'That was what everybody said. This was her sixth season, and itwas rapidly becoming a case of real distress, and she was gettingblue, oh, to a frightful extent--a perambulatory epitome ofHuxley-cum-Darwin, --that's what our boys call her. And now, afterrefusing ever so many nice young men in the Government offices becausethey were not rich enough for her, she is going to make a great match, and marry a nasty old man. '

'Oh, Bessie! nasty and old!'

'Strong language, isn't it? but the gentleman has been to Kingthorpe, andthere is no doubt about the fact. One wouldn't mind his being elderly ifhe were only a gentleman; but he is not. '

'Then why in mercy's name does Miss Rylance marry him?'

'Because he is Sir Tobias Vandilk, one of the richest men on the StockExchange. He is of Dutch extraction, they say; and this is supposed toaccount for his utter destitution with regard to English aspirates. Hehas a palace in Park Lane, and a park in Yorkshire; gives dinners of amost _recherché_ description every Thursday in the season; and immenseshooting parties, at which I am told he and his friends slaughterquintillions of pheasants, and flood the London market every autumn; andit is whispered that he has lent money to royal personages. '

'Is Urania happy?'

'If she is not, I know who is. Dr. Rylance looks twenty years youngersince the engagement. He was beginning to get weighed down by Urania. Youremember with what a firm hand he managed her in days gone by! Well, after she took to Huxley and Darwin, and the rest of them, that was allover. She was always tripping him up with some little shred of scientificknowledge, fresh from Tyndall; always attacking his old-fashioned notionswith some new light. He was as merry as a boy let loose from school whenhe came down to Kingthorpe the other day. He went to one of our picnics, and made himself tremendously agreeable. We took Sir Tobias to see theAbbey, and had afternoon tea there. He pretended to admire everything, but in a patronising way that made me savage; affected to think WendoverAbbey a little bit of a place, as compared with his modern barrack inYorkshire, with its riding-school, tan gallop, range of orchard-houses, picture-gallery, and so on. And Urania's grandeur is something too largefor words. "You and Mr. Jardine must come and stay with us at Hanboroughsome day, " she said, as if she were promising me a treat; so I told herplainly that my husband's parish work made such a visit impossible. "Oh, but some day, " she said sweetly. "Never, " said I; "we are rooted in thechalk of Salisbury Plain. " "Poor things!" she sighed, "what a destiny!"'

'And you all drank tea at the Abbey, ' said Ida, musingly; 'dear oldAbbey! I can fancy you there, in the long low library, with the afternoonsunlight shining in at the open windows, and Mary Stuart smiling at youfrom the panelling over one fire-place, and crafty Elizabeth lookingsideways at you from over the other, and the Dijon roses clambering andtwining round every lattice. '

'How well you remember the old place. Isn't it horrid of Brian to stayaway all these years?'

'It is--rather eccentric. '

'Eccentric! It is positively wicked, when we know how agreeable he canmake himself. Why, in that happy summer we spent at the Abbey hebrightened all our lives. Didn't he, now, Ida?'

'He was very kind, ' faltered Ida, like a slave giving evidence undertorture. 'Have you heard from him lately?'

'Not for more than a year, but father hears of him through his Londonagent, and we know he is well. He sent us all lovely presents lastChristmas--Indian shawls, prayer-rugs, ivories, carved sandalwood boxes. The Vicarage is glorified by his gifts. '

The gong began booming and buzzing as Bessie pinned a big yellow roseamong the folds of her Madras fichu, and Mrs. Jardine and her hostesswent down to the drawing-room lovingly arms entwined, as in that long-agoholiday, when Ida was a guest at Kingthorpe. 

Lady Palliser and Mr. Jardine were in the drawing-room talking to eachother, while Brian paced up and down the room, pale and wan, as he hadlooked yesterday in the church. He offered his arm to Bessie at hiswife's bidding, without a word. Mr. Jardine followed, with Lady Palliserand Ida; and the little party of five sat down to dinner with a blightupon them, the awful shadow of domestic misery. There are many suchdinners eaten every day in England--than which the Barmecide's was a morecheerful feast, a red herring and bread and butter in a garret a banquetof sweeter savour. 

For the first two courses Brian preserved a sullen silence. He atenothing--did not even pretend to eat--and drank the sherry and soda-waterwhich were offered to him without comment. With the third course thebutler, who had supplied him with the prescribed amount of sherry, gavehim plain soda-water. He looked at his tumbler for a moment or so, andburst out laughing. 

'Byron used to drink soda-water at dinners when he was the rage in Londonsociety, ' he said. 'It was _chic_, and Byron was like Sara Bernhardt--hewould have done anything to get himself talked about. '

'I should have thought the fame he won by "Childe Harold" would havesatisfied him, without any outside notoriety as a total abstainer, ' saidMr. Jardine. 

'Oh, if you think that, you don't know Byron, ' exclaimed Brian. 'Hewanted people always to be talking of him. A man may write the greatestbook that was ever written, and the world will accept it, and put him ona pinnacle; but they soon leave off talking about him unless he doessomething. He must keep a bear in his rooms--quarrel with his wife--weara pea-green overcoat--cross the Channel in a balloon--and go on doingqueer things--if he wants to be famous. Byron was an adept in the art of_réclame_--just as Whistler is on his smaller scale. It wasn't enough forByron to be the greatest poet of modern Europe, he wanted to be the mostnotorious rake and _roué_ into the bargain. '

'It was a curious nature, ' said Mr. Jardine--'half gold and half tinsel. '

'Ah, but the tinsel caught the public. I really don't think, for a manwho wants to make a stir in his generation, a fellow could have playedhis cards better than Byron did. '

'It is a life that one can only contemplate with infinite pity andregret--a great nature, wrecked by small vices and smaller follies, ' saidMr. Jardine; and then Brian took up the strain, and talked with loudassertiveness of the right of genius to do what it likes in the world, launching out into a broad declaration of infidelity and rankmaterialism, which shocked and scared the three women who heard him. 

Ida gave an imploring look at her stepmother, and they all three rosesimultaneously, and hastily retired, driven away by that blatantblasphemy. John Jardine closed the door upon the ladies, and then wentquietly back to his seat. He heard all that Brian had to say--he listenedto his wild ramblings as to the voice of an oracle; and then, when Brianhad poured out his little stock of argument in favour of materialism, hadquoted Aristotle, and Holbach, and Hume, and Comte, and Darwin, and hadperverted their arguments against a personal God into the divine right ofman to ruin his soul and body, John Jardine, who had read more ofAristotle than Brian knew of all the metaphysicians put together, and whohad Plato, Kant, and Dugald Stewart in his heart of hearts, gravely tookup the strain, and made mincemeat of Mr. Wendover's philosophy. 

Brian listened meekly, and did not appear to take offence when the Vicarwent on to warn him against the peril here and hereafter of a lifemisspelt, a constitution ruined by self-indulgence, talents unused, opportunities neglected. The pale and haggard wretch sat cowering, as thevoice of reproof and warning went on, solemnly, earnestly, with the warmsympathy which springs from perfect pity, from the Christian's wide loveof his fellow-men. 

'For your wife's--for your own sake--for the love of Him in whose imageyou were made--wrestle with the devil that possesses you, ' said JohnJardine, when they had risen to leave the room, laying his handaffectionately upon Brian's shoulder. 'Believe me, victory is possible. '

'Not now, ' Brian answered, with a semi-hysterical laugh. 'It is too late. There comes an hour, you know, even in your all-merciful creed, when thedoor is shut. "Too late, ye cannot enter now. " The door is shut upon me. I fooled my life away in London. It was pleasant enough while it lasted, but it's over now. I can say with Cleopatra--"O my life in Egypt, O, thedalliance and the wit. "'

They were in the hall by this time. The broad marble-paved hall, with itsmarble figures of gods and goddesses, of which nobody ever took any morenotice than if they had been umbrella stands. They were crossing the hallon their way to the drawing-room, when Brian suddenly clutched JohnJardine's arm and reeled heavily against him, with an appalling cry. 

'Hold me!' he screamed; 'hold me! I am going down!'

It was one of the dreadful symptoms of his dreadful disease. All at once, with the solid black and white marble beneath his feet, he felt himselfupon the edge of a precipice, felt himself falling, falling, falling, into a bottomless pit. 

It was an awful feeling, a waking nightmare. He sank exhausted into JohnJardine's arms, panting for breath. 

'You are safe, it is only a momentary delusion, ' said Mr. Jardine. 'Haveyou had that feeling often before?'

'Yes--sometimes--pretty often, ' gasped Brian. 

Mr. Jardine's wide reading and large experience as a parish priest hadmade him half a doctor. He knew that this was one of the symptoms ofdelirium tremens, and a symptom seen mostly in cases of a dangerous type. He had suspected the nature of Mr. Wendover's disease before now; but nowhe was certain of it. 

He went with Brian to his room, advising him to lie down and rest. Brianappearing consentient, Mr. Jardine left him, with Towler in attendance. 

In the drawing-room the Vicar contrived to get a little quiet talk withIda, while at the other end of the room Lady Palliser was expatiating toBessie upon the minutest details of her boy's illness. He invited Ida'sconfidence, and frankly told her that he had fathomed the nature ofBrian's disease. 

'I have seen too many cases in the course of my parochial experience notto recognise the painful symptoms. I am so sorry for you and for him. Itis a bright young life thrown away. '

'Do you think he will not recover?'

'I think it is a very bad case. He is wasted to a shadow, and has a worn, haggard look that I don't like. And then he has those painfulhallucinations--that idea of falling down a precipice, for instance, which are oftenest seen in fatal cases. '

Ida told him of the scene in the church yesterday--she confided in himfully--telling him all that Dr. Mallison had said of the case. 

'What can I do?' she asked, piteously. 

'I don't think you can do more than you are doing. That man who waitsupon your husband is a nurse, I suppose?'

'Yes. Dr. Mallison sent him. '

'And care is taken that the patient gets no stimulants supplied to him?'

'Every care--and yet--'

'And yet what?'

'I have a suspicion--and I think Towler suspects too--that Brian does getbrandy--somehow. '

'But how can that be, if your servants are honest, and this attendant isto be depended upon?'

'I can't tell you. I believe the servants are incapable of deceiving me. Towler, the attendant, comes to us with the highest character. '

'Well, I will be on the alert while I am with you, ' said Mr. Jardine; andIda felt as if he were a tower of strength. 'I have seen these sad cases, and had to do with them, only too often. On some occasions I have beenhappy enough to be the means of saving a man from his own folly. '

'Pray stop as long as you can with us, and do all you can, ' entreatedIda. 'I wish I had asked you to come sooner, only I was so ashamed forhim, poor creature. I thought it would be a wrong to him to let anyoneknow how low he had fallen. '

'It is part of my office to know how low humanity can fall and yet beraised up again, ' said Mr. Jardine. 

'You won't tell Bessie--she would be so grieved for her cousin. '

'I will tell her nothing more than she can find out for herself. But youknow she is very quick-witted. '

There was a change for the worse in Towler's charge next morning, whenIda, who still occupied the room adjoining her husband's bedchamber, went in at eight o'clock to inquire how he had passed the night. Brianwas up, half dressed, pacing up and down the room, and talkingincoherently. He had been up ever since five o'clock, Towler said; butit was impossible to get him to dress himself, or suffer himself to bedressed. A frightful restlessness had taken possession of him, moreintense than any previous restlessness, and it was impossible to doanything for him. His hallucinations since daybreak had taken a frightfulform; he had seen poisonous snakes gliding in and out of the folds of thebedclothes; he had fancied every kind of hideous monster--the wingedreptiles of the jura formation--the armour-plated fish of the old redsandstone--everything that is grotesque, revolting, terrible--skeletons, poison-spitting toads, vampires, were-wolves, flying cats--they had alllurked amidst the draperies of bed or windows, or grinned at him throughthe panes of glass. 

'Look!' he shrieked, as Ida approached him, soothing, pleading ingentlest accents; 'look! don't you see them?' he cried, pointing to theshapes that seemed to people the room, and trying to push them aside witha restless motion of his hands; 'don't you see them, the lares andlemures? Look, there is Cleopatra with the asp at her breast! That bosomwas once beautiful, and see now what a loathsome spectacle death has madeit--the very worms recoil from that corruption. See, there is Canidia, the sorceress, who buried the boy alive! Look at her hair flying looseabout her head! hair, no, those locks are living vipers! and Sagana, withhair erect, like the bristles of a wild boar! See, Ida, how she rushesabout, sprinkling the room with water from the rivers of hell! And Veia, whose cruel heart never felt remorse! Yes, he knew them well, Horace. These furies were the women he had loved and wooed!'

Fancies, memories flitted across his disordered brain, swift as lightningflashes. In a moment Canidia was forgotten, and he was Pentheus, struggling with Agave and her demented crew. They were tearing him topieces, their fingers were at his throat. Then he was in the East, adefenceless traveller in the tropical desert, surrounded by Thugs. Hepointed to one particular spot where he saw his insidious foe--hedescribed the dusky supple figure, the sinuous limbs, glidingserpent-like towards him, the oiled body, the dagger in the upliftedhand. An illustration in Sir Charles Bell's classic treatise had flashedinto his brain. So, from memory to memory, with a frightful fertility offancy, his unresting brain hurried on; while his wife could only watchand listen, tortured by an agony greater than his own. To look on, and tobe powerless to afford the slightest help was dreadful. Up and down, andround about the room he wandered, talking perpetually, perpetually wavingaside the horrid images which pursued and appalled him, his eyeballs inconstant motion, the pupils dilated, his hollow cheeks deadly pale, hisface bathed in perspiration. 

'Send for Mr. Fosbroke, ' said Ida, speaking on the threshold of theadjoining room, to the maid who brought her letters; and, in the midst ofhis distraction, Brian's quick ear caught the name. 

'Fosbroke me no Fosbrokes!' he said. 'I will have no village apothecariesdiagnosing my disease, no ignorant quack telling me how to treat myself. '

'I will telegraph for Dr. Mallison, if you like, Brian, ' Ida answered, gently; 'but I know Mr. Fosbroke is a clever man, and he perfectlyunderstands--'

'Yes, he will have the audacity to tell you he knows what is the matterwith me. He will say this is _delirium tremens_--a lie, and you must knowit is a lie!'

To her infinite relief, Mr. Jardine appeared at this moment He questionedTowler as to the possibility of tranquillising his patient; and he foundthat the sedatives prescribed by Dr. Mallison had ceased to exercise anybeneficial effect. Nights of insomnia and restlessness had been the rulewith the patient ever since Towler had been in attendance upon him. 

'I never knew such a brain, or such invention!' exclaimed Towler; 'thepeople and the places, and the things he talks about is enough to make aman's hair stand on end. '

'The natural result of a vivid memory, and a good deal of desultoryreading. '

'Most patients takes an idea and harps upon it, ' said Towler. 'It's themultiplication table--or the day of judgment--or the volcanoes andhot-springs, and what-you-may-call-ems, in the centre of the earth; andthey'll go on over and over again--always coming back to the same point, like a merry-go-round; but this one is quite different. There's no boundsto his delusions. We're at the North Pole one minute, and digging updiamonds in Africa the next. '

Brian had flung himself upon his bed, rolled in the damask curtain, likeHenry Plantagenet, what time he went off into one of his fury-fits aboutThomas Becket; and Mr. Jardine and Towler were able to talkconfidentially at a respectful distance. 

'Are you sure that he does not get brandy without your knowledge?'

'No, sir, ' said Towler; 'that is what I am not sure about. It's apuzzling case. He didn't ought to be so bad as he is after my care ofhim. There ought to be some improvement by this time; instead of whichit's all the other way. '

'What precautions have you taken?'

'I've searched his rooms, and not a thing have I found stowed awayanywhere. It isn't often that he's left to himself, for when I get mymidday sleep Mrs. Wendover sits with him; or, if he's cranky, and wantsto be alone, she stays in the next room, with the door ajar between them;and Robert, the groom, is on duty in the passage, in case the patientshould get unmanageable. '

'I see--you have been very careful; but practically your patient has beenoften alone--the half-open door signifies nothing--he was unobserved, andfree to do what he pleased all the same. '

'But he couldn't drink if there was no liquor within reach. '

'Was there none? that is the question!' answered Mr. Jardine. 

'Look about the rooms yourself, sir, and see if he could hide anything, except in such places as I've overhauled every morning, ' said Towler, with an offended air; and then, swelling with outraged dignity, he flungopen doors of wardrobes and closets, pulled out drawers, and otherwisedemonstrated the impossibility of anything remaining secret from hiseagle eye. 

'What about the next room?' asked Mr. Jardine, going into the adjoiningroom, which was Brian's study. 

The room was littered with books and papers heaped untidily upon tablesand chairs, and even strewn upon the carpet. Brian had objected to anyattempt at setting this apartment in order--the servants were to leaveall books and papers untouched, on pain of his severe displeasure. Thuseverything in the shape of litter had been allowed to accumulate, withits natural accompaniment, dust. Everyone knows the hideous confusionwhich the daily and weekly newspapers alone can make in a room if leftunsorted and unarranged for a mouth or so; and mixed with these therewere pamphlets, magazines, manuscripts, and piles of more solidliterature in the shape of books brought up from the library forreference and consultation. 

In one corner there were a pile of empty boxes, and on one of these Mr. Jardine's eye lighted instantly, on account of its resemblance to a winemerchant's case. 

He pulled this box out from the others--a plain deal box, roughlyfinished, just the size of a two-dozen case. One label had been pulledoff, but there was a railway label which gave the data of delivery, justthree weeks back. 

'Have you any idea what this box contained?' inquired Mr. Jardine. 

'No, sir. It was here when I came, just as you see it now. '

'It looks very like a wine merchant's box. '

'Well, it might be a wine-case, sir, as far as the look of it but itmight have held anything. It was empty when I came here, and there's nostowage for wine bottles in these rooms, as you have seen with your owneyes. '

'Don't be too sure of that; and now go back to your patient, and get himto eat some breakfast, if you can, while I go downstairs. '

'He can't eat, sir. It's pitiful; he don't eat enough, for a robin. Wetry to keep up his strength with strong soups, and such like; but it'shard work to get him to swallow anything. '

Mr. Jardine went down to the family breakfast room, where his wife, Ida, and her stepmother were sitting at table, with pale perturbed faces, andvery little inclination for that excellent fare which the Wimperfieldhousekeeper provided with a kind of automatic regularity, and would havecontinued to provide on the eve of a deluge or an earthquake. He told Idathat all was going on quietly upstairs, and that he would share Towler'stask as nurse all that day, so that she might be quite easy in her mindas to the patient. And then the servants came trooping in, as the clockstruck nine, and they all knelt down, and John Jardine read the dailyportion of prayer and praise. 

It had been decreed by medical authority that on this day, provided thesky were propitious and the wind in a warm quarter, Vernon was to go outfor his first drive. Mr. Jardine accordingly entreated that the threeladies would accompany him, and that Ida would have no fear as to herhusband's welfare during her absence. 

'I don't like to leave him, ' she said, in confidence, to Mr. Jardine;'he seems so much worse this morning--wilder than I have ever seen himyet--and so white and haggard. '

'He is very bad, but your remaining indoors will do him no good. I willnot leave him while you are away. '

Ida yielded. It was a relief to her to submit to authority--to have someone able to tell her to do this or that. She felt utterly worn out inbody and mind--all the energy, the calm strength of purpose, which hadsustained her up to a certain point, was now exhausted. Despair had takenpossession of her, and with despair came that dull apathy which is likedeath in life. 

John Jardine took his wife aside before he went back to Brian's rooms. 

'I want you to take care of Ida, to keep with her all day. She has beensorely tried, poor soul, and needs all your love. '

'She shall have it in full measure, ' answered Bessie. 'How grave andanxious you look! Is Brian very ill?'

'Very ill. '

'Dangerously?'

'I am afraid so. I shall hear what Mr. Fosbroke says presently, and ifhis report be bad, I shall telegraph for the physician. '

'Poor Brian! How strangely he talked at dinner last night! Oh, John, Ihardly dare say it--but--is he out of his mind?'

'Temporarily--but it is the delirium of a kind of brain fever, notmadness. '

'And he will recover?'

'Please God; but he is very low. I am seriously alarmed about him. '

'Poor dear Brian!' sighed Bess. 'He was once my favourite cousin. But Imust go back to Ida. You need not be afraid of my neglecting her. Ishan't leave her all day. '

Mr. Jardine went to the housekeeper's room to make an inquiry. He wantedto know what that box from London had contained, a box delivered uponsuch and such a date. 

The housekeeper's mind was dark, or worse than dark upon the subject--anobscurity enlightened by flashes of delusive light. Two housemaids, andan odd man who looked after the coal scuttles, were produced, and gavetheir evidence in a manner which would have laid them open to the chargeof rank prevarication and perjury, as to the receipt of a certain woodenbox, which at some stages of the inquiry became hopelessly entangled witha hamper from the Petersfield fishmonger, and a band-box from LadyPalliser's Brighton milliner. 

'The carriage must have been paid, ' said the housekeeper, 'that's thedifficulty. If there'd been anything to pay, it would have been enteredin my book; but when the carriage is paid, don't you see, sir, it's outof my jurisdiction, as you may say, ' with conscious pride in a free useof the English language, 'and I may hear nothing about it. '

But now the odd man, after much thoughtful 'scratching of his head, wassuddenly enlightened by a flash of memory from the paleozoic darknessof three weeks ago. He remembered a heavy wooden box that had come inhis dinner-time--the fact of its coming at that eventful hour hadevidently impressed him--and he had carried it up to Mr. Wendover's ownsitting-room. 

It was very heavy, and Mr. Wendover had told him that it contained books. 

'Did you open it for Mr. Wendover?'

'No, sir; I offered to open it, but Mr. Wendover says he'd got the toolshimself, and would open it at his leisure. He had no call for the booksyet awhile, he says, and didn't want it opened. 

'I see, the box contained books. Thank you, that's all I wanted to know. '

John Jardine had very little doubt in his mind now as to the actualcontents of the box. He had no doubt that Brian, finding himself refuseddrink, for which he suffered the drunkard's incessant craving, hadcontrived to get himself supplied from London; and that if the fire ofhis disease had known no abatement it was because the fuel that fed theflame had not been wanting. 

The only question that remained to be answered was how Brian, carefullyattended as he had been, had managed to dispose of his secret store ofdrink, under the very eyes, as it were, of his keeper. But Mr. Jardineknew that the sufferer from alcoholic poison is no less cunning than theabsolute lunatic, and that falsehood, meanness, and fraud seem to besymptoms of the disease. 

When he went back to Brian's rooms, he found the patient lying on hisbed, exhausted by the agitation and restlessness of the last few hours. He was not asleep, but was quieter than usual, in a semi-conscious state, muttering to himself now and then. Towler was sitting at a little tableby the open window, breakfasting comfortably; his enjoyment of thecoffee-pot, and a dish of ham and eggs, being in no manner lessened bythe neighbourhood of the patient. 

'Haven't been able to get him to take any nourishment, ' whispered Towler, as Mr. Jardine came quietly into the room 'He's uncommon bad. '

'Mr. Fosbroke will be here presently, I hope. '

'I don't think he'll be able to do much good when he does come, ' saidTowler; 'doctors ain't in it with a case of this kind. If he don't go offinto a good sleep by-and-by, I'm afraid this will be a fatal case. '

Mr. Jardine made no reply to this discouraging observation. There aretimes when speech is worse than useless. He stood by the window, lookingover at that shrunken figure on the groat old-fashioned four-post bed, with its voluminous drab damask curtains, its cords, fringes, tassels, and useless decorations--the nerveless, helpless figure of wasted youth, the wreckage of an ill-spent life. The haggard countenance, damp withthe dews of mental agony, and of a livid pallor, looked like the faceof death. What could medicine do for this man beyond diagnosing his case, and giving an opinion about it, for the satisfaction--God save themark!--of his friends? John Jardine knew in his heart that not all thedoctors in Christendom could pick this shattered figure up again, andreplace it in its former position among mankind. 

Still intent upon solving that mystery about the contents of thewine-case, Mr. Jardine's eyes wandered about the room, trying to discoversome hiding-place which the careful had overlooked. But so far he couldsee no such thing There was the tall four-poster, with its squarecornice, a ponderous mahogany frame with fluted damask stretched acrossit. Could Brian have hidden his brandy up yonder, behind the mahoganycornice? Surely not. First the damask would have bulged with the weightof the bottles, and, secondly, the place was not accessible enough. Hemust have hidden his poison in some spot where he could apply himself toit furtively, hurriedly twenty, fifty, a hundred times in the day ornight. 

Presently Mr. Jardine's glance fell on the half-open door of thebath-room. It was a slip of a room cut off the study, a room that hadbeen created within the last twenty years. It was the only room which Mr. Jardine had not inspected before he went down to breakfast. 

He pushed open the door, and went in, followed by Towler, wiping theegginess and haminess from his mouth as he went. 

'You kept your eye upon this room as well as the others, I suppose, ' saidMr. Jardine, looking about him. 

'Yes, sir, I have kept an eye upon everything. '

The apartment was not extensive. A large copper bath with a ponderousmahogany case, panelled, moulded, bevelled, the elaborate workmanshipof local cabinet-makers; a row of brass hooks hung with bath towels, which looked like surplices pendent in a vestry; a washstand in a corner, a dressing-table and glass, with its belongings, in the window, and awicker arm-chair, comprised the whole extent of furniture. Nohiding-place here, one would suppose. 

Mr. Jardine looked about the room thoughtfully. It was the one apartmentin which the patient could hardly be intruded upon by his attendant. Herehe could be sure of privacy. 

'Did you examine the case of the bath, ' he inquired presently, hismathematical eye quick to take in the difference between the inner shellof copper and the outer husk of mahogany. 

'No, sir, ' answered Towler, briskly. 'Is it 'oller?'

'Of course it's hollow. Surely your eye tells you that. '

'Yes, sir; but there's the hot-water pipes inside--and there's no gettingat it, except for a plumber. '

'Nonsense, ' said Mr. Jardine, kneeling down at one end of the bath, wherethere was a convenient mahogany door for the accommodation of theplumber, a door which lay somewhat in shadow, and had escaped Towler'sobservation. 

'Bring me a candle, ' said Mr. Jardine, unconsciously imitating thebrotherhood of plumbers, whose consumption of candles is a householdterror. 

Towler returned to fetch a candle, while Mr. Jardine with cautious handexplored the cavern-like recesses between the bath and its outer shell, recesses in which lurked serpent-like convolutions of hot-water pipes andcold-water pipes, waste and overflow. 

Yes, before Towler could arrive with the candle, he had fathomed themystery. Three or four full bottles, and a large number of empties, werestowed away in this dusty receptacle. He drew one of the full bottles outinto the light. 'Hennessy's Fine Old Cognac, ' said the label. This hadbeen the secret source of fever and delirium--here had lurked the evilwhich had made all remedial measures vain. 

Mr. Fosbroke was announced while John Jardine was washing the dust andthe stains of rusty iron from his hands. Brian was in too low a conditionto be rude to the country practitioner, much as he had protested againsthis interference. He suffered the apothecary to sit by his bed and feelhis pulse, without a word of remonstrance. 

'How do you find him?' asked Mr. Jardine, when Mr. Fosbroke had left thebedside. 

'Very bad; pulse small and thready--a hundred and forty in the minute;violent throbbing in the temporal and carotid arteries; profuseperspiration--all bad signs. What medicines has he been taking?'

He was shown the prescriptions. 

'Hum--hum--digitalis--bromide of potassium. I should like to injectchloral; but as the case is in Dr. Mallison's hands--'

'If you think there is danger I will telegraph for Mallison. '

'There is always danger in this stage of the malady, especially in thecase of a patient of Mr. Wendover's age. The season, too, isunfavourable--the mortality in this complaint is nearly double in summer. If we can get him into a sound sleep of some hours he may wake with adecided turn for the better--the delirium subjugated; but in his lowstate, even sleep may be fatal--there is so little vital power. Yes, Ishould certainly telegraph for Dr. Mallison; and in the meantime I'll trywhat can be done with chloral. '

'You must do the utmost you can. Mrs. Wendover has implicit faith inyou. '

'I'll drive back and get the chloral. '

When the apothecary was gone, Mr. Jardine's first act was to telegraph tothe London physician, his next, to put the unused bottles of cognac underlock and key, and, with Towler's help, to clear away the empty bottleswithout the knowledge of the servants. No doubt every member of thehousehold knew the nature of Mr. Wendover's illness; but it was well tospare him the exposure of these degrading details. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

AN ENGLISHMAN'S HOUSE IS HIS CASTLE. 

Ida felt a strange relief to her spirits, despite the absolute blacknessof her domestic horizon, when the carriage drove away from Wimperfield. She had left the house very seldom of late, feeling that duty chained herto the joyless scene of home; and there was an infinite relief in turningher back upon that stately white building in which was embodied all themisery of her blighted life. No charnel-house could be fuller of ghastly, unspeakable horrors than Wimperfield had become to her since that long, never-to-be-forgotten night when she had listened to her husband'sravings, and when all the loathsome objects his distracted fancy hadconjured into being, and his never-resting tongue had described, had beenonly a little less real to her mind than they had been to his. Could sheever again know peace and rest in those rooms; ever tread those corridorswithout shuddering and dread, ever know happiness again in all the daysof her life? She leaned back in the carriage as they drove along theavenue, and rested with half-closed eyes, her soul heavy within her, herbody weighed down by the soreness and weariness of her mind. If lifecould but end now! She felt that she could be of no more use in theworld. She could do nothing to help her wretched husband. He had chosento go his own way to destruction, and he was too near the edge of the pitnow to be snatched back by any friendly hand. She felt that his fate hadpassed beyond the regions of hope. God might pity the self-destroyer, anddeal lightly with him at the great audit; but on this earth there was nohope of cure. Brian Wendover was going down to the pit. 

Bessie sat by Ida's side tenderly watching her worn white face, whileLady Palliser was entirely absorbed by the delight of administeringfussily to her boy, who was well enough to laugh her shawls andcomforters and motherly precautions to scorn, and to jump about in thecarriage, as at each break in the wood some new object of interest caughthis eye--a rabbit, a squirrel, a hawk high up in the blue, invisible toany gaze less eager than his own. He was in wild spirits at being out ofdoors again, a restless eager soul, not to be restrained by any medicalordinances or maternal anxieties. 

They went for a long drive, the horses, very fresh after the littleexercise of the last month, devouring the ground under them--the summerbreeze brisk and inspiring--the country beautiful beyond measure--anever-varying landscape of hill and wood and valley, green pastures andgolden grain. 

Bessie chatted gaily in her desire to distract Ida's mind, and the boy'svivacity never flagged; but Ida sat silent, feeling the blessedness ofthis brief respite from the horror of home, but quite unable to talk ofindifferent subjects. She was haunted by the image of her husband as shehad seen him that morning--his ashen countenance, the perpetual movementof his eyes, those nervous attenuated hands, almost transparent in theirbloodlessness, for ever pushing aside the formless horrors that crowdedround him--pictures painted on the empty air, pictures for ever changing, yet hideously real to that disorganised brain pictures that spoke andgibbered at him, shadows with which he carried on conversations. 

With this awful image fresh in her mind, Ida could not even pretend to becheerful, or interested in common things. 

'Don't be unhappy about me, dear, ' she said once when Bessie squeezed herhand, and looked at her with tender anxiety; 'I must bear my burden. Nobody can help me. '

'Except God, ' whispered the Vicar's faithful wife. 'He lightens allburdens, in His good time. '

On the homeward road they wound near the base of Blackman's Hanger, andat this point Vernon got up and ordered the coachman to drive as near ashe could to the old gamekeeper's cottage. 

'We can walk the rest of the way, ' said the boy. 

'Walk!' shrieked Lady Palliser. 'Oh, Vernie, what are you dreaming about?Mr. Fosbroke never said you might walk. '

'Very likely not, ' retorted the boy; 'but you don't suppose I'm going toask old Fosbroke's leave before I use my legs. Look here, mother dear, I'm as well as ever I was, and I'm not going to be mollicoddled anymore. '

'But Vernie--'

'I am not going to be mollicoddled any more, and I'm going to see oldJack. '

'Nonsense, Vernie. '

'He came to see me, and I'm going to see him, ' said Vernon, resolutely. 'Remember what your favourite author, the Countess of Seven Stars, saysabout the necessity of returning a call--"and if the person callinghappen to be your inferior in social status, the obligation to return thevisit within a reasonable time will be so much the stronger. " There, mother; there are the very words of your "Crême de la Crême" for you. '

'But, Vernon, the countess would never have imagined such a person as aCheap Jack calling upon anyone for whom her book was intended. '

'The book was intended for a parcel of stuck-up cads, ' said Vernon. 'Geton, Jackson. '

This to the coachman, who was driving slowly, perfectly conscious of thesquabble going on behind him, and anticipating the reversal of SirVernon's order. But Lady Palliser said nothing, so Jackson quickened hispace a little, and drove along the rough winding road which skirted thebase of the hill. 

Directly he drew up his horses Vernon leapt out, and the three womenfollowed him. After all, the mother inwardly argued, it were a pity tothwart her darling. He was in such high spirits, and seemed so thoroughlyhimself again. His very wilfulness was delightful, for it told of renewedvigour. 

They all climbed the hill together, by a cork-screw track which was nottoo distressing. The atmosphere was cool and fresh at this altitude, theodour of the pines ambrosial. 

'I suppose we had better wait a little way off, Vernie, ' said Ida, whenthey were within a dozen yards of the hut. 'Your friend is so veryuncivil to ladies. '

'Yes, you'd better rest yourselves on that fir tree, ' answered Vernon, pointing to prostrate giant of the grove which had been Lilely felled, 'while I run on and see him. '

They obeyed, but in less than five minutes Vernon came back. 

'Jack is out, but his house is open, ' he said, eagerly, 'and I want youall to come and see it. I want you to see the house that my Jack built. '

'But would it be right to go into his cottage when he is away?' askedIda. 

'Of course it would, ' cried her brother, dancing along before them. 'Youmust come--there's nothing to be ashamed of, I can tell you. Mother willsee that my Jack isn't a vulgar person, that he can read and write, andhas the ways of a gentleman. '

'I should certainly like to see what kind of person my son associateswith, ' said Lady Palliser, who, in common with the non-studious class ofmankind, was a keen inquirer into the details of daily life. 

She liked to know where her acquaintance had their gowns made, and whatwages they gave their cooks, and to be the first to hear of matrimonialengagements and dangerous illnesses. 

The cottage door stood wide open, and as there was neither hall norpassage, the moment the three Fatimas had crossed the threshold they werestanding in the innermost sanctuary of Mr. Cheap Jack's private life, andthe character of the man stood revealed to them, so far as surroundingscan reveal a man's character. 

He was a smoker, for the room, albeit the lattice stood wide open, smeltstrongly of tobacco, and over the narrow wooden mantelpiece were slungthree pipes, one a long cherry-wood tube of decidedly Orientalappearance. 

'Quite gentlemanly looking pipes, ' said Lady Palliser. 

The room was in perfect order, everything arranged with an exquisiteneatness. The floor was covered with a coarse, substantial matting, spotlessly clean. The furniture consisted of a clumsy old walnut-woodtable, evidently picked up at some farmhouse or cottage in theneighbourhood, a heavy piece of cabinet work of the same order, halfsecretaire half bookcase, a couple of substantial arm-chairs, and aponderous old oak chest--also the relic of some dismantled homestead. There was a brass clock on the chimney-piece, and there were a number ofrather dingy-looking volumes in the bookcase, while the floor under thetable was piled with quartos and thick octavos, which looked like booksof reference. An old leathern despatch box, much the worse for wear, stood on the table. Ornaments, pictures, or photographs there were none. 

'It really looks like a gentleman's room, ' said Lady Palliser, after hereyes had devoured every detail. 

'It _is_ a gentleman's room, ' answered Vernon, decisively. 'Didn't I tellyou my friend Jack is a gentleman?'

'Vernie dear, a man who goes about the country in a cart selling thingscan't be a gentleman!' said his mother. 

'I don't quite see that, Lady Palliser, ' exclaimed Bessie, who wasinspecting the book-shelves. 'A gentleman may fall upon evil days, andhave to earn his living somehow, don't you know; and why shouldn't hehave a cart, and go about selling things? There's nothing disreputable init, though he could hardly go into society, perhaps, while he was drivingthe cart, because the mass of mankind are such fools. Why shouldn'tVernie's instinct be right, and this Cheap Jack be a reduced gentleman?Froude says that in the colonies Oxford men may be seen mending theroads. Why shouldn't one man in the world have the courage to do humblework in his own country? This Jack is a University man. '

'How do you know that?' asked Lady Palliser, eagerly. She was ready tobow down before a University man as a necessarily superior being. Therehad never been such a person of her own blood. 

'Here is a volume of AEschylus--the Clarendon Press--with his collegearms. He is a Balliol man, the same college as my cousin Brian's. '

'That proves nothing, ' said Lady Palliser, contemptuously. 'He may havebought the book at a stall. All his furniture is second-hand, why not hisbooks?'

'Oh, but here are more books with the Balliol arms--Pindar, Theocritus, Catullus, Horace, Virgil. '

'Can't you find his name in any of them?'

'No; that has been erased in some of the books, and has never beenwritten in the others. Poor fellow! I daresay he would not like his realname to be known. '

'Didn't I tell you he was a gentleman, mother?' exclaimed Vernon, triumphantly. 

Lady Palliser was almost convinced. The neat, substantially furnishedroom--so free from frippery or foppishness--the queer Oriental pipes--thewell-used books in sober calf bindings, which had once been splendid--thecollege arms on almost every volume--these details impressed her in spiteof herself. 

'Poor young man! I should like to send him some money, ' she said. 

'He would not take it; he would scorn your money, ' said Vernon. 'Whatdoes he want with pounds, shillings, and pence? He told me that so longas he has his books to read, his pipe to smoke, and a fine country toroam about, he cares for nothing else. Your money wouldn't buy himanything. '

'You don't understand, Vernie dear. We might do something substantial forhim--set him up in a nice little shop at Petersfield, perhaps astationer's, or, ' with a glance at the rack of pipes, 'a tobacconist's. '

'My Jack keeping a shop! my Jack behind a counter!' cried Vernon: 'if youknew anything about him you would never talk of such a thing. Why helikes to be as free as the birds of the air--to roam about all day--andsit up reading half the night. '

They were all clustered in front of the bookcase, Bessie and Ida lookingat the books, Lady Palliser and her boy intent on their own talk, whenthe door was flung open, and the master of the house suddenly appearedamidst them--a tall, broad-shouldered figure, roughly clad in shootingjacket, corduroy, and leather, like a gamekeeper--a dark bearded faceunder a slouched hat. But the intruders had only the briefest time inwhich to observe his appearance. At sight of the group by the bookcase, Jack tilted his felt hat further over his brows, and strode across theroom to that corner whence a cork-screw stair led to the upper story. Hewent up these stairs in three or four bounds, banged and bolted the doorof the upper chamber; and his unbidden guests were left looking at eachother in bewildered silence. 

Lady Palliser, after a gasp or two, was the first to speak. 

'Did you ever see such manner?' she exclaimed; 'such a perfect brute?Vernie, you must never speak to that horrid feature again. I never wantto have anything more to do with University men if this is a specimen oftheir manners! Never so much as to take off his hat to us!'

'We had no right to come crowding into his room, ' said Bessie, who couldseldom find it in her heart to be angry with anyone. 'I daresay the poorthing feels the change in his position. When Brian, of the Abbey, comeshome--if ever he does come home--I'll ask him to hunt this poor fellowout, and help him in some way. One Balliol man ought to help another. '

'Let us go back to the carriage instantly, ' said Lady Palliser, almostshouting the substantive, in order that Jack might be reminded what kindof people he had insulted by his ruffianly bearing. 'I feel that I ambemeaning myself every moment I stay in this house. '

They hurried down the sandy hill path to the road where they had left thecarriage, and Lady Palliser hustled them into it, breathless, with thecombined effect of the rapid descent and her indignation. 

'Why, Ida, how deadly pale you are!' exclaimed Bessie. 'I hope you arenot ill. Have we walked too fast for you?'

'No, dear--only--that man's face reminded me--'

'Of Brian's when he first came home from Norway, and was so dreadfullysunburnt?' said Bessie; 'so it did me. The idea flashed upon me, as therude wretch rushed past us, that he had a sort of look of Brian. Just theway he carried his head, you know, and something in the shape of hisshoulders--not a real resemblance. '

'Of course not. '

CHAPTER XXIX. 

'AS ONE DEAD IN THE BOTTOM OF A TOMB. '

Dr. Mallison came to Wimperfield at the same hour as on the occasion ofhis first visit. He was with the patient for nearly half-an-hour, and heconfabulated with Mr. Fosbroke for at least another half hour, so itcould not be said that he performed the physician's duty in a careless orperfunctory manner. But his opinion was not hopeful; and there was agravity in his manner when he talked to Ida and her stepmother which wasevidently intended to prepare them for the worst. He gave a peremptoryorder for a second nurse, an able-bodied experienced woman, who couldrelieve Towler in his now most onerous duties--duties growing hourly morepainful, since the last development of the patient's delirium was aviolent hatred of his attendant, who, as he believed, was always lying inwait to do him some injury. Dr. Mallison also advised that Mrs. Wendovershould no longer occupy the bedroom adjoining her husband's. Upon thispoint he was very firm, when Ida urged her anxiety to forego no dutywhich she owed to her husband. 

'I am so sorry for him, ' she said. 'I would do anything in the world tohelp or to comfort him. '

'Unhappily, dear madam, you can do neither. 'When these paroxysms areupon him he will mistake his best friend for his worst enemy--he wasquite violent to Towler just now. You can do absolutely nothing, and yourpresence is even likely to irritate him. He must be given over entirelyto his nurses. Towler will obey my directions implicitly, and the femaleattendant--Mr. Fosbroke tells me he can find a thoroughly competentperson--will assist him in carrying them out. If we can stimulate thepatient's vital power, which is just now at the lowest ebb, and if we caninduce natural sleep, why, there may still be a favourable result. But Ido not conceal from you that Mr. Wendover's condition is critical--verycritical. Lady Palliser, you will insist, I hope, that your daughterremoves to an apartment at some distance from her husband's for thepresent. A few days hence, when the delirium is subjugated, as I trust itmay be, by--ahem--the removal of the exciting cause, Mrs. Wendover mayresume her attendance upon her husband. Just at present the less she seesof him the better for both. '

Ida could not disobey this injunction, especially as Lady Palliser andMrs. Jardine took the matter into their own hands. Jane Dyson was orderedto convey all Mrs. Wendover's belongings to a room on the second andtopmost floor of the mansion, exactly over that she now occupied--a fineairy apartment, with a magnificent view, but less lofty, and lessponderously furnished than the apartments of the first floor. Bessievowed that this upper chamber, with its French bedstead, and lightchintz draperies, and maple furniture, was a much prettier room than theone below. She ran up and down stairs carrying flowers, Japanese fans, tea-tables, and other frivolities, until she made the new room a perfectbower, and then carried Ida off triumphantly to inspect her new quarters. 

'Isn't it lovely, ' she said, 'such a nice change? Do let us have our teaup here, if that good Dyson won't mind bringing it. Nearly six o'clock, and we haven't had a cup of tea! I do so enjoy thoroughly newsurroundings. We'll have the table just in front of this window. What asweet architect to give this room windows down to the ground, and alovely balcony! You must have some large Japanese vases in the balcony, Ida. That lovely deep red, or orange tawny. Oh, you poor pet, howwretched you look!'

'I have just been talking to the new nurse, Bessie. She seems a good, honest creature. She has nursed other people in the same complaint, and--and--she thinks Brian is desperately ill. '

'Oh, but he may get over it dear! The London doctor did not give him up;and there is no good in your making yourself ill with worry and fear. Ifyou do, you won't be able to wait upon Brian when he begins to getbetter; and convalescents want so much attention, don't you know. '

The tea came, and Bessie persuaded her friend to take some, prattling onall the time in the hope of diverting Ida from the silent contemplationof her trouble. But the horror of the case had taken too stern a holdupon Ida's brain. It was the dominant idea; as with the somnambulistwhose perceptions are dead to every other subject save the one absorbingthought, and all subsidiary ideas linked with it by the subtle chain ofassociation. Ida smiled a wan smile, and pretended to be interested inBessie's parochial anecdotes--the idiosyncrasies of the new curate, thefatuity of every young woman in the parish in running after him. 

'He is such a perfect stick; but then certainly there is no other singleman in the parish under forty. He is like Robinson Crusoe. It is anawfully deceptive position for a young man to occupy. I know he isbeginning to think himself quite handsome, while as for pimples--well, his face is like a Wiltshire meadow before it has been bush-harrowed. '

Ida did not go down to dinner that evening. She felt utterly unequal tothe effort of pretended cheerfulness, and she did not want to inflict acountenance of stony gloom upon Mr. And Mrs. Jardine, or on Vernie, whowas going to dine late for the first time since his illness. So she satby the open window overlooking the woods, gray in the universal twilightgrayness, and she read Victor Cousin's 'History of Philosophy, ' which wasa great deal more comforting than fiction or poetry wou'd have been, asit carried her into regions of abstract thought where human troublesentered not. 

For the next three days things went on quietly enough. Brian never lefthis own apartments, now an ample range, since Ida's bedroom had beenthrown into the suite, so as to give him space and verge enough for hisroaming when the restless fit was on him: and, alas! how seldom did hecease from his restlessness. He now saw scarcely anyone but his nursesand Mr. Fosbroke, who called three times a day, and was altogetherdevoted in his watchfulness of the case. 

Ida had not ceased from visiting the invalid until it became too obviousthat her presence was irritating to him. He recalled the most painfulscenes of their past experience, raved about his marriage, and accusedhis wife of cruelty and greed of wealth, wept, stormed, blasphemed, untilIda rushed shuddering from the room. To the nurses this wild talk wasonly part and parcel of the patient's hallucinations; to Ida it was tooreal. 

Mr. Jardine and his wife stayed till the end of the week, but on Saturdaythe Vicar was compelled to go back to his parishioners; and althoughBessie wanted to remain at Wimperfield, separating herself from herhusband for the first time in her wedded life, Ida would not consent tosuch a sacrifice. Vernon, who was pronounced thoroughly convalescent, wasto go back to Salisbury Plain with the Jardines, everybody being agreedthat Wimperfield Park was no place for him under existing circumstances. If Brian's malady were doomed to end fatally, it was well that the boyshould be gone before the dreaded guest crossed the threshold. 

Ida saw her friends depart with a sense of despair too deep for words. She hugged Vernie with the passionate fervour of one who never hoped tosee him more. She felt as if it were she whose hours were numbered, shefor whom the thin thread of life was gradually dwindling to nothingness. The very atmosphere was charged with the odour of death. The light wasshadowed by the gloom of the grave. Again and again in troubled dreamsshe had recalled that dreadful scene in the church with Brian; and shehad seen the worms crawling out through the mouldering timbers of thechurch-floor--she had smelt the sickening taint of corruption. 

She stood in the portico in the early summer morning, watching Mr. Jardine's phaeton dwindle to a speck in the distance of the avenue, andthen she went slowly back to the house, feeling as if she were quitealone in her misery. It was not that Fanny Palliser was wanting inkindness or sympathy, but she was wanting in comprehension of Ida'sfeelings, and the stronger nature could not lean upon the weaker; andthen the mother would be absorbed in her grief at the loss of her boy, who had become doubly precious since his illness. No, Ida felt that nowJohn Jardine was gone she must bear her burden alone. Help for her, strength outside her own courageous nature, there was none. 

She longed on this exquisite morning to be roaming about the park andwoods, or riding far afield; but she had made up her mind that, so longas her husband remained in his present critical condition, it was herduty to stay close at hand, within call, lest at any moment there mightbe a return to reason, and she might again have power to soothe andsupport him, as she had done many a time in the long down-hill progressof his malady. 

With this idea she spent the greater part of her day in the bedroom whichBessie had made so bright and so comfortable. Here she was within easyreach of the nurse in the rooms below, and could be summoned to herhusband without a minute's delay. Here she had her favourite books, andthe view of park and woods in all their summer glory. She could sit outin her balcony, reading, or looking idly at the wide expanse of hill andvalley, brooding sadly over days that were gone, full of fear for theimmediate present, and not daring to face the dreaded future. 

'Don't think me unsociable, ' she said to Lady Palliser, before going backto her room after a hasty breakfast; 'but I am too completely miserableto put on the faintest show of cheerfulness, and I should only make youwretched if I were with you. Go out for a drive, and pay a few visits, mamma. You have had a trying time, and you must want a little change ofscene. '

'I believe I do, Ida, ' replied Lady Palliser, gravely. 'I feel that I ambelow par, and that I really want sea air. What should you think of ourgoing to Bournemouth directly after the funeral?'

'The funeral!' murmured Ida, pale as death. 

'Yes, dear. Mr. Fosbroke has quite given up all hope, I know; and afterthe funeral you will want a change as badly as I do. I thought it wouldbe as well to write to the Bournemouth agent to secure nice apartments, for I shouldn't care about staying at an hotel. '

'Oh, mamma, don't make your plans so much beforehand! Wait till he isdead, ' said Ida, bitterly. 

There seemed to her something ghoulish and stony-hearted in thisprevision of coming doom, this arrangement for making the best of lifeand being comfortable when the sufferer upstairs should have ceased fromthe struggle with man's last foe. 

Lady Palliser contrived to get on without her step-daughter's society. She had Jane Dyson, who was a person of considerable conversationalpowers, and who had an inexhaustible well-spring of interesting discoursein her recollections of the Archbishop's wife's lingering illness. Themistress and maid spent the morning not unpleasantly in conversation ofthe charnel house order, and in looking over Lady Palliser's wardrobe, with a view to discovering what new mourning she would require in theevent of Brian's death. She had liked him, and had been kind to him inlife, and she was not going to stint him in death by any false economy incrape or bugles. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

A FIERY DAWN. 

The Jardines had been gone three days, and there was no change either forgood or evil in Brian's condition. Mr. Fosbroke admitted that he was asill as he could possibly be--the malady must either take a turn for thebetter, or end fatally within a day or two. The servants all talked ofthe impending funeral as complacently as Lady Palliser. The event musthappen; and it would be as well to make the best of it. They had not yetgone out of mourning for Sir Reginald; and here was another death at handto start them again with new suits of black. This was one of theadvantages of service in a really good family, where the King of Terrorswas treated with proper distinction. 

It was eleven o'clock at night, and the house was hushed in silence--savein that suite of rooms where the invalid and his nurses were hardly everat rest. One of the men servants slept in his clothes on a truckle bed inthe corridor, ready for service in any emergency. Every one else had goneto bed, except Ida, who sat at her window, looking out at the wild windysky and the forest trees swaying in the gale. 

The day had been rainy and tempestuous, and the wind was stillraging--just such a wind as Ida remembered upon Bessie's birthday, theday of that terrible storm which had cost so many lives, and had madeReginald Palliser master of Wimperfield. 

She sat gazing idly at the sky, in sheer despondency and weariness. Herdevotional books, which had been her chief comfort in these dark days andnights, lay unopened on her table. The effort to read any other kind ofliterature had been abandoned for the last day or two. Her mind refusedto understand the words which her eyes mechanically perused. She couldonly read such books as spoke of comfort to a weary soul, of hope beyonda sinful world. 

She had eaten hardly anything for the last few days, living on cups oftea, and semi-transparent slices of bread and butter. Her nights had beenalmost sleepless, her brief snatches of slumber disturbed by hideousdreams. She was thoroughly worn out in body and mind, and as she sat bythe open window loosely dressed in a tea gown, with a china-crape shawlwrapped round her shoulders, the monotonous moaning of the wind in theelms had a soothing sound like a lullaby, and hushed her to sleep. Shelay back in her low luxurious chair, with her head half buried in thecomfortable down pillow, and slept as she had not slept for a month. Itwas the slumber of sheer exhaustion, deep and sweet, and long--very long;for when she opened her eyes and looked about her, awakened by a strangeoppression of the chest, there was the livid light of earliest dawn inthe room--a light that changed all at once to a bright red glow, vivid asthe sky at sundown. 

The oppression of her breath increased, she felt suffocated. The lividdawn, the crimson sunset, changed to gray; the atmosphere around her grewthick; there was a smarting sensation in her eyes, a stifling sensationin her throat. Mechanically, not knowing what she did, she began to gropeher way to the door. But in that thickening atmosphere she did not knowwhich was the door--her outspread arms clasped some heavy piece offurniture--the wardrobe. She leaned against, it exhausted, helplessstupified by that horrible smoke; and as she leaned there a wild shrillshriek pealed out from below--the cry of 'Fire!' Again and again thatdreadful cry resounded, in a woman's pearcing treble. Then came a hubbubof other voices--without, within--she could not tell where, or how near, or how far--but all the sounds seemed distant. 

She could just see the open window by which she had been sleeping a fewminutes ago--she could distinguish it by the red light outside, which wasjust visible through the dense smoke within, momently thickening. 

She made for the window--anything to escape from that suffocatingatmosphere; but just as she was approaching that red patch of lightshining amidst the blackness, a sudden tongue of flame shot up frombelow, caught the light chintz drapery, and in an instant the window wasframed in fire, The flame ran from one curtain to another; fanned by thewind which was still blowing--valence, draperies, all the ornamentationof the three windows were in a blaze. Ida stood helpless, motionless asLot's wife, confronting the flames. To rush through them, to leap throughthe open window although it were to certain death, was her first impulse. Any death must be better than to fall down suffocated on the floor, andto be burned alive. 

Then came the thought of her husband--so weak, and mad, and helpless--ofher stepmother. Were they, too, in danger of instant death? Or was she onthis upper floor the only victim?

The thin chintz curtains flamed and blazed into nothingness while she waslooking at them. The wood-work round the windows crackled and blistered, but the flame died out into ashes. Only the intolerable smoke remained, and the ever-increasing glow of the fire below, more vivid with everymoment. She made one mad rush for the balcony. Great Heaven, what a scenegreeted her eyes as she looked downwards! Masses of flame, mingled withblack smoke clouds, were being vomited out of the lower-windows. Therewas a little crowd of men below--gardeners, stablemen, who lived close athand. Some of these were making feeble efforts with garden engines, sending out little jets of water which seemed only to feed the flames asif the water had been oil, while others were trying to adjust a fireescape, deposited in the stables years ago, in the reign of SirReginald's father, and out of working order from long disuse. Three orfour grooms were rushing to and fro with buckets, and splashing wateragainst the stone walls, with an utter absence of any effect whatever. 

Ida stood in the balcony, leaning against the iron-work, waiting forrescue or death. The atmosphere was a little less stifling here, butevery now and then a dense cloud of smoke rolled over her and almostsuffocated her before the wind drove it upward. The sky was alight withreflected fire. The burning pyre of Dido or Sardanapalus could hardlyhave made a grander effect--and far away in the east, against the darkundulations of wooded hills there was another light--the tender roseateflush of summer dawn, full of promise and peace. 

Ida stood with clasped hands, and lips moving dumbly in prayer. She gaveher soul back to her Creator; she prayed for pardon for her sins; sheclosed her eyes waiting meekly for death. 

Suddenly, as she prayed, full of resignation, the balcony creaked under afootstep--a strong arm was wound round her waist--she was lifted bodilyover the iron rail and carried carefully, firmly, easily down a ladder, amidst a shout of rapture from the little crowd below. 

Every Englishman is not heroic, but every Englishman knows how to admireheroism in his fellow-man. 

Before the bearer of his burden reached the lowest rung of the ladder, Ida was unconscious. She lay lifeless and helpless in her preserver'sarms. When they were on the solid ground, he bent his bare head overhers, which rested on his shoulder, and kissed her on the forehead. 

The crowd saw and did not condemn the action. 

'It might be a liberty, ' said the head gardener, 'but he'd earned theright to do it. None of us could have done what he did. '

When Ida awakened to consciousness she was lying in the lodge-keeper'slittle bedroom at the Park gates, and her stepmother was seated at thebedside ready to offer her the usual remedy for all feminine woes--a cupof tea. 

'Thank God, you are safe!' said Ida, the memory of that terrible dawnquickly recurring to her mind, a little bewildered at the first moment byher strange surroundings. 'Where is Brian?'

Fanny Palliser burst into tears. 

'Oh, Ida, it was Brian set the house on fire, in one of his madfits--hunting for some horrible thing behind his bed-curtains; and poorTowler and the nurse were both asleep when it happened--at least, Towler, who was sitting up with him had fallen into a doze, and heard Brian talkabout looking for serpents in the curtains, and then about flames andfire--but didn't take any notice, or so much as open his eyes--for histalk had been so often of fire and flames--poor creature!--and when hewoke the whole room was in a blaze, and the fire had spread through theopen door to the window curtains in the next room. Towler and the nurse, and Rogers, all did their uttermost, and risked their lives trying to getBrian away; but he wouldn't leave the burning rooms. He got wilder andwilder; and then, just as they were calling a couple of the stablemen tohelp them, meaning to get him away by main force, he rushed to the windowand threw himself out. '

'And he was killed!' cried Ida. 

'Yes; the shock killed him. But you know, dear, there's no use infretting. Mr. Fosbroke says that he could not have lived till the end ofthe week. His constitution was quite gone. It was a happy release. '

'Not such a death, ' murmured Ida, tears streaming down her wan cheeks;'such a death could not be a happy release. '

Lady Palliser shook her head, and sighed plaintively. Perhaps she hadbeen inclined to take the survivor's view of the question. Euthanasia toFanny Palliser's mind meant a death which relieves the family of thedeceased from the burden of a long illness. 

'He did not suffer at all, dearest, ' she said, soothingly. 

'Mr. Fosbroke said the shock killed him. There were no bones broken. Hefell on the grass in front of the library windows. And oh, Ida, what ablessing that everything at Wimperfield is fully insured! The house iscompletely gutted!'

Ida could not feel sorry about Wimperfield. The place had been to her oflate the abode of horror. If she could be glad of anything in her presentframe of mind, it would have been to know that Wimperfield House wasrazed to the ground. 

'The portico and the walls are standing, ' pursued Lady Palliser; 'and nodoubt a clever architect will be able to build the house up again in theold style. '

'But, mamma, it was an ugly, uninteresting house--not a hundred yearsold. '

'Exactly so. If it had been really an old house, one would be glad to getrid of it; but it was all as good as new, and so thoroughly substantial!and how you can call it ugly, with such a portico, I can't imagine. Iwonder you have not more classical taste. I love anything Grecian. Theonly thing I ever felt proud of at Les Fontaines was the plaster urnswith scarlet geraniums in them!'

'Mamma, how was I saved? Who was it saved me?' asked Ida, presently, whenshe had taken her cup of tea, and the Swiss clock over the chimney-piecehad struck nine. 

The sun was shining through the open lattice and upon the roses and thelilies in the little lodge garden. Everything wore a glad and cheerfulaspect in the summer morning. 

'Ah, my dear, that _is_ a story!' exclaimed Lady Palliser, nodding herhead with intense significance, and pleased at being able to divert Ida'sthoughts from her husband's miserable end; 'I never did! You will besurprised! Oh, my dear, I thought it was all over with you! All thegardeners and stablemen were there--and Rogers--and John and William--andHenry--half dressed and in slippers, poor creatures; and I begged andimplored of them to save you--to get to your room somehow--inside or out. But the staircase to the second floor was choked with smoke and flame, and falling timbers; one of the men tried to go up, but he came back andsaid he must wait for the firemen--nobody but a fireman could do it. Andthen they got ladders, but the first ladder wasn't long enough, andnobody seemed to be in their proper senses. Thomas rode off toPetersfield for the engine directly the fire broke out, but that's eightmiles off, as you know, and it all seemed hopeless. I was running aboutamong them all like a mad woman, in my dressing-gown and slippers; and asfor Jane Dyson, she sat on the lowest step of the portico, and went outof one fit of hysterics into another, just as she did when theArchbishop's wife died; and I thought all hope was over, when a manrushed in among us, snatched the longest ladder from the men who werebringing it from the walled garden, and put it up against the balcony. Hewent up it just like a sailor, and before I could hardly breathe he wascoming down again with you in his arms, safe and sound. And who do youthink the man was?'

'The fire-brigade man, I suppose. '

'Not a bit of it. The man who saved you was Vernie's friend, Cheap Jack. '

CHAPTER XXXI. 

'SOLE PARTNER AND SOLE PART OF ALL THESE JOYS. '

More than a year had gone by since that awful night, and a newWimperfield House was slowly rising from the ashes of the Bath stonemansion with the Grecian portico. Only the walls and the portico hadremained intact after the fire, and these had been pulled down to makeroom for a spacious edifice in the Early English manner, the heavyinsurances on the old building providing for the cost of this newer andmore beautiful Wimperfield. But Ida was not near to watch the newWimperfield in the progress of erection. She had spent the greater partof the last year at the Homestead with Miss Wendover, and the residuewith her stepmother at Bournemouth, where Lady Palliser had taken andfurnished for herself one of the pretty villas on the Boscomb estate, apleasant home for the placid joys of widowhood, and a nice place forVernon's holidays, were he contented to spend them there, which he wasnot, greatly preferring the more rustic life of Kingthorpe. Here he was awelcome guest both at the Knoll and at the Homestead; while there was athird house open to him within a walk of the village, for Mr. Wendoverhad returned from his distant wanderings, and he and Vernie were on veryfriendly terms. 

Ida had as yet seen but little of the master of the Abbey, albeit sheheard of him almost daily from some of The Knoll family. He had returnedat Easter, unexpectedly, as usual, and much to the surprise of aneighbourhood which had grown accustomed to the idea of his never comingback at all. But although he had settled himself at the Abbey, declaringthat he had made an end of his wanderings, seen all he wanted to see, andnever meant to go far afield any more, he had taken no share in thepicnics and rustic festivities with which the Knoll family celebratedtheir worship of the great god Pan; whereupon Blanche informed her cousinfrankly that he was not half so nice as he had been seven years ago, whenhe had joined in their fungus hunts and barrow hunts and blackberrygatherings, just as if he had been one of themselves. 

'Seven years ago I was seven years younger, Blanche. We were all childrenthen. '

Blanche sighed, and shook her head despondently. 

'As for me, I feel centuries old, ' she said; 'but that is only natural insuch a dead-and-alive hole as Kingthorpe. '

Which speech being interpreted meant that Miss Wendover had not had a newfrock or an invitation to a garden party for the last fortnight. 

'Still, ' she argued, ' one ought to make the best of one's life even atKingthorpe, and picnics and rambles help one to endure existence. Youused to be such a delightful companion, and now no one but little Vernieever seems to get any fun out of you. He is always talking of the larkshe has at the Abbey. '

'Sir Vernon is good enough to call the mildest form of diversion a lark!'said Brian Wendover, smiling at her. 

'Come now, I will make a bargain with you, ' said Blanche. 

'John Jardine and Bess are coming over next week to spend Bessie'sbirthday with us, which, as you know, is a family festival that we neverallow to be celebrated anywhere else. Bess and John and the babies arecoming to us, and Vernon Palliser is going to the Homestead, and hismother is coming over from Bournemouth to stay a few days with AuntBetsy; so you see it will be a grand family gathering of Wendovers andPallisers. Now, if you are anything like the man you were seven yearsago, prove it by joining us on this occasion. '

'I cannot refuse; and I will try my uttermost to forget that I have livedseven lonely years since that happy summer. '

'Ah, it was a happy summer!' sighed Blanche, who affected to be weigheddown by the burden of mature years. 'I wasn't _out_ in those days, and Ihadn't a care. '

'What form does your festival take this year? and where do you mean tocelebrate it?'

'Oh, a picnic, of course, if this lovely weather only holds out. We havenot had one really proper picnic this year. '

'But don't you think the seventh of September is just a little late foran _al fresco_ feast? Suppose we were to make it luncheon and afternoontea at the Abbey, with unlimited tennis in the afternoon. '

'That would be simply delicious, ' said Blanche, concluding that Mr. Wendover intended to invite all the eligible young men of hisacquaintance to be found within twenty miles. 

'Then it is agreed. You need give yourself no further trouble. You haveonly to bring your people--the Knoll party, and the Homestead party. '

'Precisely. Of course _you_ can ask as many as you like. '

The year which was gone had been one of perfect peace for Ida, peaceovershadowed by the memories of pain and horror; but those memories hadbeen lightened, and her mind had been comforted, and soothed, andfortified by Aunt Betsy's loving companionship, by that common-sense andbroad way of thinking which was as a tower of strength in the day oftrouble. Yet for months after that awful time at Wimperfield her nightshad been broken by dreadful dreams or too vivid reminiscences of herhusband's evil fate, that terrible decay of mind and body, that gradualannihilation of the energies and powers of manhood which it had been herpainful lot to witness. 

Aunt Betsy took care that the young widow's days should be too busy formuch thought. She found constant occupation for her. She sent her aboutto the remotest corners of the parish to minister to the sorrows ofothers; she gave her the sick to nurse, and the old and feeble to carefor, and the young to teach; so that there should be no leisure left fromdawn to sunset for futile lamenting over the irrevocable past. But in thesilence of night those dreaded memories crept out of their hiding-places, as other vermin creep out of their holes under cover of darkness, and itwas long before they began to grow less vivid and let a terrible. 

From the moment Miss Wendover appeared at Wimperfield on the afternoonafter the fire, coming as quickly after the receipt of the news as horsescould convey her, Ida had been sheltered and protected by her love. Nosooner was Brian laid at rest in his grave in Wimperfield churchyard thanAunt Betsy carried off the hopeless, broken-down widow to the Homestead, where Ida resumed all her old duties; so that there were times when itseemed as if all the years of her married life were but a dream fromwhich she had awakened, a dream which had subdued and saddened her wholenature, and had made her feel old and weary. 

But there was much of happiness in her life, so much that she was fain toput aside all signs and tokens of grief except her dense black gowns andcrape bonnets, and to rejoice with those who rejoiced; for here was AuntBetsy, the most cheery and unselfish of women, whose life ought to be allsunshine, inasmuch as she spent so large a portion of it in brighteningthe lives of others; and here were the boys and girls from the Knoll, always in uproarious spirits, and wanting Ida's sympathy in all theirdelights; and here was Vernon coming over from the Vicarage on SalisburyPlain, at all times and seasons, for a few days' holiday, rosier andstronger and more sporting every time she saw him, great upon hawking andhunting, and full of grand schemes for his future life at the newWimperfield. He had forgotten Brian's melancholy doom, as easily as youthis apt to forget everything, in the hurry and ardour of life's morning;but his love for his sister knew no abatement. He wanted her to share inall his future joys. 

'You are not going to stay at the Homestead all your life, are you?' heasked one day. 'Of course you are going back to Wimperfield directly thenew house is finished?'

'No, dear, I could never live at Wimperfield again, --it would recall toomany sad scenes. When Aunt Betsy is tired of me I shall go abroad. I haveseen so little of the world, you know. '

'Oh, if you want to travel, you can go with me when I come of age; but inthe meantime you must help mother to keep house at Wimperfield. It willbe quite a new place--everything new--nothing to remind you of father orBrian. And then in a few years I shall be of age, and then we can go offto the Rockies together. '

'With Cheap Jack for our guide, philosopher and friend. ' said Ida. 

'Well, no; I'm afraid Cheap Jack won't go with us!' answered Vernon, laughing. 

'I have such a reason to be grateful to him that I could hardly object tohis company, ' said Ida; 'and I am quite unhappy at never having been ableto thank him or reward him for saving my life. '

'He didn't want to be thanked or rewarded. Didn't I tell you that he wasnot that kind of man?'

'But why should any man go through life doing good to others, and nevergetting thanks or praise for his goodness, ' said Ida. 'It is a mostunpleasant form of misanthropy. I feel quite uncomfortable under theburden of my obligations to Mr. Jack; and though I have made every effortto put myself in communication with him, through Mr. Mason and others, Ihave not been able to find out where he is or anything about him. '

'Odd, isn't it?' said Vernon. 'He left the cottage on the day after thefire, didn't he? shut it up, and took the key to Lord Pontifex's steward, and drove off with his books and things packed in his cart, goodnessknows where, after having made a free gift of his stock to thevillagers. '

'Not a very profitable way of carrying on business, ' said Ida. 'He musthave had means independent of his trade. '

'Well, I don't suppose we shall ever see him again, ' returned Vernon, cheerfully, somewhat to Ida's disgust; for this indifference to thesudden close of a once enthusiastic friendship argued a lightness andfickleness of disposition in Sir Vernon Palliser. 

And now it was again the eve of Bessie's birthday, that day which hadtwice been fraught with fatal influences for Bessie's friend; and Idacould not put away the feeling that this seventh of September, findingher once again on the scene of past fatalities, must needs bring her somenew evil, some undreamed of crisis in her life. Yet what would happen toher now? She asked herself. The play was played out. She had lived herlife. For her tragedy and comedy were alike over and done with. 

The morning of the seventh dawned fair and bright. If there were any omenin those pinky clouds which flecked the tender gray of early morning, surely it must be a portent of good and not of evil; although LadyPalliser, who was not given to over-cheerful views, declared at breakfastthat such roseate hues in early morning meant bad weather before noon. 

'Let the weather be never so unkind, we'll find a way of enjoyingourselves at the Abbey, ' said Aunt Betsy, who was in tremendousspirits--'Won't we, Vernie?'

'Of course, ' answered Vernon. 'Mother has a new bonnet, and is afraid ofgetting it spoiled. The weather won't interfere with us. We can playhide-and-seek in the Abbey cellars. '

'Oh, Vernie! and get shut behind a secret panel or in a chest, like thatpoor girl in the poem Ida used to read to us. '

'Don't be afraid, mother. If I get into a chest, you may depend I shallknow how to get out of it. That girl in the poem was a duffer for nothaving made more row; and her lover was a beastly sneak for not ferretingout her hiding-place. '

'They ought to have had a detective down from London, ' remarked LadyPalliser, ignoring both the scene and the date of the story. 

Her reading had lain much among novels in which the private detective wasomnipotent, the unraveller of all mysteries, the avenger of every wrong. 

Miss Wendover drove Lady Palliser to the Abbey in her phaeton, and theparty from the Knoll went in the roomy family waggonette; but Vernon andhis sister walked across the fields and the common, by that path whichIda had trodden on the day she first saw the master of the Abbey. Howvividly she recalled her feelings on that day--the pain and embarrassmentshe felt in Brian Wendover's presence, the agony of humiliation! And thenhad followed the too happy, too perilous days in which he had been herfamiliar friend, the fatal night on which he had declared himself herlover. 

Well, she was free now. She could meet him and think of him without sin;but since his return she had met him at most half a dozen times, and thenalways in the company of other people. He had greeted her cordially, asfriend should greet friend, but he had not sought her society. He knewthat she was living in his aunt's house, but he had only been to thathouse once since his return. 

'Time was, time is, time's past, ' said the brazen oracle. Ida began totell herself that for her time was verily past. Life, and youth, and lovehad been hers; but fate had been adverse, and she had wasted them, andthey were over and gone. 

She had some time for pensive reverie, as she walked to the Abbey, Vernonbeing as usual more occupied by the inhabitants of the hedges and ditchesthan by his companion; but once arrived at the Abbey, there was no timefor sadness. Bessie was on the threshold to welcome her, and the wholeKnoll family were swarming in the great hall, where Brian, standing underthe picture of the famous Sir Tristram, was giving cordial welcome toeveryone. 

How handsome he looked under the likeness of his ancestor! and howvividly the modern face recalled the ancestral lineaments! Time had onlydeepened the noble lines of his countenance, and added dignity to hisfigure and bearing. He looked happy, too, like a man upon whom the futuresmiles assuringly. The fancy flashed across Ida's mind that he wasengaged to be married, and that he meant to announce the fact to hisfamily to-day, perhaps, and to introduce the lady. She looked hastilyround the hall, almost expecting to see some new face, young, lovely, beaming with smiles--the face of the chosen one. But there was no oneexcept Lady Palliser and the house of Wendover. 

'I have not asked any strangers, Blanche, ' said Brian. 'I thought weshould all have more fun if we had the old place to ourselves. '

'How good of you!' replied the matronly Bess. 'I'm sure we shall allenjoy ourselves ever so much more. '

Blanche was disappointed. Lawn-tennis among relations was all verywell, but she had plenty of that at the Knoll. She felt sorry she hadput on her best hat and Indian silk frock, elaborately frilled withtwine-coloured lace. A cotton gown, and the oldest thing in garden hats, would have been good enough for such an assembly. 

The Colonel and Mrs. Wendover had driven over with their children. It wasquite a family party--Bessie's babies, a girl able to toddle, and a boyin the nurse's arms, were the great features of the entertainment, thegrandmother openly worshipping them, the grandfather condescending tooccasional patronage of this third generation, but evidently anxious todissemble his pride. 

'Bessie makes such a preposterous fuss about her babies, ' said Blanche, after declining lawn-tennis with Eva and her two brothers. 'I hope ifever I am deluded into marrying, I shall not degenerate into an uppernurse. '

The Abbey had been swept and garnished in honour of the occasion, everyroom brightened with flowers--even that sacred apartment, Brian's study, thrown open to the public. After luncheon it happened somehow--Ida couldhardly have explained how--that she and Brian were alone together in thisvery room, the afternoon sunlight shining on them--for in spite of LadyPalliser's prophecy the day had been lovely--the scent of stocks andmignonette and sweet-peas blowing in upon them from the old-fashionedgarden at the back of the Abbey. They had strayed to this spot with theothers; and the others had strayed off and left them, Ida lookingabsently at the backs of the Greek dramatists, Brian looking intently ather. 

'I don't think you have been in this house since the day we first met inthe hall below?' he said, interrogatively. 

'No, I have never been here since. '

'And yet you were once fond of the Abbey. You used to like wanderingabout the old house and gardens. You would sit reading in the library. The housekeeper has often talked to me about you. '

She stood before him with lowered eyelids, pale and dumb, shrinking fromhim almost as she had shrunk from him seven years ago by the old sundialin the moonlit garden, when it was a sin to listen to his ardent avowal. 

'Ida, why are you silent? Why will you not speak of the past?'

'The past is past!' she said, falteringly. 'It was full of grief andshame for me. I want to forget it if I can. '

'Forget all that is bitter, remember all that is sweet!' he pleaded, drawing nearer to her. 'There is much of that old time which isunspeakably dear to me--the happy time in which I first loved you, deeming you were free to be loved and won. You are free now, Ida, solemistress of your fate and mine; and I love you as dearly now as I lovedyou seven years ago. More I could not love you, for I loved you then withall my heart and mind. Ida, you once talked of being mistress of WendoverAbbey. Its master is at your feet, your faithful slave to the end of hislife. Will you have this old house for your own, Ida, and thus, and thusonly, make it home for me?

His arm was round her, gently, experimentally, the answer not being quitecertain, even yet. 

She slowly lifted the dark-fringed lids, looked at him with adoringeyes--eyes which never before had looked thus upon the face of man. 

'Can you be in earnest?' she asked, in a low sweet voice. 'Can you liftme so high--I, that had fallen so low?'

He clasped her to his heart, and sealed the promise of their uncloudedfuture with a passionate kiss. 

'At last, at last, I hold you in my arms!' he said, fondly; 'but not forthe first time, my angel!'

'What do you mean?'

'Who was it carried you out of the burning house last year?' he asked, smiling at her. 

'Cheap Jack. '

'I was Cheap Jack. '

'You!'

'Yes. I lived far from the sight of this dear face, as long as I couldbear my life, and then after five years of exile in far lands, where mysoul sickened for the sight of you, I came back to England, heard inLondon that your husband was an idler and a drunkard, and foresaw evildays for my darling. I could be nothing to her; but at least I couldwatch over her, near at hand, yet unknown. So I took up my abode on theHanger within a mile or so of her dwelling. Don't pity me, dearest. Itwas not a hard life after all. I had my books and Nature for mycompanions, all the joy I could have, not having you. '

'However shall I repay you?'

'Only look up to me as you looked just now, and let me feel you are myown for ever. '